Part 32 (2/2)
”Yes, I know; but one does not stop to reason where one loves.”
”As if I would throw myself into the arms of any man! You sicken me, Madeleine. But I thought this Lerouge, whoever he is,--I never even saw him,--had disappeared----”
”From his place in the Rue Monge, yes. Fouchette, why should he run away?”
”With a girl he likes better than you? What a question! All men do that, you silly goose!”
”He said it was his sister. Bah! I know better, Fouchette. Her name's Remy,--yes, Mademoiselle Remy. And a little, skinny, tow-headed thing like--oh! no, no, no! Fouchette, pardon me! I didn't mean that! I'm half crazy!”
”I believe you,” said Fouchette.
”Yes, Monsieur Marot told me----”
Mlle. Fouchette had started so perceptibly that the speaker stopped.
Mlle. Fouchette had carefully guarded her own secrets, but this sudden surprise was----
”Well, melon!” she snapped.
”I--why, I didn't know you----”
”What did Monsieur Marot tell you?” demanded the other.
”That her name was Remy.”
”Oh!” said Mlle. Fouchette, coldly.
”So you know Monsieur Marot? They say he resembles Lerouge, but I don't think so. Anyhow, he's in love with Mademoiselle Remy.”
Mlle. Fouchette's steel-blue eyes flashed fire.
”You lie!” she screamed, in sudden frenzy. ”You lie! you drunken gossip!”
Mlle. Madeleine was on her feet in an instant, but Fouchette's right foot caught her on the point of the chin, and the stout grisette went down like a log.
CHAPTER VIII
Madeleine came to her senses to find her antagonist bending over her with a wet towel and weeping hysterically.
They immediately embraced and wept together.
Then Mlle. Fouchette rummaged in the deep closet in the wall and brought forth a bottle of cognac. Whereupon Madeleine not only suddenly dried her tears but began to smile. Half an hour later she had forgotten all unpleasantness and went away leaving many endearments behind her.
Mlle. Fouchette was scarcely less astonished at her own outburst than had been her friend Madeleine, when she had time to think of it.
What could Jean Marot be to her, Fouchette? Nothing.
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