Part 35 (1/2)
Mademoiselle Remy is the sculptor's dream!”
Jean Marot laughed. This unstinted praise of the girl who had fascinated him,--who had robbed him of his rest,--who had without an effort, and unconsciously, taken possession of his soul,--it was incense to him. Truly, Mlle. Fouchette had an artistic eye,--a most excellent judgment. It extracted the sting----
”Yes,” continued Mlle. Fouchette, looking through him as if he were so much gla.s.s, ”a great artist said to me the other day----”
”Pardon! but, mademoiselle, does your new beauty,--the 'sculptor's dream,' you know,--does she do the studios of the quarter?”
”No! Why should she?”
He was silent. Would she have another drink?
”Thanks! Un ballon, garcon,” repeated Mlle. Fouchette.
They looked at the crowd in silence for a while.
The scene was inspiriting. With the shades of evening the joyous struggle waxed more furious. The entire street was now taken up by the merrymakers, who made the air resound with their screams and shrieks of laughter. The confetti lay three or four inches deep on the walks, where street gamins slyly sc.r.a.ped it into private receptacles for second use. The haze of dust hung over the broad Boulevard St. Michel like a morning fog over a swamp. Mlle. Fouchette watched the scene for a few minutes without a word. Both were thinking of something else.
”She'll soon get over it, never fear.”
”I suppose so,” he said, knowing that she still spoke of Madeleine, and somewhat bored at her reappearance in the conversation.
”A woman does not go on loving a man who never cares for her,--who loves another.”
”'Loves another,'” he repeated, absently.
”But if Madeleine meets them just now,--oh! look out, monsieur! She's a tiger!”
He shuddered. He was unable to stand this any longer; he rose absent-mindedly and, with scant courtesy to the gossipper, incontinently fled.
”Ah! what a handsome fellow he is! Yet he is certainly a fool about women. A pig like Madeleine! But, then, all men are fools when it comes to a woman.”
With this bit of philosophy Mlle. Fouchette buried her dainty nose in the last ”ballon.” She quenched a rising sigh by the operation. For some reason she was not quite happy. As she withdrew it her face suddenly became all animation.
”Ah!” she muttered, ”I'd give my last louis now if that melon, Madeleine, could only see that.”
Directly in front of her and not ten feet distant a young man and a young girl slowly forced a pa.s.sage through the conflicting currents of boisterous people. The man was anywhere between twenty-five and thirty, of supple figure, serious face, and sombre eyes that lighted up reluctantly at all of this frivolity. It was only when they were turned upon the sweet young face of the girl at his side that they took on a glow of inexpressible sweetness.
”Truly!” said Mlle. Fouchette to herself, ”but she is something on my style.”
Which is perhaps the highest compliment one woman can pay another. It meant that her ”style” was quite satisfactory,--the right thing. Yet Mlle. Fouchette really needed some fifty pounds of additional flesh to get into the same cla.s.s.
If the rippling laughter, the s.h.i.+ning azure of her eyes, the ever-changing expression of her mobile mouth, and now and then the rapt look bestowed upon her companion were indications, she certainly was a happy young woman. Her right hand rested upon his arm, her left s.h.i.+elded her face from the too fierce onslaughts of confetti. Neither of them took an active part in the fun. That, however, did not deter the young men from complimenting her with a continuous shower of confetti. The girl laughingly shook it out of her beautiful blonde hair.
”Allons donc! She has my hair, too!” thought Mlle. Fouchette. It is impossible not to admire ourselves in others.
With the excitement of an unaccustomed pleasure mantling her neck and cheeks the girl was certainly a pretty picture. The plain and simple costume was of the cut of the provinces rather than that of Paris, but it set off the lithe and graceful figure that needed no artificiality of the dressmaker to enforce its pet.i.te perfection.
”That must be Lerouge,” thought Mlle. Fouchette. ”He does look something like--no; it is imagination. He is not nearly so handsome as Monsieur Marot. But she is sweet!”
The couple were forced over against the chairs by the crowd and Mlle.
Fouchette got a good look at them. The eyes of Mlle. Remy met hers,--they sought the face of her companion, and returned and rested curiously upon Mlle. Fouchette. The glance of her escort followed in the same direction. And even after they had pa.s.sed he half turned again and looked back at the girl sitting alone amid the crowd under the awning.