Part 48 (1/2)

”Make a note,” continued the police official,--”bad characters, both.

This man goes to depot!”

”For shame!” cried Mlle. Fouchette.

”And hear this!” added the sous-brigadier in an angry voice,--”if this grisette of Rue St. Jacques gives you any of her guff run her in!”

”But--no, monsieur, that you will not! My business is here,--my authority above your authority,--and here I will remain!”

”Show it!” demanded the official.

She regarded him wrathfully.

”Very well, mademoiselle,” said he, choking back his anger. ”I know my duty and will not be interfered with by----”

”Gare a vous!” she interrupted, threateningly.

”Don't!” whispered Jean. ”It is nothing. But tell me quickly,--has Lerouge gone to prison?”

”Hotel Dieu,” she replied.

”Good! Go to his place, 7 Rue Dareau, you know,--tell her,--Mademoiselle Remy,--his sister, Fouchette----”

She bent lower over his head, hiding her face from his sight.

”Ah! what a fool I have been, Fouchette! Tell her gently--that he is injured--slightly, mind--and where he is. That's a good girl, Fouchette,--good girl that you are!”

He could not see her face for the hair that fell over the bowed head,--the living picture of the repentant Magdalen. But he felt her warm breath upon his cheek, and, was it a tear that splashed hotly on his neck?

But she merely pressed his hand for a reply and, disengaging her dress, darted from the place.

Threading her way rapidly among the arriving and departing vans and ambulances, the scattered remnants of the mob and the swarms of s.h.i.+fting police agents, Mlle. Fouchette finally reached a street open to traffic.

It was only at rare intervals that she indulged herself in a cab. This was one of the times. Hailing the first-comer, she jumped in and called out to the fat cabby, ”Place Monge.”

He drove thoughtfully as far as the next corner and then inquired over his shoulder where Place Monge was. She stood up behind him and fairly screamed in his ear,--

”Square Monge, espece de melon! Quartier Latin!”

The bony horse started up at the sound of her voice as from the lash.

Evidently, Mlle. Fouchette was not in good temper. She had no relish for the work of good-will cut out for her. She was disgusted at the weakness of man. If she had been driver at that moment she would have run down a few of them en route. Still, her cocher did his best.

At Place du Parvis Notre Dame she called out to him to stop. Getting out, she bade him wait near by, and started down along the quai in front of the Prefecture de Police. The man seemed suspicious and kept a sharp eye on his fare. Just as he was about to follow the girl he saw her start back, as if she had changed her mind.

She began to walk very rapidly towards him, looking neither to the right nor to the left. A man in a soft hat who had just left the Prefecture crossed the street in the opposite direction and, curiously enough, though there was an empty desert of s.p.a.ce in the vicinity, the two jostled each other almost rudely and exchanged angry words.

After which the girl retook her place in the fiacre and said ”Allons!”

in a subdued tone that strongly contrasted with her former acerbity.

”Sure!” said the cabby to himself,--”she's drunk.” And he looked forward to the near future rather gloomily.