Part 48 (2/2)

His suspicion seemed more than justified when she again said Place Monge instead of Square Monge, the former being nearly half a mile farther. He almost collapsed when she finally got down and not only handed him the legal fare without dispute but double the usual pourboire.

”Toujours de meme ces femmes-la!” he growled, philosophically. Which meant that women were pretty much alike,--you never could tell what one of them would do.

Mlle. Fouchette, quite indifferent at any time to the private judgment of the cab-driving world, now silently and swiftly pursued the uneven tenor of her thoughts, not yet manifest. She hurried along the sombre walls of the giant caserne de la garde on the Rue Ortolan, plunged across the crowded Rue Mouffetard, and entered the picturesque little wine-shop on the corner.

It was a low, grim, two-story affair in time-worn stone, the door and windows heavily grilled in the elaborate and artistic wrought-iron work of the middle ages. A heavy oaken door supplemented the big barred gate and added to the ancient prison-like appearance of the place. Against the grilles of the Rue Mouffetard hung specimens of the filthy ill.u.s.trated Paris papers, either the pictures or text of which would debar them from any respectable English-speaking community. Over the door opening into the Rue du Pot de Fer and below a lamp of that exquisite iron-work which is now one of the lost arts was displayed a small bush, intimating that, in spite of the strong improbability, good wine was to be had inside.

While a casual glance showed that the rooms above could not be high enough of ceiling for an ordinary individual to stand upright, the flowers in the little square recessed and grilled windows showed that this upper portion was inhabited. It was connected with the wine-shop below by a narrow and very much worn stone staircase, which ascended ”a tire-bouchon,” or corkscrew fas.h.i.+on, like the steep steps of a light-house.

As to the general reputation of the neighborhood, Mlle. Fouchette knew it to be ”a.s.sez mauvaise,”--tolerably bad,--though it was not this knowledge that induced her to complete her journey on foot.

Her entrance caused a subdued but perceptible flutter among the occupants of the resort. These were, at the moment, four respectable-looking men in blouses, an old gentleman in the last stage of genteel rustiness, and a couple of camelots in the second stage of drunkenness,--that of undying friends.h.i.+p. The four, who appeared to be worthy tradesmen of the neighborhood, occupied a far table in the small and time-begrimed room, where they played at cards for small stakes; the rusty old gentleman sat alone with a half-emptied beer-gla.s.s and an evening newspaper before him; the street-hawkers were standing at the zinc, which in Paris represents our American bar, discussing the events of the day in the hoa.r.s.e-lunged, insolent tone of their cla.s.s.

Presiding over the establishment was--yes, it was Madame Podvin.

Somewhat stouter, redder of face, more piggy of eye, with more decided whiskers, but still Madame Podvin.

She busied herself behind the zinc was.h.i.+ng gla.s.ses, occasionally glancing at the men in the corner, smiling upon the inebriated camelots, and now and then casting a suspicious eye upon the quiet old gentleman behind his beer.

Madame Podvin had retired from the Rendez-Vous pour Cochers upon the retirement of Monsieur Podvin from public life by the State, and had found this congenial city resort vacant by reason of death,--the proprietor having been stabbed by one of his friendly customers over the question of pay for a drink of four sous.

Upon the entrance of Mlle. Fouchette Madame Podvin tapped the zinc sharply with the gla.s.s as if to knock something out of it, then greeted the new-comer effusively.

The four men hastily gathered up their stakes and began talking about the weather; the subdued camelots sipped their absinthe in silence; the old gentleman fell to reading his paper with renewed interest.

”Bonjour, madame,” said Mlle. Fouchette, smilingly ignoring the private signal, though inwardly vexed.

”Mademoiselle Fouchette! Ah! how charming of you!” exclaimed Madame Podvin, hastily wiping her hands and coming around the open end of the bar to embrace her visitor.

Beneath the most elaborate politeness the Parisian conceals the bitterest hatred. French politeness is mostly superficial at best,--it often scarcely hides a cynicism that stings without words, a satire that bites to the verge of insult. The more Frenchwomen dislike each other the more formal and overpowering their compliments--if they do not come to blows.

”Thank you very much, madame,” Mlle. Fouchette replied, as Madame Podvin kissed her cheeks. ”Ah! you are always so gay and delightful, madame!”

”And how lovely you have grown to be!” exclaimed the Podvin, with a good show of enthusiasm, holding the girl off at arm's length for inspection. ”It seems impossible that you should have come out of a rag-heap! And your sweet disposition----”

Madame Podvin elevated her hands in sheer despair of being able to describe it.

”It must go well with you, madame, you are always so amiable and cheerful,” retorted Mlle. Fouchette.

”But you are more lovely every day you grow older,” said Madame Podvin.

”Ah! Madame does not grow older!”

”Fouchette, cherie, I'm sure you must belong to a good family, you are so naturally winning and well-bred. The clothes you had on when I found you----”

”Madame?”

”I gave them away--for twenty--yes, it was twenty francs--they were not worth as many sous--to a gentleman----”

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