Part 50 (1/2)

Madeleine looked at the speaker fixedly, as if still waiting for her to begin; stupidly, for her poor muddled brain refused to comprehend.

Mlle. Fouchette continued,--

”I say I wish to go to his place,” she said, with great deliberation, ”and notify his sister that her brother is injured and is lying at Hotel Dieu. I promised. It is important. Believing you knew the address I have come to you. You will help me, for his sister's sake,--for his sake, Madeleine? You know his sister lives with him----”

”You--you said his sister----”

But the voice choked. The words came huskily, like a death-rattle in her throat.

”Yes, sister,” began again Mlle. Fouchette. But she was almost afraid now. The aspect of her listener's face was enough to touch even a harder heart than possessed this not too tender bearer of ill news.

However, Madeleine would have heard nothing more. She gazed vacantly at the opposite wall, a knee between her hands, and swaying slightly to and fro. Her face, bloated with drink, had become almost pale, and was the picture of long-settled grief. It was as if she were in fresh mourning for the long ago.

Presently a solitary tear from the unseen and unseeing eye stole out of its dark retreat and rolled slowly and reluctantly down upon the cheek and stopped and dried there.

Mlle. Fouchette saw it as the weather observer sees the moisture on the gla.s.s and speculated on the character of the coming storm.

She was disappointed. For instead of an explosion Madeleine suddenly rose and began fumbling among the garments on the wall without a word.

She selected the best from her humble wardrobe and laid the pieces out one by one on the bed, then began rapidly to divest herself of what she wore.

When interrogated by the wondering Fouchette she never replied.

Indeed, she no longer appeared to notice that her visitor was there.

She bathed her face, and washed her hands, and scrubbed her white teeth, and carefully rearranged her hair. All of this with a calmness and precision of a perfectly sober woman,--as she now undoubtedly was.

She then resumed her hat.

”How!” exclaimed Mlle. Fouchette, noting this quiet preparation with growing astonishment,--”not going out?”

”Yes,” replied the girl.

”But, dear, you have not yet given me the address.”

”It is unnecessary.”

”But, Madeleine!”

”It is unnecessary, Fouchette. I will go and see his--his sister and lead her to him.”

”But, deary!”

”And I will go alone,” she added, looking at the other for the first time.

Unmindful of the wheedling voice of remonstrance, without another word, and leaving her door wide open and Mlle. Fouchette to follow or not at her pleasure, the miserable girl gained the street and swiftly sped away through the falling shadows of the night.

CHAPTER XIV

Jean Marot occupied a cell in a ”panier a salade” en route for the depot, not so much the worse for his recent exciting experience as at first seemed probable he might be.