Part 75 (2/2)

”If Mademoiselle Remy should hear of it----”

”Bah! I know Lerouge. He'd think you my servant, my model. And have you not your own private establishment to retire to in case--really, you must!”

”W-well, be it so, Monsieur Jean; but if harm comes of it----”

”It will be my fault, not yours. It goes!”

Thus Jean, having reduced the ”Savatiere” to the condition of unsalaried servitude, now insisted upon her dressing the part.

He had paid her no empty compliment when he said that she looked her best as a maid. He had fitted her out for an evening at the Bullier for twenty-five francs. In the Quakerish garb of a French bonne she had never looked so demurely sweet in her life. The short skirt showed a pair of small feet and neat round ankles. Her spotless ap.r.o.n accentuated the delicacy of the slender waist. And with a cute white lace cap perched coquettishly over the drooping blonde hair--well, anybody could see that Mlle. Fouchette (become simply Fouchette by this metamorphosis) was really a pretty little woman.

And Jean kissed her on both cheeks and laughed at her because they reddened, and swore she was the sweetest little ”bonne a toute faire”

in all the world.

No doubt Marie Antoinette and her court ladies looked most charming when they played peasant at Pet.i.t Trianon; for it is a curious fact that many women show to better physical advantage in the simple costume of a neat servant than in the silks and diamonds of the mistress.

As for Fouchette, she was truly artistic, and she knew it. The knowledge that Jean comprehended this and admired her caused her eyes to s.h.i.+ne and her blood to circulate more quickly. And a woman would be more than mortal who is not to be consoled by the consciousness of a successful toilet.

Yet she had dressed with many misgivings, between many sighs and broken exclamations. A little time ago she would have cared nothing whether it were Lerouge or anybody else; but now,--ah! it was a cruel test of her.

True, she must meet Lerouge some time. Oh! surely. She must see Mlle.

Remy, too,--she must look into his sombre eyes,--feel the gentle touch of her hands! Often,--yes; often!

For if Jean married Mlle. Remy, perhaps she, Fouchette, might--why not? She would become their domestic, could she not?

Only, to meet Lerouge here,--in this way!

It was a bitter struggle, but love conquered.

Nevertheless, she felt that she required all of her natural courage, all the cleverness learned of rogues and the stoicism engrafted by suffering, to undergo the ordeal demanded of her and to follow the chosen path to the end.

”How charming you look, Fouchette!” he exclaimed, when she appeared in the evening.

”Thanks, monsieur.”

She gave the short bob of the professional domestic. Her face was wreathed in smiles.

”But, I say, mon enfant, you are really pretty.”

”Ah, ca!”

She was blus.h.i.+ng,--painfully, because she knew that she was blus.h.i.+ng.

He put his arm about her waist and attempted to kiss her.

”No, no, no!” she cried, with an air of vexation,--”go away!”

”But you are really artistic, Fouchette. I must have a sitting of you in that costume.”

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