Fouchette

“ 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 apron 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 à toute faire" in all the world. ”

“ And Fouchette thought of Jean Marot, and mentally included him.
"Oh! Fouchette, dear, you do not know! You cannot know! You never loved! You cannot love! You are calm and cold and indifferent,—it is your nature. Mine! I am consumed by fire,—it grips my very vitals! Ah! Fouchette!"
"Bah! Madeleine, it is absinthe," said Fouchette, only half pityingly.
[159] "No, no, no, no!" moaned the other, covering her face with her hands.
"So this Lerouge has disappeared, eh? Well, then, let him go, fool! Are there not others?"
"Mon Dieu! Fouchette, how you talk!" ”

“ The one black eye of the maimed grisette saw only Mlle. Fouchette. If that scrutiny could not fathom Mlle. Fouchette's mind, it was perhaps because the mind of Mlle. Fouchette was not sufficiently clear.
"Allons!" said the latter young woman, in a tone that scarcely broke his revery.
There is often more expression in a simple touch than in a multitude of words. The unhappy grisette felt this from the sympathetic hand of the young man slipped into hers at parting. At a little distance she turned to see Jean and Mlle. Fouchette enter a cab and drive towards the right bank. ”

“ It was the instinct of poor insignificant humanity—the weakest and the strongest, the worst and the best—to seek in the hour of suffering and despair some higher power upon which to unburden the load of life.
To say now that Mlle. Fouchette prayed would be too much. She did not know how,—and the few sentences she recalled from Le Bon Pasteur seemed the mere empty rattle of beads.
She simply wished. And as Mlle. Fouchette never did anything by halves, she wished devoutly, earnestly, passionately, and with the hot tears streaming from her eyes, without uttering a single word. ”

“ Her face was heavily veiled, and beneath that veil was but one eye, yet in the same swift glance with which she comprehended the figure she took in the elastic step and the happy face of Mlle. Fouchette.
"Mort au diable!" she muttered in her masculine voice,—a voice which startled those who dodged the physical shock,—and added to herself, "It must be love!" She saw the flowers at the girl's throat. "She loves!"
[345] It was at the same instant Mlle. Fouchette had raised her eyes to the Préfecture that stretched along the quai to the Parvis de la Notre Dame. ”

“ I know it!"
"Yes, Monsieur Jean, it would be impossible to—to not——"
"You think so, too, chère amie?"
"Very sure," said Mlle. Fouchette.
"Now you can understand, Fouchette. You are a woman. Put yourself in her place,—imagine that you are Mademoiselle Remy at this moment. And you look something like her, really,—that is, at least you have the exact shade of hair. What beautiful hair you have, Fouchette! ”

“ As Mlle. Fouchette stood tiptoeing before a little folding mirror on the high mantel, the reflection showed both front and sides of a face that betrayed none of these characteristics. In fact, the blonde hair, smoothed flat to the skull and draping low over the ears, after the fashion set by a popular actress of the day, gave her the demure look of a young woman who might shriek at the sight of a man in his shirt-sleeves. Which shows that it is exceedingly unsafe to judge by appearances,—of a woman, especially. ”

“ Fouchette smelled the morning vapors of the river; discerned now the distinct gurgle of the flood.
As the robber took the rags from the basket and pulled her roughly forth, the full significance of her perilous situation rushed upon her. She trembled so [26] that she could scarcely stand,—would have toppled over the edge of the quai but for the strong arm of le Cochon, who restrained her.
"Not yet, petite," said he.
And he began to strap the basket upon her young shoulders.
"Pardieu! we must regard conventionalities," he added, with devilish malignity. ”

“ And over all of this poverty and wretchedness hung a blackened ceiling so low that the feather of Mlle. Fouchette swept it,—so low and dark and heavy and lugubrious that it seemed to threaten momentarily to crush out what little human life and happiness remained there.
Madeleine silently motioned her visitor to the chair [248] and threw herself on the creaking bed. She waited, suspiciously.
"The riots, you know, Madeleine," began Mlle. Fouchette.
"Dame! There is always rioting. One hears, but one doesn't mind." ”

“ When the growing suspicion became a certainty she was assaulted in the dormitory in the presence of a matron. The biggest and stoutest girl of the section pulled her from her bed in the dark and began to beat her. There was no outcry at first,—only a silent struggle on the floor.
But the stout young woman had counted too much on her physical strength and upon the supposed weakness of her frail antagonist. For Fouchette was like a cat in another respect,—she fought best on her back, where she was all hands and feet and teeth. ”

“ Unconsciously the same despairing cry had broken from her lips.
[384] "Fouchette!"
It was Jean's voice.
Half fainting, half terror-stricken at her unfortunate position, she drew a needle from the bosom of her dress and thrust it into her thigh—twice.
"Fouchette!"
"Yes, monsieur!"
"That poor girl is certainly ill, Je—Cousin Jean," said Mlle. Remy, sympathetically.
"Nonsense!" he lightly replied.
He wished to spare the unhappy Fouchette this attention. "She has worked too hard. Drop it till to-morrow, little one," he said, gently. "You must let things alone for to-night." ”

“ Come! Let us celebrate this happy reunion," said the other, grasping Fouchette's arm and striding along the bridge. "You shall tell me everything, dear."
"But, Mademoiselle—er——"
"Madeleine,—just Madeleine, Fouchette."
"Mademoiselle Madeleine——"
"I live over here,—au Quartier Latin. It is the only place—the place to see life. It is Paris! C'est la vie joyeuse!"
"Ah! then you no longer live at——"
"Let us begin here, Fouchette," interrupted Mlle. Madeleine, gravely, "and let us never talk about Charenton,—never! It cannot be a pleasant subject to you,—it is painful to me." ”

“ If you had cared to see what Mlle. Fouchette proudly called "home" you might have raised and let fall an old-fashioned iron knocker that sent a long reverberating roar down the tunnel-like entrance, to be lost in some hidden court beyond. Then a slide would slyly uncover a little brass "judas," disclosing a little, black, hard eye. Assuming that this eye was satisfied with you, the slide would be closed with a snap, bolts unshot, bars swung clear, and the heavy, iron-clamped door opened by a rascally-looking man whose blouse, chiefly, distinguished him from the race orang-outang. ”

“ Fouchette between them.
"Monsieur! Monsieur! Hold, Jean! Do not answer him! Not now,—not now!"
The elder Marot glanced at her as if she were some sort of vermin. This at first, then he hesitated before kicking her out of the way.
"Ah, messieurs! is it the way to reconciliation and love to go at it in hot blood and hard words? Take a little time,—there is plenty and to spare. Anger never settles anything. Sit down, monsieur, will you not? Why, Monsieur Jean! Will you not offer your father a chair? And remember, he is your father, monsieur. ”

“ Jean reddened more furiously and was more confused than before.
"It can't be this—this"—he regarded the slender, girlish figure contemptuously—"this grisette ménagère! You are not such a fool as to——"
"Oh! no, no, no, no!" hastily interrupted Mlle. Fouchette, with great agitation. "Oh, no, monsieur! Think not that! She is an angel! I am nothing to him,—nothing! Only a poor little friend,—a servant, monsieur,—one who wishes him well and would do and give anything to see him happy! ”

“ M. Marot and Lerouge became suddenly interested in a sketch upon the wall and rose, puffing their cigars, to make a closer and more leisurely examination.
Jean's hand somehow came in contact with Andrée's,—does any one know how these things come about?—and the girl's cheeks grew more rosy than usual. She straightway forgot Mlle. Fouchette. Her eyes were lowered and she gently removed her hand from the table.
"Here is the true model for an artist," said he. ”

“ Ten days later he unexpectedly encountered Mlle. Fouchette on Boulevard St. Michel. It was Saturday evening, and all the student world was abroad. But perhaps of that world none was more miserable than Jean Marot.
"Ah! Then it is really you, monsieur?" There was a perceptible coldness in her greeting. However, his condition was apparent. The sharp blue eyes had taken his measure at a glance. She interrupted his polite reply.
"Là! là! là! Then you are in trouble. You young men are always in trouble. When it isn't one thing it is another." ”

“ My poor Monsieur Jean! You must not give way thus!"
"I am not fit to sit at the table with you, mademoiselle! My hands are red with blood! Do not touch them! Understand? Red!"
"But you are crazy, monsieur!"
"No! I am—I am simply a murderer! Do you hear? A MURDERER!"
He whispered it with awful solemnity. Mlle. Fouchette, now thoroughly frightened, recoiled from him. He was mad!
"That's right!" he cried. "That's right, mademoiselle! I'm not fit to touch you! No wonder you shrink from me! For I have blood on my hands,—his blood,—understand?—my friend's! Lerouge dead! dead! ”

“ The society of respectable young girls of her own age, and constant contact with those who were older and of superior birth and breeding, opened up a new world to Fouchette. That these companions were [83] more or less partakers of similar misfortunes engendered ready sympathies, though the feeling of caste was as powerful among these orphans of the State as in the Boulevard St. Germain. Tacitly acknowledging the lowly origin of the rag-heap, Fouchette was content to fag, to go and come, fetch and carry, and to patiently endure the multitude of petty tyrannies put upon her. ”

“ The good-hearted woman had groped her way to the cot, raised Fouchette to a sitting posture, and, sitting down by her side, pulled the child over in her arms.
Fouchette, who had almost ceased to weep by this time, was at once overcome anew by the motherly caress and broke down completely. She flung her arms wildly about Sister Agnes's neck and buried her face in the ample bosom.
"Là, là, là, là! my little skeleton, there is nothing to be afraid of here. Nothing at all! Don't take on so. God is everywhere, and takes care of us in the night as well as by day. Fear not! ”

“ The godlike face of the painter glowed with the enthusiasm that consumed his soul. He now turned his grand eyes upon the girl with inexpressible sadness.
"That is a question that does not concern us," said he, "except as another means to an end. Innocent or guilty, shall the pleasure or pain of one man stand between the millions of our countrymen and the welfare and perpetuity of France?"
"Never!" cried Mlle. Fouchette, in her excitement bringing down the salad-bowl with a crash that sent the pieces flying about the room.
"Parbleu!" exclaimed Jean, laughing heartily; "there goes my salad!" ”

“ Nature had been gentle rather than generous. Mlle. Fouchette was in demand for angels and ballet dancers.
Her face, evidently, did not suit Mlle. Fouchette, since she was at this moment in the act of touching it up and making it over with colors from an enamelled box,—a trick of the Parisienne of every grade.
Mlle. Fouchette had scarcely put the finishing touches to her artistic job when her door vibrated under a vigorous blow.
She paused, hesitated, flushed with symptoms of a rising temper. One does not feel kindly towards persons hurling themselves thus against one's private [158] door. ”

“ Fouchette.
"L'hôpital ou dépôt?" inquired the nearest agent.
"Dépôt," said the sous-brigadier.
"Oh! no! no!" exclaimed the girl, indignantly. "See, messieurs; he is wounded and weak, and——"
"One moment!"
A young surgeon knelt and applied his ear to the heaving breast, while the police agents whispered among each other.
Mlle. Fouchette caught the words, "It is La Savatière," and smiled faintly, but was at once recalled to the situation by a pair of open eyes through which Jean Marot regarded her intently. ”

“ Fouchette, flourishing a salad-spoon. Mlle. Fouchette had a martial spirit.
"Whenever a student is arrested he turns out to be [212] one of the roughs of Place Maubert or a hoodlum of Rue Monge, or a cutthroat of Rue Mouffetard. It is disgraceful!"
"But it shows the discretion of our police, Monsieur Marot," said the artist, with his sweet smile. "You see the police are with us. We must not be too particular who fights on our side, my friend. We can't afford to quarrel with anybody just now going in our direction. ”

“ It would not be easy to define the sentiments or state the expectations of Mlle. Fouchette. Whatever they were, she would have been unable to formulate them herself.
Mlle. Fouchette was simply and insensibly conforming to her manner of life. She was drifting. She did not know where. She never thought of towards what end or to what purpose.
Those who know woman best never assume to reduce her to the logical rules which govern the mathematical mind, but are always prepared for the little eccentricities which render her at once so charming and uncertain. ”