Mlle. Fouchette

“ 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. ”

“ 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. ”

“ 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. ”

“ The dark eye gleamed again, and the breast heaved. It must be Lerouge! Jealousy places the desirability of its subject above everything. It must be Lerouge.
"Chut! Here she comes," whispered Mlle. Fouchette.
It was Mlle. Remy. She was clad in a simple blue costume, the skirt of which cleared the ground by several inches, her light blonde hair puffing out in rich coils from beneath the sailor hat. Her sad blue eyes lighted at the sight of Madeleine, and her face broke into a questioning smile as she extended her small hand.
"Oh, Monsieur Lerouge is much better, mademoiselle," said Madeleine. ”

“ 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. ”

“ 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. ”

“ 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." ”

“ 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! ”

“ 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." ”

“ Mlle. Fouchette's reports to the Préfecture had [316] latterly betrayed a laxity of interest that invited official attention, if they did not call down upon her the official censure.
The girl was conscious of this. Half sullen, half defiant, she was struggling under the weight of the new views of life recently acquired. Like the rest of the intelligent world, whose wisdom chiefly consists in unlearning what it has already learned, Mlle. Fouchette was somewhat confused at the rapidity with which old ideas went to pieces and new ideas crowded upon her mind. ”

“ 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! ”

“ It is easy for a man in deep trouble to accept the first sympathetic woman as something angelic. And now, in his gratitude, it was perhaps natural that Jean should unhesitatingly supply Mlle. Fouchette with wings. He had humbled himself in the dust, from which point of view all virtues look beautiful and all good actions partake of heaven. His response to her self-depreciation was a human one. He drew her closer and kissed her lips. ”

“ She not only trampled her love underfoot with new courage, but bent all her energy and influence towards the reconciliation of Jean Marot and Henri Lerouge.
Mlle. Fouchette had gone to the hospital every day to ascertain the young man's condition. And when he had been pronounced convalescent she ascertained his new address. All of which was duly reported to Jean, who began to wonder at this sudden interest in one for whom she had formerly expressed only dislike.
Mlle. Fouchette offered no explanation of her conduct,—a woman is never bound to give a reason for her change of opinions. ”

“ 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! ”

“ And what would he do if he were aware that she knew the true relation of Lerouge and Mlle. Remy and had intentionally misled both him and Madeleine?
Fortunately, Mlle. Fouchette had been spared the knowledge of the real cause of Madeleine's misfortune,—the jealous grisette whom she had set on to worse than murder.
[305] But she was thinking only of Jean Marot now. Love had awakened her soul to the enormity of her offence. It also caused her to suffer remorse for her general conduct. Before she loved she never cared; she had never suffered mentally. ”

“ 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. ”

“ It was the fear women have of others——"
"What do I care for 'others'!" she snapped, scornfully. "Pray, Monsieur Jean, are there, then, 'others' who care anything about me? No! Ask them. No! I do what I please. And I account to nobody. Understand? Nobody!"
Mlle. Fouchette brought the small, thin white hand down upon the table with a slap that gave sufficient assurance of her sincerity, at the same time giving a happy idea of her immeasurable contempt for society. ”

“ I don't understand."
"Andrée!" whispered her brother, warningly. "Remember the salt woman!"
Mlle. Fouchette raised one little nervous finger to her lips and gently closed the door.
"Pray do not seem to notice," she whispered. "But you did not know, then, that Jean and his father have been estranged, oh! for months? That the poor young [375] man had been cast off,—forsaken by father and mother——"
"But why?" insisted Mlle. Remy. "It must have been something dreadful,—some horrible mistake, I mean. Why should——"
The confusion of Mlle. Fouchette was too evident to press this questioning. ”

“ It was on the advice of Madeleine that Fouchette had secured this place in the Rue St. Jacques.
"It will make you independent and respected," said the practical grisette. "You've got the money now; you won't have it after a while. Take my advice,—fix the place up,—gradually, don't you know? You'll soon make friends who will help you if you're smart; and one must have a place to receive friends, n'est-ce pas? And the hotels garnis rob one shamefully!"
And, while Mlle. Fouchette did not dream of the real significance of this advice, she took it. ”

“ He was the first victim of the new ministry, and his flight indicated the change of policy as to the well-known and openly tolerated machinations of the royalists. Some of the more timid Orléanists in Paris and the provinces, recognizing the signal, took the alarm and also put the frontier between them and Inspector Loup.
Mlle. Fouchette's conscience was clear; she had combined feminine philanthropy with duty in Monsieur de Beauchamp's case—he was such a handsome and such an agreeable gentleman—and had given him the straight tip after having betrayed him. ”

“ Mlle. Fouchette was ordinarily an infallible remedy for blue-devils; but to Jean Marot Mlle. Fouchette was fast becoming a mere matter of course. A patient little beast of burden, she was none the less useful to a young man floundering around in the mire of politics, love, and other dire uncertainties.
As otherwise very good husbands are wont to unload their irritability on their wives, so Jean was inclined to favor Mlle. Fouchette. And as doting wives who voluntarily constitute themselves drudges soon become fixed in that lowly position, so Mlle. ”

“ He could not account for the change in Mlle. Fouchette.
And if Jean Marot had been very much more of a philosopher than he was he would not have been able to understand the divine process by which human happiness softens and beautifies the human countenance.
"Mon ami," said the girl, seeking to hide the pleasure his admiration gave her, "do you, then, forget what we have to do to-day?"
"Lerouge? Yes,—that's so,—at once!" ”

“ Remember how I hate men, spoony men,—they disgust me! As a woman I can be nothing to you; as a friend I may be much. Save your caresses, monsieur, for the woman you love! You understand?"
"There! no offence, little one. Am I not your brother?" he asked, laughing.
She nervously readjusted her blonde hair before the little glass and did not reply. But it was evident that she was not very angry, for Mlle. Fouchette was explosive and went off at a rude touch.
At the same moment a terrible racket rose from the stairway,—the sound of a woman's voice and blows and the howling of a dog. ”

“ 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. ”

“ Pardon me for thinking it, Fouchette, but I was half crazy,—I thought but just now that it was—was you!"
"Idiot!"
"Yes, I know; but one does not stop to reason where one loves."
"As if I would throw myself into the arms of any man! You sicken me, Madeleine. But I thought this Lerouge, whoever he is,—I never even saw him,—had disappeared——"
"From his place in the Rue Monge, yes. Fouchette, why should he run away?"
"With a girl he likes better than you? What a question! All men do that, you silly goose!" ”