_ CHAPTER XIX
"Pardieu!" exclaimed Inspector Loup, who never recognized his agents officially outside of the Prefecture; "it is La Savatiere!"
Mlle. Fouchette trembled a little.
"And Monsieur Marot! Why, this is an unexpected pleasure," continued the police official.
"Then the pleasure is all on one side," promptly responded Jean, who was disgusted beyond measure.
Inspector Loup regarded the pair with his fishy eyes half closed. For once in his life he was nonplussed. Nay, if anything could be said to be surprising to Inspector Loup, this meeting was unexpected and surprising. But he was too clever a player to needlessly expose the weakness of his hand.
Mlle. Fouchette's eyes avoided scrutiny. She had given Jean one quick, significant glance and then looked demurely around, as if the matter merely bored her.
Jean understood that glance and was dumb.
Inspector Loup's waiting tactics did not work.
"So my birdies must coo at midnight on the house-tops," he finally remarked.
"Well, monsieur," retorted the young man, "is there any law against that?"
"Where's the lantern?"
"Here," said Jean, turning the bull's-eye on the face of the inspector.
"Bicycle. Is your wheel above, monsieur?" This ironically.
"Not exactly, Monsieur l'Inspecteur."
"Now, Monsieur Jean," put in Mlle. Fouchette, "if Monsieur l'Inspecteur has no further questions to ask----"
"Not so fast, mademoiselle," sharply interrupted the officer. "Just wait a bit; for, while I do not claim that roof-walking at midnight is unpardonable in cats and lovers, it is especially forbidden to enter other people's houses when they are asleep."
Mlle. Fouchette's nervousness did not escape the little fishy eyes. While it was already evident that Monsieur l'Inspecteur was talking at random, it was morally certain that he would smoke them out.
"And two persons armed with a dark-lantern, coming out of a house not their own, at this time of night," continued the inspector, "are under legitimate suspicion until they can explain."
Mlle. Fouchette made a sign to Jean that he was to hold his tongue.
"Now, none of that, mademoiselle!" cried the inspector, angrily.
He rudely separated the couple, and, taking charge of the girl himself, turned Jean over to four of his agents who were near at hand.
"We'll put you where you'll have time to reflect," he said.
Mlle. Fouchette was inspired. She saw that it was not a souriciere. If the inspector knew what was above, he would not have left the entrances and exits unguarded. To be absolutely sure of this, she waited until they had passed the Rue St. Jacques.
"Now is my opportunity to play quits," she said to herself, and her face betrayed the intensity of her purpose.
"Monsieur l'Inspecteur!"
"Well?"
"I would like a private word with you, please."
"What's that? Oh, it's of no use," he replied.
"To your advantage, monsieur."
"And yours, eh?"
"Undoubtedly," she frankly said.
They walked on a few steps. Then the inspector raised his hand for those in the rear to stop.
They soon stood in the dark entrance of a wine-shop, the inspector of the secret police and his petite moucharde, both as sharp and hard as flint.
"Now, out with it, you little vixen!" he commanded, assuming his brutal side. "Let us have no trifling. You know me!"
"And you know
me, monsieur!" she retorted, with the first show of anger in her voice.
"Speak!"
"I said I had important information," she began, calmly. But it was with an effort, for he had shaken her roughly.
"Yes!" he put in; "and see that you make good, mon enfant!"
He was suspicious that this was some clever ruse to escape her present dilemma. Monsieur l'Inspecteur certainly knew Mlle. Fouchette.
"Information that you do not seem to want, monsieur----"
"Will you speak?"
"I have the right to reveal it only to the Ministry," she coldly replied.
"Is--is it so important as that?" he asked. But his tone had changed. She had made a move as if the interview were over.
"So important that for you to be the master of it will make you master of the Ministry and----"
"Bah!" he ejaculated, contemptuously. He was master of them already.
"And the mere publicity of it would send your name throughout the civilized world in a day!"
"Speak up, then; don't be afraid----"
"It is such that, no matter what you may do in the future, nothing would give you greater reputation."
"But, ma fillette,"--it was the utmost expression of his official confidence,--"and for you, more money, eh?"
"No, no! It is not money!"
She spoke up sharply now.
"Good!" said he, "for you won't get it."
"It is not a question of money, monsieur. If I----"
"There is no 'if' about it!" he exclaimed, irritated at her bargaining manner and again flying into a passion. "You'll furnish the information you're paid to furnish, and without any 'question' or 'if,' or I'll put you behind the bars. Yes, sacre bleu! on a diet of bread and water!"
He was angry that she had the whip hand and that she was driving him.
"Certainly, monsieur,"--and her tone was freezingly polite,--"but then I will furnish it to the Ministry, as I'm specially instructed in such cases to do."
"Then why do you come to me with it?" he demanded.
"Monsieur l'Inspecteur, I would do you a favor if you would let me----"
"For a substantial favor in return!"
"Precisely."
"Ugh! of course!"
"Of course, monsieur,--partly. Partly because you have been kind to me, generally, and I would now reciprocate that kindness."
"So! Well, mademoiselle, now we understand each other, how much?"
"Monsieur?"
"I say how much money do you want?"
"But, monsieur--no, we do not understand each other. I said it is not a question of money. If I wanted money I could get it at the Ministry,--yes, thousands of francs!"
"Perhaps you overrate your find, mademoiselle," he suggested, but with unconcealed interest.
"Impossible!" she exclaimed.
"It ought to be very important indeed," she continued, "equally important to you in its suppression, monsieur."
"Ah!"
The fishy eyes were very active.
"And who besides you possesses this secret?"
"Monsieur Marot."
"So! He alone?"
"Yes, monsieur."
"In a word, mademoiselle, then, what is it that you want?"
"Liberty!"
The inspector started back, confused.
"What's that?" he growled, warily.
"I said 'liberty.' I mean freedom from this service! I'm tired, monsieur! I would be free! I would live!"
The veteran looked at her first with incredulity, then astonishment, then pity. He began to think the girl was really crazy, and that her story was probably all a myth. He suddenly turned the lantern from under his cloak upon her upturned face, and he saw that which thrilled him, but which he could not understand.
It was the first time within Inspector Loup's experience that he had found any one wanting to quit--actually refusing good money to quit--the Secret System, having once enjoyed its delightful atmosphere.
"Monsieur l'Inspecteur?"
But he was so much involved in his mental struggle with this new phase of detective life that he did not answer. He had figured it out.
"So! I think I understand now. But why quit? You have struck something better; but, surely, mademoiselle, one can be in love and yet do one's duty to the State."
"Monsieur!"
"Oh, well; you can resign, can't you? Nobody hinders you." And be a fool! was in Monsieur l'Inspecteur's tone.
"Yes; but that is not all, monsieur. I want it with your free consent and written quittance,--and more, your word of honor that I will never be molested by you or your agents,--that I will be as if I had never been!"
"And if I agree to all this----"
"I shall prove my good faith."
"When?"
"At once!"
"Good! Then we
do understand each other," he said, taking her hand for the first time in his life.
"I trust you, monsieur."
"You have my word. But you will permit me to give you a last word of fatherly advice before I cease to know you. Keep that gay young lover of yours out of mischief; he will never again get off as easily as he did the other day."
"Thanks, Monsieur l'Inspecteur!" said Mlle. Fouchette, very glad indeed now that the lantern was not turned on her.
"Allons!" he cried, looking about him. "And my men, mademoiselle?"
"I would put two at the door where you met us--out of sight--and leave two in the Rue St. Jacques where we shall enter,--until you see for yourself,--the coast is clear."
"Good!" said he, and he gave the necessary orders.
Inspector Loup issued from the Rue Soufflot entrance an hour later with a look of keen satisfaction.
Between the royalists on the one hand, and the republicans on the other, there were gigantic possibilities for an official of Inspector Loup's elasticity of conscience.
He had first of all enjoined strict silence on the part of Mlle. Fouchette and Jean Marot.
"For the public safety," he said.
During his inspection of the premises he had found opportunity to secretly transfer an envelope to the hand of Mlle. Fouchette. For the chief of the Secret System was too clever not to see the shoe that pinched Mlle. Fouchette's toes, and, while despising her weakness, was loyal to his obligation.
As soon as Mlle. Fouchette had bidden Jean good-night and found herself in her own room, she took this envelope from her pocket and drew near the lamp.
It was marked "To be opened to-morrow."
She felt it nervously. It crackled. She squeezed it between her thumb and forefinger. She held it between her eyes and the light. In vain the effort to pierce its secrets.
The old tower clock behind the Pantheon mumbled two.
"Dame!" she said, "it is to-morrow!"
And she hastily ripped the missive open.
Something bluish white fluttered to the floor. She picked it up.
It was a new, crisp note of five hundred francs!
She trembled so that she sank into the nearest chair, crushing the paper in her hand. Her little head was so dizzy--really--she could scarcely bring it to bear upon anything.
Except one thing,--that this unexpected wealth stood between her and what an honest young woman dreads most in this world!
The tears slowly trickled down the pale cheeks,--tears for which it is to be feared only the angels in heaven gave Mlle. Fouchette due credit.
Suddenly she started up in alarm. But it was only some belated lodger, staggering on the stairs. She examined the lock on her door and resolved to get a new one. Then she looked behind the curtains of her bed.
The fear which accompanies possession was new to her.
Having satisfied herself of its safety, she cautiously spread out the bank-note on the table, smoothed out the wrinkles, read everything printed on it, and kissed it again and again.
One of the not least poignant regrets in her mind was that she could tell no one of her good fortune. Not that Mlle. Fouchette was bavarde, but happiness unshared is only half happiness.
She went to the thin place in the wall and listened. Jean was snoring.
She could look him in the face now.
It was a lot of money to have at one time,--with what she had already more than she had ever possessed at once in her life.
Freedom and fortune!
She picked up the envelope which had been hastily discarded for the fortune it had contained.
Hold! here was something more! She saw that it was her quittance,--her freedom! Her face, already happy and smiling, became joyous.
It was merely a lead-pencil scrawl on a leaf from Inspector Loup's note-book saying that----
As she read it her head swam.
"Oh! mon Dieu! It is impossible! Not Fouchette? I am not--and Mlle. Remy is my sister! Ah! Mere de Dieu! And Jean--oh! grand Dieu!"
She choked with her emotions.
"I shall die! What shall I do? What shall I do? And Lerouge, my half-brother! I shall surely die!"
With the paper crumpled in her folded hands she sank to her knees beside the big chair and bowed her head. Her heart was full to bursting, but in her deep perplexity she could only murmur, "What shall I do? what shall I do?"
* * * * *
Jean Marot started from his heavy sleep much later than usual to hear the clatter of dishes in the next room. Going and coming rose a rather metallic voice humming an old-time chanson of the Quartier. He had never heard Mlle. Fouchette sing before; yet it was certainly Mlle. Fouchette:
"Il est une rue a Paris,
Ou jamais ne passe personne,"--
and the rest came feebly and shrilly from the depths of his kitchen,--
"La nuit tous les chats qui sont gris
Y tiennent leur cour polissonne."
"Oh! oui da!" he cried from his bed. "Yes! and the cats sometimes get arrested, too, hein?"
The door leading to his salon was opened tentatively and a small blonde head and a laughing face appeared.
"Not up yet? For shame, monsieur!"
"What time is it?"
"Ten o'clock, lazybones."
"Ten----"
"Yes. Aren't you hungry?"
"Hungry as a wolf!" he cried, with a sweep of his curtains.
"Come, then!" And the blonde head disappeared.
"This is living," said the young man to himself as he was dressing,--he had never enjoyed such comfort away from home,--"the little one is a happy combination of housekeeper and cook as well as guide, philosopher, and friend. Seems to like it, too."
He noted that the little breakfast-table was arranged with neat coquetry and set off with a bunch of red roses that filled the air with their exquisite fragrance. Next he saw that Mlle. Fouchette herself seemed uncommonly charming. She not only had her hair done up, but her best dress on instead of the customary dilapidated morning wrapper.
His quick, artistic eye took in all of these details at a glance, falling finally upon the three marguerites at her throat.
"My faith! you are quite--but, say, little one, what's up?"
"I'm up," she laughingly answered, "and I've been up these two hours, Monsieur Lazybones."
"But----"
"Yes, and I've been down in Rue Royer-Collard and paid our milk bill,--deux francs cinquante, and gave that epiciere a piece of my mind for giving me omelette eggs for eggs a la coque; for, while the eggs were not bad, one wants what one pays for, and I'm going to have it, so she gave me an extra egg this time. How do you like these?"
Without waiting for him to answer she added, "They are vingt-cinq centimes for two, six at soixante-quinze centimes, and one extra, which is trois francs vingt-cinq; and I got another pound of that coffee in Boulevard St. Michel; but it is dreadful dear, mon ami,--only you will have good coffee, n'est-ce pas? But three-forty a pound! Which makes six francs soixante-cinq."
It was her way to thus account for all expenditures for their joint household. He paid about as much attention as usual,--which was none at all,--his mind still dwelling on the cheerfulness and genuine comfort of the place.
"And the flowers, petite----"
"Of course," she hastily interrupted, "I pay for the flowers."
"No! no!" he explained. "I don't mean that! Is it your birthday, or----"
"Yes," she said, thoughtfully, "that is it, Monsieur Jean. I was born this morning!"
He laughed, but saw from the sparkle of the blue eyes that he had not caught her real meaning.
"From the marguerites----"
"Ah, ca! I made the marchande des fleurs give me those. Aren't they sweet? How I love the flowers!"
"But I never saw such a remarkable effect, somehow. They are only flowers, and----"
"'Only flowers'! Say, now!"
"Still, it is curious," he added, resuming his coffee and rolls, as if the subject were not worth an argument or was too intangible to grasp. 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!"
Immediately after breakfast Jean sat down and wrote a friendly, frank letter, making a complete and manly apology for his anger and expressing the liveliest sympathy for his old-time friend.
"Tell him, Monsieur Jean, that you have changed your political opinions and----"
"Oh!"
"At least that you'll have nothing more to do with these conspirators."
"But, Fouchette----"
"Last night's discoveries ought to satisfy any reasonable being."
"True enough, petite."
"Then why not say so to----"
"Not yet,--I prefer acts rather than words,--but in good time----"
It is more difficult for a man to bring himself to the acknowledgment of political errors than to confess to infractions of the moral law.
In the mean time Mlle. Fouchette had cleared away and washed the breakfast things and stood ready to deliver the missive of peace.
"It is very singular," he repeated to himself after she had departed upon this errand, "very singular, indeed, that this girl--really, I don't know just what to think of her."
So he ceased to think of her at all, which was, perhaps, after all, the easiest way out of the mental dilemma.
The fact was that Mlle. Fouchette was fast becoming necessary to him.
With a light heart and eager step she tripped down the Boulevard St. Michel towards the ancient Isle de la Cite. On the bridge she saw the dark shadow of the Prefecture loom up ahead of her, and her face, already beaming with pleasure, lighted with a fresher glow as she thought of her moral freedom.
The bridge was crowded as usual with vehicles and foot-passers, but this did not prevent a woman on the opposite side from catching a recognizing glance of Mlle. Fouchette.
The sight of the latter seemed to thrill the looker like an electric shock. She stopped short,--so suddenly that those who immediately followed her had a narrow escape from collision. 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!"
It was at the same instant Mlle. Fouchette had raised her eyes to the Prefecture that stretched along the quai to the Parvis de la Notre Dame.
Ah, ca!
And after years of servitude,--from childhood,--some of it a servitude of the most despicable nature,--she had at last struck off the shackles!
No,--she had merely changed masters; she had exchanged a master whom she feared and hated for one she loved--adored!
Mlle. Fouchette, for the first time in her life, walked willingly and boldly past the very front door of the Prefecture,--"like any other lady," she would have said.
An agent of the Prefecture, who knew her from having worked with her, happened to see this from the court and hastily stepped out. He observed her walk, critically, and shook his head.
"Something is in the wind," said he.
But as the secret agents of the government are never allowed to enter the Prefecture, he watched for some sign to follow. She gave none.
Nevertheless, he slowly sauntered in the same direction, not daring to accost her and yet watchful of some recognition of his presence.
It was the same polite young man who had surrendered his place in the dance to Jean on the night of Mardi Gras. He had not gone twenty yards before a robust young woman heavily veiled brushed past him with an oath.
"Pardieu!" he said to himself, "but this seems to be a feminine chase." And he quickened his steps as if to take part in the hunt.
Reaching the corner, Mlle. Fouchette doubled around the Prefecture and made straight for the Hotel Dieu.
Rapidly gaining on her in the rear came the veiled woman, evidently growing more and more agitated.
And immediately behind and still more swiftly came the sleuth from the Prefecture. To be sure, there were always plenty of people crossing the broad plaza of Notre Dame from various directions and three going the same way would not have attracted attention.
Mlle. Fouchette drew near the steps of the big hospital, taking a letter from her bosom.
"That letter! Sacre! I must have that letter!" murmured the veiled woman, aloud.
"But you won't get it," thought the agent, gliding closer after her.
Mlle. Fouchette kissed the superscription as she ran up the steps.
"Death!" growled the veiled woman, half frantic at what she considered proof of the justice of her jealous suspicions as strong as holy writ.
The man behind her was puzzled; astonished most at Mlle. Fouchette's osculatory performance; but he promptly seized the pursuer by the arm.
"Not so fast, mademoiselle!"
"Go! I must have that letter!"
She turned upon the man like an enraged tigress, the one big black eye ablaze with wrath.
"Ah! It is you, eh? And right under the nose of the Prefecture!"
"Au diable!" she half screamed, half roared, struggling to free herself from his iron grip. "It is none of your business."
"Your best friend, too!"
"Devil!" she shouted, striking at him furiously.
"Oh, no; not quite,--only an agent from the Prefecture, my bird."
"Oho! And she's a dirty spy like you! I know it! And I'll kill her! D'you hear that? A mort! The miserable moucharde!"
"Not to-day, my precious!" said the man, cleverly changing his grip for one of real steel. "Not to-day. Here is where you go with me, deary. Come!"
"I tell you I'll kill her!"
"We'll see about that later; in the mean time you can have a chance to sweat some of that absinthe out of you in St. Lazare. And look sharp, now! If you don't come along quietly I'll have you dragged through the streets! Understand?"
Mlle. Fouchette had, happily unconscious of this exciting scene, passed out of sight, inquired as to the condition of Lerouge, sent in the letter by a trusty nurse, and was returning across the Parvis de la Notre Dame at the same moment that Madeleine, alternately weeping and cursing, was thrown into her cell at the Prefecture. _