Mlle. Fouchette Part 32

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 fas.h.i.+on 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 s.h.i.+rt-sleeves. Which shows that it is exceedingly unsafe to judge by appearances,--of a woman, especially. The slender figure showed that the physical indications in the delicately rounded arm, the taper fingers, and shapely feet were justified by the proportionate development of the rest of her anatomy. 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 finis.h.i.+ng 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 door. But the noise continued, as if somebody beat the heavy planking with the fist, and Mlle. Fouchette threw the door open.

Mlle. Madeleine staggered into the room.

"How's this? melon!"

"Oh! so you're here,--you are not there!" gasped the intruder, falling into a seat and fixing her black eyes sullenly upon the other.

Mlle. Fouchette closed the door with a snap and confronted her visitor with a hardening face.

"I thought it was you, Fouchette!"

"Madeleine, you're drunk!"

"No, no, no, no! I have had such a--a--turn, deary,--pardon me! But she had the same figure,--the same hair,--mon Dieu!"

"Who?"

"Oh! I don't know, Fouchette,--the woman with him, you know,--with Henri, Fouchette!"

The speaker seemed overcome with mingled terror and anger. She stopped to collect her thoughts,--to get her breath.

"What a fool you are, Madeleine! I wouldn't go on that way for the best man living! No!"

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.

"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!"

"Who is this lucky woman?"

"I do not know,--I do not know! 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!"

"He said it was his sister. Bah! I know better, Fouchette. Her name's Remy,--yes, Mademoiselle Remy. And a little, skinny, tow-headed thing like--oh! no, no, no! Fouchette, pardon me! I didn't mean that! I'm half crazy!"

"I believe you," said Fouchette.

"Yes, Monsieur Marot told me----"

Mlle. Fouchette had started so perceptibly that the speaker stopped.

Mlle. Fouchette had carefully guarded her own secrets, but this sudden surprise was----

"Well, melon!" she snapped.

"I--why, I didn't know you----"

"What did Monsieur Marot tell you?" demanded the other.

"That her name was Remy."

"Oh!" said Mlle. Fouchette, coldly.

"So you know Monsieur Marot? They say he resembles Lerouge, but I don't think so. Anyhow, he's in love with Mademoiselle Remy."

Mlle. Fouchette's steel-blue eyes flashed fire.

"You lie!" she screamed, in sudden frenzy. "You lie! you drunken gossip!"

Mlle. Madeleine was on her feet in an instant, but Fouchette's right foot caught her on the point of the chin, and the stout grisette went down like a log.

CHAPTER VIII

Madeleine came to her senses to find her antagonist bending over her with a wet towel and weeping hysterically.

They immediately embraced and wept together.

Then Mlle. Fouchette rummaged in the deep closet in the wall and brought forth a bottle of cognac. Whereupon Madeleine not only suddenly dried her tears but began to smile. Half an hour later she had forgotten all unpleasantness and went away leaving many endearments behind her.

Mlle. Fouchette was scarcely less astonished at her own outburst than had been her friend Madeleine, when she had time to think of it.

What could Jean Marot be to her, Fouchette? Nothing.