Mlle. Fouchette Part 38

"Oho! You keep a pet.i.t tabac?"

"One has some friends, monsieur."

"A good many, I should judge,--each of whom leaves a pipe, indicating an early and regular return."

"I don't find yours here yet, monsieur," she replied, demurely.

"But you will," said he. "And I'll come up and smoke it occasionally, if you'll let me."

"With pleasure, monsieur, even if you had not saved my life----"

"There! Stop that, now. Let us never speak of that, mademoiselle. You got me into a sc.r.a.pe and got me out again, so we are quits."

"But----"

"Say no more about it, mademoiselle."

"I may _think_ about it, I suppose," she suggested, with affected satire.

"There,--tell me about the pipes."

"Oh, yes. Well, you know how men hate to part with old pipes? And they are, therefore, my valuable presents, monsieur."

"Truly! I never thought of that."

"No?"

"And the pictures?"

"Sc.r.a.ps from the studios."

He got up and examined the sketches on the walls. They were from pen, pencil, and brush, from as many artists,--some quite good and showing more or less budding genius. He paused some time before the head of his entertainer.

"It is very good,--admirable!" he said.

"You think so, monsieur?"

"It is worth all the rest together, mademoiselle."

"So much? You are an artist, Monsieur Jean?"

"Amateur,--strictly amateur,--yet I know something of pictures. Now, I should say that bit is worth, say, one hundred francs."

"Nonsense! The work of five minutes of--amus.e.m.e.nt; yes, making fun of me one day. Do you suppose he would give me one hundred francs?"

"The highest effects in art are often merest accident, or the result of the spirit of the moment,--some call it inspiration."

"But if you didn't know who did it, monsieur----"

"It is not signed."

"N-no; but, monsieur, every one must know his work."

"Yes, and every one knows that some of it is bad."

"Oh!"

"And this is----"

"Bad too, monsieur," she laughingly interrupted. "When any one offers me fifty francs for that thing, Monsieur Jean, it goes!"

"Then it is mine," said Jean.

"No! You joke, monsieur," she protested, turning away.

"Not at all," said he, tendering her a fresh, crisp billet de banque for fifty francs. "Voila! Is that a joke?"

Mlle. Fouchette colored slightly and drew back.

"Monsieur likes the picture?"

"Why, certainly. If I didn't----"

"Then it is yours, monsieur, if you will deign to accept it as a--present----"

"No, no!"

"As a souvenir, monsieur."

"Nonsense! I will not do it," he declared. "Come, mademoiselle, you are trying to back out of your offer of a minute ago. Here! Is it mine or is it not? Say!"

"It is yours, monsieur, in any case," she said, in a low voice, "though you would have done me a favor not to press me with money.

Besides, 'La Pet.i.te Chatte' is not worth it."

"I differ with you, mademoiselle; I simply get a picture cheap."

Which was true. There was no sentiment in his offer, and she saw it as she carefully folded the bank-note and put it away with a sigh. It was a great deal of money for her, but still----

There was a great noise at the iron knocker below. This had been repeated for the third time.

"My friends below are growing impatient," he thought.

Jean had that inborn hatred of authority so common to many of his countrymen. It often begins in baiting the police, and sometimes ends in the overthrow of the government.

"Whoever that is," observed the girl, "he will never get in,--never!"

"Good!" said Jean.