Mlle. Fouchette Part 47

With shouts of "Vive l'armee!" "a bas les vendus!" "Vive France aux Francais!" "a bas les Juifs!" the waiting combination, or "nationalistes," fell upon their victims with fist, heel, and club.

This was not as a body, the a.s.sailants being cleverly scattered everywhere through the crowd, and a.s.saulting individually and supporting each other where resistance was encountered. As many were mere spectators, they were compelled to declare themselves or come in for a share of the drubbing, though this opportunity for escape was not always offered or accepted.

The pure love of fighting is strong in the French as in the Irish breast, and once roused the Frenchman is not too particular whose head comes beneath his baton.

It naturally happened, therefore, that on this occasion the innocent curious of all opinions received impartial treatment, often without knowing to which side they were indebted for their thumping. Every man thus a.s.saulted at once became a rioter and began the work on his own particular account. Within a brief period not less than a hundred personal combats were going on at the same moment. As far as the eye could reach the broad boulevard was a surging sea of scuffling humanity, above which rose a cloud of dust and a continuous roar of angry voices. To the distant ear this was as one voice,--that of terrible imprecation.

Having thus ingeniously united the conflicting currents in one tempest, the police precipitated themselves on the whole.

Had any additional element been required to bring things to the highest stage of combativeness this would have answered quite well. As interference in family affairs almost invariably brings the wrath of both parties down on the peacemaker, so now the police began to receive their share of the public attention.

The Parisian population have not that docile disposition and submissive respect for authority characteristic of our Americans. The absence of the night-stick and ready revolver must be supplied by overwhelming physical force. Even escaping criminals cannot be shot down in France with impunity.

Though deprived of both clubs and sabres and not trusted with revolvers, these police agents make good use of hands and feet. Not being bound by the rules of the ring, their favorite blow is the blow below the belt. It is viciously administered by both foot and knee.

Next to that is the kick on the s.h.i.+ns, which, delivered by a heavy, iron-shod cowhide boot, is pretty apt to render the recipient hors de combat. Supplemented by a quick fist and directed by a quicker temper, the French police agent is no mean antagonist in a general row. In brutality and impulsive cruelty he is but the flesh and blood of those with whom he has mostly to deal.

The battle now raged with increasing violence, the combatants being slowly driven down upon the approaching manifestants from the Quartier Latin, Montmartre, and La Villette. It had become everybody's fight, the original Dreyfusardes having been largely eliminated by nationaliste clubs and police arrests. The ambulances and cellular vans, playfully termed "salad-baskets," thoughtfully stationed in the side streets, were being rapidly filled, and as fast as filled were driven to hospital and prison respectively.

The reverberating roar of human voices beat against the tall buildings, rising and falling in frightful diapason, as if it were the echo from a thousand savage creatures of the jungle clas.h.i.+ng their fangs in deadly combat.

Jean Marot and his immediate followers had scarcely turned from the scene at the cafe before they were swallowed up in the vortex that now met them. Indeed, Jean had not witnessed either the horrible brutality of the butcher or his punishment. The cries of "Les agents! a bas les agents!" had suddenly carried him elsewhere on the field of battle. He found himself, fired by the fever of conflict, in the middle of the broad street so closely surrounded by friends and foes that sticks were enc.u.mbrances. A short arm blow only was now and then effective. A dozen police agents were underfoot somewhere, being pitilessly stamped and trampled by the frantic mob. The platoon that had charged was wiped out as a platoon. Those who were hemmed in fought like demons.

Men throttled each other and swayed back and forth and yelled imprecations and fell in struggling ma.s.ses and got upon their feet again and twisted and squirmed and panted, like so many monsters, half serpent and half beast, seeking to bury their fangs in some vital part or tear each other limb from limb.

Suddenly Jean saw rise before him a face that drove everything else from his mind. It was that of one who saw him at the same instant. And when these bloodshot eyes of pa.s.sion met a fierce yell of wrath burst from the two men.

It was Henri Lerouge.

He was hatless and his clothes were in shreds and covered with the grime of the street. His hair was matted with coagulated blood,--his lips were swollen hideously. A police agent in about the same condition held him by the throat.

When Henri Lerouge saw Jean Marot he seemed imbued with the strength of a giant and the agility of a cat. He shook off the grip of the agent as if it were that of a child and at a bound cleared the struggling group that separated him from his former friend.

They grappled without a word and without a blow, and, linked in the embrace of mortal hatred, rolled together in the dust.

The cruel human waves broke over them and rolled on and receded, and went and came again, and eddied and seethed and roared above them.

These two rose no more.

CHAPTER XIII

When the police, supported by the Garde de Paris, had finally swept the boulevard clear of the mob, they found among the human debris two men locked in each other's grasp, insensible. The imprint on two throats showed with what desperate ferocity they had clung to each other. Indeed, their hands were scarcely yet relaxed from exhaustion.

Their faces were black and their tongues protruded.

In the nearest pharmacy, where ambulances were being awaited by a dozen others, Jean Marot quickly revived under treatment. The case of Henri Lerouge, however, was more serious. He had received a severe cut in the head early in the row and the young surgeon in charge feared internal injuries. Artificial means were required to induce respiration. This was restored slowly and laboriously. At the first sign of life he murmured,--

"Andree! Sister! Ah! my poor little sister!"

Jean roused himself. The sounds of voices and wheels came to him indistinctly. Everything merged in these words,--

"Andree! Sister!"

Then again all was blank.

When he revived he was first of all conscious of a gentle feminine touch,--that subtle something which cools the fevered veins and softens the pangs of suffering, mind and body.

He felt it rather as if it were a dream, and kept his eyes closed for fear the dream would vanish. The hand softly bathed his head, which consciously lay in a woman's lap. He remembered but one hand--his mother's--that had soothed him thus, and the sweet souvenir provoked a deep sigh.

"Ah! mon Dieu!" murmured the voice of Mlle. Fouchette.

"L'hopital ou depot?" inquired the nearest agent.

"Depot," 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 Savatiere," and smiled faintly, but was at once recalled to the situation by a pair of open eyes through which Jean Marot regarded her intently.

"So! It--it is only Mademoiselle Fouchette. I----"

He saw the cloud that rose upon her face and heard the gentle humility of her reply,--

"Yes, monsieur, it is only Fouchette. How do you find yourself, Monsieur Jean?"

She put a flask of brandy to his lips and saw him swallow a mouthful mechanically. Suddenly he raised himself to a sitting posture and looked anxiously about.

"Where is he?"

"Who? Where is who, monsieur?"

"Lerouge. Why, he was here but now. Where is he?"

"Lerouge! That wretch!" cried the girl, with pa.s.sion. "I could strangle him!"

"Oh! no, no, no!" he interposed. "It is a mistake. His sister, Fouchette----"

His glance was more than she could bear. She would have drawn him back to her as a mother protects a sick child, only a rough hand interposed.

"See! he raves, messieurs."

"Let him rave some more," said the sous-brigadier. "This is our affair. So it was Monsieur Lerouge, was it? Very good! Henri Lerouge, medical student, Quartier Latin, anarchist, turbulent fellow, rascal,--well cracked this time!"

Jean looked from the girl to the man and laid himself back in her arms without a word.