Mlle. Fouchette Part 61

She did not try to deceive herself. She knew that at this moment, when her heart was so full of him, he was thinking of another woman,--a beautiful and pure being that was worthy of his love,--that he had forgotten her very existence. She had not the remotest idea of trying to attract that love to herself. She did not even indulge in the pardonable girlish dreams in which "If" is the princ.i.p.al character.

He was as impossible to her as the pyramids of Egypt. Therefore she was frightened.

"Mon Dieu! but I surely do love him!" She communed with her poor little bursting heart. "And it is beautiful to love!" She sighed deeply.

"Mademoiselle!"

She started visibly, as if he had read her thoughts as well as heard her sigh, and felt the hot blood mantle her neck again,--for the second time within her memory.

"Pardon! mademoiselle," he said, gently, "I forgot. I was thinking----"

"Of her? Yes,--I know. It is--how you startled me!"

There was a perceptible chord of sympathy in her voice, and he moved his chair around to hers and made as if he would take her hand in the usual way. But to his surprise she rose and, seating herself on a low divan some distance from him, leaned her elbows on her knees and rested her downcast face between her hands. She could not bear to have him touch her.

"Mon enfant! Mon amie!" he remonstrated, in a grieved tone.

"Bah! it is nothing," she murmured; "and nothing magnified is still nothing."

There was that in her voice which touched a heart surcharged with tenderness. He came over and stood beside her.

"I was thinking----"

"Of her,--yes,--I understand----"

"And I lose myself in my love," he added.

"Yes; love! Oui da!"

She laughed a little hysterically and shrugged the thin shoulders without changing her position.

"Ah!" he exclaimed, pityingly, "you do not know what love is!"

"Me? No! Why should I?"

She never once looked up at him. She dared not.

"And yet you once said love was everything," he continued, thinking only of himself.

"Yes,--everything," she repeated, mechanically. "Did I say that?"

"And you spoke truly, though I did not know it then----"

"No,--I did not know it then," she repeated, absently.

In his self-absorption he did not see the girl in the shadow below him trembling and cowering as if every word he uttered were a blow.

"Love to me is life!" he added, with a mental exaltation that lifted him among the stars.

Mlle. Fouchette did not follow him there. With a low, half-smothered cry she had collapsed and rolled to the floor in a little quivering heap.

CHAPTER XVII

As a medical student, as well as habitue of the quarter, Jean Marot was not greatly alarmed at an ordinary case of hysterics. He soon had Mlle. Fouchette in her proper senses again.

He was possibly not more stupid than any other egoist under similar circ.u.mstances, and he attributed her sudden collapse to over-excitement in arranging his affairs.

Mlle. Fouchette lay extended on his divan in silent enjoyment of his manipulations, refusing as long as possible to reopen her eyes. When she finally concluded to do so he was smoothing back her dishevelled hair and gently bathing her face with his wet handkerchief.

"Don't be alarmed, mon enfant," he said, cheerily, "you are all right.

But you have worked too hard----"

"Oh! no, no, no!" she interrupted. "And it has been such a pleasure!"

"Yes; but too much pleasure----"

She sighed. Her eyes were wet,--she tried to turn them away.

"Hold on, pet.i.te! none of that!"

"Then you must not talk to me in that way,--not now!"

"No? And pray, how, then, mademoiselle?"

"Talk of--tell me of your love, monsieur, mon ami. You were speaking of it but now. Tell me of that, please. It is so--love is so beautiful, Monsieur Jean! Talk to me of her,--of Mademoiselle Remy. I have a woman's curiosity, monsieur, mon frere."

It was the first time she had called him brother. She had risen upon her elbow and nervously laid her small hand upon his.

She invited herself to the torture. It had an irresistible fascination for her. She gave the executioner the knife and begged him to explore and lay bare her bleeding heart.

"But, mon enfant----"

"Oh! it will do me good to hear you," she pleaded.

It does not require much urging to induce a young man in love to talk about his pa.s.sion to a sympathetic listener. And there never was time or place more propitious or auditor more tender of spirit.

He began at the beginning, when he first met Mlle. Remy with Lerouge, every detail of which was fixed upon his memory. He told how he sought her in Rue Monge, how Lerouge interposed, how he quarrelled with his friend, how the latter changed his address and kept the girl under close confinement to prevent his seeing her,--Jean was certain of this.

Monsieur Lerouge had a right to protect his sister, even against his late friend; and even if she had been his mistress, Jean now argued, Lerouge was justified; but love is something that in the Latin rises superior to obstacles, beats down all opposition, is obstinate, unreasonable, and uncharitable.

When Mlle. Fouchette, going straight to the core of the matter, asked him what real ground he had for presuming that his attentions, if permitted, would have been agreeable to Mlle. Remy, Jean confessed reluctantly that there were no reasons for any conclusion on this point.

"But," he wound up, impetuously, "when she knows--if she knew--how I wors.h.i.+p her she _must_ respond to my affection. A love such as mine could not be forever resisted, mademoiselle. I feel it! I know it!"

"Yes, Monsieur Jean, it would be impossible to--to not----"