Mlle. Fouchette Part 71

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 pa.s.se 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, pet.i.te----"

"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.