Mlle. Fouchette Part 23

"Carve?"

"Yes,--certes! Cut into something fresh, if it turns up."

"Turns up?"

"Why, Monsieur Bibbolet, you're as clever as a parrot! Yes, turns up.

Subject, stiff, cadaver,--see?--Le cafe, garcon!"

"Ah! you medical----"

"You see, George has a new arterial theory to demonstrate. I tell you, he can pick up an artery as easily as your cook can pick a chicken. If you'd care to let him try----"

"How! Pick up my arteries? Not if I----"

"What's that?"

They again ran to the window.

"It's the cuira.s.siers, Monsieur Jean! Ah! if it came to blows they'd pot 'em like rabbits here! You're out of it just in time."

So closely was the squadron of cuira.s.siers wedged in the street that Jean could have put his hand upon the jack-boots of the nearest soldier. There had been a fresh break in the Madeleine guard, and this was the reserve. They slowly p.r.i.c.ked their resistless way, and one by one the exhausted agents slipped between them to the rear. Some of the latter dragged prisoners, some supported bruised and bleeding victims.

Some persons had been trampled or beaten into insensibility, and these were being carried towards the Place de la Concorde. Among them were women. There are always women in the Paris mob.

And this particular mob was a mere political "manifestation." That was all. It was the 25th of October, 1898, and the day on which the French Parliament met. So the Parisian patriots lined the route to the Palais Bourbon and "manifested" their devotion to liberty French fashion, by clubbing everybody who disagreed with them.

"Well!" said Jean, "they have pushed beyond St. Honore. I can get home now."

"Not yet, monsieur. Do not go yet. It is still dangerous. A bottle of old Barsac with me."

Night had fallen. Jean Marot was cautiously let out of a side door.

The Ministry had also fallen.

Hoa.r.s.e-lunged venders of the evening papers announced the fact in continuous cries. Travel had been resumed in the Rue Royale. Here and there the shops began to take in their shutters and resume business.

Timid shopkeepers came out on the walk and discussed the situation with each other.

The ministerial journals sold by wholesale. The angry manifestants burned them in the streets. Which rendered the camelots more insistent and obnoxious with fresh bundles to be sold and destroyed in the same way.

Jean Marot, refreshed by rest and food, lingered a moment at Rue St.

Honore, uncertain whether to return to his rooms or join a mob of patriots howling the Ma.r.s.eillaise in front of the Cafe de Londres.

"Enough," he finally concluded, and turned up towards the Rue Boissy d'Anglais.

There were evidences of a fierce struggle in the narrow but aristocratic faubourg. Usually a blaze of light at this hour, it was closed from street to street and practically deserted. Scared milliners and dress-makers and fashionable jewellers peered out from upper windows, still afraid to open up. Fragments of broken canes, battered hats, and torn vestments told an eloquent story of political differences.

"We certainly missed the fun here," thought Jean. "h.e.l.lo! What's this?"

He had tripped on a woman's skirt in the shadow of the wall.

"Peste! Why can't our fair dames and demoiselles let _us_ fight it out? There really isn't enough to go round!"

He paused, then returned impulsively and looked at the dark bundle,--stirred it with his foot. It was certainly the figure of a woman.

"Last round," he muttered; "next, the Seine!"

His budding professional instincts prompted him to search for the pulse.

It was still.

And when he took his hand away it was covered with blood.

"Wait!"

He placed his hand over the heart, then uncovered a young but bruised and swollen face.

"The cavalry," he murmured. "She's dead; she--well, perhaps it was better."

He glanced up and down the street, as if considering whether to go his way or to call the police. There was n.o.body in sight near enough to attract by cries. The police were busy elsewhere. Then his face all at once lighted up.

"A good idea!" he e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed,--"a very good idea!"

He saw two cabs approaching.

Calling the first, he began to carry the good idea into immediate execution.

"What is it, monsieur?" inquired the cabman, seeing the body.

"An accident. Quick, cocher!"

With his usual decision Jean thrust the body into the cab and followed it.

"Allez!" he commanded.

"But, monsieur,--the--the--where to?"

"Pont de Solferino, to Boulevard St. Germain. An extra franc, my lad!"

Having vaguely started the cabby, Jean had time to think. He knew the prejudices most people entertain concerning the dead. Especially the prejudices of Paris police agents and cabmen. To give the Rue de Medecine would set the man to speculating. To mention Le Pet.i.t Rouge would be to have him hail the first man in uniform.

As to Jean Marot, medical student, du Quartier Latin, in his fourth year, a lifeless body was no more than a bag of sand. It was merely a "subject."

"The chief benefit conferred upon society and humanity by a large proportion of our population," he would have cynically observed to any caviller, "is by dying and becoming useful 'subjects.'"

He considered himself fortunate, however, in having a close cab, out of deference to those who might differ with him. They crossed the Pont de Solferino, where a momentary halt gave a couple of alert agents a chance to scrutinize him a little more sharply than was comfortable, and turned down Boulevard St. Germain.

At the ecole de Medecine Jean stopped the cab, as if struck with a new idea.