Mlle. Fouchette Part 24

"Cocher!"

"Yes, monsieur?"

"Drive to 12 Rue Antoine Dubois."

"How then!"

"I said--drive--to--No. 12--Rue Antoine Dubois! You know where that is?"

"Oh, yes, monsieur,--only--er--it is right over there opposite the----"

The man was so excited he found difficulty in expressing himself.

"ecole Pratique,--that's right," said Jean.

Hardened sinner that he was, the old Paris coachman crossed himself and, as he entered the uncanny neighborhood, felt around for the sacred amulet that every good Frenchman wears next to the skin.

"I must get some instruments there before taking this lady home," Jean added.

The Rue Antoine Dubois is a short street connecting the Rue et Place de l'ecole de Medecine with the Rue de Monsieur le Prince. One side of it is formed by the gloomy wall of the ecole Pratique, where more "subjects" are disposed of annually than in any other dozen similar inst.i.tutions in the world; the other by various medical shops and libraries, over which are "clubs," "laboratories," "cliniques," and student lodgings. At the Rue de Monsieur le Prince the street ends in a great flight of steps. It therefore forms an impa.s.se, or a pocket for carriages, and is little used. It was now deserted.

The coachman drew up before a dark court entrance, a sickly light shining upon him through the surgical appliances, articulated skeletons, skulls, and other professional exhibits of the nearest window.

"Let us see; I'll take her up-stairs and make a more careful examination."

"You--you're a doctor, monsieur?"

"Yes,--there!" He gave the man a five-franc piece. "No,--never mind the change."

"Merci, monsieur!"

"Better wait--till I see how she is, you know."

Jean bore his burden very carefully till out of sight; then threw it over his shoulder and felt his way up the half-lighted stairs. He knew quite well that the man would not wait; believed that the overpayment would induce him to get away as quickly and as far as possible.

"It's a stiff, sure!" growled the nervous cabman, and he drove out of the place at a furious rate.

Jean threw his "subject" on the floor and hunted around for a light.

"Le Pet.i.t Rouge"--its frequenters were medical students and political extremists--was replete with books, bones, and anatomical drawings, black-and-white and in colors. Two complete skeletons mounted guard,--one in the farther corner, one behind the door. There were tables and instrument-cases, and surgical saws and things in racks.

There were easy-chairs, pipes, etc. A skull, with the top neatly sawed off to serve as cover, formed a tobacco receptacle.

But the chef-d'oeuvre was from Jean's ingenious hand. It was the bow-backed skeleton behind the door, which had been cleverly arranged as and was called "Madame la Concierge." The skeleton had been arrayed in a short conventional ballet skirt and scanty lace cap, and held a candle in one hand and a bottle marked "Absinthe" in the other. The skirt was to indicate her earlier career, the cap and candle gave an inkling of her later life, while the bottle told the probable cause of her decease. This skeleton was so controlled by wires and cords that it could be made to move out in front of the open door and raise the candle above the head, as if to see who asked for admission. When the room was in semi-darkness Madame la Concierge of Le Pet.i.t Rouge was charmingly effective, and had been known to throw some people into spasms.

Placing his lamp in a favorable position, Jean Marot pulled off his coat, removed his cuffs, rolled up his sleeves, and proceeded to extend his subject upon what young Armand Ma.s.sard facetiously called "the dressing-table."

"Good G.o.d!" he exclaimed, falling back a step. "Why, it's the demoiselle of the Place de la Concorde!"

CHAPTER VI

And so it was.

Fouchette had been thrown from the voiture in the conflict, and had been run over by the mob and trampled into the mud of the gutter. So covered with the filth of the street was she, so torn and bruised and bedraggled, that she would have been unrecognizable even to one who had seen her more often than had her present examiner.

There was something in the girl's face, however, that had left an impression on the mind of Jean Marot not easily effaced. It was too indistinct and unemotional, this impression, to inspire a.n.a.lysis, but it was there, so that, under the lamp, Jean had at once recognized the young woman of the carriage.

"It's murder, that's what it is," he soliloquized,--"victim of 'Vive l'armee.'"

A most careful examination showed there were no bones broken, though the young body was literally black and blue.

The face was that of a prize-fighter's after a stubborn battle.

Inspection of the clothing developed no marks of recognition. Her pocket lining showed that she had been robbed of anything she may have possessed. The coa.r.s.e character and general appearance of the clothing indicated her lowly condition of charity scholar.

Although rigor mortis had not yet set in, the medical student, armed with a basin and sponge, proceeded to prepare the body for the scalpel.

"This ought to suit George Villeroy," he mused. "And George has always said I was no good except on a lark. He has always pined for a fresh subject----"

He was attracted by the quality and peculiar color of the hair, and washing the stains from the head, examined the latter attentively.

"I never saw but one woman with hair like that, and she--wonder what the devil is in Lerouge, anyhow!--I suppose--hold on here! Let us see."

He had found a terrible gash in the scalp. Hastily obtaining his instruments, he skilfully lifted a bit of crushed skull.

As he did so he fancied there was a slight tremor in the slender body.

He nervously tested the heart, the nostrils, the pulse, then breathed once more.

"Dame! It is imagination. That break would have killed an ox!"

Yet he took another careful look at the wound, cutting away some of the fair hair in order to get at the fracture. Then he made another experiment.

"Pardieu! she's alive," he whispered, hoa.r.s.ely. "What's to be done?

They're right. Jean! Jean! you'll never be a doctor! Never be anything but a d----d fool!"

But Jean Marot, if not a doctor, was a young man of action and resources. Even as he spoke he grabbed a sheet and a blanket from a cot in the corner, s.n.a.t.c.hed a hat belonging to Ma.s.sard's grisette from the wall, bundled the girl's clothes around the body the best he could, and ran to the window.

As he had antic.i.p.ated would be the case, the cabman had disappeared.

He was fully aware of the risk he now ran; but above his sense of personal danger rose his sympathy and anxiety for the young girl.

He realized that his first step must be to get her out of this place; next to get her under the care of a regular pract.i.tioner. French law is severe in such a contingency. Without hesitation he again shouldered his burden,--this time with infinite gentleness.

At first he had thought of depositing it in the court below until he had secured a cab in the Rue et Place de l'ecole de Medecine; but he saw an open voiture pa.s.sing along the elevated horizon of the Rue de Monsieur le Prince and gave a shrill whistle.