Mlle. Fouchette Part 42

"Why, yes; certainly, mademoiselle."

"At least it is disinterested----"

"Sure!"

"Go home!"

"But----"

She interrupted him sharply, nervously grasping his pa.s.sive hand.

"Go home, Monsieur Jean,--at once!"

She trembled, and her voice grew low and softly sweet, and almost pleading.

"Go home, Monsieur Jean! Leave all of this behind,--it is ruin!"

"Never! I cannot do that, mademoiselle. Besides, it is too late,--it is impossible! I have no home, now. Never!"

"There!"

Mlle. Fouchette rose abruptly, shrugging her narrow shoulders with the air of having done what she could and washing her hands of the consequences. Her smile of half pity, half contempt, for the weakness of a strong man clearly indicated that she had expected nothing and was not disappointed. As he still remained absorbed in his own miserable thoughts, she returned to the attack in a lively manner.

"So that is out of the way," she said. "Now let us see what you are going to do. You probably have friends?"

"A few."

"Do not trust to friends, monsieur; it will spare you the humiliation of finding them out. What are your resources?"

"I have none," he replied.

"How much money have you?"

"Nothing!"

"Ah, monsieur,"--she now sat down again, visibly softened,--"if you will come and dine with me and pet.i.te Poupon we can talk it all over at leisure, n'est-ce pas? I can make a bien joli pot-au-feu for a franc,--which means soup, meat, and vegetables; and I know a pet.i.te marchande de vins where one can get a litre of Bordeaux for cinquante, which, with a salade at two sous and cheese for two more, will round out a very good dinner for two. Ah! le voila!"

She wound up her rapid summary of culinary delights with the charming eagerness of a child, bringing forth from the folds of her dress a small purse, through the netting of which glistened some silver coin, and causing it to c.h.i.n.k triumphantly.

Jean Marot, suddenly lifted out of himself by this impulsive good-nature, was at first embarra.s.sed, then stupefied. He was unable to utter a word. He was ashamed of his own weakness; he was overwhelmed by the sense of her impetuous good-will and practical human sympathy. He silently pressed the thin hand which had unconsciously crept into his.

"No, it is nothing," she said, lightly, withdrawing her hand. "I have plenty to-day,--you will have it some other day; and then you can give me a pet.i.t souper, monsieur, n'est-ce pas?"

"Very well. On that condition I will accept your invitation, mademoiselle. We will dine with pet.i.te Poupon."

He had not the heart to tell her that his "nothing" meant a few hundred francs to his credit and a few louis in his pocket at that moment,--more than she had ever possessed at any one time in her life.

As it was, she walked along by his side with that feeling of camaraderie experienced by those in the same run of luck as to the world's goods, and with that buoyancy of spirit which attends a good action. The few francs and odd sous in the little purse were abundant for to-day,--the morrow could take care of itself.

They turned up the narrow Rue Royer-Collard, where she stopped for the litre of Bordeaux, responding gayly to the wayside queries and comments. Reaching the Rue St. Jacques, there were the salad and the cheese to add to the necessary part of the French meal; and the bit of beef and the inevitable onions brought up the rear of purchases.

"I have some potatoes and carrots," she said, reflectively,--"so much saved. Let us see. It is not so bad,--quatre-vingt-cinq, dix, cinquante,--un franc quarante-cinq."

She made the calculation as they went up the worn stairway after the pa.s.sage of the tunnel.

"Not half bad," said he, compelled to admire her cleverness.

Reaching her chamber, she deposited the entire evening investment on the hearth, proceeding to the preliminary features of preparation. She threw her hat on the bed, then pulled off the light bolero and sent it after the hat, and then she began slipping out of her skirt by suddenly letting it fall in a ring about her feet.

"Oh!" said Jean.

"Excuse me, will you? I can't risk my pretty skirt for appearances.

You won't mind, monsieur? Non!"

"That's right," he said,--"a skirt is only a skirt."

He watched her with a half-amused expression as she flitted nervously about, more doll-like than ever she was, in the short yellow silken petticoat with its terminating ruffles, or cheap lace balayeuse, her blonde hair loosely drooping over her ears and caught up behind in the prevailing fashion of the quarter. She kept up a continual chatter as she opened drawers, prepared the potatoes, and arranged the little table.

Poupon was already singing in the chimney-place. Her conversation, by habit, was mostly directed to her little oil-stove, as if it were a sentient thing, something to be encouraged by flattery and restrained by reproach. It was the camaraderie of loneliness.

But to Jean, who was quick to fall back into his own reveries, her voice died away into incomprehensible jargon. Once he glanced at the sketch still on the wall and thought of her purring over her work like a satisfied cat, then the next instant again forgot her. Now and then she bestowed a keen glance on him or a pa.s.sing word, but left him no time to answer or to formulate any distinct idea as to what it was about. Suddenly she pounced upon him with,--

"Monsieur Marot?"

"Well?"

"You still live----"

"Faubourg St. Honore."

"Mon Dieu! How foolish!"

"Yes,--now," he admitted.

"You must change. What rent do you pay?"

"Fourteen hundred----"

"Dame! And the lease?"

"Two years yet to run," said he.

"Peste! What a bother!"

"But the rent is paid."

"Oh, very well. It can be sold. And the furniture?"

"Mine."