These sounds came to her vaguely and brokenly at first, then forced
themselves on her attention connectedly. Surely she was not at Le Bon
Pasteur! Then where was she? And finally the recollection of recent
events rushed upon her, and her poor little head seemed to be on the
point of bursting.

Things finally appeared quite clear, until her eyes were free and she
saw for the first time her new surroundings, when she involuntarily
manifested her surprise.

It certainly was not a hospital, as she had imagined the place. The
sunny chamber, with its tastefully decorated walls hung with pictures,
the foils over the door,--through which she saw a still more lovely
room,--the voluptuous divan and its soft cushions, the heavy Turkish
rugs, the rich damask hangings of her bed,--no; it certainly was not a
hospital.

It was the most beautiful room Fouchette had ever seen,--such as her
fancy had allotted to royal blood,--at least to the nobility. To
awaken in such a place was like the fairy tales Sister Agnes had read
to her long ago.

"Well, mademoiselle," said the old surgeon, cheerily, "we're getting
along,--getting along, eh, Monsieur Marot?"

"Admirably!" said Jean.

Fouchette glanced from one to the other. The doctor she had long
recognized by voice and touch; but this young man, was he the prince
of this palace?

The eyes of the pair rested upon each other for the moment
inquiringly.

Both Fouchette and Jean concluded this examination with a sigh.

Fouchette had recognized in him the young man who marched by her side
in the Place de la Concorde,--only a rioter. He could not live here.

Jean Marot, who thought he had seen something in this girl besides her
hair to remind him of the woman he loved, acknowledged himself in
error. It had been a mere fancy,--he dismissed it.

He turned away and stood looking gloomily into the street. But the
young man saw nothing. He was thinking of the unfortunate turn of
political events in France that had arrayed friend against friend,
brother against brother.

It was social revolution--anarchy!

Now his friend Lerouge and he had quarrelled,--exchanged blows. They
had wrangled before, but within the bounds of student friendship.
Blows had now changed this friendship to hatred. Blows from those whom
we love are hardest to forgive,--they are never forgotten.

Yet it was not this friendship in itself that particularly concerned
Jean Marot. Through it he had calculated on reachi