yes, monsieur,--I----"

Fouchette had never thought of that. It did not comfort her, as may
well be imagined.

"I'll speak to the nurse about the clothes----"

"Pardon! but it is unnecessary, doctor. I only wanted to know if they
were--were safe, you know. No; never mind. I thank you very much. I
shall need them only when I am removed, which I hope will be soon."

* * * * *

In the Rue St. Jacques stands an old weather-stained, irregular pile
of stone, inconspicuous in a narrow, crooked street lined with similar
houses. The grim walls retreat from the first floor to the roof, in
the monolithic style of the Egyptian tomb. Beneath the first floor is
the usual shop,--a rotisserie patronized by the scholars of two
centuries,--famed of Balzac, de Musset, Dumas, Hugo, and a myriad
lesser pens.

The other houses of the neighborhood are equally oblivious to modern
opinion. They consent to lean against each other while jointly turning
an indifferent face to the world, like a man about whose ugliness
there is no dispute. No two run consecutively with the walks, and all
together present a sky-line that paralyzes calculation.

The historic street at this point is a lively market during the
business day. Its sidewalks being only wide enough for the dogs to
sun themselves without danger from passing vehicles, it is necessary
for the passers to take that risk by walking in the roadway. Those
who do not care to assume any risks go around by way of Rue
Gay-Lussac,--especially after midnight, when the street enjoys its
personal reputation. The Pantheon is just around the corner, and the
ancient Sorbonne, Louis le Grand, and the College of France line the
same street on the next block, and have stood there for some hundreds
of years; but, all the same, timid people certainly prefer to reach
them by a roundabout way rather than by this section of Rue St.
Jacques.

Mlle. Fouchette had accepted a home in the Rue St. Jacques and in this
particular building because other people did not wish to live there,
which made rooms cheap.

If you had cared to see what Mlle. Fouchette proudly called "home" you
might have raised and let fall an old-fashioned iron knocker that sent
a long reverberating roar down the tunnel-like entrance, to be lost in
some hidden court beyond. Then a slide would slyly uncover a little
brass "judas," disclosing a little, black, hard eye. Assuming that
this eye was satisfied with yo