re one loves."

"As if I would throw myself into the arms of any man! You sicken me,
Madeleine. But I thought this Lerouge, whoever he is,--I never even
saw him,--had disappeared----"

"From his place in the Rue Monge, yes. Fouchette, why should he run
away?"

"With a girl he likes better than you? What a question! All men do
that, you silly goose!"

"He said it was his sister. Bah! I know better, Fouchette. Her name's
Remy,--yes, Mademoiselle Remy. And a little, skinny, tow-headed thing
like--oh! no, no, no! Fouchette, pardon me! I didn't mean that! I'm
half crazy!"

"I believe you," said Fouchette.

"Yes, Monsieur Marot told me----"

Mlle. Fouchette had started so perceptibly that the speaker stopped.
Mlle. Fouchette had carefully guarded her own secrets, but this sudden
surprise was----

"Well, melon!" she snapped.

"I--why, I didn't know you----"

"What did Monsieur Marot tell you?" demanded the other.

"That her name was Remy."

"Oh!" said Mlle. Fouchette, coldly.

"So you know Monsieur Marot? They say he resembles Lerouge, but I
don't think so. Anyhow, he's in love with Mademoiselle Remy."

Mlle. Fouchette's steel-blue eyes flashed fire.

"You lie!" she screamed, in sudden frenzy. "You lie! you drunken
gossip!"

Mlle. Madeleine was on her feet in an instant, but Fouchette's right
foot caught her on the point of the chin, and the stout grisette went
down like a log.

CHAPTER VIII

Madeleine came to her senses to find her antagonist bending over her
with a wet towel and weeping hysterically.

They immediately embraced and wept together.

Then Mlle. Fouchette rummaged in the deep closet in the wall and
brought forth a bottle of cognac. Whereupon Madeleine not only
suddenly dried her tears but began to smile. Half an hour later she
had forgotten all unpleasantness and went away leaving many
endearments behind her.

Mlle. Fouchette was scarcely less astonished at her own outburst than
had been her friend Madeleine, when she had time to think of it.

What could Jean Marot be to her, Fouchette? Nothing.

Suppose he did love this Mlle. Remy, what of it? Nothing.

Monsieur Marot was a being afar off, inaccessible, almost
intangible,--like the millionaire employer to his humble workman,
covered with sweat and grime, at the bottom of the shop.

When Mlle. Fouchette thought of him it was only in that way, and she
would have no more thought of even so much as wishing for him than she