oke his
curiosity to see what was the particular attraction. At the end of the
figure this expression grew enthusiastic.

"Bravo! bravo!" came in chorus.

"Tres bien! tres bien!"

"It is well done, that!"

"Yes,--it is the Savatiere!"

Jean was startled for the instant, since it brought vividly back to
him the beginning of his bitter day.

So it was Mlle. Fouchette.

She made, with another girl of her set, a part of a quadrille, and the
pair were showing off the agile accomplishments of the semi-professionals
of the Bullier and Moulin Rouge. These consisted of kicking off the
nearest hats, doing the split, the guitar act, the pointed arch, and
similar fantasies. Having forced his way in, Jean was instantly
recognized by Mlle. Fouchette, who shook the confetti out of her blonde
hair at every pose. Then, as she executed a pigeon-wing on his corner,
she whispered,--

"Hold, Monsieur Jean,--wait one moment!"

"Will monsieur be good enough to take my place for the last figure?"

Her partner, a thin, serious-looking young man, had approached Jean
hat in hand and addressed him with courtly politeness.

Jean protested with equal politeness,--yet the offer served his turn
admirably,--no! no!--and the mademoiselle, monsieur?

"Come, then!" cried that damsel, as the last figure began, and she
seized Jean by the arm and half swung him into position.

The polite monsieur immediately disappeared in the crowd.

The French are born dancers. There are young Frenchmen here who would
be the admiration of the ballet-master. Frenchmen dance for the pure
love of motion. They prefer an agile partner of the softer sex, but it
is not essential,--they will dance with each other, or even alone, and
on the pavements of Paris as well as on the waxed floor of a
ball-room.

Jean Marot was, like many students of the Quartier Latin, not only a
lover of Terpsichore, but proficient in the art of using his legs for
something more agreeable than running. There were difficult steps and
acrobatic feats introduced by Mlle. Fouchette which he could execute
quite as easily and gracefully. And thus it happened that the young
man who three minutes before had been fleeing the police was now swept
away into the general frivolity of Place St. Jacques. In fact, he had
already absolutely forgotten that he had come there a fugitive.

Mlle. Fouchette had just joyously challenged him to make the "arc aux
pieds" with her,--which is to pose foot agains