ver-colored, with dark-brown splotches, named
Tartar, but that the child was not yet missed, probably owing to the
fact that it was her customary hour in the streets of Charenton. In
the same time he had notified the Prefecture that a murderous attempt
had been made on a child, probably by some one of the gang that
infested the Rendez-Vous pour Cochers, and had been directed to
co-operate with two skilled Central men in an investigation.

"All right, petite," said the Commissaire, rubbing his hands and
assuming his most oily tone. "First we are going to have some dry
clothes and some shoes and stockings and----"

"I only--I never wore shoes and stockings," interrupted Fouchette,
somewhat embarrassed by this flood of finery. "I don't need 'em,
monsieur. It is only Tartar's----"

"Oh, we'll attend to Tartar also,--don't be afraid."

"Monsieur is very kind."

"It is nothing. Come along, now. You're going to ride in a nice
carriage, too,--for the crowd might follow you in the street, you
know,--and I'll send a man with you to take good care of you."

"But Tartar----"

"You can take him in the carriage with you if you wish,--yes, it is
better, perhaps. He might get run over or lost."

"Oh!"

And thus Fouchette rode in state, and in wet rags at the same time,
down past the great Jardin des Plantes, the Halle aux Vins, and along
the Boulevard St. Germain to Rue St. Jacques, where they turned down
across the Petit Pont and stopped in the court-yard of an immense
building across the plaza from Notre Dame. Tartar was somewhat uneasy,
as well as his little mistress, at this novelty of locomotion, but as
long as they were together it seemed to be all right. So they looked
out of the carriage windows at the sights that were as strange to
their eyes as if they had never before been in the city of Paris.
Meanwhile, to divert the child, the man at her side had gayly pointed
out the objects of interest.

"Ah! and there is grand old Notre Dame," said he.

"What's that?"

"Notre Dame."

"It's a big house."

"Yes; but you've seen it, of course."

"Never."

"What!" he exclaimed, in astonishment; "you, a little Parisienne, and
never saw Notre Dame?"

"You--you, monsieur, you have then seen everything in Paris?"

There was a vein of cold irony in the small voice.

"Er--w-well, not quite. Not quite, perhaps," he smilingly answered.

"No, nor I," she said.

"But Notre Dame----"

"What's Notre Dame to me? Nothing!"