e with him now?"

"Not now. They sent her away in the night. She will be back this
morning."

"Poor girl!"

"But what is all this to you? Why are you here? Does the Ministry----"

"Madeleine!"

But the tigerish look that swept over Mlle. Fouchette's face gave way
to confusion when the grisette quickly shifted her ground.

"Monsieur Marot, I suppose."

"Yes, Madeleine."

"And so he has thrown her over for you, eh?" the other bitterly asked,
with a contemptuous shrug of her shoulders.

"Oh! no, no, no!" hastily protested Mlle. Fouchette, trembling a
little in spite of herself. "That would be impossible! He is so sorry,
Madeleine."

"Sorry! Yes, and the wicked marks on his throat, mon Dieu!"

"Are on Jean's also, Madeleine," said Mlle. Fouchette. "Let us set
these friends right, Madeleine. Will you? Let them be friends once
more."

The one dark eye had been searching, searching. For the ears heard a
voice they had never heard before. It came from the lips of Mlle.
Fouchette, but was not the familiar voice of Mlle. Fouchette. But the
search was vain.

"Ah! very well, petite," the searcher finally said, with a sigh.
"Their quarrel is not mine. I have not set these men on to tear each
other like wild beasts."

Mlle. Fouchette turned her face away. But the veins on her white neck
were as plain as print.

They were read by the simple-hearted grisette thus: It could only be
love or hate; since it is not hate, it is love! Lerouge or Marot?

"Mademoiselle!"

The other turned a defiant face towards the speaker.

"You know that a reconciliation between these men means----"

"That Jean Marot will be thrown into the arms of the woman he loves,"
was the bold interpolation.

"Exactly."

"That is what I wish."

The dark eye gleamed again, and the breast heaved. It must be Lerouge!
Jealousy places the desirability of its subject above everything. It
must be Lerouge.

"Chut! Here she comes," whispered Mlle. Fouchette.

It was Mlle. Remy. She was clad in a simple blue costume, the skirt of
which cleared the ground by several inches, her light blonde hair
puffing out in rich coils from beneath the sailor hat. Her sad blue
eyes lighted at the sight of Madeleine, and her face broke into a
questioning smile as she extended her small hand.

"Oh, Monsieur Lerouge is much better, mademoiselle," said Madeleine.

"Thank you!--thank you for your good news, my dear," Mlle. Remy warmly
replied.

She turned towards