dared not.

"And yet you once said love was everything," he continued, thinking
only of himself.

"Yes,--everything," she repeated, mechanically. "Did I say that?"

"And you spoke truly, though I did not know it then----"

"No,--I did not know it then," she repeated, absently.

In his self-absorption he did not see the girl in the shadow below him
trembling and cowering as if every word he uttered were a blow.

"Love to me is life!" he added, with a mental exaltation that lifted
him among the stars.

Mlle. Fouchette did not follow him there. With a low, half-smothered
cry she had collapsed and rolled to the floor in a little quivering
heap.

CHAPTER XVII

As a medical student, as well as habitue of the quarter, Jean Marot
was not greatly alarmed at an ordinary case of hysterics. He soon had
Mlle. Fouchette in her proper senses again.

He was possibly not more stupid than any other egoist under similar
circumstances, and he attributed her sudden collapse to
over-excitement in arranging his affairs.

Mlle. Fouchette lay extended on his divan in silent enjoyment of his
manipulations, refusing as long as possible to reopen her eyes. When
she finally concluded to do so he was smoothing back her dishevelled
hair and gently bathing her face with his wet handkerchief.

"Don't be alarmed, mon enfant," he said, cheerily, "you are all right.
But you have worked too hard----"

"Oh! no, no, no!" she interrupted. "And it has been such a pleasure!"

"Yes; but too much pleasure----"

She sighed. Her eyes were wet,--she tried to turn them away.

"Hold on, petite! none of that!"

"Then you must not talk to me in that way,--not now!"

"No? And pray, how, then, mademoiselle?"

"Talk of--tell me of your love, monsieur, mon ami. You were speaking
of it but now. Tell me of that, please. It is so--love is so
beautiful, Monsieur Jean! Talk to me of her,--of Mademoiselle Remy. I
have a woman's curiosity, monsieur, mon frere."

It was the first time she had called him brother. She had risen upon
her elbow and nervously laid her small hand upon his.

She invited herself to the torture. It had an irresistible fascination
for her. She gave the executioner the knife and begged him to explore
and lay bare her bleeding heart.

"But, mon enfant----"

"Oh! it will do me good to hear you," she pleaded.

It does not require much urging to induce a young man in love to talk
about his passion to a sympathetic listener.