door and
resolved to get a new one. Then she looked behind the curtains of her
bed.

The fear which accompanies possession was new to her.

Having satisfied herself of its safety, she cautiously spread out the
bank-note on the table, smoothed out the wrinkles, read everything
printed on it, and kissed it again and again.

One of the not least poignant regrets in her mind was that she could
tell no one of her good fortune. Not that Mlle. Fouchette was bavarde,
but happiness unshared is only half happiness.

She went to the thin place in the wall and listened. Jean was snoring.

She could look him in the face now.

It was a lot of money to have at one time,--with what she had already
more than she had ever possessed at once in her life.

Freedom and fortune!

She picked up the envelope which had been hastily discarded for the
fortune it had contained.

Hold! here was something more! She saw that it was her quittance,--her
freedom! Her face, already happy and smiling, became joyous.

It was merely a lead-pencil scrawl on a leaf from Inspector Loup's
note-book saying that----

As she read it her head swam.

"Oh! mon Dieu! It is impossible! Not Fouchette? I am not--and Mlle.
Remy is my sister! Ah! Mere de Dieu! And Jean--oh! grand Dieu!"

She choked with her emotions.

"I shall die! What shall I do? What shall I do? And Lerouge, my
half-brother! I shall surely die!"

With the paper crumpled in her folded hands she sank to her knees
beside the big chair and bowed her head. Her heart was full to
bursting, but in her deep perplexity she could only murmur, "What
shall I do? what shall I do?"

* * * * *

Jean Marot started from his heavy sleep much later than usual to hear
the clatter of dishes in the next room. Going and coming rose a rather
metallic voice humming an old-time chanson of the Quartier. He had
never heard Mlle. Fouchette sing before; yet it was certainly Mlle.
Fouchette:

"Il est une rue a Paris,
Ou jamais ne passe personne,"--

and the rest came feebly and shrilly from the depths of his kitchen,--

"La nuit tous les chats qui sont gris
Y tiennent leur cour polissonne."

"Oh! oui da!" he cried from his bed. "Yes! and the cats sometimes get
arrested, too, hein?"

The door leading to his salon was opened tentatively and a small
blonde head and a laughing face appeared.

"Not up yet? For shame, monsieur!"

"What time is it?"

"Ten o'clo