One day she had seen Mlle. Remy, and had been so agitated and nervous
that it was all she could do to sustain herself in the shadow of one
of the great stone columns. She had watched for this opportunity for
days; yet when it suddenly presented itself she could only hide,
trembling, and permit the girl to pass without a word.

"If I could only touch her!--feel her pretty fingers in my hand! Ah!
but can I ever bring myself to that without betrayal? They would be so
happy! and I,--why should I not be happy also? I love him,--I love
her,--and if they love each other,--she can help it no more than
he,--it would be impossible!"

Thus she reasoned with herself as the sunny head of Mlle. Remy
disappeared in the gloomy corridor. Thus she reasoned with herself
over and over again, as if the resolution she had taken required
constant bracing and strengthening.

And it did require it.

For Mlle. Fouchette, humble child of the slums, had bravely cut out
for herself a task that would have appalled the stoutest moralist.

Love had not only softened the nature of Mlle. Fouchette, as is
seen,--it had revolutionized her. The fierce spirit to which she owed
her reputation--of the feline claws and ready boot-heel--had vanished
and left her weak and sensitive and meekly submissive. Personally she
had not realized this change because she had not reasoned with herself
on the subject. Not only her whole time but her entire mind and soul
were absorbed in the service of Love. She gloried in her
self-abasement.

Mlle. Fouchette would have gone farther,--would have deliberately and
gladly sacrificed everything that a woman can lay upon the altar of
her affections. She had no moral scruples, being only a poor little
heathen among the heathen.

Somewhat disappointed and not a little chagrined at first that Jean
had not required, or even hinted at, this sacrifice, she had ended by
secretly exulting in this nobility of character that made him superior
to other young men, and distinctly approved of his fidelity to the
image in his heart. Deprived of this means of proving her complete
devotion to him, she elevated him upon a higher pedestal and
prostrated herself more humbly.

Wherein she differed materially from the late Madame Potiphar.

As for Jean Marot, it is to be reluctantly admitted that he really
deserved none of this moral exaltation, being merely human, and a
common type of the people who had abolished God and kings in one fell