CHAPTER VI[ToC]
And so it was.
Fouchette had been thrown from the voiture in the conflict, and had been run over by the mob and trampled into the mud of the gutter. So covered with the filth of the street was she, so torn and bruised and bedraggled, that she would have been unrecognizable even to one who had seen her more often than had her present examiner.
There was something in the girl's face, however, that had left an impression on the mind of Jean Marot not easily effaced. It was too indistinct and unemotional, this impression, to inspire analysis, but it was there, so that, under the lamp, Jean had at once recognized the young woman of the carriage.
"It's murder, that's what it is," he soliloquized,—"victim of 'Vive l'armée.'"
A most careful examination showed there were no bones broken, though the young body was literally black and blue.
The face was that of a prize-fighter's after a stubborn battle.
Inspection of the clothing developed no marks of recognition. Her pocket lining showed that she had been robbed of anything she may have possessed. The coarse character and general appearance of the clothing indicated her lowly condition of charity scholar.
Although rigor mortis had not yet set in, the medical student, armed with a basin and sponge, proceeded to prepare the body for the scalpel.
"This ought to suit George Villeroy," he mused. "And George has always said I was no good except on a lark. He has always pined for a fresh subject——"