It certainly was not a hospital, as she had imagined the place. The sunny chamber, with its tastefully decorated walls hung with pictures, the foils over the door,—through which she saw a still more lovely room,—the voluptuous divan and its soft cushions, the heavy Turkish rugs, the rich damask hangings of her bed,—no; it certainly was not a hospital.
It was the most beautiful room Fouchette had ever seen,—such as her fancy had allotted to royal blood,—at least to the nobility. To awaken in such a place was like the fairy tales Sister Agnes had read to her long ago.
"Well, mademoiselle," said the old surgeon, cheerily, "we're getting along,—getting along, eh, Monsieur Marot?"
"Admirably!" said Jean.
Fouchette glanced from one to the other. The doctor she had long recognized by voice and touch; but this young man, was he the prince of this palace?
The eyes of the pair rested upon each other for the moment inquiringly.
Both Fouchette and Jean concluded this examination with a sigh.
Fouchette had recognized in him the young man who marched by her side in the Place de la Concorde,—only a rioter. He could not live here.
Jean Marot, who thought he had seen something in this girl besides her hair to remind him of the woman he loved, acknowledged himself in error. It had been a mere fancy,—he dismissed it.
He turned away and stood looking gloomily into the street. But the young man saw nothing. He was thinking of the unfortunate turn of political events in France that had arrayed friend against friend, brother against brother.