Mlle. Fouchette had scarcely ceased to bless Inspector Loup for his forbearance and kind consideration and was crossing the Pont au Change towards the right bank when she encountered a familiar face. She was somewhat startled at first. Her catalogue of familiar faces was so limited that it was a sensation.
It was the face she had seen through the iron gate on the road to Charenton long, long ago!
Somewhat fuller, somewhat redder, with suspicious circles under the lustrous eyes, yet, unmistakably, the same face. The plump figure looked still more robust, and the athletic limbs showed through the scant bloomer bicycle suit.
The owner of this face and figure did not recognize in the other the petite chiffonnière de Charenton. That would have been too much to expect.
"Pardon! but, mademoiselle——"
Fouchette boldly accosted her nevertheless.
"Pardon! You don't remember me? I'm Fouchette!"
"Fouchette?"
"Yes, mademoiselle. You do not remember the poor little ragpicker of Charenton? But of course not,—it was long ago, and I have changed."
The other stared at her with her big black eyes.