"I was hungry,—you gave me a nice sandwich; it was kind,—and I do not easily forget, mademoiselle,—though I'm only Fouchette,—no!"
"What! Fouchette—the—dame! it is impossible!"
"Still, it is true, mademoiselle," insisted Fouchette, laughing.
"Ah! I see—I know—why, it is Fouchette! 'Only Fouchette'—oh! sacré bleu! To think——"
She embraced the girl between each exclamation, then held her out at arm's length and looked her over critically, from head to feet and back again, then kissed her some more on both cheeks, laughing merrily the while, and attracting the amused attention of numerous passers.
Mlle. Fouchette realized, vaguely, that the laugh was not that of the pretty garden of years ago; she saw that the flushed cheeks were toned down by cosmetics; she noted the vinous smell on the woman's breath.
"Heavens! but how thin and pale you are, petite!" exclaimed the bicycliste.
"It is true. I have just come out of the hospital—only a few days——"
"Pauvrette! Come! Let us celebrate this happy reunion," said the other, grasping Fouchette's arm and striding along the bridge. "You shall tell me everything, dear."
"But, Mademoiselle—er——"