Then Mlle. Fouchette rummaged in the deep closet in the wall and brought forth a bottle of cognac. Whereupon Madeleine not only suddenly dried her tears but began to smile. Half an hour later she had forgotten all unpleasantness and went away leaving many endearments behind her.
Mlle. Fouchette was scarcely less astonished at her own outburst than had been her friend Madeleine, when she had time to think of it.
What could Jean Marot be to her, Fouchette? Nothing.
Suppose he did love this Mlle. Remy, what of it? Nothing.
Monsieur Marot was a being afar off, inaccessible, almost intangible,—like the millionaire employer to his humble workman, covered with sweat and grime, at the bottom of the shop.
When Mlle. Fouchette thought of him it was only in that way, and she would have no more thought of even so much as wishing for him than she would have wished for the moon to play with. She had met him, by accident, twice since her departure from his roof, and the first time he had a hurried, uneasy air, as if he feared she might presume to detain him. The second time he had gone out of his way to stop her and talk to her and to inquire what she was doing and how she was getting along,—condescendingly, as one might interest himself for the moment in a former servant.
In the mean time Jean Marot had held himself aloof from "la vie joyeuse" and from the reunions at "Le Petit Rouge." It attracted the attention of his associates.
"First Lerouge, now it's Jean," growled Villeroy. "Comes of loafing along the quais nights,—it's malaria."
"He's greatly changed," remarked another student.
"It's worry," said another.