"Lerouge keeps his beauty mighty close," interrupted Massard. "I never saw her but once, and she reminded me of that little devil, Fouchette, who stands in with the police, or she would have been locked up a dozen times."
"Very likely," observed Villeroy.
It was now Mardi Gras, and the whole Ville Lumière was en fête. The left bank of the Seine, the resort of nearly twenty thousand students, was especially joyous.
There was one young man, however, who chose to be alone, and he stood apart from the world, leaning over the worn parapet of the Pont Neuf, gazing idly on the rushing waters of the Seine.
Jean Marot loved the noble span that for more than three hundred years had connected the ancient Isle de la Cité with the mainland. A long line of kings, queens, emperors, princes, princesses, and noblemen of every degree had lived and passed the Pont Neuf. Royal knights, stout men-at-arms, myriads of mailed warriors and citizen soldiers, countless multitudes of men and women, had come and gone above these massive stone arches of three centuries.
Yet the young man thought not of these. His mind was occupied by one little, slender, fair-haired woman, and that one unattainable. Had he analyzed his new mental condition, he might have marvelled that the little winged god could have aimed so straight and let fly so unexpectedly. True love, however, does not come of reasoning, but rather in spite of it. And, to do Jean's Latin race justice, he never thought of doing such a thing, and thus spared his love being reduced to a palpable absurdity. The bronze shadow of that royal Latin lover, Henri IV., looked down upon the modern Frenchman approvingly.
A sharp shower of confetti and the laughter of young girls roused the young man from his revery and brought his thoughts down to date.
"Monsieur has forgotten that Boulevard St. Michel is en fête," said a rich contralto voice behind him.
He turned to receive a handful of confetti dashed smartly in his face and to look into a pair of bold black eyes.