It was a little fresher in Place St. Jacques, that was all.
The band-stand being on the exact place marked in the stone pavement for the guillotine, it gave a sort of peculiar piquancy to the occasion. While the proprietors of the adjacent wine-shops and "zincs" grumbled at the new order of things, the young people were making the best of Mardi Gras in hilarious fashion.
Though Place St. Jacques presented a lively scene beneath its scattered lights, it was one common enough to Jean Marot, who now only saw in the romping crowd and spectators the means of shaking off his police pursuers. Among the hundred dancers he made his way to the most compact body of lookers-on, where the indications were that something unusually interesting was in progress. Here the blown condition of a student would not be noticed.
Yells of delight from those in his immediate vicinity awoke his curiosity to see what was the particular attraction. At the end of the figure this expression grew enthusiastic.
"Bravo! bravo!" came in chorus.
"Très bien! très bien!"
"It is well done, that!"
"Yes,—it is the Savatière!"
Jean was startled for the instant, since it brought vividly back to him the beginning of his bitter day.
So it was Mlle. Fouchette.