He had ceased to attend classes. What were books and classes to him now? He took more absinthe than was good for him.
His father's friend, Dr. Cardiac, visited him, remonstrated with him, readily diagnosed his case, then wrote to Monsieur Marot the elder. The result of this was a peremptory call home. To this summons Jean as promptly replied. He refused to go. An equally prompt response told him he had no home,—no father,—and that thenceforth he must shift for himself,—that he had received his last franc.
Ten days later he unexpectedly encountered Mlle. Fouchette on Boulevard St. Michel. It was Saturday evening, and all the student world was abroad. But perhaps of that world none was more miserable than Jean Marot.
"Ah! Then it is really you, monsieur?" There was a perceptible coldness in her greeting. However, his condition was apparent. The sharp blue eyes had taken his measure at a glance. She interrupted his polite reply.
"Là! là! là! Then you are in trouble. You young men are always in trouble. When it isn't one thing it is another."
"It is both this time, I'm afraid," he said, smiling at the heavy philosophy from such a light source.
They crossed over and walked along the wall of the ancient College d'Harcourt, where there were fewer people. The dark circles under his handsome eyes seemed to soften her still further.
"I am sorry for you, monsieur."
"Thank you, mademoiselle."
"And poor Madeleine——"