"Dépôt," said the sous-brigadier.
"Oh! no! no!" exclaimed the girl, indignantly. "See, messieurs; he is wounded and weak, and——"
"One moment!"
A young surgeon knelt and applied his ear to the heaving breast, while the police agents whispered among each other.
Mlle. Fouchette caught the words, "It is La Savatière," and smiled faintly, but was at once recalled to the situation by a pair of open eyes through which Jean Marot regarded her intently.
"So! It—it is only Mademoiselle Fouchette. I——"
He saw the cloud that rose upon her face and heard the gentle humility of her reply,—
"Yes, monsieur, it is only Fouchette. How do you find yourself, Monsieur Jean?"
She put a flask of brandy to his lips and saw him swallow a mouthful mechanically. Suddenly he raised himself to a sitting posture and looked anxiously about.
"Where is he?"