"Who? Where is who, monsieur?"
"Lerouge. Why, he was here but now. Where is he?"
"Lerouge! That wretch!" cried the girl, with passion. "I could strangle him!"
"Oh! no, no, no!" he interposed. "It is a mistake. His sister, Fouchette——"
His glance was more than she could bear. She would have drawn him back to her as a mother protects a sick child, only a rough hand interposed.
"See! he raves, messieurs."
"Let him rave some more," said the sous-brigadier. "This is our affair. So it was Monsieur Lerouge, was it? Very good! Henri Lerouge, medical student, Quartier Latin, anarchist, turbulent fellow, rascal,—well cracked this time!"
Jean looked from the girl to the man and laid himself back in her arms without a word.
"Make a note," continued the police official,—"bad characters, both. This man goes to dépôt!"
"For shame!" cried Mlle. Fouchette.