Jean was of the great pessimistic school of Frenchmen who never give a woman credit for disinterestedness or honesty, but who regard them good-naturedly as inferior beings, amusing, weak, selfish creatures, placed on earth to gratify masculine vanity and passion,—to be admired or pitied, as the case might be, but never trusted, and always fair game. The married Frenchman never trusts his wife or daughter alone with his best male friend. No young girl alone in the streets of Paris is free from insult, day or night; and such a girl in such a case would appeal to the honor of Frenchmen in vain.
Jean Marot would have never dreamed that Mlle. Fouchette had saved him from imprisonment. Even in his magnanimous moments he would have listened to the accusation that this girl had robbed him of his money and watch quite as readily as to the statement that she had already taken measures to insure the recovery of that personal property. Yet, while his estimate of woman was low, it did not prevent him from loving one whom he had believed another man's mistress; it did not now steel his heart against the sympathy of mutual isolation.
"All goes well!" cried Mlle. Fouchette, skipping into the room.
"All goes well, eh?" he repeated.
"Yes, Monsieur Jean. Think then! it is a bargain. Oh, yes, one hundred francs——"
"What?"
"I say one hundred francs saved! The semestre was paid and you get it less a term's rent, thus you save one hundred francs. Isn't that nice? One can live two months on one hundred francs."
"Oh! oh! oh! not I," he laughingly exclaimed. "But I guess I'd better let you manage, little one; you have begun so well."
Her face almost flushed with pleasure and her eyes sparkled.
"And you shall have fifty of that hundred francs saved. It is only fair, petite," he hastily added, seeing the brightness extinguished by clouds.