"And so he has thrown her over for you, eh?" the other bitterly asked, with a contemptuous shrug of her shoulders.
"Oh! no, no, no!" hastily protested Mlle. Fouchette, trembling a little in spite of herself. "That would be impossible! He is so sorry, Madeleine."
"Sorry! Yes, and the wicked marks on his throat, mon Dieu!"
"Are on Jean's also, Madeleine," said Mlle. Fouchette. "Let us set these friends right, Madeleine. Will you? Let them be friends once more."
The one dark eye had been searching, searching. For the ears heard a voice they had never heard before. It came from the lips of Mlle. Fouchette, but was not the familiar voice of Mlle. Fouchette. But the search was vain.
"Ah! very well, petite," the searcher finally said, with a sigh. "Their quarrel is not mine. I have not set these men on to tear each other like wild beasts."
Mlle. Fouchette turned her face away. But the veins on her white neck were as plain as print.
They were read by the simple-hearted grisette thus: It could only be love or hate; since it is not hate, it is love! Lerouge or Marot?
"Mademoiselle!"
The other turned a defiant face towards the speaker.