In his self-absorption he did not see the girl in the shadow below him trembling and cowering as if every word he uttered were a blow.
"Love to me is life!" he added, with a mental exaltation that lifted him among the stars.
Mlle. Fouchette did not follow him there. With a low, half-smothered cry she had collapsed and rolled to the floor in a little quivering heap.
CHAPTER XVII[ToC]
As a medical student, as well as habitué of the quarter, Jean Marot was not greatly alarmed at an ordinary case of hysterics. He soon had Mlle. Fouchette in her proper senses again.
He was possibly not more stupid than any other egoist under similar circumstances, and he attributed her sudden collapse to over-excitement in arranging his affairs.
Mlle. Fouchette lay extended on his divan in silent enjoyment of his manipulations, refusing as long as possible to reopen her eyes. When she finally concluded to do so he was smoothing back her dishevelled hair and gently bathing her face with his wet handkerchief.