As a medical adviser of an hysterical young woman Jean Marot could scarcely have been recommended.
And it must be remarked, in the same connection, that Mlle. Fouchette remained in this embrace a good deal longer than even a clever imitation seemed to demand. However, since the real thing could not have lasted forever, there must be a limitation to this rehearsal. Both had become silent and thoughtful.
It was Mlle. Fouchette who first moved to disengage, and she did so with a sigh so profound as to appear quite real. This was the second, and she felt it would be the last time. They would never again hold each other thus. Her eyes were red and swollen and her dishevelled hair stuck to her tear-stained face. She was not at all pretty at the moment, yet Jean would have gone to the wood of St. Cloud sword in hand to prove her the best-hearted little woman in the world.
"Voilà!" she exclaimed, with affected gayety, "how foolish I am, monsieur! But you are so eloquent of your passion that you carry one away with you."
"I hope it will have that effect upon Mademoiselle Remy," he said, but rather doubtfully.
"So I have given a satisfactory——"
"So real, indeed, Fouchette, that I almost forgot it was only you."
Mademoiselle Fouchette was bending over the basin.
"I think"—splash—"that I'll"—splash—"go on the stage," she murmured.
"You'd be a hit, Fouchette."