He was the first victim of the new ministry, and his flight indicated the change of policy as to the well-known and openly tolerated machinations of the royalists. Some of the more timid Orléanists in Paris and the provinces, recognizing the signal, took the alarm and also put the frontier between them and Inspector Loup.
Mlle. Fouchette's conscience was clear; she had combined feminine philanthropy with duty in Monsieur de Beauchamp's case—he was such a handsome and such an agreeable gentleman—and had given him the straight tip after having betrayed him. She had not repented this good action, but she felt the cold chills again when she thought of Inspector Loup. She was only a poor petite moucharde,—a word from him—nay, a nod, a significant wink—would deprive her of the sunshine that ripens the grapes of France.
When Mlle. Fouchette fled before Inspector Loup's knock she took the key of the closet and these swift reflections with her. The snap-lock was familiar to her, and the key was the only means of pulling the door shut upon herself, and the only means of opening it again when she chose to come out.
She leaned against the side of the dark box and listened. The sound of Monsieur l'Inspecteur's soft voice did not startle her,—she knew it. She would have been surprised if it had been anything else. The watch and chain episode reassured her but little,—beyond the assurance that Jean was in no immediate danger.
She got over in the farthest corner behind the clothes, thinking to have some fun with Jean when he should come to search for her. The wall was very thick and there was ample space behind her, but this space seemed to give way and let her back farther and farther, unexpectedly, as one leans against an opening door.
It was a door. And it let her into the wall, apparently, and so suddenly that she lost her balance.
As soon as she had recovered from her astonishment she stood perfectly still for a few moments and listened attentively. Fortunately, she had made no noise.
"Dear me! but this is very curious," she murmured, feeling the walls on all sides.
She was in another closet similar to the one she had just left,—she could feel the empty hooks above her head. Her hand struck a key.
All the curiosity of the moucharde came over her. She forgot all about Jean,—even Inspector Loup. She turned the key slowly and noiselessly and opened the door,—a little at first, then more boldly.