The sight of the latter seemed to thrill the looker like an electric shock. She stopped short,—so suddenly that those who immediately followed her had a narrow escape from collision. Her face was heavily veiled, and beneath that veil was but one eye, yet in the same swift glance with which she comprehended the figure she took in the elastic step and the happy face of Mlle. Fouchette.
"Mort au diable!" she muttered in her masculine voice,—a voice which startled those who dodged the physical shock,—and added to herself, "It must be love!" She saw the flowers at the girl's throat. "She loves!"
It was at the same instant Mlle. Fouchette had raised her eyes to the Préfecture that stretched along the quai to the Parvis de la Notre Dame.
Ah, çà!
And after years of servitude,—from childhood,—some of it a servitude of the most despicable nature,—she had at last struck off the shackles!
No,—she had merely changed masters; she had exchanged a master whom she feared and hated for one she loved—adored!
Mlle. Fouchette, for the first time in her life, walked willingly and boldly past the very front door of the Préfecture,—"like any other lady," she would have said.
An agent of the Préfecture, who knew her from having worked with her, happened to see this from the court and hastily stepped out. He observed her walk, critically, and shook his head.
"Something is in the wind," said he.
But as the secret agents of the government are never allowed to enter the Préfecture, he watched for some sign to follow. She gave none.