Mlle. Fouchette was ordinarily an infallible remedy for blue-devils; but to Jean Marot Mlle. Fouchette was fast becoming a mere matter of course. A patient little beast of burden, she was none the less useful to a young man floundering around in the mire of politics, love, and other dire uncertainties.
As otherwise very good husbands are wont to unload their irritability on their wives, so Jean was inclined to favor Mlle. Fouchette. And as doting wives who voluntarily constitute themselves drudges soon become fixed in that lowly position, so Mlle. Fouchette naturally became the servant of the somewhat masterful Jean Marot.
She cheerfully accepted these exactions of his variable temper along with the responsibility for the economical administration of his domestic affairs.
But even the brightest and most willing of servants cannot always anticipate what is in the master's mind; so Jean had come to giving orders to Mlle. Fouchette. He had not yet beaten her, but the careless observer might have ventured the opinion that this would come in time.
It is the character of Frenchmen to beat women,—to stab them in the back one day when they are bored with them. The Paris press furnishes daily examples of this sort of chivalry. As a rule, the life of wife or mistress in France is a condition little short of slavery.
The mere arrangement of words is unimportant to the woman who anticipates blows, and who, doubtless, after the fierce fashion of the Latins, would love more intensely when these blows fell thickest and heaviest. As for being ordered about and scolded, it was a recognition of his dependence upon her.
Over and above all other considerations was Jean's future happiness. In this, at least, they were harmonious. For Jean himself was also looking solely to that end.
Since that memorable night when one brief pencilled sentence from Inspector Loup had bestowed upon her a new birth she found double reason for every sacrifice. She not only trampled her love underfoot with new courage, but bent all her energy and influence towards the reconciliation of Jean Marot and Henri Lerouge.
Mlle. Fouchette had gone to the hospital every day to ascertain the young man's condition. And when he had been pronounced convalescent she ascertained his new address. All of which was duly reported to Jean, who began to wonder at this sudden interest in one for whom she had formerly expressed only dislike.
Mlle. Fouchette offered no explanation of her conduct,—a woman is never bound to give a reason for her change of opinions. She never asked to see Lerouge,—never sent in her name to him,—but merely inquired, saying she was sent by one of his old friends. As she had intended, the name of this friend, Jean Marot, had been finally carried to Henri Lerouge.