One day she had seen Mlle. Remy, and had been so agitated and nervous that it was all she could do to sustain herself in the shadow of one of the great stone columns. She had watched for this opportunity for days; yet when it suddenly presented itself she could only hide, trembling, and permit the girl to pass without a word.
"If I could only touch her!—feel her pretty fingers in my hand! Ah! but can I ever bring myself to that without betrayal? They would be so happy! and I,—why should I not be happy also? I love him,—I love her,—and if they love each other,—she can help it no more than he,—it would be impossible!"
Thus she reasoned with herself as the sunny head of Mlle. Remy disappeared in the gloomy corridor. Thus she reasoned with herself over and over again, as if the resolution she had taken required constant bracing and strengthening.
And it did require it.
For Mlle. Fouchette, humble child of the slums, had bravely cut out for herself a task that would have appalled the stoutest moralist.
Love had not only softened the nature of Mlle. Fouchette, as is seen,—it had revolutionized her. The fierce spirit to which she owed her reputation—of the feline claws and ready boot-heel—had vanished and left her weak and sensitive and meekly submissive. Personally she had not realized this change because she had not reasoned with herself on the subject. Not only her whole time but her entire mind and soul were absorbed in the service of Love. She gloried in her self-abasement.
Mlle. Fouchette would have gone farther,—would have deliberately and gladly sacrificed everything that a woman can lay upon the altar of her affections. She had no moral scruples, being only a poor little heathen among the heathen.
Somewhat disappointed and not a little chagrined at first that Jean had not required, or even hinted at, this sacrifice, she had ended by secretly exulting in this nobility of character that made him superior to other young men, and distinctly approved of his fidelity to the image in his heart. Deprived of this means of proving her complete devotion to him, she elevated him upon a higher pedestal and prostrated herself more humbly.
Wherein she differed materially from the late Madame Potiphar.
As for Jean Marot, it is to be reluctantly admitted that he really deserved none of this moral exaltation, being merely human, and a common type of the people who had abolished God and kings in one fell swoop, constructed a calendar to suit themselves, and worshipped Reason in Notre Dame represented by a ballet dancer. In other words, he was an egoist of the egoists of earth.