Yet she had dressed with many misgivings, between many sighs and broken exclamations. A little time ago she would have cared nothing whether it were Lerouge or anybody else; but now,—ah! it was a cruel test of her.
True, she must meet Lerouge some time. Oh! surely. She must see Mlle. Remy, too,—she must look into his sombre eyes,—feel the gentle touch of her hands! Often,—yes; often!
For if Jean married Mlle. Remy, perhaps she, Fouchette, might—why not? She would become their domestic, could she not?
Only, to meet Lerouge here,—in this way!
It was a bitter struggle, but love conquered.
Nevertheless, she felt that she required all of her natural courage, all the cleverness learned of rogues and the stoicism engrafted by suffering, to undergo the ordeal demanded of her and to follow the chosen path to the end.
"How charming you look, Fouchette!" he exclaimed, when she appeared in the evening.
"Thanks, monsieur."
She gave the short bob of the professional domestic. Her face was wreathed in smiles.
"But, I say, mon enfant, you are really pretty."