At these moments she had recourse to her kitchen, where she had time to recover her equilibrium. But Fouchette was a more than ordinarily self-possessed young woman. She had been educated in a severe school, though one in which the emotions were permitted free range. It was love now which required the curb.
She served the dinner mechanically, but she served it well. Amid the wit and badinage she preserved the shelter of her humble station.
Yet she knew that she was the frequent subject of their conversation. She saw that she was being covertly scrutinized by Lerouge. And, what was harder to bear, the elder Marot showed his sympathy by good-natured comments on her appearance and service. The cry of "Fouchette!" recalling her to all this from her refuge in the kitchen invariably sent a tremor through her slender frame.
"Henri said you were so practical!" laughingly remarked Mlle. Andrée.
"And am I not?" asked Jean, looking around the room.
"Not a bit! There is nothing practical here,—no,—and your Fouchette is the most impossible of all."
"Ah, Jean!" broke in Henri, "this Fouchette,—come now, tell us about her."
"With proper reservations," said M. Marot, seriously.
"No; everything!" cried Andrée.
She could see that it teased him, and persisted. "Anybody would know that she is not a common servant. Look at her hands!"