The dog regarded her inquiringly.
"Certainly," responded the agent,—"Tartar is a part of the case. Allons!"
He would have picked her up in his powerful arms, but she rebelled vigorously, protesting that she could walk.
"Very well. Good! You're a plucky one. You're the right stuff."
The little official party—the agent, Fouchette, Tartar, a waterman carrying the basket, the stout bargewoman bearing the child's wet clothing—took up the march, followed by several idlers in search of sensation.
Having arrived at the Commissariat, it was necessary to await the hour when it pleased Monsieur le Commissaire to put in an appearance. In the mean time Fouchette was disposed of on a bench within a railed space, her bare feet dangling, momentarily growing physically better and more mentally perplexed.
What would they do with her?
She dared not return to the Podvins. She knew of no other place to go. She was desperately alone in the world. Only Tartar, who once more stretched himself at her feet, with his head in a position where he could keep a half-open eye on his mistress. Tartar needed rest, and was getting it.
The police! Next to the murderer of the barrier she hated and feared the police.
Would they send her to prison?