Unconsciously the same despairing cry had broken from her lips.
It was Jean's voice.
Half fainting, half terror-stricken at her unfortunate position, she drew a needle from the bosom of her dress and thrust it into her thigh—twice.
"Fouchette!"
"Yes, monsieur!"
"That poor girl is certainly ill, Je—Cousin Jean," said Mlle. Remy, sympathetically.
"Nonsense!" he lightly replied.
He wished to spare the unhappy Fouchette this attention. "She has worked too hard. Drop it till to-morrow, little one," he said, gently. "You must let things alone for to-night."
"Indeed, it is nothing, monsieur. I must clear away these dessert dishes——"