Читать книгу Mlle. Fouchette - Charles Theodore Murray - Страница 16

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The piercing cry of Fouchette seemed yet to linger in the misty morning air, thrilling the distant ear, vibrating upon the unstrung nerves of the outcasts beneath the far-away bridges, borne upon the surface of the waters, when it was answered out of the darkness by a sharp, shrill note of sympathy.

Those who have heard the wild hyena in his native fastnesses responding to the appeal of its imperilled young might have understood this half-human, half-savage cry of the roused animal.

And almost simultaneously came the swift rush of feet that seemed to claw the granite into flying electric sparks.

The repulsive face of the convict murderer turned pale at the sound, and at the sight of the glowing eye-balls his ugly teeth clattered against each other. Nevertheless, the instinct of self-preservation made him crouch low, deadly knife in hand, to receive the expected attack.

At the sight of le Cochon the dog emitted a howl of wrath. With the marvellous judgment, however, of the trained animal that will not be turned from the trail of a deer by the scent of skunk, this sight scarcely checked his plunge.

Tartar's divination was unerring. He wasted no effort in battling with the current or paddling around in a circle, but turned at once and swam rapidly with the stream. He spent no breath in useless vociferation. All his canine strength was put forth to an end. And these instincts were quickly rewarded by the sight of a strange object floating ahead of him—something a little higher, than the water.

The fiend who had packed the old rags into the bottom of the pannier with the double motive of indicating an accident and of carrying the child under beneath its weight had overdone the trick. For the rags, once soaked, proved so much heavier than the frail body that it turned turtle and threw the child face upward and partially above the surface. The load instead of sinking buoyed her up, and, being strapped securely to it, she could not fall off. Whereas if she had simply been thrown into the river without these precautions, she would have gone to the bottom.

With a succession of low whines now that were almost human sobs, the excited spaniel quickened his stroke, if, indeed, such a thing were possible, and redoubled his energies. He saw that it was the body of his beloved mate.

But when he reached the floating object and seized it with his teeth it was to find that he was powerless to drag it ashore. In vain he struggled and splashed and tugged at it. The load was too much for him. Almost frantic from disappointment, he soon became exhausted. He seemed to realize that he would not only be unable to save his little mistress, but was likely to perish with her. It was not long before his fight ceased. He hung on by his teeth now to keep from sinking.

Thus the combination, waterlogged basket, unconscious girl, and exhausted dog, floated silently along, under the National Bridge, past the bridge of Tolbiac, and came opposite the great freight-yards of the Orleans Railway on the left and the greater Entrepôts de Bercy on the right.

The homeless of both sexes that swarm the shelter of the bridges of the Seine were just awakening to life and a renewed sense of misery. The thin fog had begun to lift. The sharper eyes of the dog discovered the proximity of human beings before the latter could see him, and he let go of his floater long enough to utter a few sharp yelps of distress.

A tramp, wider awake or less benumbed by liquor than his fellows, heard the sounds from the river and called the attention of companions.

A dog in distress—it was enough to rouse the sympathetic blood of any true Parisian. The more active of the men ran vociferously along the bank, raising the watchmen of either shore.

Numerous barges and tugs lay moored along the Quai de la Gare. From these lights began to show. Men sprang up as if by magic. Those on one side of the river shouted to those on the other side to find out what was the matter, and the other side shouted back that they didn't know—but it was somebody or something in the river. As there is always "somebody" in the river, the idea did not attract so much attention as the possibility that it was "something."

When it was ascertained that it was a dog—which followed upon additional pathetic appeals from the water—there was wild excitement all along the line. Men tumbled over barrels and boxes, and ran plump up against walls, and fell into pits, and even into the river itself, in their anxiety to keep pace with the sounds from the fog.

Others began hastily to get out boats, and ran about with lanterns and oars and ends of rope and other life-saving paraphernalia. These boats put off simultaneously from either side, and contained police agents, bargemen, roustabouts, watchmen, watermen, and bums. As the inhabitants of the Long Island shore at the cry of "A whale!" man the boats and race to get in the first harpoon, so these rivermen of the Seine now pulled for a drowning dog.

The conflicting sounds of human voices, the grating of boats against the stones, the rattle of chains, the splash of oars, were plainly heard and as plainly understood by the intelligent animal now struggling with death. Through his set jaws, which still clung to the child's clothing, or, rather, through his nose, there came occasional whines of distress that were almost heart-rending in their intensity.

These last faint appeals for help directed the rescuers.

"Mon Dieu!" exclaimed a waterman, nearing the spot and rowing alongside.

"It's a child!" screamed another.

"No, it's a dog," said a third.

The light was still uncertain and objects confusing.

"It's dog and child——"

"It's dead!"

"Not yet, monsieur."

"I mean the child."

"Dead?"

"No; the dog has held its face above water."

"The dog—quick! he's sinking!"

"Here!"

"A rope!"

"There!"

"No, no! Catch him by the neck!"

"Save the child first!"

"I've got him!"

"And I've got her!"

"Hang on to the dog! Pull him into the boat, stupid!"

"Why, she's strapped down to something!"

"What is this, anyhow?"

"Pull the dog loose, man!—he'll drown her yet!"

"There!"

"Your knife, Pierre!"

"Hold!"

This was from the river policeman, who held up his bull's-eye lantern so that it threw a yellow glare on the white upturned face.

"She's dead, poor little thing!"

"We shall bring in the body just as it is," said the official.

"But——"

"That's the law!"

"Tonnerre! Is it the law to let a child drown in one's sight?"

"Oh, she's dead enough, I'm afraid."

"I don't know about that."

"Bring it in just as it is," repeated the official, adjusting a rope to the mysterious thing beneath the body.

"Sacré bleu! And if she's alive?"

"Poor doggie! He's about done for too."

And so it really seemed, for Tartar lay in the bottom of the boat, still breathing, but in convulsive gasps. In his teeth remained a portion of the child's clothing, torn away with him. He had hung to his charge to the last. His jaws had never relaxed.

In the mean time the whole fleet with its spoils had been floating steadily down with the powerful current. Amidst the wrangle of contending voices, and with some angry altercation, the police boat and its accompanying consorts were towing the yet unknown object and its silent burden towards the shore.

This was not an easy job, since the river becomes more narrow as it threads the city, and the current proportionately stronger, and the undertow caught at the low-hanging mass as if determined to bear it down to the morgue just below. They had been carried under the Pont de Bercy and were drawing near the Quai d'Austerlitz. Finally they got ashore at the Gare d'Orléans.

"Parbleu! it's a little chiffonnière!"

"Truly!"

"She has evidently fallen into the river with her basket on her back."

They had now, in the rapidly growing daylight, discovered the character of the object that held her in its embrace. In fact, when half a dozen stout fellows had attempted to lift the whole thing out of the water the rags had dropped out unseen and were borne away by the current, leaving the light empty pannier and the body of the child in their hands. And the men marvelled at the resistance they had encountered.

A messenger had been at once despatched for medical assistance. The great hospital of Salpêtrière was near at hand.

"May as well take her to the morgue," muttered one.

"Soon enough—soon enough," replied the river policeman. "Follow the custom."

Notwithstanding the general opinion that it was too late, a rough boatman had torn off a section of his flannel shirt and was chafing the cold little hands, while another rubbed the legs and a third tried to restore respiration. These people were familiar with cases of drowning, and knew the best and simplest immediate first aid by heart.

To their very great surprise a few minutes sufficed to show that the child was still alive. By the time the doctor arrived she gave decided signs of returning animation. Under the influence of his restoratives she opened her eyes.

"Tartar!" she gasped.

"What's that, little one?" inquired the doctor, bending low over her. She still lay on the stone quai, a laborer's coat beneath her extended figure.

"Tar—Tartar," she repeated, again closing her eyes. "Oh, mon Dieu! I remember now. That wretch!—it could not have been!"

"Maybe it's her dog," suggested a man.

"Yes—Tartar——"

"There, my child—don't! Is it the dog?"

"Yes—tell me——"

"Oh, he's all right.—Say!"

He hailed the group gathered about the other victim of the river.

"How's the dog?"

"All right, Monsieur le Docteur!"

Fouchette heard and brightened perceptibly. The doctor increased the effect by observing that the dog was coming around all right.

"But he's had a pretty close call."

"So it was Tartar, after all," whispered Fouchette. "Dear Tartar!"

"A brave dog, Tartar—stuck to you to the last," put in the policeman.

"Truly!"

Half a dozen men cried at once, "Vive Tartar!" with the enthusiasm of true Frenchmen.

And if a dog ever did deserve the encomiums that were showered upon him Tartar certainly was that dog.

As soon as Fouchette began to revive, a stalwart bargewoman, awakened in her little cubby by the cries of the men in the vicinity, and who had hastily turned out to see for herself, had disappeared for a moment in her floating home, and shortly afterwards returned with some substantial clothing borrowed from her family wardrobe.

"How thin the child is!" she remarked, as she substituted the dry clothing on the spot.

"Thin!" growled a bystander; "she had to be mighty thin to come down the river on an empty basket!"

"You see, she must have fallen in with the basket on her back——"

"I was pushed in," corrected Fouchette.

"Pushed into the river?"

"What's that?"

"Who did it, child?"

"Impossible!"

"There is some devilish crime here."

"It's a case for the police."

This last observation came from the policeman as he brought out his note-book, while a buzz of indignation ran through the crowd.

Fouchette heard these mutterings and saw the inquisitorial pencil of the official in uniform. He had shut off his light with a snap.

At this moment Tartar, having heard the voice of his mistress, had struggled to his feet, and now dragged himself over to where she lay. The crowd separated for him.

"Ah! Tartar!" exclaimed Fouchette, affectionately, raising her hand to his head.

With a whimper of joy the noble animal licked her hand, her face and neck, wagging his bedraggled tail with intense satisfaction, winding up this demonstration by lying down by her side as closely as he could get, and giving a long breath, which in a human being would be called a sigh.

The act moved the coarse bargewoman to tears, while the men turned away to hide their emotion.

The silence was profound—the testimony of a sentiment too deep for mere words.

The police agent was the first to come to the practical point in the situation. The violence phase of the case made him consequential. It would invite the attention of his superiors. It would get his name in the daily journals.

"What is your name, child?"

The intended victim of police interrogatory closed her eyes without answering.

"You were thrown into the river. It is necessary for us to know the name of the person who committed this outrage. If you do not know, it is our business to find out. The miscreant must be arrested and punished. Where do you live?"

No answer.

"Speak, my child! Speak up!"

She had reopened her eyes and now looked at him steadily, stonily, but without a word. He was nonplussed.

As Fouchette began rapidly to recover her strength she also recovered her self-possession, also the results of her training. Foremost among these were her suspicions of the police, whom she had come to believe were organized by society to restrain and harass the poor; that the informer was the lowest grade of humanity.

In addition to these precepts of the barriers, Fouchette was afraid. She knew the character of those whom she had left behind. She felt certain that if she betrayed them to the police she would be put out of the way.

Nor was this fear at all unreasonable. Without her recent terrible experience she would have been fully aware of the danger that attended a too loquacious tongue. The question of putting this one or that one "out of the way" had frequently been discussed openly and seriously at the Rendez-Vous pour Cochers. A word from her now would send the police down on that resort. Just a little while ago she was nervous and unstrung, but, while she had at first formed the intention of bringing le Cochon to book, the very first question brought her face to face with the consequences. The second query increased her obstinacy. The peremptory command to speak out left her mute. By saying nothing she could compromise nobody.

"Only a street waif," suggested the doctor—"probably has no home."

Fouchette, who had now risen to a sitting posture, nodded vivaciously.

"Then why didn't you say so?" growled the police agent. "Have you any parents?"

"No."

"Whom were you living with, and where?"

"Nowhere."

"Now, again—what is your name?"

Silence.

"Why don't you answer?"

"Because it's none of your business," snapped Fouchette.

"We'll see about that before the Commissaire," retorted the agent. "He'll take the sulk out of you."

"Hold on," put in the bargewoman; "don't be harsh with her, monsieur. She has been abused dreadfully. Her body is covered with bruises."

"So much more reason we should find out who did it—who has attempted to murder the child into the bargain."

"She has been cruelly beaten."

Fouchette nodded.

"I'll have to take you to the Commissariat, my child."

"I don't care where you take me—that is, if Tartar goes along."

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?

After all, she thought, one might as well have been drowned to a finish. It would have been an easy escape from this uncertainty and agony of mind.

She began to feel hungry. Gradually the thoughts of what she should do for something to eat, and where she would be able to get something for Tartar, drove out all other thoughts. If they could only get away now—at this hour something might be found in the streets. She calculated the chances of escape by a sudden dash for the door. But there were several police agents lounging in the anteroom, and her conductor sat at the little gate of the enclosure. So the scheme was reluctantly dismissed. Anyhow, if they would let Tartar remain with her she didn't care much.

During this time several successive attempts were made by the police agents to get her to talk. She responded by "Yes" or "No" or a motion of the head to all questions not connected with her case. On this subject she was persistently silent.

An hour later the bargewoman, who had been in secret consultation with the police agents, went out and got Fouchette a roll and some cheese, which she ate eagerly. This woman was a coarse, masculine-looking creature with hands as hard and rough as a fowl's foot, a distinct moustache and tufts of hair cropping out here and there on her neck and chin, but her voice assumed a kindly tone. She led Fouchette to the farther corner of the room.

"I must go back to my boat now, chérie. Cheer up! And promise me one thing—don't try the river again. You were not born to be drowned, anyhow. If you really want to die you'll have to try something else."

"But I don't want to die," protested Fouchette.

"And they send people to prison who attempt suicide," continued the woman.

"But I didn't, madame."

"The bodies spoil the water. There are so many of them floating by. I've seen hundreds of 'em in my time."

"No, indeed; I would rather live."

"That's right—that's a dear! My barge is 'La Thérèse,'—named after me. We are in the coal trade. I want you to come and see me, petite. You shall take a trip to Rouen. Yes—would you like to——"

"Oh, very much, madame!" interrupted Fouchette, joyfully.

"You shall."

"And Tartar?"

"Shall go too. We'll have fine times, I promise you. You will find us at the Quai d'Austerlitz when in Paris."

"Thank you—so much! I've seen the big boats go by lots of times and wished I was on one—one with flowers and vines and a dog—Tartar. And sometimes I've seen 'em in my sleep—yes."

Fouchette at once lost herself in this prospect. It would be the most delightful thing in her life.

"Yes, it is very nice," continued the bargewoman. "Remember, chérie—'La Thérèse.' You can bring the clothes with you. Ask for me—'Thérèse.' My husband named the barge after me long ago."

"It's a pretty name," said the child.

"You think so? A name is—what is your real name, petite?"

"I don't know, madame," replied Fouchette, promptly and truthfully.

"What! Don't know your own name? Impossible!"

The woman was vexed, and made no effort to conceal her vexation. To be outwitted by a mere child was too much to bear with equanimity. As kindly disposed as she was by nature, she lost her temper at once at what she considered a stupid falsehood.

"You're an obstinate little brute!" she exclaimed, in a passion—a state of mind aggravated by the laughter of the police agents in the room.

"Yes, and a little liar," she added.

"M—mad—madame!" stammered the trembling child, whose bright visions vanished in a twinkling.

"I don't wonder they threw you in the river—not a bit!"

Fouchette's lips were now set in mute rage. She was up in arms at once. Her steely eyes shot fire. The honest bargewoman had almost won her childish confidence. Another word or two of kindness and she would have gained an easy victory. Now, however, everything was upset and the fat was in the fire.

Without a word Fouchette began to hurriedly divest herself of the clothing she wore and to throw the garments, piece by piece, on the floor.

So quickly was this accomplished that neither the astonished woman nor the puzzled police agents could interfere before the child stood there perfectly nude in the midst of them. Her frame, which was little more than a living skeleton covered with marks of violence, fairly quivered with anger. She choked so that she could not speak. In another minute she had resumed her wet rags.

"Voilà!" she finally cried, pointing to the discarded garments. "At least you can never say that I asked for them or didn't return them!"

"Mon Dieu!" The woman was overwhelmed—breathless.

To be misunderstood is often the bitterest thing to bear in this life. Madame Thérèse and little Fouchette were suffering simultaneously from this evil.