high and mighty had for her. Slowly and by insensible degrees, since she was too young to mark the phenomena in any case, she had been forged and hammered into a living piece of moral obliquity,—and yet the very first contact with an innocent mind and kindly sympathy awoke in her childish breast a subtle consciousness that something was wrong.

She fell asleep later, worn out with toil and sore from bruises, her thin arm flung across Tartar's neck, to dream of a plump young face, a pair of big, dark, soulful eyes that searched and found her heart. The noise of the revelling robbers above her faded into one sweet, deep, mellow voice that was music to her ears. And the powerful odors that impregnated the atmosphere of the cellar and rendered it foul to suffocation—dampness and dog and dregs of wine, and garlic and decaying vegetables—became the languorous breath of June flowers.

Ah! the beautiful young lady! The beautiful flowers!

Their perfume seemed to choke her, like the deadly tuberoses piled upon a coffin.

She tried to cry out, but her mouth was crowded full of something, and she awoke to find herself in the brutal hands of some one in the darkness. She kicked and scratched and struggled in vain, to be quickly vanquished by a brutish blow.

Tartar! Tartar!

Oh, if Tartar were only there!

When she came to herself she was conscious of being carried in her own basket on the back of one who stepped heavily and somewhat uncertainly along the road.

She was doubled up like a half-shut jack-knife, her feet and head uppermost, and had great difficulty in breathing by reason of her cramped position and the ill-smelling rags with which she was covered. Besides which, she felt sick from the cruel blow in her stomach.

Yet her senses were keenly alert.

She was well aware who had her; for the man gave out his characteristic grunt with every misstep, and there was no one else in the world likely to do her serious physical injury.

She knew that it was still dark, both from the way the man walked and from the cool dampness of the atmosphere with which she was familiar.

Yes, it was le Cochon.

She knew him for an escaped convict, for a murderer as well as a robber, and that he would slit a throat for twenty sous if there were fair promise of immunity.

She felt instinctively that she was lost.

All at once the man stopped, went on, paused again.

Then she heard other footsteps. They grew louder. They were evidently approaching. They were the heavy, hob-nailed shoes of some laborer on his way to work.

Her heart stood still for a few moments as she listened, then beat wildly with renewed hope.

If she could only cry out; but the rag that filled her mouth made giving the alarm impossible.

Finally, after some hesitation, her abductor moved on as if to meet the coming footsteps, slowly, and leaning far over now and then, in apparent attempt to counterfeit the occupation of a rag-picker. And at such moments the child felt that she was standing on the back of her neck.

The heavy tramp of the stranger grew nearer—was upon them.

"Bonjour!" called out a cheerful, manly voice.

"Bonjour, monsieur!" replied le Cochon, humbly.

"You are abroad early this morning."

"It is necessary, if an honest chiffonnier would live these times."

"Possible. Good luck to you."

"Thanks, monsieur."

The steps had never paused and were quickly growing fainter down the road, while the young heart within the basket grew fainter and fainter with the fading sounds.

This temporary hope thus crushed was more cruel than her former despair.

Her bearer uttered a low volley of horrible imprecations directed towards the unknown.

He stopped suddenly, and, unstrapping the basket from his shoulders, placed it on the ground.

Fouchette smelled the morning vapors of the river; discerned now the distinct gurgle of the flood.

As the robber took the rags from the basket and pulled her roughly forth, the full significance of her perilous situation rushed upon her. She trembled so that she could scarcely stand,—would have toppled over the edge of the quai but for the strong arm of le Cochon, who restrained her.

"Not yet, petite," said he.

And he began to strap the basket upon her young shoulders.

"Pardieu! we must regard conventionalities," he added, with devilish malignity.

It was early gray of morning, and a mist hung over the dark waters of the Seine. No attempt had been made to obstruct her vision, which, long habituated to the hour, took in the road, the stone quai, the boats moored not far away, the human monster at her side, all at a single sweeping glance.

Her feet and arms were bound, the gag was still in her mouth,—there was no escape, no succor.

There was the river; there was le Cochon.

Nothing more.

What more, indeed, was necessary to complete the picture?

Death.

Nothing was easier. No conclusion more mathematically certain.

With his knife between his teeth the assassin hastily adjusted the straps under her arms. It was but the work of half a minute from the time he had stopped, though to the terror-stricken child it seemed an age of torment.

The rags were packed tightly down in the bottom of the basket.

"It'll do for a sinker," said the man.

Then he cut the thongs that held her arms, severed the ligament that bound her feet, and with one hand removed the cloth from her mouth, while with the other he suddenly pushed his victim over the edge of the stone quai.

"Voilà!"

Short as was the opportunity, Fouchette gave one terrified shriek as she went over the brink,—a shriek that pierced the river mists and reverberated from the stone walls and parapets and went ringing up and down the surface of the swiftly swirling stream.

Again, as she reappeared, battling with the murky waters with desperate stroke and splash, her childish voice rose,—

"Tartar! Tartar!"

And yet again, choking with the flood,—

"Tar—Tar—tar!"

It was the last thought,—the last appeal,—this despairing cry for the only one on earth she loved,—the only being on earth who loved her.

CHAPTER IIToC

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