When the police, supported by the Garde de Paris, had finally swept the boulevard clear of the mob, they found among the human débris two men locked in each other's grasp, insensible. The imprint on two throats showed with what desperate ferocity they had clung to each other. Indeed, their hands were scarcely yet relaxed from exhaustion. Their faces were black and their tongues protruded.
In the nearest pharmacy, where ambulances were being awaited by a dozen others, Jean Marot quickly revived under treatment. The case of Henri Lerouge, however, was more serious. He had received a severe cut in the head early in the row and the young surgeon in charge feared internal injuries. Artificial means were required to induce respiration. This was restored slowly and laboriously. At the first sign of life he murmured,--
"Andrée! Sister! Ah! my poor little sister!"
Jean roused himself. The sounds of voices and wheels came to him indistinctly. Everything merged in these words,--
When he revived he was first of all conscious of a gentle feminine touch,--that subtle something which cools the fevered veins and softens the pangs of suffering, mind and body.
He felt it rather as if it were a dream, and kept his eyes closed for fear the dream would vanish. The hand softly bathed his head, which consciously lay in a woman's lap. He remembered but one hand--his mother's--that had soothed him thus, and the sweet souvenir provoked a deep sigh.
"Ah! mon Dieu!" murmured the voice of Mlle. Fouchette.
"L'hôpital ou dépôt?" inquired the nearest agent.
"Oh! no! no!" exclaimed the girl, indignantly. "See, messieurs; he is wounded and weak, and----"
A young surgeon knelt and applied his ear to the heaving breast, while the police agents whispered among each other.
Mlle. Fouchette caught the words, "It is La Savatière," and smiled faintly, but was at once recalled to the situation by a pair of open eyes through which Jean Marot regarded her intently.
"So! It--it is only Mademoiselle Fouchette. I----"
He saw the cloud that rose upon her face and heard the gentle humility of her reply,--
"Yes, monsieur, it is only Fouchette. How do you find yourself, Monsieur Jean?"
She put a flask of brandy to his lips and saw him swallow a mouthful mechanically. Suddenly he raised himself to a sitting posture and looked anxiously about.