"
This shrewd observation elicited a smile from Lecoq. "That difference,"
he replied, seriously, "is something, of course; but it was not that
which decided me in my opinion. If greater or less perfection of the
extremities regulated social distinctions, many mistresses would be
servants. What struck me was this: when the two women rushed wildly from
Mother Chupin's house, the woman with the small feet sprang across the
garden with one bound, she darted on some distance in advance of the
other. The terror of the situation, the vileness of the den, the horror
of the scandal, the thought of safety, inspired her with marvelous
energy. But her strength, as often happens with delicate and nervous
women, lasted only a few seconds. She was not half-way from the
Poivriere when her speed relaxed, her limbs trembled. Ten steps farther
on she tottered and almost fell. Some steps farther, and she became so
exhausted that she let go her hold upon her skirts; they trailed upon
the snow, tracing a faint circle there. Then the woman with the broad
feet came to aid her. She seized her companion round the waist; she
dragged her along; their footprints here are mingled confusedly; then,
seeing that her friend was about to fall, she caught her up in her
strong arms and carried her--for you will see that the footprints made
by the woman with the small feet suddenly cease at this point."
Was Lecoq merely amusing himself by inventing this story? Was this scene
anything but a work of imagination? Was the accent of deep and sincere
conviction which he imparted to his words only feigned?
Father Absinthe was still in doubt, but he thought of a way in which he
might satisfy his uncertainty.
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