Part 37 (1/2)

There is a little wine shop here, unknown to patriots, I think. It is safe, safer than Monsieur Fargeau's perchance.”

The shop was empty. A woman greeted them and brought them wine.

”Read that letter, Master Richard. I will tell you how I got it, and why I opened it, afterwards.”

So Jeanne's letter came into the hands of the man she had turned to in her peril and distress.

Even as he read it, bending over the sc.r.a.ps of paper in the poorly lighted wine shop, she was eagerly questioning Marie. The letter was of such immense importance to her, so much hung upon it, that now it had gone Jeanne began to wonder whether the best means of getting it into the right hands had been taken, whether a surer method might not have been thought of.

”Monsieur Barrington had not left Paris?”

”No, mademoiselle, for the man said he would deliver the letter.”

”Will he, Marie, will he? Do you think he was honest?”

”Yes, oh yes, he was honest, or I should not have parted with the letter.”

”But he could have told you where Monsieur Barrington was and let you deliver it,” said Jeanne.

”He would not do that, and he had a reason, a good one,” Marie answered.

”It was necessary that Monsieur Barrington's whereabouts should be kept secret. He could not tell any one where he was, he had promised. For all he knew I might be an enemy and the letter a trick. He would deliver it if I left it with him.”

”You could do nothing else, Marie.”

”What troubles me, mademoiselle, is how the gentleman is to help you to get away from this house,” said the girl. ”The master does not let people go unless he is told to by--by powerful men, men he must obey. I think he is as afraid of them as I am of him.”

”Ah, Marie, if the letter only reaches Monsieur Barrington most of the danger is gone,” said Jeanne. ”He will find a way, I know he will.

Somehow, he will help me. He is a brave man, Marie, I know, I know. He has saved me twice already. I should have no fear at all were I certain that he had the letter.”

The girl was silent for a moment, and then said quietly--

”It must be wonderful to have a lover like that.”

Perhaps Jeanne was too occupied with her own thoughts to notice the girl's words, perhaps she considered it impossible to make Marie understand that it is not only a lover who will do great things for a woman; at any rate, she made no answer. It mattered little what the girl thought.

It was difficult for Jeanne to live her days quietly, to look and behave as though the coming Sat.u.r.day had no especial meaning for her. Legrand, when she met him, was more than usually courteous, and Jeanne was careful to treat him as she had always done. He might be watching her, and it would be well to attract as little attention as possible. She could not tell what might happen if only her letter had found its way into Richard Barrington's hands. How could he help her? What could he do?

It was January, and cold, but the weather was fine and sunny. At noon it was pleasant to walk in the garden, and many of the guests did so. The Abbe took his daily walk there even when it rained. He might have been the host by his manner, and was certainly the ruling spirit. Even Legrand seemed a little afraid of him and treated him with marked respect. The Abbe was a worldling, a lover of purple and fine linen and of the people who lived in them; he was therefore especially attentive to Jeanne St. Clair, knowing that she belonged to one of the n.o.blest families in the land. With him Jeanne took her daily walk in the garden, and had little need to say much, for the Abbe loved to hear himself talk; she could think her own thoughts, could even be depressed without the Abbe noticing the fact. His companions.h.i.+p enabled her to escape from the other guests for a while without any apparent effort on her part to withdraw herself from the daily routine. She took her place in the evening amus.e.m.e.nts, occupied a seat at one of the card tables, danced and smiled, met wit with wit, and was envied by some who were not so sure of the coming Sat.u.r.day as mademoiselle must surely be.

In her walks Jeanne's eyes wandered along the top of the high garden walls. Richard Barrington might come that way, or at least give her a sign that way; and when she could be alone without raising comment she watched from her window which overlooked the garden.

So the Monday and the Tuesday pa.s.sed, and Wednesday dawned. How fast the week was pa.s.sing! Her letter to Richard Barrington had been very urgent.

She had told him all about this house, the purpose for which it was used, how the garden stood in regard to it. She had explained the general routine, had given the names of the guests. If he was to help her the fullest information would be of use. There might be some point in her description of which he could take advantage. This was Wednesday, and he had made no sign. Surely he had never got the letter.

Had not the Abbe been so fond of hearing the sound of his own voice, had he not been so used to his brilliant listener, he must surely have noted that Jeanne was not herself to-day as they walked in the garden.

”There is a new arrival I hear, mademoiselle.”

”Indeed. I thought every room was occupied.”