The Light That Lures Part 37

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."

"Ah, mademoiselle, I fear there must be some one who is not able to pay next Sat.u.r.day. I have often noticed that new arrivals have come a day or two before the time, putting up with anything until the room was left vacant for them on Sat.u.r.day."

"I wonder who is going," said Jeanne.

"It is a pity we cannot pick and choose," the Abbe returned. "There are one or two in the company we could well dispense with."

Jeanne's eyes flashed at his callousness, but he did not notice.

"There are some here that Legrand ought not to have taken," the Abbe went on.

"But they pay."

"Ah, mademoiselle, you have hit it. They pay, and this fellow Legrand is satisfied. He has no sense of the fitness of things, yet this house has the name of being exclusive."

"I am sorry for those who go, whoever they may be," said Jeanne.

"It is natural. I am not unsympathetic; but since some one must go it seems a pity we cannot choose."

"Is it a man or woman who has come?"

"A man; his name the Marquis de Castellux. If my memory serves me, it is a Breton name, a good family, but one which has not figured largely at Court."

"He should be an acquisition," said Jeanne.

"I hope so, mademoiselle. We may find him provincial, yet not without wit or merit. I will make his acquaintance, and with your permission will present him to you. You can give me your opinion when we talk together to-morrow."

How near Sat.u.r.day was! This new arrival emphasized the fact. She was the one who was going, and it was this room, her room, that he would occupy presently. Even the selfish, callous Abbe would regret that she was the one to go. She could picture the surprise in his face when he saw her empty place. She would not tell him.

Jeanne stayed in her room this afternoon. It could not matter whether her absence was heeded or not. Nothing mattered now. Richard Barrington had not got her letter. The one friend she had in Paris did not know how sorely she needed him. Somehow, somewhere, he might hear what had happened, what would he say? No actual answer came to this mental question, but a train of thought was started in her brain bringing strange fancies. Perhaps Richard Barrington loved her. In an indefinite way she had considered this possibility before, but it was a pa.s.sing fancy, not to be dwelt upon. Homage from such a man was pleasant, but she loved Lucien. She must be careful in this man's company, and if he overstepped ordinary courtesy in the least, she must show him plainly that she loved Lucien. Surely she had shown him this already. But to-day the thought was not to be so lightly dismissed, and a warm glow at her heart told her how pleasant the idea was. Lucien appeared to have faded out of her life. She could not believe him false, but his image had grown altogether dim, while this other man was real, vital. Even now she could feel the pressure of his hand as it had held hers as they ran together from the Lion d'Or that night. She could see the encouragement in his eyes when they had quarreled loudly as they entered the barrier next morning. She remembered the look in his face when she had last seen him in Monsieur de Lafayette's apartment, when he had said he was always at her service. He would surely remember that last meeting, too, should he ever know that she had sent him a letter which had never reached him.

"Yes, he loves me, it must be so," she said, and she rose and looked from her window into the empty garden which was growing dark now at the close of the short day. "I am glad. It gives me courage. I will be worthy of the love of such a man, though he will never know that he influenced me, will never know that I was glad he loved me. This Doctor Legrand, this miserable bargainer in lives, shall not see a trace of fear or regret in me. Wednesday pa.s.ses. Three more days. I will make a brave show in them, and pa.s.s out to whatever fate awaits me with steady step and head erect, worthy of my father's name, worthy of--worthy of him."

There was a smile on her lips as she entered the salon that night, no brilliant apartment, it is true, and somewhat dimly lighted for a scene of festivity. Some one said they were to dance that night, and card tables were set ready for players. There were many brave hearts there, shadowed hearts--misery concealed by a smile.

"Yes, I will dance presently," said Jeanne to a man who greeted her.

"Cards! Yes, I will play. How, else should we fill such long evenings?"

Others caught her spirit. An animation came into the conversation, there was real laughter.

"Mademoiselle," said a voice behind her, the voice of the Abbe, sonorous and important. "Mademoiselle, permit me the honor to present to you the Marquis de Castellux."

Jeanne turned, the smile still upon her lips. The Marquis bowed so low his face was hidden for a moment, but he took her hand and, as he raised it to his lips, pressed it sharply.

"I am honored, mademoiselle."

Then his head was raised. The smile was still upon her lips, kept there by a great effort. The sudden pressure of her fingers had warned her, and she gave no sign of her astonishment.

She was looking into the face of Richard Barrington.