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CHAPTER XXII
"Monsieur L'Abbé."
"Mademoiselle."
"I find Monsieur de Castellux very pleasant, a little provincial as you supposed, but with wit. We have common friends, too, who have suffered. We shall have much to talk about."
Barely an hour had passed since the introduction, and very little conversation had passed between Jeanne and Barrington, but that little had been to the point.
"We have much to say to one another, mademoiselle," Barrington said; "we must let these people believe that we have common interests to account for our friendship. The Abbé is inclined to be inquisitive, you must explain to him. I will casually let others know that our families are connected. Where is it easiest to be alone here?"
"In the breakfast room."
"No one watches us there?"
"I think not. There is no desire to run away; people remain here to be safe."
"Then to-morrow, mademoiselle," said Barrington. "We will not notice each other much further to-night."
Jeanne did as she was told, it seemed natural to obey Richard Barrington, and she explained to the Abbé, who was delighted that so presentable a person had joined the company.
"Mademoiselle, I shall look to become better acquainted with him," he said. "Most probably he and I have common friends, too."
It was not until Jeanne had shut herself in her own room that night, that she realized fully what the coming of Richard Barrington meant to her. It was still Wednesday, but what a difference a few short hours had made! Saturday had lost its meaning for her. There was no sense of fear or apprehension at her heart; she was strangely happy. Not a word of his plans had Richard Barrington whispered to her, no explanation of how he came to be there; he told her that he had got her letter, that was all. Yet she suddenly felt safe. That which was best to be done, Richard Barrington would do, and it would certainly be successful. On this point no doubts disturbed her. Doubts came presently in another way. The reflection in her mirror brought them. She remembered the face which had looked out at her only a few hours ago, and the face that laughed at her now was a revelation. There was color in the cheeks, so bright a color she did not remember to have noticed before, not even in those moments when she had been tempted to compare herself favorably with other women; there was a sparkle in the eyes that never since the flight from Paris to Beauvais had she seen in them. It was a joyous, happy girl who looked back at her from the depths of the mirror, and Jeanne turned away wondering. It was natural she should feel safe now Richard Barrington had come, but how was the great joy in her heart to be accounted for? Would it have been there had it been Lucien who had come to save her? The question seemed to ask itself, without any will of hers, and the little room seemed suddenly alive with the answer. It almost frightened her, yet still she was happy. She sank on her knees beside the bed and her head was lowered before the crucifix. The soul of a pure, brave woman was outpoured in thankfulness; "Mother of God, for this help vouchsafed I thank thee. Keep me this night, this week, always. Bring me peace. Bring me—" The head sank lower, the lips not daring to ask too much.
The morning came with sunlight in it, cold but clear. Jeanne peeped from her window and was satisfied, peeped into the mirror, and wondered no more at the smiling face there. She knew why such joy had come. She could not reason about it, she did not attempt to do so; the knowledge was all sufficient. It was Thursday morning. Saturday was very near. What did it signify? Nothing. To-day it would be like spring in the garden.
Barrington greeted Jeanne with the studied courtesy of a comparative stranger.
"We must be careful," he whispered, "there are certain to be watchful eyes. Show no interest or astonishment in what I tell you as we eat. Remember, you are merely being courteous to a new arrival of whose existence you have known something in the past."
"I understand. I shall listen very carefully."
"I am greatly honored, mademoiselle, by your letter. I need not ask whether you trust me."
"Indeed, no," she answered.
"It might easily have come into my hands too late," Barrington went on. "We are both victims of deception, and where the truth lies I cannot tell even now. I will recount what has happened; you may be able to throw some light upon it."
Barrington told her everything from his first meeting with Raymond Latour when a filthy crowd was yelling round a prisoner, to the moment when her letter had been handed to him by Seth.
"Your letter gave me an idea, mademoiselle. To help you I must become an inmate of this house. Yesterday Seth brought me here, posing as a wealthy eccentric relative anxious to place me in safety. I am a little mad, and there is no knowing what folly I might commit were I allowed to continue at liberty. My stay here is likely to be a long one, and my relatives care little what they pay so long as I am out of their hands. You may guess perhaps that Dr. Legrand asked few questions with such a golden bribe before him. Now, mademoiselle, what do you know of this Raymond Latour?"
"Nothing."
"But—"
"Nothing at all," Jeanne answered. "I have heard him spoken of as being one of the leaders of the Revolution. To my knowledge I have never seen him."
"Has Lucien Bruslart never mentioned him?"
"As we drove here that morning he said that this Latour was one of the most bitter antagonists of aristocrats, and that he would do all in his power to capture me. Lucien said this was the chief reason for bringing me to this place of safety. I must tell you, Monsieur Barrington, that on leaving you that morning, we got into a coach and drove straight here. My coming had already been arranged for. I did not go to Lucien's apartments at all. He did not seem inclined to trust either you or the Marquis de Lafayette."
"He was justified perhaps in not trusting me on so slight an acquaintance. I do not blame him. Still, I am much puzzled by his subsequent actions, and the fact remains that while Lucien Bruslart has done little for you, or so at least it appears, this man Latour most certainly risked his life to get you out of the Abbaye prison."
"Yes; I do not understand it," said Jeanne; and then after a pause she went on, "You read all my letter?"
"A dozen times," Barrington answered.
"Does it not help you to understand something?"
"Mademoiselle, you ask me a difficult question. I answer it directly, and in spite of the fact that it must pain you, only because of the seriousness of your position. I have never trusted Lucien Bruslart. I believe he has played you false from first to last in this affair. I believe he sent for you to come to Paris; how else could your coming here have been arranged for? Honestly, I have tried to drive these thoughts out of my mind as treacherous and unworthy, but your letter seems only to confirm them. How is it your fees to this scoundrel Legrand have not been paid? How is it your own money has been taken? Bruslart is not in prison. Where is he? Could anything short of locks and bars stop your lover from coming to you?"
He spoke in a low, passionate tone, but his face remained calm, and he made no gesture of anger, of impatience. Watching him, the keenest eyes could not have detected that he was moved in any way.
"My letter must have shown you the doubts in my mind," Jeanne answered quietly. "Since you helped me into Paris at so much risk to yourself, I cannot see that your thoughts could be called unworthy or treacherous."
"For all that, they were. Had you not loved Lucien Bruslart it would have been different."
"Why?"
"That question must remain unanswered, mademoiselle."
Jeanne turned to him for a moment, but Barrington did not look at her.
"I think I know," she said quietly, after a pause. "Some other day I shall ask the question again, monsieur—if we live. I wrote my letter to the one friend I knew I had in Paris; that man is now beside me. I have no fear, Monsieur Barrington, just because you are here. You are risking your life for me, not for the first time. If you fail it means my death as well as yours. I would rather it came that way than any other, and I am not afraid. Tell me your plans."
For a few moments Barrington was silent. "We will not fail," he said suddenly. "I want to laugh and cry out for joy but dare not. I have been in a dream, mademoiselle, while you have been speaking; sitting on a small green mound looking across the bluest waters in the world. I shall tell you about that mound and those waters some day. We shall live, mademoiselle, never doubt that we shall live. My plan is not yet complete, but—"
"This is Thursday," said Jeanne. "Saturday is very near."
"I know. We go to-morrow night, but the exact details I cannot tell you yet. There are one or two things I must find out first. I have arranged everything as far as I can, but we cannot hope for much help from others. The first thing is to get out of this trap, the rest we must leave for the present. The Abbé yonder looks as though he envied me your company, mademoiselle. I think you should go to him. I shall not attempt to speak to you much more to-day. To-morrow morning we will meet here again for a final word."
The Abbé was more than ever convinced of his own attractions as Jeanne left the Marquis de Castellux with a little grave courtesy and joined him. He had found her substitute a poor companion and walked much less in the garden than usual.
"You find the Marquis very interesting?" he asked.
"Yes, but very provincial. One soon becomes weary of such company, yet one must be kind, Monsieur l'Abbé," and Jeanne laughed lightly. She appeared much more interested in him than she had been in the Marquis.
Richard Barrington talked to others for a little while, and then went into the office. He found a servant and asked if he could see Legrand. The doctor was out. Barrington was rather annoyed. He wanted to see the room he was to have after Saturday. At present he was stalled like a pig, he declared.
"Monsieur will have nothing to complain of after Saturday," the servant answered.
"Which guest is leaving?"
"Pardon, monsieur, it is not etiquette to speak of it; but if monsieur likes I can show him the room."
"Show it to me, then."
"I am a poor man, monsieur, and cannot afford to work for nothing."
"How much?" Barrington asked.
The servant named a price, and if he received many such fees he would not long be able to call himself a poor man. Barrington paid him, and was taken upstairs and shown Jeanne's room. He did not cross the threshold, hardly glanced in at the door, in fact, but grumbled at its size and its position. He would have liked this room or that. Why not one at the end of this passage? He liked to be in a light passage.
"It is not a pleasant outlook this side, monsieur, stable roofs, a bare wall and no garden."
"Truly, a prospect to drive a man to despair," growled Barrington, looking from the passage window on to the roofs of outbuildings a few feet below, and across at the house which these buildings joined, and which was at the end of a row of houses facing the street. There was only one window in that opposite wall, twelve or fourteen feet above these outbuildings, a dirty window, fast shut.
"I think very little of Monsieur Legrand's asylum," said Barrington, turning away in disgust. "I shall tell him so."
"Certainly, monsieur, if it will ease your mind."
"He is out, you say?"
"Since early this morning."
"He ought to stop here and look after his guests," and then Barrington became apprehensive. "He would be angry if I told him so. Would he?"
"He might."
"Or if you told him I had said so?"
"Probably."
"You must not tell him. See, here is more money, and there will be more still so long as you do not tell him."
The servant promised to be silent, and told the other servants that the Marquis could be plundered at will. Barrington considered the money well spent. He had examined the house without any risk of being caught taking observations, and he had ascertained that Legrand could not have spied upon him had he walked in the garden.
That night the Abbé decided that, although the Marquis had not made any great impression on Mademoiselle St. Clair, he was a decided acquisition to the establishment, witty within his provincial limits, the breed in him unmistakable. At Versailles he would speedily have learned how to become a courtier.
In the salon that evening there was dancing, and Barrington danced, but not with Jeanne.
"I dare not, mademoiselle," he said in a whispered explanation. "I can trust myself only to a certain point, and to touch you would be to betray my happiness. I dare not run that risk. I am bent on showing that I have no special regard for you, and that there is no reason why you should give any special thought to me."
She did not answer, but the color was in her face, a glow was in her heart.
When the Abbé went out into the garden on the following morning Jeanne left the Marquis at once, and joined him for their usual walk. Certainly she had not given the Marquis more than five minutes of her company. The Abbé would have talked of him, but Jeanne pleaded that he should talk of something interesting.
"Upon my honor, mademoiselle, I believe you will end by disliking poor Monsieur de Castellux."
"Would that be worth while?" Jeanne asked.
She seemed to listen eagerly to all the Abbé said to her, but she was thinking of her short conversation with Barrington. She must show no excitement.
Legrand came into the salon that night. He took no notice of Barrington, who was playing cards, totally absorbed in his game, but he watched Jeanne for a little while, and presently approached her.
"You are very brave, mademoiselle," he said.
"Is it not best?"
"I am very grieved," said Legrand.
"Monsieur, you have heard nothing from—from Lucien Bruslart?"
"Nothing."
"To-morrow! Where will they take me to-morrow?"
"I do not know, mademoiselle. I am never told."
Late hours were not kept at the Maison Legrand, candles were an expensive item. Jeanne was among the first to move this evening.
"Good night, Monsieur l'Abbé."
"Good night, mademoiselle," he said, raising her hand to his lips. "To-morrow is Saturday. I wonder who goes to-morrow? We are happy in having no anxiety."
Barrington was by the door and opened it for her.
"Does mademoiselle permit?" and as he bent over her hand he whispered, "Be ready. Listen. Wait until I come."