These thoughts concerning Richard Barrington made Jeanne start a little.  She was suddenly conscious that she was comparing the two men, and that one seemed to take hold of her, hurry her along, as it were, and absorb her attention, until she could only bring her thoughts back to the other with an effort.  Barrington stood out clear and distinct, definite in word and action, knowing what he intended to do and doing it without thinking of failure; Lucien was a shadow in comparison, indistinct, waiting rather than acting.  Barrington would have made an attempt to get her out of Paris before this, and Jeanne was convinced that she would have gone without fear.  If the enterprise had failed, it would have been a splendid failure.  Lucien had not made the attempt.  She did not blame him, his nature was to exercise greater caution, and when he did move, perhaps the chances of success would be greater; yet she knew that with Lucien she would feel greater responsibility, feel that she was obliged to protect him almost as much as he protected her.  Lucien would ask her advice and be guided by it; Barrington would tell her what to do and be angry if she did not obey at once.

“It is my love which makes the difference,” she told herself.  “A woman must exercise protection over the man she loves.  In the love of all good women there is the mother instinct.  That is the reason why I feel like this toward Lucien.”  And then she thought of how she had passed the barrier with Barrington and his servant Seth.  It seemed a mad scheme, yet it had succeeded.  And Lucien had asked her whether this man was to be trusted!

So the days passed, much dreaming in them for want of other employment.  It was sometimes too cold and wet to walk much in the garden, and the sense of confinement within high walls was depressing.  Not always could cards or music dispel the anxiety which these guests had to endure, and Jeanne, with all her bravery, had hard work to keep her tears back at times.  She had been at the house in the Rue Charonne a month when Marie, a maid of all work in the establishment, came to her one morning, a frightened look in her face and evidences of tears in her eyes.  Marie was generally assumed to be of rather weak intellect, chiefly perhaps because she made no complaint against the drudgery of her life, and because, unlike the other servants, she did not copy the rapacity of the master and extort fees at every opportunity.  She was especially attached to Mademoiselle St. Clair, who had in times past befriended her aged mother, and she had endeavored to repay the debt by special devotion to her, and, when they chanced to be alone, by a loquacity which was intended to be encouraging.  Her present doleful appearance was therefore the more surprising.

“What is the matter, Marie?” Jeanne asked.

“The doctor wants to see you in his study.”

“I wasn’t thinking of your message, but of your appearance.  You have been crying.”