“It was a warning,” he muttered, “and she has robbed me of seeming generous by promising to give her a week free of cost.  She must have touched me in some way, or I should never have thought of giving her such a warning.  It was a fortunate idea.  Had I left it until next Saturday she would have been able to pay for another week, and I should have been obliged to hunt for a pretext for refusing her money.  She must be removed elsewhere next Saturday.  My little consideration, my wish to prepare her, has turned out well; besides, I have received double fees for this coming week.  I cannot complain.”

Alone in her own room, Jeanne nearly broke down.  The strain of the interview and all that it implied left her with little strength to fight the despair that settled upon her.  Yet she held back the tears that threatened, and fought back the disposition to fling herself upon the mean little bed and give way to her grief.  A week!  Only a week!  She had bought it at an enormous price and every hour in it was of immense value.  If Lucien Bruslart were a traitor, she had still one friend in Paris.  She was as sure of this as of the emblematic meaning of the small crucifix which she had hung above her bed.  She must act.  There was no time to give way to despair.

On scraps of paper she wrote a long letter, telling the whole history of the house in the Rue Charonne, how she came to be there, and the peril she was in.  She sealed it, and then waited until she could get Marie alone.

“Marie, you promised to help me.”

“I meant it.  What can I do, mademoiselle?”

Jeanne gave the girl minute instructions for finding the house in which the Marquis de Lafayette had his apartment, and Marie showed little sign of weak-mindedness as she listened.

“I know the house, mademoiselle.”

“Go there, say you come from me and ask to see him.  Give him this letter and ask him to see that it is safely delivered.”

“And if he is away, mademoiselle?”

“Then ask his servant to tell you where the man to whom this letter is addressed lives.”

“And if he does not know?”

“Ah, Marie, I cannot tell what you are to do then.  Take the letter, hide it away.  Heaven grant it reaches its destination.”

Marie stood with the letter in her hand.

“Who’s it to?  I cannot read, mademoiselle, but if I know the name, I may find him even if the servant doesn’t know.”

“It is addressed to Monsieur Richard Barrington,” said Jeanne.

The girl put the letter into her pocket, and patted her dress to emphasize the security of the hiding-place.

“I’ll go to-morrow.  I have a holiday all day; that gives me plenty of time to find the man who loves mademoiselle.  Richard Barrington; I shall not forget the name.”

“Not my lover, Marie.”

“Ah, mademoiselle, why pretend with me?  Yours is not the first secret I have kept.”