“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 Abbe 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 Abbe 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 Abbe 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 Abbe 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.”