She was alone, in a poor room for a guest, one of the poorest in the inn, but good enough for a peasant woman.  Her companions had shown her the advisability of choosing this room rather than another.  She would be undisturbed here after her frugal meal, except by her companions perchance, and she had thrown back her rough cloak, showing fustian garments beneath, yet she was a strange peasant woman surely.  Hands and face were stained a little, as though from exposure to sun and weather, but underneath the skin was smooth.  Exposure had cut no lines in the face, labor had not hardened the hands.  At the inn door her form had seemed a little bent, but alone in this room she stood straight as an arrow.

One of her companions entered presently.  Citizen Mercier he called himself; a hateful name handle, he explained, but necessary for their safety.  He wore the tri-color, too, and plumed himself that he passed for as good a patriot as any.  He closed the door carefully.

“So far we have managed well, mademoiselle.  I have found a friend here who will ride into Paris and bring us word in the morning how we can most safely enter the city.  We must be a little patient.”

“Did he know anything of Lucien Bruslart?”

“I did not ask.  It was difficult to get a moment to whisper to each other.  And I will not stay with you.  It would not be wise to take too much interest in a peasant woman,” and he smiled and shrugged his shoulders.

Jeanne St. Clair continued to stare at the door after he had gone.  Her thoughts followed him as he went down the stairs to join his companions and take his share of the wine.  Lucien had chosen a strange messenger, a friend Monsieur Mercier had called himself, yet Jeanne had never known him nor heard of him before.  He puzzled her.  Loneliness, and the circumstances in which she was placed, naturally made her thoughtful, and it was easy to be suspicious.  Truly, Monsieur Mercier had proved himself a friend, full of ideas, full of resource, for danger had threatened them more than once upon the long and tedious journey from Beauvais.  They had been obliged to halt at strange taverns, and there had been many delays.  Now they were within a few miles of Paris—­of Lucien.  Yes, Monsieur Mercier had proved himself a friend, and yet, had it been possible, she would sooner have called another man friend, a man who was her enemy.  How, easily she had believed him!  Richard Barrington.  She spoke the name aloud, but not easily, trying to say it exactly as he had done, and the deliberation which she gave to each syllable made the name sound pleasant.  She had not thought him a scoundrel when he fastened her mask for her.  She had been most easily deceived, taken in by an absurd story.

The truth had come quickly.  Richard Barrington could hardly have left the chateau when a man whispered Lucien’s name in Jeanne’s ear.  She did not trouble to take this man into the chamber in the round tower, but she led him aside where he could talk without fear of being overheard.  This was some trick, but she must hear what he had to say, her safety to-morrow might depend upon it.