When the vision finally passed from her she could not tell; whether she had fallen asleep in her chair she could not tell; but coming to full consciousness that she was alone in a mean room of a tavern on the Soisy road, the question still hammered in her brain as though it would force an answer from her.  Was it only her loneliness and the shadows creeping into the room which brought doubts crowding into her mind?  This friend of Lucien’s, this Monsieur Mercier, what real guarantee had she of his honesty?  He had brought her the gold star.  It seemed a sufficient answer, but doubts are subtle and have many arguments.  Why should she believe his story rather than Barrington’s?  Might not Mercier have been the thief?  They were within a few miles of Paris.  They had arrived at the Lion d’Or early in the day, why had they not pressed on to Paris?  Their safety demanded patience, Mercier had said.  Was this true?  Was this the real reason for the delay?

The shadows increased, even the corners of this narrow room grew dim and dark.  There was the sound of distant laughter, loud, coarse, raucous, many voices talking together, a shouted oath the only word distinguishable.  Was this place, crowded with so-called patriots, safer for her than Paris?  She started to her feet, suddenly urged to action.  What was Monsieur Mercier doing?

She crossed the room and opened her door quietly.  The passage without was dark save for a blur of light at the end where the top of the staircase was.  Walking on tiptoe, she went toward this light.  She would at least make an effort to discover how her companions were engaged.

From the top of the stairs she could see nothing, nor was it a safe place, for the light fell on her there.  She crept down the stairs which were in darkness until she could see into the room from which the noise came.  Even when bending down and looking through the banisters she could only see a part of the room.  There were more visitors than chairs and benches, some sat on casks standing on end, and by way of applause at some witty sally or coarse joke, pounded the casks with their heels until the din was almost deafening.  At a table upon which were many bottles, one or two of them broken, sat Monsieur Mercier and his comrade Dubois, both in the first stages of intoxication when men are pleased to have secrets and grow boastful.

“There’s going to be good news for you, citizens,” Mercier hiccoughed.  “I’ve done great things, and this good fellow has helped me.”

Dubois smiled stupidly.

“Tell me, is there any more room in the prisons, or are they filled up with cursed aristocrats?”

Jeanne held her breath.  Was Mercier playing a part for her greater security?  How well he played it!

“There’ll be room for you and your friends,” laughed a man, “or they’ll make room by cutting off a few heads.  It’s very easy.”

“There’s more demand for heads than supply,” growled another.  “There’s some calling themselves patriots that might be spared, I say.”