How near Saturday was!  This new arrival emphasized the fact.  She was the one who was going, and it was this room, her room, that he would occupy presently.  Even the selfish, callous Abbe would regret that she was the one to go.  She could picture the surprise in his face when he saw her empty place.  She would not tell him.

Jeanne stayed in her room this afternoon.  It could not matter whether her absence was heeded or not.  Nothing mattered now.  Richard Barrington had not got her letter.  The one friend she had in Paris did not know how sorely she needed him.  Somehow, somewhere, he might hear what had happened, what would he say?  No actual answer came to this mental question, but a train of thought was started in her brain bringing strange fancies.  Perhaps Richard Barrington loved her.  In an indefinite way she had considered this possibility before, but it was a passing fancy, not to be dwelt upon.  Homage from such a man was pleasant, but she loved Lucien.  She must be careful in this man’s company, and if he overstepped ordinary courtesy in the least, she must show him plainly that she loved Lucien.  Surely she had shown him this already.  But to-day the thought was not to be so lightly dismissed, and a warm glow at her heart told her how pleasant the idea was.  Lucien appeared to have faded out of her life.  She could not believe him false, but his image had grown altogether dim, while this other man was real, vital.  Even now she could feel the pressure of his hand as it had held hers as they ran together from the Lion d’Or that night.  She could see the encouragement in his eyes when they had quarreled loudly as they entered the barrier next morning.  She remembered the look in his face when she had last seen him in Monsieur de Lafayette’s apartment, when he had said he was always at her service.  He would surely remember that last meeting, too, should he ever know that she had sent him a letter which had never reached him.

“Yes, he loves me, it must be so,” she said, and she rose and looked from her window into the empty garden which was growing dark now at the close of the short day.  “I am glad.  It gives me courage.  I will be worthy of the love of such a man, though he will never know that he influenced me, will never know that I was glad he loved me.  This Doctor Legrand, this miserable bargainer in lives, shall not see a trace of fear or regret in me.  Wednesday passes.  Three more days.  I will make a brave show in them, and pass out to whatever fate awaits me with steady step and head erect, worthy of my father’s name, worthy of—­worthy of him.”

There was a smile on her lips as she entered the salon that night, no brilliant apartment, it is true, and somewhat dimly lighted for a scene of festivity.  Some one said they were to dance that night, and card tables were set ready for players.  There were many brave hearts there, shadowed hearts—­misery concealed by a smile.

“Yes, I will dance presently,” said Jeanne to a man who greeted her.  “Cards!  Yes, I will play.  How, else should we fill such long evenings?”