her.

"Will you tell me the amount due for next week?" she asked.

The doctor took a paper from a drawer and handed it to her. She uttered
a sudden exclamation as she saw the amount.

"It is out of all reason," she said.

"Mademoiselle, the security offered by this house may be said to be out
of all reason too."

"If this is paid, I remain a guest for another week?"

"Until next Saturday."

Jeanne took her purse and counted out the money. She had little left
when it was done.

"Count it, Dr. Legrand, and give me the receipt."

His eyes beamed as he counted and found the sum correct.

"I am happy again," he said. "So much may happen in a week. I assure
you, mademoiselle, your ability to pay lifts years from my shoulders."

"Yes, monsieur, I have bought a long respite," Jeanne said, rising as
she took the receipt. "I doubt not much will happen in a week."

As she went out and closed the door, Legrand placed the money in a
drawer which he locked.

"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.