e."

"Indeed. I thought every room was occupied."

"Ah, mademoiselle, I fear there must be some one who is not able to pay
next Saturday. I have often noticed that new arrivals have come a day or
two before the time, putting up with anything until the room was left
vacant for them on Saturday."

"I wonder who is going," said Jeanne.

"It is a pity we cannot pick and choose," the Abbe returned. "There are
one or two in the company we could well dispense with."

Jeanne's eyes flashed at his callousness, but he did not notice.

"There are some here that Legrand ought not to have taken," the Abbe
went on.

"But they pay."

"Ah, mademoiselle, you have hit it. They pay, and this fellow Legrand is
satisfied. He has no sense of the fitness of things, yet this house has
the name of being exclusive."

"I am sorry for those who go, whoever they may be," said Jeanne.

"It is natural. I am not unsympathetic; but since some one must go it
seems a pity we cannot choose."

"Is it a man or woman who has come?"

"A man; his name the Marquis de Castellux. If my memory serves me, it is
a Breton name, a good family, but one which has not figured largely at
Court."

"He should be an acquisition," said Jeanne.

"I hope so, mademoiselle. We may find him provincial, yet not without
wit or merit. I will make his acquaintance, and with your permission
will present him to you. You can give me your opinion when we talk
together to-morrow."

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 comp