“I am going to the Rue de Valois, monsieur.”
“Ah, well then, our quickest way is straight ahead and through the Rue des Capucines. En avant!”
As they went on their way they talked. Javotte was not a Parisienne by birth—she hailed from Poictiers—but she had a fresh and lively mind of her own, and to the Comte de Rochefort it came as a revelation that this girl of humble extraction could be both interesting and amusing.
The extraordinary circumstances attending their meeting and the fact that he was playing the rôle of her protector served to destroy, in part, those social differences which would otherwise have divided them. The whole thing was new and strange, and to a mind like Rochefort’s, these elements were sufficiently captivating.
In the Rue de Valois, Javotte paused at a postern door and drew a key from her pocket.
“This is the house, then,” said Rochefort. “What an ugly door to be the end of our pleasant journey!”
Javotte with a little sigh put the key in the lock of the ugly door and opened it gently.
“Monsieur,” said she in a low voice, “I can never thank you enough. I am only a poor girl, and have few words; but you will understand.”
Something in the tone of her voice made Rochefort draw close to her, and as he took the step she retreated, so that now they were in the passage on which the door opened.
“You will say good-night?” he whispered.