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. “Yes,” she replied in a murmur, “Good-night, monsieur.” “Ah! not in that way—this.” She understood. Their lips met in the semi-darkness and his hand was upon her waist when the door behind them, as if resenting the business, closed with a snap. Almost on the sound, a door in front of them opened, a flood of light filled the passage, and Rochefort, drawing away from the girl, found himself face to face with a man, stout, well but carelessly dressed, and holding a lamp in his hand. It was the Vicomte Jean Dubarry! Rochefort was so astounded by the recognition that for a moment he said no word. The Vicomte, who did not recognize Rochefort at once, was so astonished at the sight of a man in the passage with Javotte that he was equally dumb. The unfortunate Javotte, betrayed by the bad luck that had dogged her all the evening, covered her face with her hands. After the first second of surprise, Rochefort remembered that the Dubarry town house was situated in the Rue de Valois, and the fact that he must be standing in the Comtesse’s house, and that he had saved her maid and her letter, brought a laugh to his lips with his words. “_Mordieu_!” cried he. “Here’s a coincidence.” “Ah!” cried Dubarry, now recognizing his man. “Why, it is Monsieur le Comte de Rochefort!” “At your service,” said Rochefort, with another laugh. Dubarry bowed ironically. He knew Rochefort’s reputation, and he fancied that the presence of this Don Juan was due to some intrigue with Javotte. He had Rochefort at a disadvantage, but he did not wish to press it. Rochefort was not the man to press. As for Javotte, Jean Dubarry would not have cared had she a dozen intrigues on hand. He wanted the letter for which she had been sent. “Monsieur,” said he, “the hour is rather late. To what do I owe the honour of this visit?” “Why,” said Rochefort, “I believe you owe it to the letter which Mademoiselle Javotte has in her pocket and of which two men tried to rob her in the Rue de Chevilly half an hour ago.”