The letter was unsigned, and bore the date, “Dawn, June 10.” This and the report, and that other letter (carefully sealed with a wafer) which did not deal with war or its alarms, were all placed in one large envelope. He did not seal it, however, but sat thinking while the sun began to shine on the opposite houses. Then he withdrew the open letter, and added a postscript to it:
The writer shivered and laughed in sheer amusement at his own misery as he drew on his wet clothes. The shoemaker was already astir, and presently knocked at his door.
“Yes, yes,” the soldier cried, “I am astir.”
And as his host rattled the door he opened it. He had unrolled his long cavalry cloak, and wore it over his wet clothes.
“You never told me your name,” said the shoemaker. A suspicious man is always more suspicious at the beginning of the day.
“My name,” answered the other carelessly. “Oh! my name is Max Brunner.”
VII
The Way of Love
Celui qui souffle le feu s’expose a etre brule par les etincelles.
It was said that Colonel de Casimir—that guest whose presence and uniform lent an air of distinction to the quiet wedding in the Frauengasse—was a Pole from Krakow. Men also whispered that he was in the confidence of the Emperor. But this must only have been a manner of speaking. For no man was ever admitted fully into the thoughts of that superhuman mind.
De Casimir was left behind in Danzig when the army moved forward.
“There will be a great battle,” he said, “somewhere near Vilna—and I shall miss it.”
Indeed, every man was striving to get to the front. He who, himself, had given a new meaning to human ambition seemed able to inspire not only Frenchmen but soldiers of every nationality with fire from his own consuming flame.
“Yes! madame,” said de Casimir; for it was to Désirée that he spoke, “and your husband is more fortunate than I. He is sure of a staff appointment. He will be among the first. It will soon be over. Tomorrow war is to be declared.”
They were in the street—not far from the Frauengasse, whence Désirée, always practical, was hurrying towards the marketplace. De Casimir had seemed idle until he perceived her.
Désirée made a little movement of horror at the announcement. She did not know that the fighting had already begun.
“Ah!” cried de Casimir with a reassuring smile. “You must be of good cheer. There will be no war at all. I tell you that in confidence. Russia will be paralyzed. I was going towards the Frauengasse when I perceived you; to pay my respects to your father, to say a word to you. Come—you are smiling again. That is right. You were so grave, madame, as you hurried along with your eyes looking far away. You must not think of Charles, if the thoughts make you look as you looked then.”
His manner was kind and confidential and easy—inviting in response that which the confidential always expect, a return in kind. It is either hit or miss with such people; and de Casimir missed. He saw Désirée draw back. She was young, and of that clear fairness of skin which seems to let the thoughts out through the face so that any can read them. That which her face expressed at that moment was a clear and definite refusal to confide anything whatsoever in this little dark man who stood in front of her, looking into her eyes with a deferential and sympathetic glance.
“I know for certain,” he said, “that Charles was well two days ago, and that he is highly thought of in high quarters. I can tell you that, at all events.”
“Thank you,” said Désirée. She had nothing against de Casimir. She had only seen him once or twice, and she knew him to be Charles’s friend, and in some sense his patron. For de Casimir held a high position in Danzig. She was quite ready to like him since Charles liked him; but she intended to do so at her own range. It is always the woman who measures the distance.
Désirée made a little movement as if to continue on her way; and de Casimir instantly stood aside, with a bow.
“Shall I find your father at home?” he asked.
“I think so. He was at home when I left,” she answered, responding to his salute with a friendly nod.
De Casimir watched her go and stood for a moment in reflection, as if going over in his mind that which had passed between them.
“I must try the other one,” he said to himself as he turned down the Pfaffengasse. He continued his way at a leisurely pace. At the corner of the Frauengasse he lingered in the shadow of the linden trees, and while so doing saw Antoine Sebastian quit the door of No. 36,
