He made a little gesture of annoyance on being told by the servant that Sebastian was out. After a moment’s reflection, he seemed to make up his mind to ignore the conventionalities.
“It is merely,” he said in his friendly and confidential manner to the servant, in perfect German, “that I have news from Monsieur Darragon, the husband of Mademoiselle Désirée. Madame is out—you say. Well, then, what is to be done?”
He had a most charming, grave manner of asking advice which few could resist.
The servant nodded at him with a twinkle of understanding in her eye.
“There is Fräulein Mathilde.”
“But … well, ask her if she will do me the honour of speaking to me for an instant. I leave it to you. …”
“But come in,” protested the servant. “Come upstairs. She will see you; why not?”
And she led the way upstairs. Papa Barlasch, sitting just within the kitchen door, where he sat all day doing nothing, glanced upwards through his overhanging eyebrows at the clink of spurs and the clatter of de Casimir’s sword against the banisters. He had the air of a watchdog.
Mathilde was not in the drawing-room, and the servant left the visitor there alone, saying that she would seek her mistress. There were one or two books on the tables. One table was rather untidy; it was Désirée’s. A writing-desk stood in the corner of the room. It was locked—and the lock was a good one. De Casimir was an observant man. He had time to make this observation, and to see that there were no letters in Désirée’s workbasket; to note the titles of the books and the absence of name on the flyleaf, and was looking out of the window when the door opened and Mathilde came in.
This was a day when women were treated with a great show of deference, while in reality they had but little voice in the world’s affairs. De Casimir’s bow was deeper and more elaborate than would be considered polite today. On standing erect he quickly suppressed a glance of surprise.
Mathilde must have expected him. She was dressed in white, and her hair was tied with a bright ribbon. In her cheeks, usually so pale, was a little touch of colour. It may have been because Désirée was not near, but de Casimir had never known until this moment how pretty Mathilde really was. There was something in her eyes, too, which gripped his attention. He remembered that at the wedding he had never seen her eyes. They had always been averted. But now they met his with a troubling directness.
De Casimir had a gallant manner. All women commanded his eager respect, which they could assess at such value as their fancy painted, remembering that it is for the woman to measure the distance. On the few occasions of previous encounters, de Casimir had been empressé in his manner towards Mathilde. As he looked at her, his quick mind ran back to former meetings. He had no recollection of having actually made love to her.
“Mademoiselle,” he said, “for a soldier—in time of war—the conventions may, perhaps, be slightly relaxed. I was told that you were alone—that your father is out, and yet I persisted—”
He spread out his hands and laughed appealingly, begging her, it would seem, to help him out of the social difficulty in which he found himself.
“My father will be sorry—” she began.
“That is hardly the question,” he interrupted; “I was thinking of your displeasure. But I have an excuse, I assure you. I only ask a moment to tell you that I have heard from Königsberg that Charles Darragon is in good health there, and is moving forward with the advance-guard to the frontier.”
“You are kind to come so soon,” answered Mathilde, and there was an odd note of disappointment in her voice. De Casimir must have heard it, for he glanced at her again with a gleam of surprise in his eyes.
“That is my excuse, Mademoiselle,” he said with a tentative emphasis, as if he were feeling his way. He was an opportunist with all the quickness of one who must live by his wits among others existing on the same uncertain fare. He saw her flush, and again he hesitated as a wayfarer may hesitate when he finds an easy road where he had expected to climb a hill. What was the meaning of it? he seemed to ask himself.
“Charles does not interest you so much as he interests your sister?” he suggested.
“He has never interested me much,” she replied indifferently. She did not ask him to sit down. It would not have been etiquette in an age when women were by some odd misjudgment considered incapable of managing their own hearts.
“Is that because he is in love, Mademoiselle?” inquired de Casimir with a guarded laugh.
“Perhaps so.”
She did not look at him. De Casimir had not missed this time. His air of candid confidence had met with a quick response. He laughed again and moved towards the door. Mathilde stood motionless, and although she said no word, nor by any gesture bade him stay, he stopped on the threshold and turned again towards her.
“It was my conscience,” he said, looking at her over his shoulder, “that bade me go.”
Her face and her averted eyes asked why, but her straight lips were silent.
“Because I cannot claim to be more interesting than Charles Darragon,” he hazarded. “And you, Mademoiselle, confess that you have no tolerance for a man who is in love.”
“I have no tolerance for a man who is weakened by love. He should be strengthened and hardened by it.”
“To—?”
“To do a man’s work in the world,” said Mathilde coldly.
De Casimir was standing by the open door. He closed it with his foot. He was professedly a man alert for the chance of a moment, which he was content to grasp without pausing to look ahead. Should there be difficulties yet unperceived,
