And his gesture seemed to permit the others to go hang if they so desired. The army had gone forward, leaving Danzig in that idle restlessness which holds those who, finding themselves in a house of sickness, are not permitted entry to the darkened chamber, but must await the crisis elsewhere.
There were some busy enough in the commerce that must exist between a huge army and its base, in the forwarding of war material and stores, in accommodating the sick and sending out in return those who were to fill the gaps. But the Danzigers themselves had nothing to do. Their prosperous trade was paralyzed. Those who had aught to sell had sold it. The high-seas and the high-roads were alike blocked by the French. And rumour, ever busy among those that wait, ran to and fro in the town.
The Emperor of Russia had been taken prisoner. Napoleon had been checked at the passage of the Niemen. There had been a great battle at Gumbinnen, and the French were in full retreat. Vilna had capitulated to Murat, and the war was at an end. A hundred authentic despatches of the morning were the subject of contemptuous laughter at the supper-table.
Lisa heard these tales in the marketplace, and told Désirée, who, as often as not, translated them to Barlasch. But he only held up his wrinkled forefinger and shook it slowly from side to side.
“Woman’s chatter!” he said. “What is the German for ‘magpie’?”
And on being told the word, he repeated it gravely to Lisa. For he had not only fulfilled his promise of settling down in the house, but had assumed therein a distinct and clearly defined position. He was the counsellor, and from his chair just within the kitchen he gave forth judgment.
“And you,” he said to Désirée one morning, when household affairs had taken her to the kitchen, “you are troubled this morning. You have had a letter from your husband?”
“Yes—and he is in good health.”
“Ah!”
Barlasch glared at her beneath his brows, looking her up and down, noting her quick movements, which had the uncertainty of youth.
“And now that he is gone,” he said, “and that there is war, you are going to employ yourself by falling in love with him, when you had all the time before, and did not take advantage of it.”
Désirée laughed at him and made no other answer. While she spoke to Lisa he sat and watched them.
“It would be like a woman to do such a thing,” he pursued. “They are so inconvenient—women. They get married for fun, and then one fine Thursday they find they have missed all the fun, like one who comes late to the theatre—when the music is over.”
He went to the table and examined the morning marketing, which Lisa had laid out in preparation for dinner. Of some of her purchases he approved, but he laughed aloud at a lettuce which had no heart, and at such a buyer.
Then Désirée attracted his scrutiny again.
“Yes,” he said, half to himself, “I see it. You are in love. Just Heaven, I know! I have had them in love with me. … Barlasch.”
“That must have been a long time ago,” answered Désirée with her gay laugh, only giving him half her attention.
“Yes, it was a century ago. But they were the same then as they are now, as they always will be—inconvenient. They waited, however, till they were grown up!”
And with his ever-ready accusing finger he drew Désirée’s attention to her own slimness. They were left alone for a minute while Lisa answered a knock at the door, during which time Barlasch sat in grim silence.
“It is a letter,” said Lisa, returning. “A sailor brought it.”
“Another?” said Barlasch, with a gesture of despair.
“Can you give me news of Charles?” Désirée read, in a writing that was unknown to her. “I shall wait a reply until midnight on board the Elsa, lying off the Krahn-Thor.” The letter bore the signature, “Louis d’Arragon.” Désirée turned slowly and went upstairs, carrying it folded small in her closed hand.
She was alone in the house, for Mathilde was out and her father had not yet returned from his evening walk. She stood at the head of the stairs, where the last of the daylight filtered through the barred window, and read the letter again. Then she turned and gave a slight start to see Barlasch at the foot of the stairs beckoning to her. He made no attempt to come up, but stood on the mat like a dog that has been forbidden the upper rooms.
“Is it about your father?” he asked, in a hoarse whisper.
“No!”
He made a gesture commanding secrecy and silence. Then he went to close the kitchen door and returned on tiptoe.
“It is,” he explained, “that they are talking of him in the cafés. There are many to be arrested tomorrow. They say the patron is one of them, and employs himself in plotting. That his name is not Sebastian at all. That he is a Frenchman who escaped the guillotine. What do I know? It is the gossip of the cafés. But I tell it you because we are friends, you and I. And some day I may want you to do something for me. One thinks of one’s self, eh? It is good to make friends. For some day one may want them. That is why I do it. I think of myself. An old soldier. Of the Guard.”
With many gestures of tremendous import, and a face all wrinkled and twisted with mystery, he returned to the kitchen.
Mathilde was not to return until late. She had gone to the house of the old Gräfin whose reminiscences had been a fruitful topic at Désirée’s wedding. After dining there she and the Gräfin were to go together to a farewell reception given by the Governor. For Rapp was bound for the frontier with the rest, and was to go to the war as first aide-de-camp to
