“No,” he answered, “I am trying to follow—that is all. You leave so much to my imagination.”
“But I have no time to explain things,” she protested. “Every moment is of value. I will explain all those things some other time. At this moment all I can think of is my father and the danger he is in. If it had not been for Barlasch, he would have been in prison by now. And as it is, the danger is only half averted. For he, himself, is so little help. All must be done for him. He will do nothing for himself while this humour is upon him; you understand?”
“Partly,” he answered slowly.
“Oh!” she exclaimed half-impatiently, “one sees that you are an Englishman.”
And she found time, even in her hurry, to laugh. For she was young enough to float buoyant upon that sea of hope which ebbs in the course of years and leaves men stranded on the hard facts of life.
“You forget,” he said in self-defence.
“I forget what?”
“That a week ago I had never seen Danzig, or your father, or your sister, or the Frauengasse. A week ago I did not know that there was anybody called Sebastian in the world—and did not care.”
“Yes,” she admitted thoughtfully, “I had forgotten that.”
And they walked on in silence, a long way, till they came to the Gate of the Holy Ghost.
“But you can help him to escape?” she said at length, as if following the course of her own thoughts.
“Yes,” he answered, and that was all.
They passed through the smaller streets in silence, and Désirée led the way into a narrow alley running between the street of the Holy Ghost and the Frauengasse.
“There is the wall to be climbed,” she said; but, as she spoke, the door giving exit to the alley was cautiously opened by Barlasch.
“A little oil,” he whispered, “and it was soon done.”
The yard was dark within, for there might be watchers at any of the windows above them in the pointed gables that made patterns against the starlit sky.
“All is well,” said Barlasch; “those sons of dogs have not returned, and the patron is waiting in the kitchen, cloaked and ready for a journey. He has collected himself—the patron.”
He led the way through his own room, which was dark, save for a shaft of lamplight coming from the kitchen. He looked back keenly at Louis d’Arragon.
“Salut!” he growled, scowling at his boots. “A sailor,” he muttered after a pause. “Good. She has her wits at the top of the basket—that child.”
Désirée was throwing back her hood and looking at her father with a reassuring smile.
“I have brought Monsieur d’Arragon,” she said, “to help us.”
For Sebastian has not recognized the newcomer. He now bowed in his stiff way, and began a formal apology, which D’Arragon cut short with a quick gesture.
“It is the least I could do,” he said, “in the absence of Charles. Have you money?”
“Yes—a little.”
“You will require money and a few clothes. I can get you a passage to Riga or to Helsingborg tonight. From there you can communicate with your daughter. Events will follow each other rapidly. One never knows what a week may bring forth in time of war. It may be safe for you to return soon. Come, monsieur, we must go.”
Sebastian made a gesture with his outspread arms, half of protestation, half of acquiescence. It was plain that he had no sympathy with these modern, hurried methods of meeting the emergencies of daily life. A valise, packed and strapped, lay on the table. D’Arragon weighed it in his hand, and then lifted it to his shoulder.
“Come, monsieur,” he repeated leading the way through Barlasch’s room to the yard. “And you,” he added, addressing himself to that soldier, “shut the door behind us.”
With another gesture of protest Sebastian gathered his cloak round him and followed. D’Arragon had taken Désirée so literally at her word that he allowed her father no time for hesitation, nor a moment to say farewell.
She was alone in the kitchen before she had realized that they were going. In a minute Barlasch returned. She could hear him setting in order the room which had been hurriedly disorganized in order to open the door leading to the yard, where her father had concealed himself. He was muttering to himself as he lifted the furniture.
Coming back into the kitchen, he found Désirée standing where he had left her. Glancing at her, he scratched his grey head in a plebeian way, and gave a little laugh.
“Yes,” he said, pointing to the spot where D’Arragon had stood. “That was a man, that you fetched to help us—a man. It makes a difference when such as that goes out of the room—eh?”
He busied himself in the kitchen, setting in order that which remained of the mise-en-scène of his violent reception of the secret police. Suddenly he turned in his emphatic manner, and threw out his rugged forefinger to hold her attention.
“If there had been some like that in Paris, there would have been no Revolution. Za-za, za-za!” he concluded, imitating effectively the buzz of many voices in an assembly. “Words and not deeds,” Barlasch protested. Whereas tonight, he clearly showed by two gestures, they had met a man of deeds.
X
In Deep Water
Le coeur humain est un abime qui trompé tous les calculs.
It is to be presumed that Colonel de Casimir met friends at the reception given by Governor Rapp in the great rooms of the Rathhaus. For there were many Poles present, and not a few officers of other nationalities.
The army indeed that set forth to conquer Russia was not a French-speaking army. Less than half of the regiments were of that nationality, while Italians, Bavarians, Saxons, Würtembergers, Westphalians, Prussians, Swiss, and Portuguese went gaily forward on the great venture. There were soldiers from
