For suspense is one of the most contagious of human emotions, and makes a quicker call upon our sympathy than any other. Do we not feel such a desire that our neighbour may know the worst without delay, that we race to impart it to him?
Nor was Désirée alone in the trial which had drawn certain lines about her gay lips; for Mathilde had told her father and sister that should Colonel de Casimir return from the war he would ask her hand in marriage.
“And that other—the Colonel,” added Barlasch, glancing at Mathilde, “he is on the staff too. They are safe enough, I tell you that. They are doubtless together. They were together at Moscow. I saw them, and took an order from them. They were … at their work.”
Mathilde did not like Papa Barlasch. She would, it seemed, rather have no news at all of de Casimir than learn it from the old soldier, for she quitted the room without even troubling to throw him a glance of disdain.
Barlasch waited with working lips until the sound of her footsteps ceased on the stairs. Then he pushed across the kitchen table a piece of writing-paper, rather yellow and woolly. It had been to Moscow and back.
“Write a word to him,” he said. “I will take it to Zoppot.”
“But you can send a message by the fisherman whose name I have given you,” answered Désirée.
“And will he heed the message? Will he come ashore at a word from me—only Barlasch? Remember it is his life that he carries in his hand. An English sailor with a French name! Thunder of thunder! They would shoot him like a rat!”
Désirée shook her head; but Barlasch was not to be denied. He brought pen and ink from the dresser, and pushed them across the table.
“I would not ask it,” he said, “if it was not necessary. Do you think he will mind the danger? He will like it. He will say to me, ‘Barlasch, I thank you.’ Ah? I know him. Write. He will come.”
“Why?” asked Désirée.
“Why? How should I know that? He came before when you asked him.”
Désirée leant over the table and wrote six words:
“Come, if you can come safely.”
Barlasch took up the paper, and, pushing up the bandage which had served to bring him unharmed through Russia, he frowned at it without understanding.
“It is not all writings that I can read,” he admitted. “Have you signed it?”
“No.”
“Then sign something that he will know, and no other—they might shoot me. Your baptismal name.”
And she wrote “Désirée” after the six words.
Barlasch folded the paper carefully and placed it in the lining of an old felt hat of Sebastian’s which he now wore. He bound a scarf over his ears, after the manner of those who live on the Baltic shores in winter.
“You can leave the rest to me,” he said; and, with a nod and a grimace expressive of cunning, he left her.
He did not return that night. The days were short now, for the winter was well set in. It was nearly dark the next afternoon and very cold when he came back. He sent Lisa upstairs for Désirée.
“First,” he said, “there is a question for the patron. Will he quit Danzig?—that is the question.”
“No,” answered Désirée.
“Rapp is coming,” said Barlasch, emphasizing each point with one finger against the side of his nose. “He will hold Danzig. There will be a siege. Let the patron make no mistake. It will not be like the last one. Rapp was outside then; he will be inside this time. He will hold Danzig till the bottom falls out of the world.”
“My father will not leave,” said Désirée. “He has said so. He knows that Rapp is coming, with the Russians behind him.”
“But,” interrupted Barlasch, “he thinks that Prussia will turn and declare war against Napoleon. That may be. Who knows? The question is, Can the patron be induced to quit Danzig?”
Désirée shook her head.
“It is not I,” said Barlasch, “who ask the question. You understand?”
“Yes, I understand. My father will not quit Danzig.”
Whereupon Barlasch made a gesture conveying a desire to think as kindly of Antoine Sebastian as he could.
“In half an hour,” he said, “when it is dark, will you come for a walk with me along the Langfuhr road—where the unfinished ramparts are?”
Désirée looked at him and hesitated.
“Oh—good—if you are afraid—” said Barlasch.
“I am not afraid—I will come,” she answered quickly.
The snow was hard when they set out, and squeaked under their feet, as it does with a low thermometer.
“We shall leave no tracks,” said Barlasch, as he led the way off the Langfuhr road towards the river. There was broken ground here, where earthworks had been begun and never completed. The trees had been partly cut, and beneath the snow were square mounds showing where the timber had been piled up. But since the departure of Rapp, all had been left incomplete.
Barlasch turned towards Désirée and pointed out a rising knoll of land with fir-trees on it—an outline against the sky where a faint aurora borealis lit the north. She understood that Louis was waiting there, and must necessarily see them approaching across the untrodden snow. For an instant she lingered, and Barlasch turning, glanced at her sharply over his shoulder. She had come against her will, and her companion knew it. Her feet were heavy with misgiving, like the feet of one who treads an uncertain road into a strange country. She had been afraid of Louis d’Arragon when she first caught sight of him in the Frauengasse. The fear of him was with her now, and would not depart until he himself swept it away by the first word he spoke.
He came out from beneath the trees, made a few steps forward, and then stopped. Again Désirée lingered, and Barlasch, who was naturally impatient, turned and took her by the arm.
“Is it the snow—that you find slippery?”
