“Yes,” returned Louis, without returning the smile.
“It is simple enough,” explained the sick man. “At Vilna we found all discipline relaxed. There were no longer any regiments. There was no longer staff. There was no longer an army. Every man did as he thought best. Many, as you know, elected to await the Russians at Vilna, rather than attempt to journey farther. Your cousin had been given the command of the escort which has now filtered away, like every other corps. He was to conduct back to Paris two carriages laden with imperial treasure and certain papers of value. Charles did not want to go back to Paris. He wished most naturally to return to Danzig. I, on the other hand, desired to go to France; and there place my sword once more at the Emperor’s service. What more simple than to change places?”
“And names,” suggested D’Arragon, without falling into De Casimir’s easy and friendly manner.
“For greater security in passing through Poland and across the frontier,” explained De Casimir readily. “Once in France—and I hope to be there in a week—I shall report the matter to the Emperor as it really happened: namely, that, owing to Colonel Darragon’s illness, he transferred his task to me at Vilna. The Emperor will be indifferent, so long as the order has been carried out.”
De Casimir turned to Désirée as likely to be more responsive than this dark-eyed stranger, who listened with so disconcerting a lack of comment or sympathy.
“So you see, madame,” he said, “Charles will still get the credit for having carried out his most difficult task, and no harm is done.”
“When did you leave Charles at Vilna?” asked she.
De Casimir lay back on the pillow in an attitude which betrayed his weakness and exhaustion. He looked at the ceiling with lustreless eyes.
“It must have been a fortnight ago,” he said at length. “I was trying to count the days. We have lost all account of dates since quitting Moscow. One day has been like another—and all, terrible. Believe me, madame, it has always been in my mind that you were awaiting the return of your husband at Danzig. I spared him all I could. A dozen times we saved each other’s lives.”
In six words Désirée could have told him all she knew: that he was a spy who had betrayed to death and exile many Danzigers whose hospitality had been extended to him as a Polish officer; that Charles was a traitor who had gained access to her father’s house in order to watch him—though he had honestly fallen in love with her. He was in love with her still, and he was her husband. It was this thought that broke into her sleep at night, that haunted her waking hours.
She glanced at Louis d’Arragon, and held her peace.
“Then, Monsieur,” he said, “you have every reason to suppose that if Madame returns to Danzig now, she will find her husband there?”
De Casimir looked at D’Arragon, and hesitated for an instant. They both remembered afterwards that moment of uncertainty.
“I have every reason to suppose it,” replied De Casimir at length, speaking in a low voice, as if fearful of being overheard.
Louis waited a moment, and glanced at Désirée, who, however, had evidently nothing more to say.
“Then we will not trouble you farther,” he said, going towards the door, which he held open for Désirée to pass out. He was following her when De Casimir called him back.
“Monsieur,” cried the sick man, “Monsieur, one moment, if you can spare it.”
Louis came back. They looked at each other in silence while they heard Désirée descend the stairs and speak in German to the innkeeper who had been waiting there.
“I will be quite frank with you,” said De Casimir, in that voice of confidential friendliness which so rarely failed in its effect. “You know that Madame Darragon has an elder sister, Mademoiselle Mathilde Sebastian?”
“Yes.”
De Casimir raised himself on his elbows again, with an effort, and gave a short, half shamefaced laugh which was quite genuine. It was odd that Mathilde and he, who had walked most circumspectly, should both have been tripped up, as it were, by love.
“Bah!” he said, with a gesture dismissing the subject, “I cannot tell you more. It is a woman’s secret, Monsieur, not mine. Will you deliver a letter for me in Danzig, that is all I ask?”
“I will give it to Madame Darragon to give to Mademoiselle Mathilde, if you like; I am not returning to Danzig,” replied Louis. But de Casimir shook his head.
“I am afraid that will not do,” he said doubtfully. “Between sisters, you understand—”
And he was no doubt right; this man of quick perception. Is it not from our nearest relative that our dearest secret is usually withheld?
“You cannot find another messenger?” asked De Casimir, and the anxiety in his face was genuine enough.
“I can—if you wish it.”
“Ah, Monsieur, I shall not forget it! I shall never forget it,” said the sick man quickly and eagerly. “The letter is there, beneath that sabretache. It is sealed and addressed.”
Louis found the letter, and went towards the door, as he placed it in his pocket.
“Monsieur,” said De Casimir, stopping him again. “Your name, if I may ask it, so that I may remember a countryman who has done me so great a service.”
“I am not a countryman; I am an Englishman,” replied Louis. “My name is Louis d’Arragon.”
“Ah! I know. Charles has told me, Monsieur le—”
But D’Arragon heard no more, for he closed the door behind him.
He found Désirée awaiting him in the entrance hall of the inn, where a fire of pine-logs burnt in an open chimney. The walls and low ceiling were black with smoke, the little windows were covered with ice an inch thick. It was twilight in this quiet room, and would have been dark but for the leaping flames of the fire.
“You will go back to Danzig,” he asked, “at once?”
He carefully avoided looking at her, though he need not have feared that she
