During its progress across the whole width of Germany, the carriage had left unrest behind it. Men had travelled night and day to stand sleepless by the roadside and see it pass. Whole cities had been kept astir till morning by the mere rumour that its flying wheels would be heard in the streets before dawn. Hatred and adoration, fear and that dread tightening of the heartstrings which is caused by the shadow of the superhuman, had sprung into being at the mere sound of its approach.
When therefore it passed across the Frauengasse, throwing its dust upon Désirée’s wedding-dress, it was only fulfilling a mission. When it broke in upon the lives of these few persons seeking dimly for their happiness—as the heathen grope for an unknown God—and threw down carefully constructed plans, swept aside the strongest will and crushed the stoutest heart, it was only working out its destiny. The dust sprinkled on Désirée’s hair had fallen on the faces of thousands of dead. The unrest that entered into the quiet little house on the left-hand side of the Frauengasse had made its way across a thousand thresholds, of Arab tent and imperial palace alike. The lives of millions were affected by it, the secret hopes of thousands were undermined by it. It disturbed the sleep of half the world, and made men old before their time.
“More troops must have arrived,” said Désirée, already busying herself to set the house in order, “since they have been forced to billet this man with us. And now they have sent for Charles, though he is really on leave of absence.”
She glanced at the clock.
“I hope he will not be late. The chaise is to come at four o’clock. There is still time for me to help you.”
Mathilde made no answer. Their father stood near the window. He was looking out with thoughtful eyes. His face was drawn downwards by a hundred fine wrinkles. It was the face of one brooding over a sorrow or a vengeance. There was something in his whole being suggestive of a bygone prosperity. This was a lean man who had once been well-seeming.
“No!” said Désirée gaily, “we were a dull company. We need not disguise it. It all came from that man crossing our path in his dusty carriage.”
“He is on his way to Russia,” Sebastian said jerkily. “God spare me to see him return!”
Désirée and Mathilde exchanged a glance of uneasiness. It seemed that their father was subject to certain humours which they had reason to dread. Désirée left her occupation and went to him, linking her arm in his and standing beside him.
“Do not let us think of disagreeable things today,” she said. “God will spare you much longer than that, you depressing old wedding-guest!”
He patted her hand which rested on his arm and looked down at her with eyes softened by affection. But her fair hair, rather tumbled, which met his glance must have awakened some memory that made his face a marble mask again.
“Yes,” he said grimly, “but I am an old man and he is a young one. And I want to see him dead before I die.”
“I will not have you think such bloodthirsty thoughts on my wedding-day,” said Désirée. “See, there is Charles returning already, and he has not been absent ten minutes. He has someone with him—who is it? Papa … Mathilde, look! Who is it coming back with Charles in such a hurry?”
Mathilde, who was setting the room in order, glanced through the lace curtains.
“I do not know,” she answered indifferently. “Just an ordinary man.”
Désirée had turned away from the window as if to go downstairs and meet her husband. She paused and looked back again over her shoulder towards the street.
“Is it?” she said rather oddly. “I do not know—I—”
And she stood with the incompleted sentence on her lips waiting irresolutely for Charles to come upstairs.
In a moment he burst into the room with all his usual exuberance and high spirit.
“Picture to yourselves!” he cried, standing in the doorway with his arms extended before him. “I was hurrying to headquarters when I ran into the embrace of my dear Louis—my cousin. I have told you a hundred times that he is brother and father and everything to me. I am so glad that he should come today of all days.”
He turned towards the stairs with a gesture of welcome, still with his two arms outheld, as if inviting the man, who came rather slowly upstairs, to come to his embrace and to the embrace of those who were now his relations.
“There was a little suspicion of sadness—I do not know what it was—at the table; but now it is all gone. All is well now that this unexpected guest has come. This dear Louis.”
He went to the landing as he spoke, and returned bringing by the arm a man taller than himself and darker, with a still brown face and steady eyes set close together. He had a lean look of good breeding.
“This dear Louis!” repeated Charles. “My only relative in all the world. My cousin, Louis d’Arragon. But he, par exemple, spells his name in two words.”
The man bowed gravely—a comprehensive bow; but he looked at Désirée.
“This is my father-in-law,” continued Charles breathlessly. “Monsieur Antoine Sebastian, and Désirée and Mathilde—my wife, my dear Louis—your cousin, Désirée.”
He had turned again to Louis and shook him by the shoulders in the fullness of his joy. He had not distinguished between Mathilde and Désirée, and it was towards Mathilde that D’Arragon looked with a polite and rather formal repetition of his bow.
“It is I … I am Désirée,” said the younger sister, coming forward with a slow gesture of shyness.
D’Arragon took her hand.
“I have been happy,” he said, “in the moment of my arrival.”
Then he turned to Mathilde and bowed over the hand she held out to him. Sebastian had come forward with
