Barlasch looked at her with surprise, not unmixed with a sudden dumb disappointment. He was preparing to go out according to his wont immediately after breakfast; for Lisa had unconsciously hit the mark when she compared him to a cat. He had the regular and self-contained habits of that unobtrusive friend. He buttoned his rough coat slowly, and looked round the kitchen with eyes dimly wistful. He was very old and ragged and homeless.
“Is it not enough,” he said, “that we are friends?”
He went towards the door, but came back and warned her by the familiar upheld finger not to let her attention wander from his words.
“You will be glad yet that I have stayed. It is because I speak a little plainly of your husband that you wish me gone. Bah! What does it matter? All men are alike. We are only men—not angels. And you can go on loving him all the same. You are not particular, you women. You can love anything—even a man like that.”
And he went out muttering anathemas on the hearts of all women.
“It seems,” he said, “that a woman can love anything.”
Which is true; and a very good thing for some of us. For without that Heaven-sent capacity the world could not go on at all.
It was later in the day when Barlasch made his way into the low and smoke-grimed Bier Halle of the Weissen Röss’l. He must have known Sebastian’s habits, for he went straight to that corner of the great room where the violin-player usually sat. The stout waitress—a country girl of no intelligence, smiled broadly at the sight of such a ragged customer as she followed him down the length of the sawdust-strewn floor.
Sebastian’s face showed no surprise when he looked up and recognized the newcomer. The surrounding tables were empty. It was too early in the evening for the regular customers, whose numbers, moreover, had been sadly thinned during the last few months. For the peaceful Danzigers, remembering the siege of seven years ago, had mostly fled at the first mention of the word.
Sebastian nodded in answer to Barlasch’s somewhat ceremonious bow, and by a gesture invited him to be seated on the chair upon which he had already laid his hand. The atmosphere of the room was warm, and Barlasch laid aside his sheepskin coat, as he had seen the great and the rich divest themselves of their sables. He turned sharply and caught the waitress with an amused smile still on her face. He drew her attention to a little pool of beer on the table, and stood until she had made good this lapse in her duty. Then he pointed to Sebastian’s mug of beer and dismissed her giggling, to get one for him of the same size and contents.
Making sure that there was no one within earshot, he waited until Sebastian’s dreamy eye met his, and then said—
“It is time we understood each other.”
A light of surprise—passing and half-indifferent—flashed into Sebastian’s eyes and vanished again at once when he saw Barlasch had meant nothing: made no sign or countersign with his hand.
“By all means, my friend,” he answered.
“I delivered your letters,” said Barlasch, “at Thorn and at the other places.”
“I know; I have already had answers. You would be wise to forget the incident.”
Barlasch shrugged his shoulders.
“You were paid,” said Sebastian, jumping to a natural conclusion.
“A little,” admitted Barlasch, “a small little—but it was not that. I always get paid in advance, when I can. Except by the Emperor. He owes me some—that citizen. It was another question. In the house I am friends with all—with Lisa who has gone—with Mademoiselle Mathilde who has gone—with Mademoiselle Désirée, so-called Madame Darragon, who remains. With all except you. Why should we not be friends?”
“But we are friends—” protested Sebastian, with a bow. As if in confirmation of the statement, he held out his beer-mug, and Barlasch touched it with the rim of his own before drinking. Sebastian’s attitude, his bow, his manner of drinking, were those of the Court; Barlasch was distinctly of the camp. But these were strange days, and all society had been turned topsy-turvy by one man.
“Then,” said Barlasch, licking his lips, “let us understand one another. You say there will be no siege. I say you are wrong. You think that the Danzigers will rise in answer to the Emperor Alexander’s proclamations, and turn the French out. I say the Danzigers’ stomachs are too big. I say that Rapp will hold Danzig, and that the Russians will not take it by storm, because they are too weak. There will be a siege, and a long one. Are you and Mademoiselle and I going to sit it out in the Frauengasse together?”
“We shall be honoured to have you as our guest,” answered Sebastian, with that levity which went before the Revolution, and was never understood of the people.
Barlasch did not understand it. He glanced doubtfully at his companion, and sipped his beer.
“Then I will begin tonight.”
“Begin what, my friend?”
Barlasch waved aside all petty detail.
“My preparations. I go out about ten o’clock—after you are in. I will take the key of the front door, and let myself in when I come back. I shall make two journeys. Under the kitchen floor is a large hollow space. I fill that with bags of corn.”
“But where will you get the corn, my friend?”
“I know where to get it—corn and other things. Salt I have already—enough for a year. Other things I can get for three months.”
“But we have no money to pay for them.”
“Bah!”
“You mean you will steal them,” suggested Sebastian, not without a ring of contempt in his mincing voice.
“A soldier never steals,” answered Barlasch, carelessly announcing a great truth.
Sebastian laughed. It was obvious that his mind, absorbed in great thought, heeded small things not at all. His companion pushed his fur cap
