He was a skilled and delicate cook, only hampered by that insatiable passion for economy which is the dominant characteristic of the peasant of Northern France. Tonight, however, he was reckless, and Désirée could hear him searching in his secret hiding-place beneath the floor for concealed condiments and herbs.
“There,” he said, when he set the dish before her, “eat it with an easy mind. There is nothing unclean in it. It is not rat or cat or the liver of a starved horse, such as we others eat and ask no better. It is all clean meat.”
He poured out wine, and stood in the darkened doorway watching her drink it. Then he went away to his own meal in the kitchen, leaving Désirée vaguely uneasy—for he was not himself tonight. She could hear him muttering as he ate and moved hither and thither in the kitchen. At short intervals he came and looked in at the door to make sure that she was doing full honour to St. Matthias. When she had finished, he came into the room.
“Ah!” he said, glancing at her suspiciously and rubbing his hands together. “That strengthens, eh?—that strengthens. We others who lead a rough life—we know that a little food and a glass of wine fit one out for any enterprise, for—well, any catastrophe.”
And Désirée knew in a flash of comprehension that the food and the wine and the forced gaiety were nothing but preliminaries to bad news.
“What is it?” she asked a second time. “Is it … bombardment?”
“Bombardment,” he laughed, “they cannot shoot, those Cossacks. It is only the French who understand artillery.”
“Then what is it?—for you have something to tell me, I know.”
He ruffled his shock-head of white hair, with a grimace of despair.
“Yes,” he admitted, “it is news.”
“From outside?” cried Désirée, with a sudden break in her voice.
“From Vilna,” answered Barlasch. He came into the room, and went past her towards the fire, where he put the logs together carefully.
“It is that he is alive,” said Désirée, “my husband.”
“No, it is not that,” Barlasch corrected. He stood with his back to her, vaguely warming his hands. He had no learning, nor manners, nor any polish: nothing but those instincts of the heart that teach the head. And his instinct bade him turn his back on Désirée, and wait in silence until she had understood his meaning.
“Dead?” she asked, in a whisper.
And, still warming his hands, he nodded his head vigorously. He waited a long time for her to speak, and at last broke the silence himself without looking round.
“Troubles,” he said, “troubles for us all. There is no avoiding them. One can only push against them as against your cold wind of Danzig that comes from the sea. One can only push on. You must push, mademoiselle.”
“When did he die?” asked Désirée; “where?”
“At Vilna, three months ago. He has been dead three months. I knew he was dead when you came back to the inn at Thorn, and told me that you had seen De Casimir. De Casimir had left him dying—that liar. You remember, I met a comrade on the road—one of my own country—he told me that they had left ten thousand dead at Vilna, and twenty thousand prisoners little better than dead. And I knew then that De Casimir had left him there dying, or dead.”
He glanced back at her over his shoulder, and at the sight of her face made that little click in his throat which, in peasant circles, denotes a catastrophe. Then he shook his head slowly from side to side.
“Listen,” he said roughly, “the good God knows best. I knew when I saw you first, that day in June, in this kitchen, that you were beginning your troubles; for I knew the reputation of Monsieur, your husband. He was not what you thought him. A man is never what a woman thinks him. But he was worse than most. And this trouble that has come to you is chosen by the good God—and he has chosen the least in his sack for you. You will know it some day—as I know it now.”
“You know a great deal,” said Désirée, who was quick in speech, and he swung round on his heel to meet her spirit.
“You are right,” he said, pointing his accusatory finger. “I know a great deal about you—and I am a very old man.”
“How did you learn this news from Vilna?” she asked, and his hand went up to his mouth as if to hide his thoughts and control his lips.
“From one who comes straight from there—who buried your husband there.”
Désirée rose and stood with her hands resting on the table, looking at the persistent back again turned towards her.
“Who?” she asked, in little more than a whisper.
“The Captain—Louis d’Arragon.”
“And you have spoken to him today—here, in Danzig?”
Barlasch nodded his head.
“Was he well?” asked Désirée, with a spontaneous anxiety that made Barlasch turn slowly and look at her from beneath his great brows.
“Oh, he was well enough,” he answered, “he is made of steel, that gentleman. He was well enough, and he has the courage of the devil. There are some fishermen who come from Zoppot to sell their fish. They steal through the Russian lines—on the ice of the river at night and come to our outposts at daylight. One of them said my name this morning. I looked at him. He was wrapped up only to show the eyes. He drew his scarf aside. It was the Captain d’Arragon.”
“And he was well?” asked Désirée again, as if nothing else in the world mattered.
“Oh, mon Dieu, yes,” cried Barlasch, impatiently, “he was well, I tell you. Do you know why he came?”
Désirée had sat down at the table again, where she leant her
