It was quite different from what she had anticipated. She had looked forward to such a moment with a secret misgiving. The abstract person of her thoughts had always inspired her with a painful shyness and an indefinite, breathless fear. But the lover who was here now in the flesh by her side inspired none of these feelings. On the contrary, she felt easy and natural and quite at home with him. There was nothing alarming about his flushed face and laughing eyes. She was not at all afraid of him. She even felt in some vague way older than he, though he had just told her that he was twenty-five, and four years her senior.
She accepted the violets which he had hurriedly bought for her as he came through the Langenmarkt, but she would not say that she loved him, because she did not. She was in most ways quite a matter-of-fact person, and she was of an honest mind. She said she would think about it. She did not love him now—she knew that. She could not say that she would not learn to love him some day, but there seemed no likelihood of it at present. Then he would shoot himself! He would certainly shoot himself unless she learnt to love him! And she asked “When?” and they both laughed. They changed the subject, but after a time they came back to it; which is the worst of love—one always comes back to it.
Then suddenly he began to assume an air of proprietorship, and burst into a hundred explanations of what fears he felt for her; for her happiness and welfare. Her father was absentminded and heedless. He was not a fit guardian for her. Was she not the prettiest girl in all Danzig—in all the world? Her sister was not fond enough of her to care for her properly. He announced his intention of seeing her father the next day. Everything should be done in order. Not a word must be hinted by the most watchful neighbour against the perfect propriety of their betrothal.
Désirée laughed and said that he was progressing rather rapidly. She had only her instinct to guide her through these troubled waters; which was much better than experience. Experience in a woman is tantamount to a previous conviction against a prisoner.
Charles was grave, however; a rare tribute. He was in love for the first time, which often makes men quite honest for a brief period—even unselfish. Of course, some men are honest and unselfish all their lives; which perhaps means that they remain in love—for the first time—all their lives. They are rare, of course. But the sort of woman with whom it is possible to remain in love all through a lifetime is rarer.
So Charles waylaid Antoine Sebastian the next day as he went out of the Frauenthor for his walk in the morning sun by the side of the frozen Mottlau. He was better received than he had any reason to expect.
“I am only a lieutenant,” he said, “but in these days, monsieur, you know—there are possibilities.”
He laughed gaily as he waved his gloves in the direction of Russia, across the river. But Sebastian’s face clouded, and Charles, who was quick and sympathetic, abandoned that point in his argument almost before the words were out of his lips.
“I have a little money,” he said, “in addition to my pay. I assure you, monsieur, I am not of mean birth.”
“You are an orphan?” said Sebastian curtly.
“Yes.”
“Of the … Terror?”
“Yes; I—well, one does not make much of one’s parentage in these rough times—monsieur.”
“Your father’s name was Charles—like your own?”
“Yes.”
“The second son?”
“Yes, monsieur. Did you know him?”
“One remembers a name here and there,” answered Sebastian, in his stiff manner, looking straight in front of him.
“There was a tone in your voice—,” began Charles, and, again perceiving that he was on a false scent, broke off abruptly. “If love can make mademoiselle happy—,” he said; and a gesture of his right hand seemed to indicate that his passion was beyond the measure of words.
So Charles Darragon was permitted to pay his addresses to Désirée in the somewhat formal manner of a day which, upon careful consideration, will be found to have been no more foolish than the present. He made no inquiries respecting Désirée’s parentage. It was Désirée he wanted, and that was all. They understood the arts of love and war in the great days of the Empire.
The rest was easy enough, and the gods were kind. Charles had even succeeded in getting a month’s leave of absence. They were to spend their honeymoon at Zoppot, a little fishing-village hidden in the pines by the Baltic shore, only eight miles from Danzig, where the Vistula loses itself at last in the salt water.
All these arrangements had been made, as Désirée had prepared her trousseau, with a zest and gaiety which all were invited to enjoy. It is said that love is an egoist. Charles and Désirée had no desire to keep their happiness to themselves, but wore it, as it were, upon their sleeves.
The attitude of the Frauengasse towards Désirée’s wedding was only characteristic of the period. Every house in Danzig looked askance upon its neighbour at this time. Each roof covered a number of contending interests.
Some were for the French, and some for the conqueror’s unwilling ally, William of Prussia. The names above the shops were German and Polish. There are today Scotch names also, here as elsewhere on the Baltic shores. When the serfs were liberated it was necessary to find surnames for these free men—these Pauls-the-son-of-Paul; and the nobles of Estonia and Lithuania were reading Sir Walter Scott at the time.
The burghers of Danzig (“They must be made to pay, these rich Danzigers,” wrote Napoleon to Rapp) trembled for their wealth, and stood aghast by their empty countinghouses; for their gods had been cast down; commerce was at a standstill. There were many, therefore, who hated the French,
