be wiser than other people if you can, but do not tell them so.
whenever papa barlasch caught sight of his unwilling host's face, he turned his own aside with a despairing upward nod. once or twice, during the early days of his occupation of the room behind the kitchen in the frauengasse, he smote himself sharply on the brow, as if calling upon his brain to make an effort. but afterwards he seemed to resign himself to this lapse of memory, and the upward despairing nod gradually lost intensity until at last he brought himself to pass antoine sebastian in the narrow passage with no more emphatic notice than a scowl.
“you and i,” he said to desiree, “are the friends. the others—”
and his gesture seemed to permit the others to go hang if they so desired. the army had gone forward, leaving dantzig in that idle restlessness which holds those who, finding themselves in a house of sickness, are not permitted entry to the darkened chamber, but must await the crisis elsewhere.
there were some busy enough in the commerce that must exist between a huge army and its base, in the forwarding of war material and stores, in accommodating the sick and sending out in return those who were to fill the gaps. but the dantzigers themselves had nothing to do. their prosperous trade was paralyzed. those who had aught to sell had sold it. the high-seas and the high-roads were alike blocked by the french. and rumour, ever busy among those that wait, ran to and fro in the town.
the emperor of russia had been taken prisoner. napoleon had been checked at the passage of the niemen. there had been a great battle at gumbinnen, and the french were in full retreat. vilna had capitulated to murat, and the war was at an end. a hundred authentic despatches of the morning were the subject of contemptuous laughter at the supper-table.
lisa heard these tales in the market-place, and told desiree, who, as often as not, translated them to barlasch. but he only held up his wrinkled forefinger and shook it slowly from side to side.
“woman's chatter!” he said. “what is the german for 'magpie'?”
and on being told the word, he repeated it gravely to lisa. for he had not only fulfilled his promise of settling down in the house, but had assumed therein a distinct and clearly defined position. he was the counsellor, and from his chair just within the kitchen he gave forth judgment.
“and you,” he said to desiree one morning, when household affairs had taken her to the kitchen, “you are troubled this morning. you have had a letter from your husband?”
“yes—and he is in good health.”
“ah!”
barlasch glared at her beneath his brows, looking her up and down, noting her quick movements, which had the uncertainty of youth.
“and now that he is gone,” he said, “and that there is war, you are going to employ yourself by falling in love with him, when you had all the time before, and did not take advantage of it.”
desiree laughed at him and made no other answer. while she spoke to lisa he sat and watched them.
“it would be like a woman to do such a thing,” he pursued. “they are so inconvenient—women. they get married for fun, and then one fine thursday they find they have missed all the fun, like one who comes late to the theatre—when the music is over.”
he went to the table and examined the morning marketing, which lisa had laid out in preparation for dinner. of some of her purchases he approved, but he laughed aloud at a lettuce which had no heart, and at such a buyer.
then desiree attracted his scrutiny again.
“yes,” he said, half to himself, “i see it. you are in love. just heaven, i know! i have had them in love with me.... barlasch.”
“that must have been a long time ago,” answered desiree with her gay laugh, only giving him half her attention.
“yes, it was a century ago. but they were the same then as they are now, as they always will be—inconvenient. they waited, however, till they were grown up!”
and with his ever-ready accusing finger he drew desiree's attention to her own slimness. they were left alone for a minute while lisa answered a knock at the door, during which time barlasch sat in grim silence.
“it is a letter,” said lisa, returning. “a sailor brought it.”
“another?” said barlasch, with a gesture of despair.
“can you give me news of charles?” desiree read, in a writing that was unknown to her. “i shall wait a reply until midnight on board the elsa, lying off the krahn-thor.” the letter bore the signature, “louis d'arragon.” desiree turned slowly and went upstairs, carrying it folded small in her closed hand.
she was alone in the house, for mathilde was out and her father had not yet returned from his evening walk. she stood at the head of the stairs, where the last of the daylight filtered through the barred window, and read the letter again. then she turned and gave a slight start to see barlasch at the foot of the stairs beckoning to her. he made no attempt to come up, but stood on the mat like a dog that has been forbidden the upper rooms.
“is it about your father?” he asked, in a hoarse whisper.
“no!”
he made a gesture commanding secrecy and silence. then he went to close the kitchen door and returned on tip-toe.
“it is,” he explained, “that they are talking of him in the cafes. there are many to be arrested to-morrow. they say the patron is one of them, and employs himself in plotting. that his name is not sebastian at all. that he is a frenchman who escaped the guillotine. what do i know? it is the gossip of the cafes. but i tell it you because we are friends, you and i. and some day i may want you to do something for me. one thinks of one's self, eh? it is good to make friends. for some day one may want them. that is why i do it. i think of myself. an old soldier. of the guard.”
with many gestures of tremendous import, and a face all wrinkled and twisted with mystery, he returned to the kitchen.
mathilde was not to return until late. she had gone to the house of the old grafin whose reminiscences had been a fruitful topic at desiree's wedding. after dining there she and the grafin were to go together to a farewell reception given by the governor. for rapp was bound for the frontier with the rest, and was to go to the war as first aide-de-camp to the emperor.
mathilde could not be back until ten o'clock. she, who was so quick and quiet, had been much occupied in social observances lately, and had made fast friends with the grafin during the last few days, constantly going to see her.
desiree knew that what barlasch had repeated as the gossip of the cafes was in part, if not wholly, true. she and mathilde had long known that any mention of france had the instant effect of turning their father into a man of stone. it was the skeleton in this quiet house that sat at table with its inmates, a shadowy fourth tying their tongues. the rattle of its bones seemed to paralyze sebastian's mind, and at any moment he would fall into a dumb and stricken apathy which terrified those about him. at such times it seemed that one thought in his mind had swallowed all the rest, so that he heard without understanding and saw without perceiving.
he was in such a humour when he came back to dinner. he passed desiree on the stairs without speaking and went to his room to change his clothes, for he never relaxed his formal habits. at the dinner-table he glanced at her as a dog, knowing that he is ill, may be seen to glance with a secret air at his master, wondering whether he is detected.
desiree had always hoped that her father would speak to her when this humour was upon him and tell her the meaning of it. perhaps it would come to-night, when they were alone. there was an unspoken sympathy existing between them in which mathilde took no share, which had even shut out charles as out of a room where there was no light, into which desiree and her father went at times and stood hand-in-hand without speaking.
they dined in silence, while lisa hurried about her duties, oppressed by a sense of unknown fear. after dinner they went to the drawing-room as usual. it had been a dull day, with great clouds creeping up from the west. the evening fell early, and the lamps were already alight. desiree looked to the wicks with the eye of experience when she entered the room. then she went to the window. lisa did not always draw the curtains effectually. she glanced down into the street, and turned suddenly on her heel, facing her father.
“they are there,” she said. for she had seen shadowy forms lurking beneath the trees of the frauengasse. the street was ill-lighted, but she knew the shadows of the trees.
“how many?” asked sebastian, in a dull voice.
she glanced at him quickly—at his still, frozen face and quiescent hands. he was not going to rise to the occasion, as he sometimes did even from his deepest apathy. she must do alone anything that was to be accomplished to-night.
the house, like many in the frauengasse, had been built by a careful hanseatic merchant, whose warehouse was his own cellar half sunk beneath the level of the street. the door of the warehouse was immediately under the front door, down a few steps below the street, while a few more steps, broad and footworn, led up to the stone veranda and the level of the lower dwelling-rooms. a guard placed in the street could thus watch both doors without moving.
there was a third door, giving exit from the little room where barlasch slept to the small yard where he had placed those trunks which were made in france.
desiree had no time to think. she came of a race of women of a brighter intelligence than any women in the world. she took her father by the arm and hastened downstairs. barlasch was at his post within the kitchen door. his eyes shone suddenly as he saw her face. it was said of papa barlasch that he was a gay man in battle, laughing and making a hundred jests, but at other times lugubrious. desiree saw him smile for the first time, in the dim light of the passage.
“they are there in the street,” he said; “i have seen them. i thought you would come to barlasch. they all do—the women. in here. leave him to me. when they ring the bell, receive them yourself—with smiles. they are only men. let them search the house if they want to. tell them he has gone to the reception with mademoiselle.”
as he spoke the bell rang just above his head. he looked up at it and laughed.
“ah, ah!” he said, “the fanfare begins.”
he drew sebastian within and closed the door of his little room. lisa had already gone to answer the bell. when she opened the door three men stepped quickly over the threshold, and one of them, thrusting her aside, closed the door and turned the key. desiree, in her white evening dress, on the bottom step, just beneath the lamp that hung from the ceiling, made them pause and look at each other. then one of the three came towards her, hat in hand.
“our duty, fraulein,” he said awkwardly. “we are but obeying orders. a mere formality. it will all be explained, no doubt, if the householder, antoine sebastian, will put on his hat and come with us.”
“his hat is not there, as you see,” answered desiree. “you must seek him elsewhere.”
the man shook his head with a knowing smile. “we must seek him in this house,” he said. “we will make it as easy for you as we can, fraulein—if you make it easy for us.”
as he spoke he produced a candle from his pocket, and encouraged the broken wick with his finger-nail.
“it will make it pleasanter for all,” said desiree cheerfully, “if you will accept a candlestick.”
the man glanced at her. he was a heavy man, with little suspicious eyes set close together. he seemed to be concluding that she had outwitted him—that sebastian was not in the house.
“where are the cellar-stairs?” he asked. “i warn you, fraulein, it is useless to conceal your father. we shall, of course, find him.”
desiree pointed to the door next to that giving entry to the kitchen. it was bolted and locked. desiree found the key for them. she not only gave them every facility, but was anxious that they should be as quick as possible. they did not linger in the cellar, which, though vast, was empty; and when they returned, desiree, who was waiting for them, led the way upstairs.
they were rather abashed by her silence. they would have preferred protestations and argument. discussion always belittles. the smile recommended by papa barlasch, lurking at the corner of her lips, made them feel foolish. she was so slight and young and helpless, that a sort of shame rendered them clumsy.
they felt more at home in the kitchen when they arrived there, and the sight of lisa, sturdy and defiant, reminded them of the authority upon which desiree had somehow cast a mystic contempt.
“there is a door there,” said the heavy official, with a brusque return of his early manner. “come, what is that door?”
“that is a little room.”
“then open it.”
“i cannot,” returned lisa. “it is locked.”
“aha!” said the man, with a laugh of much meaning. “on the inside, eh?”
he went to it, and banged on it with his fist.
“come,” he shouted, “open it and be done.”
there was a short silence, during which those in the kitchen listened breathlessly. a shuffling sound inside the door made the officer of the law turn and beckon to his two men to come closer.
then, after some fumbling, as of one in the dark, the door was unlocked and slowly opened.
papa barlasch stood in a very primitive night-apparel within the door. he had not done things by halves, for he was an old campaigner, and knew that a thing half done is better left undone in times of war. he noted the presence of desiree and lisa, but was not ashamed. the reason of it was soon apparent. for papa barlasch was drunk, and the smell of drink came out of his apartment in a warm wave.
“it is the soldier billeted in the house,” explained lisa, with a half-hysterical laugh.
then barlasch harangued them in the language of intoxication. if he had not spared desiree's feelings, he spared her ears less now; for he was an ignorant man, who had lived through a brutal period in the world's history the roughest life a man can lead. two of the men held him with difficulty against the wall, while the third hastily searched the room—where, indeed, no one could well be concealed.
then they quitted the house, followed by the polyglot curses of barlasch, who was now endeavouring to find his bayonet amidst his chaotic possessions.
