i see my way, as birds their trackless way.
de casimir had never seen louis d'arragon, and yet some dim resemblance to his cousin must have introduced the new-comer to a conscience not quite easy.
“you seek me, monsieur,” he asked, not having recognized desiree, who stood behind her companion, in her furs.
“i seek colonel darragon, and was told that we should find him in this room.”
“may i ask why you seek him in this rather unceremonious manner?” asked de casimir, with the ready insolence of his calling and his age.
“because i am his cousin,” replied louis quietly, “and madame is his wife.”
desiree came forward, her face colourless. she caught her breath, but made no attempt to speak.
de casimir tried to lift himself on his elbows.
“ah! madame,” he said. “you see me in a sorry state. i have been very ill.” and he made a gesture with one hand, begging her to overlook his unkempt appearance and the disorder of his room.
“where is charles?” asked desiree curtly. she had suddenly realized how intensely she had always disliked de casimir, and distrusted him.
“has he not returned to dantzig?” was the ready answer. “he should have been there a week ago. we parted at vilna. he was exhausted—a mere question of over-fatigue—and at his request i left him there to recover and to pursue his way to dantzig, where he knew you would be awaiting him.”
he paused and looked from one to the other with quick and furtive eyes. he felt himself easily a match for them in quickness of perception, in rapid thought, in glib speech. both were dumb—he could not guess why. but there was a steadiness in d'arragon's eyes which rarely goes with dulness of wit. this was a man who could be quick at will—a man to be reckoned with.
“you are wondering why i travel under your cousin's name, monsieur,” said de casimir, with a friendly smile.
“yes,” returned louis, without returning the smile.
“it is simple enough,” explained the sick man. “at vilna we found all discipline relaxed. there were no longer any regiments. there was no longer staff. there was no longer an army. every man did as he thought best. many, as you know, elected to await the russians at vilna, rather than attempt to journey farther. your cousin had been given the command of the escort which has now filtered away, like every other corps. he was to conduct back to paris two carriages laden with imperial treasure and certain papers of value. charles did not want to go back to paris. he wished most naturally to return to dantzig. i, on the other hand, desired to go to france; and there place my sword once more at the emperor's service. what more simple than to change places?”
“and names,” suggested d'arragon, without falling into de casimir's easy and friendly manner.
“for greater security in passing through poland and across the frontier,” explained de casimir readily. “once in france—and i hope to be there in a week—i shall report the matter to the emperor as it really happened: namely, that, owing to colonel darragon's illness, he transferred his task to me at vilna. the emperor will be indifferent, so long as the order has been carried out.”
de casimir turned to desiree as likely to be more responsive than this dark-eyed stranger, who listened with so disconcerting a lack of comment or sympathy.
“so you see, madame,” he said, “charles will still get the credit for having carried out his most difficult task, and no harm is done.”
“when did you leave charles at vilna?” asked she.
de casimir lay back on the pillow in an attitude which betrayed his weakness and exhaustion. he looked at the ceiling with lustreless eyes.
“it must have been a fortnight ago,” he said at length. “i was trying to count the days. we have lost all account of dates since quitting moscow. one day has been like another—and all, terrible. believe me, madame, it has always been in my mind that you were awaiting the return of your husband at dantzig. i spared him all i could. a dozen times we saved each other's lives.”
in six words desiree could have told him all she knew: that he was a spy who had betrayed to death and exile many dantzigers whose hospitality had been extended to him as a polish officer; that charles was a traitor who had gained access to her father's house in order to watch him—though he had honestly fallen in love with her. he was in love with her still, and he was her husband. it was this thought that broke into her sleep at night, that haunted her waking hours.
she glanced at louis d'arragon, and held her peace.
“then, monsieur,” he said, “you have every reason to suppose that if madame returns to dantzig now, she will find her husband there?”
de casimir looked at d'arragon, and hesitated for an instant. they both remembered afterwards that moment of uncertainty.
“i have every reason to suppose it,” replied de casimir at length, speaking in a low voice, as if fearful of being overheard.
louis waited a moment, and glanced at desiree, who, however, had evidently nothing more to say.
“then we will not trouble you farther,” he said, going towards the door, which he held open for desiree to pass out. he was following her when de casimir called him back.
“monsieur,” cried the sick man, “monsieur, one moment, if you can spare it.”
louis came back. they looked at each other in silence while they heard desiree descend the stairs and speak in german to the innkeeper who had been waiting there.
“i will be quite frank with you,” said de casimir, in that voice of confidential friendliness which so rarely failed in its effect. “you know that madame darragon has an elder sister, mademoiselle mathilde sebastian?”
“yes.”
de casimir raised himself on his elbows again, with an effort, and gave a short, half shamefaced laugh which was quite genuine. it was odd that mathilde and he, who had walked most circumspectly, should both have been tripped up, as it were, by love.
“bah!” he said, with a gesture dismissing the subject, “i cannot tell you more. it is a woman's secret, monsieur, not mine. will you deliver a letter for me in dantzig, that is all i ask?”
“i will give it to madame darragon to give to mademoiselle mathilde, if you like; i am not returning to dantzig,” replied louis. but de casimir shook his head.
“i am afraid that will not do,” he said doubtfully. “between sisters, you understand—”
and he was no doubt right; this man of quick perception. is it not from our nearest relative that our dearest secret is usually withheld?
“you cannot find another messenger?” asked de casimir, and the anxiety in his face was genuine enough.
“i can—if you wish it.”
“ah, monsieur, i shall not forget it! i shall never forget it,” said the sick man quickly and eagerly. “the letter is there, beneath that sabretasche. it is sealed and addressed.”
louis found the letter, and went towards the door, as he placed it in his pocket.
“monsieur,” said de casimir, stopping him again. “your name, if i may ask it, so that i may remember a countryman who has done me so great a service.”
“i am not a countryman; i am an englishman,” replied louis. “my name is louis d'arragon.”
“ah! i know. charles has told me, monsieur le—”
but d'arragon heard no more, for he closed the door behind him.
he found desiree awaiting him in the entrance hall of the inn, where a fire of pine-logs burnt in an open chimney. the walls and low ceiling were black with smoke, the little windows were covered with ice an inch thick. it was twilight in this quiet room, and would have been dark but for the leaping flames of the fire.
“you will go back to dantzig,” he asked, “at once?”
he carefully avoided looking at her, though he need not have feared that she would have allowed her eyes to meet his. and thus they stood, looking downward to the fire—alone in a world that heeded them not, and would forget them in a week—and made their choice of a life.
“yes,” she answered.
he stood thinking for a moment. he was quite practical and matter-of-fact; and had the air of a man of action rather than of one who deals in thoughts, and twists them hither and thither so that good is made to look ridiculous, and bad is tricked out with a fine new name. he frowned as he looked at the fire with eyes that flitted from one object to another, as men's eyes do who think of action and not of thought. this was the sailor—second to none in the shallow northern sea, where all marks had been removed, and every light extinguished—accustomed to facing danger and avoiding it, to foresee remote contingencies and provide against them, day and night, week in, week out; a sailor, careful and intrepid. he had the air of being capable of that concentration without which no man can hope to steer a clear course at all.
“the horses that brought you from marienwerder will not be fit for the road till to-morrow morning,” he said. “i will take you back to thorn at once, and—leave you there with barlasch.”
he glanced towards her, and she nodded, as if acknowledging the sureness and steadiness of the hand at the helm.
“you can start early to-morrow morning, and be in dantzig to-morrow night.”
they stood side by side in silence for some minutes. he was still thinking of her journey—of the dangers and the difficulties of that longer journey through life without landmark or light to guide her.
“and you?” she asked curtly.
he did not reply at once but busied himself with his ponderous fur coat, which he buttoned, as if bracing himself for the start. beneath her lashes she looked sideways at the deliberate hands and the lean strong face, burnt to a red-brown by sun and snow, half hidden in the fur collar of his worn and weather-beaten coat.
“konigsberg,” he answered, “and riga.”
a light passed through her watching eyes, usually so kind and gay; like the gleam of jealousy.
“your ship?” she asked sharply.
“yes,” he answered, as the innkeeper came to tell them that their sleigh awaited them.
it was snowing now, and a whistling, fitful wind swept down the valley of the vistula from poland and the far carpathians which made the travellers crouch low in the sleigh and rendered talk impossible, had there been anything to say. but there was nothing.
they found barlasch asleep where they had left him in the inn at thorn, on the floor against the stove. he roused himself with the quickness and completeness of one accustomed to brief and broken rest, and stood up shaking himself in his clothes, like a dog with a heavy coat. he took no notice of d'arragon, but looked at desiree with questioning eyes.
“it was not the captain?” he asked.
and desiree shook her head. louis was standing near the door giving orders to the landlady of the inn—a kindly pomeranian, clean and slow—for desiree's comfort till the next morning.
barlasch went close to desiree, and, nudging her arm with exaggerated cunning, whispered—
“who was it?”
“colonel de casimir.”
“with the two carriages and the treasure from moscow?” asked barlasch, watching louis out of the corner of one eye, to make sure that he did not hear. it did not matter whether he heard or not, but barlasch came of a peasant stock that always speaks of money in a whisper. and when desiree nodded, he cut short the conversation.
the hostess came forward to tell desiree that her room was ready, kindly suggesting that the “gnadiges fraulein” must need sleep and rest. desiree knew that louis would go on to konigsberg at once. she wondered whether she should ever see him again—long afterwards, perhaps, when all this would seem like a dream. barlasch, breathing noisily on his frost-bitten fingers, was watching them. desiree shook hands with louis in an odd silence, and, turning on her heel, followed the woman out of the room without looking back.
