Celui qui souffle le feu s'expose a etre brule par les
etincelles.
It was said that Colonel de Casimir--that guest whose presence
and uniform lent an air of distinction to the quiet wedding in the
Frauengasse--was a Pole from Cracow. Men also whispered that he was in
the confidence of the Emperor. But this must only have been a manner of
speaking. For no man was ever admitted fully into the thoughts of that
superhuman mind.
De Casimir was left behind in Dantzig when the army moved forward.
“There will be a great battle,” he said, “somewhere near Vilna--and I
shall miss it.”
Indeed, every man was striving to get to the front. He who, himself, had
given a new meaning to human ambition seemed able to inspire not only
Frenchmen but soldiers of every nationality with fire from his own
consuming flame.
“Yes! madame,” said de Casimir; for it was to Desiree that he spoke,
“and your husband is more fortunate than I. He is sure of a staff
appointment. He will be among the first. It will soon be over. To-morrow
war is to be declared.”
They were in the street--not far from the Frauengasse, whence Desiree,
always practical, was hurrying towards the market-place. De Casimir had
seemed idle until he perceived her.
Desiree made a little movement of horror at the announcement. She did
not know that the fighting had already begun.
“Ah!” cried de Casimir with a reassuring smile. “You must be of good
cheer. There will be no war at all. I tell you that in confidence.
Russia will be paralyzed. I was going towards the Frauengasse when I
perceived you; to pay my respects to your father, to say a word to you.
Come--you are smiling again. That is right. You were so grave, madame,
as you hurried along with your eyes looking far away. You must not think
of Charles, if the thoughts make you look as you looked then.”
His manner was kind and confidential and easy--inviting in response that
which the confidential always expect, a return in kind. It is either
hit or miss with such people; and de Casimir missed. He saw Desiree draw
back. She was young, and of that clear fairness of skin which seems to
let the thoughts out through the face so that any can read them. That
which her face expressed at that moment was a clear and definite refusal
to confide anything whatsoever in this little dark man who stood in
front of her, looking into her eyes with a deferential and sympathetic
glance.
“I know for certain,” he said, “that Charles was well two days ago, and
that he is highly thought of in high quarters. I can tell you that, at
all events.”
“Thank you,” said Desiree. She had nothing against de Casimir. She had
only seen him once or twice, and she knew him to be Charles's friend,
and in some sense his patron. For de Casimir held a high position in
Dantzig. She was quite ready to like him since Charles liked him; but
she intended to do so at her own range. It is always the woman who
measures the distance.
Desiree made a little movement as if to continue on her way; and de
Casimir instantly stood aside, with a bow.
“Shall I find your father at home?” he asked.
“I think so. He was at home when I left,” she answered, responding to
his salute with a friendly nod.
De Casimir watched her go and stood for a moment in reflection, as if
going over in his mind that which had passed between them.
“I must try the other one,” he said to himself as he turned down the
Pfaffengasse. He continued his way at a leisurely pace. At the corner of
the Frauengasse he lingered in the shadow of the linden trees, and while
so doing saw Antoine Sebastian quit the door of No. 36, going in
the opposite direction towards the river, and pass out through the
Frauenthor on to the quay.
He made a little gesture of annoyance on being told by the servant that
Sebastian was out. After a moment's reflection, he seemed to make up his
mind to ignore the conventionalities.
“It is merely,” he said in his friendly and confidential manner to the
servant, in perfect German, “that I have news from Monsieur Darragon,
the husband of Mademoiselle Desiree. Madame is out--you say. Well, then,
what is to be done?”
He had a most charming, grave manner of asking advice which few could
resist.
The servant nodded at him with a twinkle of understanding in her eye.
“There is Fraulein Mathilde.”
“But... well, ask her if she will do me the honour of speaking to me for
an instant. I leave it to you....”
“But come in,” protested the servant. “Come upstairs. She will see you;
why not?”
And she led the way upstairs. Papa Barlasch, sitting just within the
kitchen door, where he sat all day doing nothing, glanced upwards
through his overhanging eyebrows at the clink of spurs and the clatter
of de Casimir's sword against the banisters. He had the air of a
watchdog.
Mathilde was not in the drawing-room, and the servant left the visitor
there alone, saying that she would seek her mistress. There were one or
two books on the tables. One table was rather untidy; it was Desiree's.
A writing-desk stood in the corner of the room. It was locked--and the
lock was a good one. De Casimir was an observant man. He had time
to make this observation, and to see that there were no letters in
Desiree's work-basket; to note the titles of the books and the absence
of name on the flyleaf, and was looking out of the window when the door
opened and Mathilde came in.
This was a day when women were treated with a great show of deference,
while in reality they had but little voice in the world's affairs. De
Casimir's bow was deeper and more elaborate than would be considered
polite to-day. On standing erect he quickly suppressed a glance of
surprise.
Mathilde must have expected him. She was dressed in white, and her hair
was tied with a bright ribbon. In her cheeks, usually so pale, was a
little touch of colour. It may have been because Desiree was not near,
but de Casimir had never known until this moment how pretty Mathilde
really was. There was something in her eyes, too, which gripped his
attention. He remembered that at the wedding he had never seen her eyes.
They had always been averted. But now they met his with a troubling
directness.
De Casimir had a gallant manner. All women commanded his eager
respect, which they could assess at such value as their fancy painted,
remembering that it is for the woman to measure the distance. On the few
occasions of previous encounters, de Casimir had been empresse in his
manner towards Mathilde. As he looked at her, his quick mind ran back to
former meetings. He had no recollection of having actually made love to
her.
“Mademoiselle,” he said, “for a soldier--in time of war--the conventions
may, perhaps, be slightly relaxed. I was told that you were alone--that
your father is out, and yet I persisted--”
He spread out his hands and laughed appealingly, begging her, it
would seem, to help him out of the social difficulty in which he found
himself.
“My father will be sorry--” she began.
“That is hardly the question,” he interrupted; “I was thinking of your
displeasure. But I have an excuse, I assure you. I only ask a moment to
tell you that I have heard from Konigsberg that Charles Darragon is in
good health there, and is moving forward with the advance-guard to the
frontier.”
“You are kind to come so soon,” answered Mathilde, and there was an odd
note of disappointment in her voice. De Casimir must have heard it, for
he glanced at her again with a gleam of surprise in his eyes.
“That is my excuse, Mademoiselle,” he said with a tentative emphasis, as
if he were feeling his way. He was an opportunist with all the quickness
of one who must live by his wits among others existing on the same
uncertain fare. He saw her flush, and again he hesitated as a wayfarer
may hesitate when he finds an easy road where he had expected to climb a
hill. What was the meaning of it? he seemed to ask himself.
“Charles does not interest you so much as he interests your sister?” he
suggested.
“He has never interested me much,” she replied indifferently. She did
not ask him to sit down. It would not have been etiquette in an age
when women were by some odd misjudgment considered incapable of managing
their own hearts.
“Is that because he is in love, Mademoiselle?” inquired de Casimir with
a guarded laugh.
“Perhaps so.”
She did not look at him. De Casimir had not missed this time. His air
of candid confidence had met with a quick response. He laughed again and
moved towards the door. Mathilde stood motionless, and although she said
no word, nor by any gesture bade him stay, he stopped on the threshold
and turned again towards her.
“It was my conscience,” he said, looking at her over his shoulder, “that
bade me go.”
Her face and her averted eyes asked why, but her straight lips were
silent.
“Because I cannot claim to be more interesting than Charles Darragon,”
he hazarded. “And you, Mademoiselle, confess that you have no tolerance
for a man who is in love.”
“I have no tolerance for a man who is weakened by love. He should be
strengthened and hardened by it.”
“To--?”
“To do a man's work in the world,” said Mathilde coldly.
De Casimir was standing by the open door. He closed it with his foot.
He was professedly a man alert for the chance of a moment, which he
was content to grasp without pausing to look ahead. Should there be
difficulties yet unperceived, these in turn might present an opportunity
to be seized by the quick-witted.
“Then you would admit, Mademoiselle,” he said gravely, “that there may
be good in a love that fights continually against ambition, and--does
not prevail.”
Mathilde did not answer at once. There was an odd suggestion of
antagonism in their attitude towards each other--not irreconcilable, the
poets tell us, with love--but this is assuredly not the Love that comes
from Heaven and will go back there to live through eternity.
“Yes,” said she at length.
“Such is my love for you,” he said, his quick instinct telling him that
with Mathilde few words were best.
He only spoke the thoughts of his age; for ambition was the ruling
passion in men's hearts at this time. All who served the Great
Adventurer gave it the first place in their consideration, and de
Casimir only aped his betters. Though oddly enough the only two of
all the great leaders who were to emerge still greater from the coming
war--Ney and Eugene--thought otherwise on these matters.
“I mean to be great and rich, Mademoiselle,” he added after a pause. “I
have risked my life for that purpose half a dozen times.”
Mathilde stood looking across the room towards the window. He could
only see her profile and the straight line of her lips. She too was the
product of a generation in which men rose to dazzling heights without
the aid of women.
“I should not have troubled you with these details, Mademoiselle,” he
said, watching her. His instinct was very keen, for not one woman in
a thousand, even in those days, would have admitted that love was a
detail. “I should not have mentioned it--had you not given me your
views--so strangely in harmony with my own.”
Whatever his nationality, his voice was that of a Pole--rich, musical,
and expressive. He could have made, one would have thought, a very
different sort of love had he wished, or had he been sincere. But he was
an opportunist. This was the sort of love that Mathilde wanted.
He came a step nearer to her and stood resting on his sword--a lean hard
man who had seen much war.
“Until you opened my eyes,” he said, “I did not know, or did not care to
know, that love, far from being a drag on ambition, may be a help.”
Mathilde made a little movement towards him which she instantly
repressed. The heart is quicker, but the head nearly always has the last
word.
“Mademoiselle,” he said--and no doubt he saw the movement and the
restraint--“will you help me now at the beginning of the war, and listen
to me again at the end of it--if I succeed?”
After all, he was modest in his demands.
“Will you help me? Together, Mademoiselle--to what height may we not
rise in these days?”
There was a ring of sincerity in his voice, and her eyes answered it.
“How can I help you?” she asked in a doubting voice.
“Oh, it is a small matter,” was the reply. “But it is one in which the
Emperor is personally interested. Such things have a special attraction
for him. The human interest never fails to hold his attention. If I do
well, he will know it and remember me. It is a question, Mademoiselle,
of secret societies. You know that Prussia is riddled with them.”
Mathilde did not answer. He studied her face, which was clean cut and
hard like a marble bust--a good face to hide a secret.
“It is my duty to watch here in Dantzig and to report to the Emperor.
In serving myself I could also perhaps serve a friend, one who might
otherwise run into danger--who may be in danger while you and I stand
here. For the Emperor strikes hard and quickly. I speak of your father,
Mademoiselle--and of the Tugendbund.”
Still he could not see from the pale profile whether Mathilde knew
anything at all.
“And if I procure information for you?” asked she at length, in a quiet
and collected voice.
“You will help me to attain a position such as I could ask--even you--to
share with me. And you would do your father no harm. You would even
render him a service. For all the secret societies in Germany will not
stop Napoleon. It is only God who can stop him now, Mademoiselle. All
men who attempt it will only be crushed beneath the wheels. I might save
your father.”
But Mathilde did not seem to be thinking of her father.
“I am hampered by poverty,” de Casimir said, changing his ground. “In
the old days it did not matter. But now, in the Empire, one must be
rich. I shall be rich--at the end of this campaign.”
Again his voice was sincere, and again her eyes responded. He made a
step forward, and gently taking her hand, he raised it to his lips.
“You will help me!” he said, and, turning abruptly on his heel, he left
her.
De Casimir's quarters were in the Langenmarkt. On returning to them, he
took from his despatch-case a letter which he turned over thoughtfully
in his hand. It was addressed to Desiree, and sealed carefully with a
wafer.
“She may as well have it,” he said. “It will be as well that she should
be occupied with her own affairs.”