Oft expectation fails, and most oft there
Where it most promises; and oft it hits
Where hope is coldest and despair most sits.
Love, it is said, is blind. But hatred is as bad. In Antoine Sebastian
hatred of Napoleon had not only blinded eyes far-seeing enough in
earlier days, but it had killed many natural affections. Love, too,
may easily die--from a surfeit or a famine. Hatred never dies; it only
sleeps.
Sebastian's hatred was all awake now. It was aroused by the disasters
that had befallen Napoleon; of which disasters the Russian campaign
was only one small part. For he who stands above all his compeers must
expect them to fall upon him should he stumble. Napoleon had fallen,
and a hundred foes who had hitherto nursed their hatred in a hopeless
silence were alert to strike a blow should he descend within their
reach.
When whole empires had striven in vain to strike, how could a mere
association of obscure men hope to record its blow? The Tugendbund had
begun humbly enough; and Napoleon, with that unerring foresight
which raised him above all other men, had struck at its base. For an
association in which kings and cobblers stand side by side on an equal
footing must necessarily be dangerous to its foes.
Sebastian was not carried off his feet by the great events of the
last six months. They only rendered him steadier. For he had waited a
lifetime. It is only a sudden success that dazzles. Long waiting nearly
always ensures a wise possession.
Sebastian, like all men absorbed in a great thought, was neglectful
of his social and domestic obligations. Has it not been shown that he
allowed Mathilde and Desiree to support him by giving dancing lessons?
But he was not the ordinary domestic tyrant who is familiar to all--the
dignified father of a family who must have the best of everything, whose
teaching to his offspring takes the form of an unconscious and solemn
warning. He did not ask the best; he hardly noticed what was offered to
him; and it was not owing to his demand, but to that feminine spirit of
self-sacrifice which has ruined so many men, that he fared better than
his daughters.
If he thought about it at all, he probably concluded that Mathilde and
Desiree were quite content to give their time and thought to the
support of himself--not as their father, but as the motive power of the
Tugendbund in Prussia. Many greater men have made the same mistake,
and quite small men with a great name make it every day, thinking
complacently that it is a privilege to some woman to minister to their
wants while they produce their immortal pictures or deathless
books; whereas, the woman would tend him as carefully were he a
crossing-sweeper, and is only following the dictates of an instinct
which is loftier than his highest thought and more admirable than his
most astounding work of art.
Barlasch had not lived so long in the Frauengasse without learning the
domestic economy of Sebastian's household. He knew that Desiree, like
many persons with kind blue eyes, shaped her own course through life,
and abided by the result with a steadfastness not usually attributed to
the light-hearted. He concluded that he must make ready to take the
road again before midnight. He therefore gave a careful and businesslike
attention to the simple meal set before him by Lisa; and, looking
up over his plate, he saw for the second time in his life Sebastian
hurrying into his own kitchen.
Barlasch half rose, and then, in obedience to a gesture from Sebastian,
or remembering perhaps the sturdy Republicanism which he had not learnt
until middle-age, he sat down again, fork in hand.
“You are prepared to accompany Madame Darragon to Thorn?” inquired
Sebastian, inviting his guest by a gesture to make himself at
home--scarcely a necessary thought in the present instance.
“Yes.”
“And how do you propose to make the journey?”
This was so unlike Sebastian's usual method, so far from his lax
comprehension of a father's duty, that Barlasch paused and looked at him
with suspicion. With the back of his hand he pushed up the unkempt
hair which obscured his eyes. This unusual display of parental anxiety
required looking into.
“From what I could see in the streets,” he answered, “the General
will not stand in the way of women and useless mouths who wish to quit
Dantzig.”
“That is possible; but he will not go so far as to provide horses.”
Barlasch gave his companion a quick glance, and returned to his supper,
eating with an exaggerated nonchalance, as if he were alone.
“Will you provide them?” he asked abruptly, at length, without looking
up.
“I can get them for you, and can ensure you relays by the way.”
Barlasch cut a piece of meat very carefully, and, opening his mouth
wide, looked at Sebastian over the orifice.
“On one condition,” pursued Sebastian quietly; “that you deliver a
letter for me in Thorn. I make no pretence; if it is found on you, you
will be shot.”
Barlasch smiled pleasantly.
“The risks are very great,” said Sebastian, tapping his snuff-box
reflectively.
“I am not an officer to talk of my honour,” answered Barlasch, with
a laugh. “And as for risk”--he paused and put half a potato into his
mouth--“it is Mademoiselle I serve,” concluded this uncouth knight with
a curt simplicity.
So they set out at ten o'clock that night in a light sleigh on high
runners, such as may be seen on any winter day in Poland down to the
present time. The horses were as good as any in Dantzig at this date,
when a horse was more costly than his master. The moon, sailing high
overhead through fleecy clouds, found it no hard task to light a world
all snow and ice. The streets of Dantzig were astir with life and
the rumble of waggons. At first there were difficulties, and Barlasch
explained airily that he was not so accomplished a whip in the streets
as in the open country.
“But never fear,” he added. “We shall get there, soon enough.”
At the city gates there was, as Barlasch had predicted, no objection
made to the departure of a young girl and an old man. Others were
quitting Dantzig by the same gate, on foot, in sleighs and carts; but
all turned westward at the cross-roads and joined the stream of refugees
hurrying forward to Germany. Barlasch and Desiree were alone on the wide
road that runs southward across the plain towards Dirschau. The air
was very cold and still. On the snow, hard and dry like white dust, the
runners of the sleigh sang a song on one note, only varied from time to
time by a drop of several octaves as they passed over a culvert or
some hollow in the road, after which the high note, like the sound of
escaping steam, again held sway. The horses fell into a long steady
trot, their feet beating the ground with a regular, sleep-inducing thud.
They were harnessed well forward to a very long pole, and covered the
ground with free strides, unhampered by any thought of their heels. The
snow pattered against the cloth stretched like a wind-sail from their
flanks to the rising front of the sleigh.
Barlasch sat upright, a thick motionless figure, four-square to the
cutting wind. He drove with one hand at a time, sitting on the other to
restore circulation between whiles. It was impossible to distinguish the
form of his garments, for he was wrapped round in a woollen shawl like
a mummy, showing only his eyes beneath the ragged fur of a sheepskin
cap upon which the rime caused by the warmth of the horses and his own
breath had frozen like a coating of frosted silver.
Desiree was huddled down beside him, with her head bent forward so as to
protect her face from the wind, which seared like a hot iron. She wore a
hood of white fur lined with a darker fur, and when she lifted her face
only her eyes, bright and wakeful, were visible.
“If you are warm, you may go to sleep,” said Barlasch in a mumbling
voice, for his face was drawn tight and his lips stiffened by the cold.
“But if you shiver, you must stay awake.”
But Desiree seemed to have no wish for sleep. Whenever Barlasch leant
forward to peer beneath her hood she looked round at him with wakeful
eyes. Whenever, to see if she were still awake, he gave her an
unceremonious nudge, she nudged back again instantly. As the night wore
on, she grew more wakeful. When they halted at a wayside inn, which
must have been minutely described to Barlasch by Sebastian, and Desiree
accepted the innkeeper's offer of a cup of coffee by the fire while
fresh horses were being put into harness, she was wide awake and
looked at Barlasch with a reckless laugh as he shook the rime from his
eyebrows. In response he frowningly scrutinized as much of her face as
he could see, and shook his head disapprovingly.
“You laugh when there is nothing to laugh at,” he said grimly. “Foolish.
It makes people wonder what is in your mind.”
“There is nothing in my mind,” she answered gaily.
“Then there is something in your heart, and that is worse!” said
Barlasch, which made Desiree look at him doubtfully.
They had done forty miles with the same horses, and were nearly halfway.
For some hours the road had followed the course of the Vistula on the
high tableland above the river, and would so continue until they reached
Thorn.
“You must sleep,” said Barlasch curtly, when they were once more on the
road. She sat silent beside him for an hour. The horses were fresh, and
covered the ground at a great pace. Barlasch was no driver, but he was
skilful with the horses, and husbanded their strength at every hill.
“If we go on like this, when shall we arrive?” asked Desiree suddenly.
“By eight o'clock, if all goes well.”
“And we shall find Monsieur Louis d'Arragon awaiting us at Thorn?”
Barlasch shrugged his shoulders doubtfully.
“He said he would be there,” he muttered, and, turning in his seat, he
looked down at her with some contempt.
“That is like a woman,” he said. “They think all men are fools except
one, and that one is only to be compared with the bon Dieu.”
Desiree could not have heard the remark, for she made no answer and sat
silent, leaning more and more heavily against her companion. He changed
the reins to his other hand, and drove with it for an hour after all
feeling had left it. Desiree was asleep. She was still sleeping when,
in the dim light of a late dawn, Barlasch saw the distant tower of Thorn
Cathedral.
They were no longer alone on the road now, but passed a number of heavy
market-sleighs bringing produce and wood to the town. Barlasch had been
in Thorn before. Desiree was still sleeping when he turned the horses
into the crowded yard of the “Drei Kronen.” The sleighs and carriages
were packed side by side as in a warehouse, but the stables were empty.
No eager host came out to meet the travellers. The innkeepers of Thorn
had long ceased to give themselves that trouble. For the city was on the
direct route of the retreat, and few who got so far had any money left.
Slowly and painfully Barlasch unwound himself and disentangled his legs.
He tried first one and then the other, as if uncertain whether he could
walk. Then he staggered numbly across the yard to the door of the inn.
A few minutes later Desiree woke up. She was in a room warmed by a great
white stove and dimly lighted by candles. Some one was pulling off
her gloves and feeling her hands to make sure that they were not
frost-bitten. She looked sleepily at a white coffee-pot standing on the
table near the candles; then her eyes, still uncomprehending, rested on
the face of the man who was loosening her hood, which was hard with
rime and ice. He had his back to the candles, and was half-hidden by the
collar of his fur coat, which met the cap pressed down over his ears.
He turned towards the table to lay aside her gloves, and the light fell
on his face. Desiree was wideawake in an instant, and Louis d'Arragon,
hearing her move, turned anxiously to look at her again. Neither spoke
for a minute. Barlasch was holding his numbed hand against the stove,
and was grinding his teeth and muttering at the pain of the restored
circulation.
Desiree shook the icicles from her hood, and they rattled like hail on
the bare floor. Her hair, all tumbled round her face, caught the light
of the candles. Her eyes were bright and the colour was in her cheeks.
D'Arragon glanced at her with a sudden look of relief, and then turned
to Barlasch. He took the numbed hand and felt it; then he held a candle
close to it. Two of the fingers were quite white, and Barlasch made a
grimace when he saw them. D'Arragon began rubbing at once, taking no
notice of his companion's moans and complaints.
Without desisting, he looked over his shoulder towards Desiree, but not
actually at her face.
“I heard last night,” he said, “that the two carriages are standing in
an inn-yard three leagues beyond this on the Warsaw road. I have traced
them step by step from Kowno. My informant tells me that the escort has
deserted, and that the officer in charge, Colonel Darragon, was going
on alone, with the two drivers, when he was taken ill. He is nearly well
again, and hopes to continue his journey to-morrow or the next day.”
Desiree nodded her head to signify that she had heard and understood.
Barlasch gave a cry of pain, and withdrew his hand with a jerk.
“Enough, enough!” he said. “You hurt me. The life is returning now; a
drop of brandy perhaps--”
“There is no brandy in Thorn,” said D'Arragon, turning towards the
table. “There is only coffee.”
He busied himself with the cups, and did not look at Desiree when he
spoke again.
“I have secured two horses,” he said, “to enable you to proceed at once,
if you are able to. But if you would rather rest here to-day--”
“Let us go on at once,” interrupted Desiree hastily.
Barlasch, crouching against the stove, glanced from one to the other
beneath his heavy brows, wondering, perhaps, why they avoided looking at
each other.
“You will wait here,” said D'Arragon, turning towards him, “until--until
I return.”
“Yes,” was the answer. “I will lie on the floor here and sleep. I have
had enough. I--”
Louis left the room to give the necessary orders. When he returned in a
few minutes, Barlasch was asleep on the floor, and Desiree had tied on
her hood again, which concealed her face. He drank a cup of coffee and
ate some dry bread absent-mindedly, in silence.
The sound of bells, feebly heard through the double windows, told them
that the horses were being harnessed.
“Are you ready?” asked D'Arragon, who had not sat down; and in response,
Desiree, standing near the stove, went towards the door, which he held
open for her to pass out. As she passed him, she glanced at his face,
and winced.
In the sleigh she looked up at him as if expecting him to speak. He was
looking straight in front of him. There was, after all, nothing to be
said. She could see his steady eyes between his high collar and the fur
cap. They were hard and unflinching. The road was level now, and the
snow beaten to a gleaming track like ice. D'Arragon put the horses to a
gallop at the town gate, and kept them at it.
In half an hour he turned towards her and pointed with his whip to a
roof half hidden by some thin pines.
“That is the inn,” he said.
In the inn yard he indicated with his whip two travelling-carriages
standing side by side.
“Colonel Darragon is here?” he said to the cringing Jew who came to meet
them; and the innkeeper led the way upstairs. The house was a miserable
one, evil-smelling, sordid. The Jew pointed to a door, and, cringing
again, left them.
Desiree made a gesture telling Louis to go in first, which he did at
once. The room was littered with trunks and cases. All the treasure had
been brought into the sick man's chamber for greater safety.
On a narrow bed near the window a man lay huddled on his side. He turned
and looked over his shoulder, showing a haggard face with a ten-days'
beard on it. He looked from one to the other in silence.
It was Colonel de Casimir.