Suddenly he rose and went to the window. His
action caused a brief silence, and all heard the clatter
of a horse’s feet and the quick rattle of a
sword against spur and buckle.
After a glance he came back into the room.
“Excuse me,” he said, with a bow towards
Mathilde. “It is, I think, a messenger
for me.”
And he hurried downstairs. He did not return
at once, and soon the conversation became general
again.
“You,” said the Grafin, touching Desiree’s
arm with her fan, “you, who are now his wife,
must be dying to know what has called him away.
Do not consider the ‘convenances,’ my
child.”
Desiree, thus admonished, followed Charles.
She had not been aware of this consuming curiosity
until it was suggested to her.
She found Charles standing at the open door.
He thrust a letter into his pocket as she approached
him, and turned towards her the face that she had
seen for a moment when he drew her back at the corner
of the Pfaffengasse to allow the Emperor’s carriage
to pass on its way. It was the white, half-stupefied
face of one who has for an instant seen a vision of
things not earthly.
“I have been sent for by the . . . I am
wanted at head-quarters,” he said vaguely.
“I shall not be long . . .”
He took his shako, looked at her with an odd attempt
to simulate cheerfulness, kissed her fingers and hurried
out into the street.
We pass; the path that
each man trod
Is dim; or will be dim,
with weeds.
When Desiree turned towards the stairs, she met the
guests descending. They were taking their leave
as they came down, hurriedly, like persons conscious
of having outstayed their welcome.
Mathilde listened coldly to the conventional excuses.
So few people recognize the simple fact that they
need never apologize for going away. Sebastian
stood at the head of the stairs bowing in his most
Germanic manner. The urbane host, with a charm
entirely French, who had dispensed a simple hospitality
so easily and gracefully a few minutes earlier, seemed
to have disappeared behind a pale and formal mask.
Desiree was glad to see them go. There was a
sense of uneasiness, a vague unrest in the air.
There was something amiss. The wedding party
had been a failure. All had gone well and merrily
up to a certain point—at the corner of
the Pfaffengasse, when the dusty travelling carriage
passed across their path. From that moment there
had been a change. A shadow seemed to have fallen
across the sunny nature of the proceedings; for never
had bride and bridegroom set forth together with lighter
hearts than those carried by Charles and Desiree Darragon
down the steps of the Marienkirche.
During its progress across the whole width of Germany,
the carriage had left unrest behind it. Men
had travelled night and day to stand sleepless by
the roadside and see it pass. Whole cities had
been kept astir till morning by the mere rumour that
its flying wheels would be heard in the streets before
dawn. Hatred and adoration, fear and that dread
tightening of the heart-strings which is caused by
the shadow of the superhuman, had sprung into being
at the mere sound of its approach.
