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.
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.
