Barlasch, wiping the snow from his face, watched Desiree,
and made no comment.
But strong is fate,
O Love,
Who makes, who mars,
who ends.
Desiree was telling Mathilde the brief news of her
futile journey, when a knock at the front door made
them turn from the stairs where they were standing.
It was Sebastian’s knock. His hours had
been less regular of late. He came and went
without explanation.
When he had freed his throat from his furs, and laid
aside his gloves, he glanced hastily at Desiree, who
had kissed him without speaking.
“And your husband?” he asked curtly.
“It was not he whom we found at Thorn,”
she answered. There was something in her father’s
voice—in his quick, sidelong glance at
her—that caught her attention. He
had changed lately. From a man of dreams he
had been transformed into a man of action. It
is customary to designate a man of action as a hard
man. Custom is the brick wall against which
feeble minds come to a standstill and hinder the progress
of the world. Sebastian had been softened by
action, through which his mental energy had found an
outlet. But to-night he was his old self again—hard,
scornful, incomprehensible.
“I have heard nothing of him,” said Desiree.
Sebastian was stamping the snow from his boots.
“But I have,” he said, without looking
up.
Desiree said nothing. She knew that the secret
she had guarded so carefully—the secret
kept by herself and Louis—was hers no longer.
In the silence of the next moments she could hear Barlasch
breathing on his fingers, within the kitchen doorway
just behind her. Mathilde made a little movement.
She was on the stairs, and she moved nearer to the
balustrade and held to it breathlessly. For
Charles Darragon’s secret was De Casimir’s
too.
“These two gentlemen,” said Sebastian
slowly, “were in the secret service of Napoleon.
They are hardly likely to return to Dantzig.”
“Why not?” asked Mathilde.
“They dare not.”
“I think the Emperor will be able to protect
his officers,” said Mathilde.
“But not his spies,” replied Sebastian
coldly.
“Since they wore his uniform, they cannot be
blamed for doing their duty. They are brave
enough. They would hardly avoid returning to
Dantzig because—because they have outwitted
the Tugendbund.”
Mathilde’s face was colourless with anger, and
her quiet eyes flashed. She had been surprised
into this sudden advocacy, and an advocate who displays
temper is always a dangerous ally. Sebastian
glanced at her sharply. She was usually so self-controlled
that her flashing eyes and quick breath betrayed her.
“What do you know of the Tugendbund?”
he asked.
But she would not answer, merely shrugging her shoulders
and closing her thin lips with a snap.
