“See,” he said, “here is a copy
of the list, and your father’s name is not on
it. See, here is Napoleon’s letter, expressing
satisfaction with my work here and in Konigsberg, where
I have been served by an agent of my own choosing.
Many have climbed to a throne with less than that
letter for their first step. See . . . !”
he opened another drawer. It was full of money.
“See, again!” he said with a low laugh,
and from an iron chest he took two or three bags which
fell upon the table with the discreet unmistakable
chink of gold. “That is the Emperor’s.
He trusts me, you see. These bags are mine.
They are to be sent back to France before I follow
the army to Russia. What I have told you is true,
you see.”
It was an odd way of wooing, but this man rarely made
a mistake. There are many women who, like Mathilde
Sebastian, are readier to love success than console
failure.
“See,” he said, after a moment’s
hesitation, opening another drawer in his writing-table,
“before I went away I had intended to ask you
to remember me.”
As he spoke he drew a jewel-case from under some papers,
and slowly opened it. He had others like it
in the drawer; for emergencies.
“But I never hoped,” he went on, “to
have an opportunity of seeing you thus alone—to
ask you never to forget me. You permit me?”
He clasped the diamonds round her throat, and they
glittered on the poor, cheap dress, which was the
best she had. She looked down at them with a
catching breath, and for an instant the glitter was
reflected in her eyes.
She had come asking for reassurance, and he gave her
diamonds; which is an old tale told over and over
again. For in human love we have to accept not
what we want, but what is given to us.
“No one in Dantzig,” he said, “is
so glad to hear that your father has escaped as I
am.”
And, with the glitter still lurking in her dark-grey
eyes, she believed him. He drew her cloak round
her, and gently brought her hood over her hair.
“I must take you home,” he said tenderly,
“without delay. And as we go through the
streets you must tell me how it happened, and how you
were able to come to me.”
“Desiree was not asleep,” she answered;
“she was waiting for me to return, and told
me at once. Then she went to bed, and I waited
until she was asleep. It was she who managed
the escape.”
De Casimir, who was locking the drawers of his writing-table,
glanced up sharply.
“Ah! but not alone?”
“No—not alone. I will tell
you as we go through the streets.”
La meme fermete qui sert a resister a l’amour
sert aussi a le rendre violent et durable.
It is only in war that the unexpected admittedly happens.
In love and other domestic calamities there is always
a relative who knew it all the time.
