The man looked at it, and grumbled something inaudible.
He took it in his hand and turned it over with the
slow manner of the illiterate.
God writes straight
on crooked lines.
Charles, having given his letter to the sentry with
the order to take it to its immediate destination,
turned towards the stairs again. In those days
an order was given in a different tone to that which
servitude demands in later times.
He returned to his room on the first floor without
even waiting to make sure that he would be obeyed.
He had scarcely seated himself when, after a fumbling
knock, the sentry opened the door and followed him
into the room, still holding the letter in his hand.
“Mon capitaine,” he said with a certain
calmness of manner as from an old soldier to a young
one, “a word—that is all. This
letter,” he turned it in his hand as he spoke,
and looking at Charles beneath scowling brows, awaited
an explanation. “Did you pick it up?”
“No—I wrote it.”
“Good. I . . . " he paused, and tapped
himself on the chest so that there could be no mistake;
there was a rattling sound behind him suggestive of
ironware. Indeed, he was hung about with other
things than clocks, and seemed to be of opinion that
if a soldier sets value upon any object he must attach
it to his person. “I, Barlasch of the
Guard—Marengo, the Danube, Egypt—picked
up after Borodino a letter like it. I cannot
read very quickly—indeed— Bah!
the old Guard needs no pens and paper—but
that letter I picked up was just like this”
“Was it addressed like that to Madame Desiree
Darragon?”
“So a comrade told me. It is you, her
husband?”
“Yes,” answered Charles, “since
you ask; I am her husband.”
“Ah!” replied Barlasch darkly, and his
limbs and features settled themselves into a patient
waiting.
“Well,” asked Charles, “what are
you waiting for?”
“Whatever you may think proper, mon capitaine,
for I gave the letter to the surgeon who promised
that it should be forwarded to its address.”
Charles laughingly sought his purse. But there
was nothing in it, so he looked round the room.
“Here, add this to your collection,” and
he took a small French clock from the writing-table,
a pretty, gilded toy from Paris.
“Thank you, mon capitaine.”
Barlasch, with shaking fingers, unknotted the rope
around his shoulders. As he was doing so one
of the clocks on his back began to strike. He
paused, and stood looking gravely at his superior
officer. Another clock took up the tale and a
third, while Barlasch sternly stood at attention.
“Four o’clock,” he said to himself,
“and I, who have not yet breakfasted—”
