Part 31 (1/2)

”It must have been a fortnight ago,” he said at length. ”I was trying to count the days. We have lost all account of dates since quitting Moscow.

One day has been like another--and all, terrible. Believe me, madame, it has always been in my mind that you were awaiting the return of your husband at Dantzig. I spared him all I could. A dozen times we saved each other's lives.”

In six words Desiree could have told him all she knew: that he was a spy who had betrayed to death and exile many Dantzigers whose hospitality had been extended to him as a Polish officer; that Charles was a traitor who had gained access to her father's house in order to watch him--though he had honestly fallen in love with her. He was in love with her still, and he was her husband. It was this thought that broke into her sleep at night, that haunted her waking hours.

She glanced at Louis d'Arragon, and held her peace.

”Then, Monsieur,” he said, ”you have every reason to suppose that if Madame returns to Dantzig now, she will find her husband there?”

De Casimir looked at D'Arragon, and hesitated for an instant. They both remembered afterwards that moment of uncertainty.

”I have every reason to suppose it,” replied De Casimir at length, speaking in a low voice, as if fearful of being overheard.

Louis waited a moment, and glanced at Desiree, who, however, had evidently nothing more to say.

”Then we will not trouble you farther,” he said, going towards the door, which he held open for Desiree to pa.s.s out. He was following her when De Casimir called him back.

”Monsieur,” cried the sick man, ”Monsieur, one moment, if you can spare it.”

Louis came back. They looked at each other in silence while they heard Desiree descend the stairs and speak in German to the innkeeper who had been waiting there.

”I will be quite frank with you,” said De Casimir, in that voice of confidential friendliness which so rarely failed in its effect. ”You know that Madame Darragon has an elder sister, Mademoiselle Mathilde Sebastian?”

”Yes.”

De Casimir raised himself on his elbows again, with an effort, and gave a short, half shamefaced laugh which was quite genuine. It was odd that Mathilde and he, who had walked most circ.u.mspectly, should both have been tripped up, as it were, by love.

”Bah!” he said, with a gesture dismissing the subject, ”I cannot tell you more. It is a woman's secret, Monsieur, not mine. Will you deliver a letter for me in Dantzig, that is all I ask?”

”I will give it to Madame Darragon to give to Mademoiselle Mathilde, if you like; I am not returning to Dantzig,” replied Louis. But de Casimir shook his head.

”I am afraid that will not do,” he said doubtfully. ”Between sisters, you understand--”

And he was no doubt right; this man of quick perception. Is it not from our nearest relative that our dearest secret is usually withheld?

”You cannot find another messenger?” asked De Casimir, and the anxiety in his face was genuine enough.

”I can--if you wish it.”

”Ah, Monsieur, I shall not forget it! I shall never forget it,” said the sick man quickly and eagerly. ”The letter is there, beneath that sabretasche. It is sealed and addressed.”

Louis found the letter, and went towards the door, as he placed it in his pocket.

”Monsieur,” said De Casimir, stopping him again. ”Your name, if I may ask it, so that I may remember a countryman who has done me so great a service.”

”I am not a countryman; I am an Englishman,” replied Louis. ”My name is Louis d'Arragon.”

”Ah! I know. Charles has told me, Monsieur le--”

But D'Arragon heard no more, for he closed the door behind him.

He found Desiree awaiting him in the entrance hall of the inn, where a fire of pine-logs burnt in an open chimney. The walls and low ceiling were black with smoke, the little windows were covered with ice an inch thick. It was twilight in this quiet room, and would have been dark but for the leaping flames of the fire.