Part 43 (1/2)

It is there that you will be happy, as the bon Dieu meant you to be. It is only in England that no one fears Napoleon. One may have a husband there and not fear that he will be killed. One may have children and not tremble for them--and it is that that makes you happy--you women.”

Presently he rose and led the way down the slope. At the foot of it, he paused, and pointing out a long line of trees, said in a whisper--

”He is there--where there are three taller trees. Between us and those trees are the French outposts. At dawn the Russians attack the outposts, and during the attack we have simply to go through it to those trees.

There is no other way--that is the rendezvous. Those three tall trees.

When I give the word, you get up and run to those trees--run without pausing, without looking round. I will follow. It is you he has come for--not Barlasch. You think I know nothing. Bah! I know everything. I have always known it--your poor little secret.”

They lay on the snow crouching in a ditch until a grey line appeared low down in the Eastern sky and the horizon slowly distinguished itself from the thin thread of cloud that nearly always awaits the rising of the sun in Northern lat.i.tudes.

A minute later the dark group of trees broke into intermittent flame and the sharp, short ”Hurrah!” of the Cossacks, like an angry bark, came sweeping across the plain on the morning breeze.

”Not yet,” whispered Barlasch, with a gay chuckle of enjoyment. ”Not yet--not yet. Listen, the bullets are not coming here, but are going past to the right of us. When you go, keep to the left. Slowly at first--keep a little breath till the end. Now, up! Mademoiselle, run; name of thunder, let us run!”

Desiree did not understand which were the French lines and which the line of Russian attack. But there was a clear way to the three trees which stood above the rest, and she went towards them. She knew she could not run so far, so she walked. Then the bullets, instead of pa.s.sing to the right, seemed to play round her--like bees in a garden on a summer day--and she ran until she was tired.

The trees were quite close now, and the sky was light behind them. Then she saw Louis coming towards her, and she ran into his arms. The sound of the humming bullets was still in her dazed brain, and she touched him all over with her gloved hand as she clung to him, as a mother touches her child when it has fallen, to see whether it be hurt.

”How was I to know?” she whispered breathlessly. ”How was I to know that you were to come into my life?”

The bullets did not matter, it seemed, nor the roar of the firing to the right of them. Nothing mattered--except that Louis must know that she had never loved Charles.

He held her and said nothing. And she wanted him to say nothing. Then she remembered Barlasch, and looked back over her shoulder.