the golden guess
is morning star to the full round of truth.
barlasch was never more sober in his life than when he emerged a minute later from his room, while lisa was still feverishly bolting the door. he had not wasted much time at his toilet. in his flannel shirt, his arms bare to the elbow, knotted and muscular, he looked like some rude son of toil.
“one thinks of one's self,” he hastened to explain to desiree, fearing that she might ascribe some other motive to his action. “some day the patron may be in power again, and then he will remember a poor soldier. it is good to think of the future.”
he shook his head pessimistically at lisa as belonging to a sex liable to error: instanced in this case by bolting the door too eagerly.
“now,” he said, turning to desiree again, “have you any in dantzig to help you?”
“yes,” she answered rather slowly.
“then send for him.”
“i cannot do that.”
“then go for him yourself,” snapped barlasch impatiently.
he looked at her fiercely beneath his shaggy eyebrows.
“it is no use to be afraid,” he said; “you are afraid—i see it in your face. and it is never any use. before they hammered on that door there, my legs shook. for i am easily afraid—i. but it is never any use. and when one opens the door, it goes.”
he looked at her with a puzzled frown, seeking in vain, it may have been, the ordinary symptoms of fear. she was hesitating but not afraid. there ran blood in her veins which will for all time be associated by history with a gay and indomitable courage.
“come,” he said sharply; “there is nothing else to do.”
“i will go,” said desiree, at length, deciding suddenly to do the one thing that is left to a woman once or twice in her life—to go to the one man and trust him.
“by the back way,” said barlasch, helping her with the cloak that lisa had brought, and pulling the hood forward over her face with a jerk. “ah, i know that way. the patron is hiding in the yard. an old soldier looks to the retreat—though the emperor has saved us that, so far. come, i will help you over the wall, for the door is rusted.”
the way, which barlasch had perceived, led through the room at the back of the kitchen to a yard, and thence through a door not opened by the present occupiers of the old house, into a very labyrinth of narrow alleys running downward to the river and round the tall houses that stand against the cathedral walls.
the wall was taller than barlasch, but he ran at it like a cat, and desiree standing below could see the black outline of his limbs crouching on the top. he stooped down, and grasping her hands, lifted her by the sheer strength of one arm, balanced her for an instant on the wall, and then lowered her on the outer side.
“run,” he whispered.
she knew the way, and although the night was dark, and these narrow alleys between high walls had no lamps, desiree lost no time. the krahn-thor is quite near to the frauengasse. indeed, the whole of dantzig occupied but a small space between the rivers in those straitened days. the town was quieter than it had been for months, and desiree passed unmolested through the narrow streets. she made her way to the quay, passing through the low gateway known as the door of the holy ghost, and here found people still astir. for the commerce that thrives on a northern river is paralyzed all the winter, and feverishly active when the ice has gone.
“the elsa,” replied a woman, who had been selling bread all day on the quay, and was now packing up her stall, “you ask for the elsa. there is such a ship, i know. but how can i say which she is? see, they lie right across the river like a bridge. besides, it is late, and sailors are rough men.”
desiree hurried on. louis d'arragon had said that the ship was lying near to the krahn-thor, of which the great hooded roof loomed darkly against the stars above her. she was looking about her when a man came forward with the hesitating step of one who has been told to wait the arrival of some one unknown to him.
“the elsa,” she said to him; “which ship is it?”
“come along with me, mademoiselle,” the man replied; “though i was not told to look for a woman.”
he spoke in english, which desiree hardly understood; for she had never heard it from english lips, and looked for the first time on one of that race upon which all the world waited now for salvation. for the english, of all the nations, were the only men who from the first had consistently defied napoleon.
the sailor led the way towards the river. as he passed the lamp burning dimly above some steps, desiree saw that he was little more than a boy. he turned and offered her his hand with a shy laugh, and together they stood at the bottom of the steps with the water lapping at their feet.
“have you a letter,” he said, “or will you come on board?”
then perceiving that she did not understand, he repeated the question in german.
“i will come on board,” she answered.
the elsa was lying in the middle of the river, and the boat into which desiree stepped shot across the water without sound of oars. the sailor was paddling it noiselessly at the stern. desiree was not unused to boats, and when they came alongside the elsa she climbed on board without help.
“this way,” said the sailor, leading her towards the deckhouse where a light burned dimly behind red curtains. he knocked at the door and opened it without awaiting a reply. in the little cabin two men sat at a table, and one of them was louis d'arragon dressed in the rough clothes of a merchant seaman. he seemed to recognize desiree at once, though she still stood without the door, in the darkness.
“you?” he said in surprise. “i did not expect you, madame. you want me?”
“yes,” answered desiree, stepping over the combing. louis's companion, who was also a sailor, coarsely clad, rose and, awkwardly taking off his cap, hurried to the door, murmuring some vague apology. it is not always the roughest men who have the worst manners towards women.
he closed the door behind him, leaving desiree and louis looking at each other by the light of an oil lamp that flickered and gave forth a greasy smell. the little cabin was smoke-ridden, and smelt of ancient tar. it was no bigger than the table in the drawing-room in the frauengasse, across which he had bowed to her in farewell a few days earlier, little knowing when and where they were to meet again. for fate can always turn a surprise better than the human fancy.
behind the curtain, the window stood open, and the high, clear song of the wind through the rigging filled the little cabin with a continuous minor note of warning which must have been part of his life; for he must have heard it, as all sailors do, sleeping or waking, night and day.
he was probably so accustomed to it that he never heeded it. but it filled desiree's ears, and whenever she heard it in after-life, in memory this moment came again to her, and she looked back to it, as a traveller may look back to a milestone at a cross-road, and wonder where his journey might have ended had he taken another turning.
“my father,” she said quickly, “is in danger. there is no one else in dantzig to whom we can turn, and—”
she paused. what was she going to add? she hesitated, and then was silent. there was no reason why she should have elected to come to him. at all events she gave none.
“i am glad i was in dantzig when it happened,” he said, turning to take up his cap, which was of rough dark fur, such as seamen wear even in summer at night in the northern seas.
“come,” he added, “you can tell me as we go ashore.”
but they did not speak while the sailor sculled the boat to the steps. on the quay they would probably pass unnoticed, for there were many strange sailors at this time in dantzig, and louis d'arragon might easily be mistaken for one of the french seamen who had brought stores by sea from bordeaux and brest and cherbourg.
“now tell me,” he said, as they walked side by side; and in voluble french, desiree launched into her story. it was rather incoherent, by reason, perhaps, of its frankness.
“stop—stop,” he interrupted gravely, “who is barlasch?”
louis walked rather slowly in his stiff sea-boots at her side, and she instinctively spoke less rapidly as she explained the part that barlasch had played.
“and you trust him?”
“of course,” she answered.
“but why?”
“oh, you are so matter-of-fact,” she exclaimed; “i do not know. because he is trustworthy, i suppose.”
she continued the story, but suddenly stopped and looked up at him under the shadow of her hood.
“you are silent,” she said. “do you know something about my father of which i am ignorant? is that it?”
“no,” he answered, “i am trying to follow—that is all. you leave so much to my imagination.”
“but i have no time to explain things,” she protested. “every moment is of value. i will explain all those things some other time. at this moment all i can think of is my father and the danger he is in. if it had not been for barlasch, he would have been in prison by now. and as it is, the danger is only half averted. for he, himself, is so little help. all must be done for him. he will do nothing for himself while this humour is upon him; you understand?”
“partly,” he answered slowly.
“oh!” she exclaimed half-impatiently, “one sees that you are an englishman.”
and she found time, even in her hurry, to laugh. for she was young enough to float buoyant upon that sea of hope which ebbs in the course of years and leaves men stranded on the hard facts of life.
“you forget,” he said in self-defence.
“i forget what?”
“that a week ago i had never seen dantzig, or your father, or your sister, or the frauengasse. a week ago i did not know that there was anybody called sebastian in the world—and did not care.”
“yes,” she admitted thoughtfully, “i had forgotten that.”
and they walked on in silence, a long way, till they came to the gate of the holy ghost.
“but you can help him to escape?” she said at length, as if following the course of her own thoughts.
“yes,” he answered, and that was all.
they passed through the smaller streets in silence, and desiree led the way into a narrow alley running between the street of the holy ghost and the frauengasse.
“there is the wall to be climbed,” she said; but, as she spoke, the door giving exit to the alley was cautiously opened by barlasch.
“a little oil,” he whispered, “and it was soon done.”
the yard was dark within, for there might be watchers at any of the windows above them in the pointed gables that made patterns against the star-lit sky.
“all is well,” said barlasch; “those sons of dogs have not returned, and the patron is waiting in the kitchen, cloaked and ready for a journey. he has collected himself—the patron.”
he led the way through his own room, which was dark, save for a shaft of lamp-light coming from the kitchen. he looked back keenly at louis d'arragon.
“salut!” he growled, scowling at his boots. “a sailor,” he muttered after a pause. “good. she has her wits at the top of the basket—that child.”
desiree was throwing back her hood and looking at her father with a reassuring smile.
“i have brought monsieur d'arragon,” she said, “to help us.”
for sebastian has not recognized the new-comer. he now bowed in his stiff way, and began a formal apology, which d'arragon cut short with a quick gesture.
“it is the least i could do,” he said, “in the absence of charles. have you money?”
“yes—a little.”
“you will require money and a few clothes. i can get you a passage to riga or to helsingborg to-night. from there you can communicate with your daughter. events will follow each other rapidly. one never knows what a week may bring forth in time of war. it may be safe for you to return soon. come, monsieur, we must go.”
sebastian made a gesture with his outspread arms, half of protestation, half of acquiescence. it was plain that he had no sympathy with these modern, hurried methods of meeting the emergencies of daily life. a valise, packed and strapped, lay on the table. d'arragon weighed it in his hand, and then lifted it to his shoulder.
“come, monsieur,” he repeated leading the way through barlasch's room to the yard. “and you,” he added, addressing himself to that soldier, “shut the door behind us.”
with another gesture of protest sebastian gathered his cloak round him and followed. d'arragon had taken desiree so literally at her word that he allowed her father no time for hesitation, nor a moment to say farewell.
she was alone in the kitchen before she had realized that they were going. in a minute barlasch returned. she could hear him setting in order the room which had been hurriedly disorganized in order to open the door leading to the yard, where her father had concealed himself. he was muttering to himself as he lifted the furniture.
coming back into the kitchen, he found desiree standing where he had left her. glancing at her, he scratched his grey head in a plebeian way, and gave a little laugh.
“yes,” he said, pointing to the spot where d'arragon had stood. “that was a man, that you fetched to help us—a man. it makes a difference when such as that goes out of the room—eh?”
he busied himself in the kitchen, setting in order that which remained of the mise en scene of his violent reception of the secret police. suddenly he turned in his emphatic manner, and threw out his rugged forefinger to hold her attention.
“if there had been some like that in paris, there would have been no revolution. za-za, za-za!” he concluded, imitating effectively the buzz of many voices in an assembly. “words and not deeds,” barlasch protested. whereas to-night, he clearly showed by two gestures, they had met a man of deeds.
