le coeur humain est un abime qui trompe tous les calculs.
it is to be presumed that colonel de casimir met friends at the reception given by governor rapp in the great rooms of the rathhaus. for there were many poles present, and not a few officers of other nationalities.
the army indeed that set forth to conquer russia was not a french-speaking army. less than half of the regiments were of that nationality, while italians, bavarians, saxons, wurtembergers, westphalians, prussians, swiss, and portuguese went gaily forward on the great venture. there were soldiers from the numerous petty states of the german confederation which acknowledged napoleon as their protector, for the good reason that they could not protect themselves against him. finally, there were those poles who had fought in spain for napoleon, hoping that in return he would some day set the ancient kingdom upon its feet among the nations. already the whisperers pointed to davoust as the future king of the new poland.
many present at the farewell reception of the governor carried a sword, though they were the merest civilians, plotting, counter-plotting, and whispering a hundred rumours. perhaps rapp himself, speaking bluff french with a german accent, was as honest as any man in the room, though he lacked the polish of the parisian and had not the subtlety of the pole. rapp was not a shining light in these brilliant circles. he was a governor not for peace, but for war. his day was yet to come.
such men as de casimir shrugged their supple shoulders at his simple talk. they spoke of him half-contemptuously as of one who had had a thousand chances and had never taken them. he was not even rich, and he had handled great sums of money. he was only a general, and he had slept in the emperor's tent—had had access to him in every humour. he might do the same again in the coming campaign. he was worth cultivating. de casimir and his like were full of smiles which in no wise deceived the shrewd alsatian.
mathilde sebastian was among the ladies to whom these brilliant warriors paid their uncouth compliments. perhaps de casimir was aware that her measuring eyes followed him wherever he went. he knew, at all events, that he could hold his own amid these adventurers, many of whom had risen from the ranks; while others, from remote northern states, had birth but no manners at all. he was easy and gay, carrying lightly that subtle air of distinction which is vouchsafed to many poles.
“here to-day, mademoiselle, and gone to-morrow,” he said. “all these eager soldiers. and who can tell which of us may return?”
if he had expected mathilde to flinch at this reminder of his calling, he was disappointed. her eyes were hard and bright. she had had so few chances of moving amidst this splendour, of seeing close at hand the greatness which napoleon shed around him as the sun its rays. she was carried away by the spirit of the age. anything was better, she felt, than obscurity.
“and who can tell,” whispered de casimir with a careless and confident laugh, “which of us shall come back rich and great?”
this brought the glance from her dark eyes for which his own lay waiting. she was certainly beautiful, and wore the difficult dress of that day with assurance and grace. she possessed something which the german ladies about her lacked; something which many suddenly lack when a frenchwoman is near.
his manner, half respectful, half triumphant, betrayed an understanding to which he did not refer in words. she had bestowed some favour upon him—had acceded to some request. he hoped for more. he had overstepped some barrier. she, who should have measured the distance, had allowed him to come too close. the barriers of love are one-sided; there is no climbing back.
“a hundred envious eyes are watching me,” he said in an undertone as he passed on; “i dare not stay longer. i am on duty to-night.”
she bowed and watched him go. she was, it would seem, aware of that fallen barrier. she had done nothing, had permitted nothing from weakness. there was no weakness at all perhaps in mathilde sebastian. she had the quiet manner of a skilled card-player with folded cards laid face down upon the table, who knows what is in her hand and is waiting for the foe to lead.
de casimir did not see her again. in such a throng it would have been difficult to find her had he so desired. but, as he had told her, he was on duty to-night. there were to be a hundred arrests before dawn. many who were laughing and talking with the french officers to-night were already in the grasp of napoleon's secret police, and would drive straight from the door of the rathhaus to the town prison or to the old watch-house in the portchaisengasse. others, moving through the great rooms with a high head, were already condemned out of their own bureaux and escritoires now being rifled by the emperor's spies.
the emperor himself had given the order, before quitting dantzig to take command of the maddest and greatest enterprise conceived by the mind of man. there was nothing above the reach of his mind, it seemed, and nothing too low for him to bend down and touch. every detail had been considered by himself. he was like a man who, having an open wound on his back, attends to it hurriedly before showing an undaunted face to the enemy.
his inexorable finger had come down on the name of antoine sebastian, figuring on all the secret reports—first in many.
“who is this man?” he asked, and none could answer.
he had gone to the frontier without awaiting the solution to the question. such was his method now. he had so much to do that he could but skim the surface of his task. for the human mind, though it be colossal, can only work within certain limits. the greatest orator in the world can only move his immediate hearers. those beyond the inner circle catch a word here and there, and imagination supplies the rest or improves upon it. but those in the farthest gallery hear nothing and see a little man gesticulating.
de casimir was not entrusted with the execution of the emperor's orders. as a member of general rapp's staff, resident in dantzig since the city's occupation by the french, he had been called upon to make exhaustive reports upon the feeling of the burghers. there were many doubtful cases. de casimir did not pretend to be better than his fellows. to some he had sold the benefit of the doubt. some had paid willingly enough for their warning. others had put off the payment; for there were many jews, then as now, in dantzig; slow payers requiring something stronger than a threat to make them disburse.
de casimir therefore quitted the rathhaus among the first to go, and walked through the busy streets to his rooms in the langenmarkt, where he not only lived but had a small office to which orderlies and aides-de-camp came by day or night. two sentries kept guard on the pavement. since the spring, this office had been one of the busiest military posts in dantzig. its doors were open at all hours, and in truth many of de casimir's assistants preferred to transact their business in the dark.
there might be some recalcitrant debtor driven by stress of circumstance to clear his conscience to-night. it would be as well, de casimir thought, to be at one's post. nor was he mistaken. though it was only ten o'clock, two men were awaiting his return, and, their business despatched, de casimir deemed it wise to send away his assistants. immediately after they had gone a woman came. she was half distracted with fear, and the tears ran down her pallid cheeks. but she dried them at the mention of de casimir's price, and fell to abusing him.
“if your husband is innocent, there is all the more reason why he should be grateful to me for warning him,” he said, with a smile. and at last the lady paid and went away.
the town clocks had struck eleven before another footstep on the pavement made de casimir raise his head. he did not actually expect any one, but a certain surreptitiousness in the approach of this visitor, and the low knock on the door, made him suspect that this was grist for his mill.
he opened the door and, seeing that it was a woman, stepped back. when she had entered, he closed the door while she stood watching him in the dark passage, beneath the shadow of her hood. knowing the value of such small details, he locked the door rather ostentatiously and dropped the key into his pocket.
“and now, madame,” he said reassuringly, as he followed his visitor into the room where a shaded lamp lighted his writing-table. she threw back her hood, and it was mathilde! the surprise on de casimir's face was genuine enough. romance could not have brought about this visit, nor love be its motive.
“something has happened,” he said, looking at her doubtfully.
“where is my father?” was the reply.
“unless there has been some mistake,” he answered glibly, “he is at home in bed.”
she smiled contemptuously into his innocent face.
“there has been a mistake,” she said; “they came to arrest him to-night.”
de casimir made a gesture of anger and seemed to be mentally assigning a punishment to some blunderer.
“and?” he asked, without looking at her.
“and he escaped.”
“for the moment?”
“no; he has left dantzig.”
something in her voice—the cold note of warning—made him glance uneasily at her. this was not a woman to be deceived, and yet she was womanly enough to fear deception and to resent her own fears, visiting her anger on any who aroused them. in the flash of an eye he understood her, and forestalled the words that were upon her lips.
“and i promised that he should come to no harm—i know that,” he said quickly. “at first i thought that it must have been a blunder, but on reflection i am sure that it is not. it is the emperor. he must have given the order for the arrest himself, behind my back. that is his way. he trusts no one. he deceives those nearest to him. i made out the list of those to be arrested to-night, and your father's name was not on it. do you believe me? mademoiselle, do you believe me?”
it was only natural in such a man to look for disbelief. the air he breathed was infected by suspicion. no deception was too small for the great man whom he served. mathilde made no answer.
“you came here to accuse me of having deceived you,” he said rather anxiously. “is that it?”
she nodded without meeting his eyes. it was not the truth. she had come to hear his defence, hoping against hope that she might be able to believe him.
“mathilde,” he asked slowly, “do you believe me?”
he came a step nearer, looking down at her averted face, which was oddly white. then suddenly she turned, without a sound, without lifting her eyes—and was in his arms. it seemed that she had done it against her will, and it took him by surprise. he had thought that she was trying to attract his love because she believed in his capability to make his fortune like so many soldiers of france; that she was only playing a woman's subtle game. and, after all, she was like the rest—a little cleverer, a little colder—but, like the rest.
while his arms were still round her, his quick mind leapt forward to the future, wondering already to what end this would lead them. for a moment he was taken aback. he was over the last of those barriers which are so easy from the outside and unclimbable from within. she had thrust into his hands a power greater than, for the moment, he knew how to wield. it was characteristic of him to think first whither it would lead him, and next how he could turn it to good account.
some instinct told him that this was a different love from any that he had met before. the same instinct made him understand that it was crying aloud to be convinced; and, oddly enough, he had told her the truth.
“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.”
