the fire i' the flint
shows not, till it be struck.
“it is time to do something,” said papa barlasch on the december morning when the news reached dantzig that napoleon was no longer with the army—that he had made over the parody of command of the phantom army to murat, king of naples—that he had passed like an evil spirit unknown through poland, prussia, germany, travelling twelve hundred miles night and day at breakneck speed, alone, racing to paris to save his throne.
“it is time to do something,” said all europe, when it was too late. for napoleon was himself again—alert, indomitable, raising a new army, calling on france to rise to such heights of energy and vitality as only france can compass; for the colder nations of the north lack the imagination that enables men to pit themselves against the gods at the bidding of some stupendous will, only second to the will of god himself.
“go to dantzig, and hold it till i come,” napoleon had said to rapp. “retreat to poland, and hold on to anything you can till i come back with a new army,” he had commanded murat and prince eugene.
“it is time to do something,” said all the conquered nations, looking at each other for initiation. and lo! the master of surprises struck them dumb by his sudden apparition in his own capital, with all the strings of the european net gathered as if by magic into his own hands again.
while everybody told his neighbour that it was time to do something, no one knew what to do. for it has pleased the creator to put a great many talkers into this world and only a few men of action to make its history.
papa barlasch knew what to do, however.
“where is that sailor?” he asked desiree, when she had told him the news which mathilde brought in from the streets. “he who took the patron's valise that night—the cousin of your husband.”
“there is a man at zoppot who will tell you,” she answered.
“then i go to zoppot.”
barlasch had lived unmolested in the frauengasse since his return. he was an old man, ill-clad, with a bloody handkerchief bound over one eye. no one asked him any questions, except sebastian, who heard again and again the tale of moscow—how the army which had crossed into russia four hundred thousand strong was reduced to a hundred thousand when the retreat began; how handmills were issued to the troops to grind corn which did not exist; how the horses died in thousands and the men in hundreds from starvation; how god at last had turned his face from napoleon.
“something must be done. the patron will do nothing; he is in the clouds, he is dreaming dreams of a new france, that bourgeois. i am an old man. yes, i will go to zoppot.”
“you mean that we should have heard from charles before now,” said desiree.
“name of thunder! he may be in paris!” exclaimed barlasch, with the sudden anger that anxiety commands. “he is on the staff, i tell you.”
for suspense is one of the most contagious of human emotions, and makes a quicker call upon our sympathy than any other. do we not feel such a desire that our neighbour may know the worst without delay, that we race to impart it to him?
nor was desiree alone in the trial which had drawn certain lines about her gay lips; for mathilde had told her father and sister that should colonel de casimir return from the war he would ask her hand in marriage.
“and that other—the colonel,” added barlasch, glancing at mathilde, “he is on the staff too. they are safe enough, i tell you that. they are doubtless together. they were together at moscow. i saw them, and took an order from them. they were... at their work.”
mathilde did not like papa barlasch. she would, it seemed, rather have no news at all of de casimir than learn it from the old soldier, for she quitted the room without even troubling to throw him a glance of disdain.
barlasch waited with working lips until the sound of her footsteps ceased on the stairs. then he pushed across the kitchen table a piece of writing-paper, rather yellow and woolly. it had been to moscow and back.
“write a word to him,” he said. “i will take it to zoppot.”
“but you can send a message by the fisherman whose name i have given you,” answered desiree.
“and will he heed the message? will he come ashore at a word from me—only barlasch? remember it is his life that he carries in his hand. an english sailor with a french name! thunder of thunder! they would shoot him like a rat!”
desiree shook her head; but barlasch was not to be denied. he brought pen and ink from the dresser, and pushed them across the table.
“i would not ask it,” he said, “if it was not necessary. do you think he will mind the danger? he will like it. he will say to me, 'barlasch, i thank you.' ah? i know him. write. he will come.”
“why?” asked desiree.
“why? how should i know that? he came before when you asked him.”
desiree leant over the table and wrote six words:
“come, if you can come safely.”
barlasch took up the paper, and, pushing up the bandage which had served to bring him unharmed through russia, he frowned at it without understanding.
“it is not all writings that i can read,” he admitted. “have you signed it?”
“no.”
“then sign something that he will know, and no other—they might shoot me. your baptismal name.”
and she wrote “desiree” after the six words.
barlasch folded the paper carefully and placed it in the lining of an old felt hat of sebastian's which he now wore. he bound a scarf over his ears, after the manner of those who live on the baltic shores in winter.
“you can leave the rest to me,” he said; and, with a nod and a grimace expressive of cunning, he left her.
he did not return that night. the days were short now, for the winter was well set in. it was nearly dark the next afternoon and very cold when he came back. he sent lisa upstairs for desiree.
“first,” he said, “there is a question for the patron. will he quit dantzig?—that is the question.”
“no,” answered desiree.
“rapp is coming,” said barlasch, emphasizing each point with one finger against the side of his nose. “he will hold dantzig. there will be a siege. let the patron make no mistake. it will not be like the last one. rapp was outside then; he will be inside this time. he will hold dantzig till the bottom falls out of the world.”
“my father will not leave,” said desiree. “he has said so. he knows that rapp is coming, with the russians behind him.”
“but,” interrupted barlasch, “he thinks that prussia will turn and declare war against napoleon. that may be. who knows? the question is, can the patron be induced to quit dantzig?”
desiree shook her head.
“it is not i,” said barlasch, “who ask the question. you understand?”
“yes, i understand. my father will not quit dantzig.”
whereupon barlasch made a gesture conveying a desire to think as kindly of antoine sebastian as he could.
“in half an hour,” he said, “when it is dark, will you come for a walk with me along the langfuhr road—where the unfinished ramparts are?”
desiree looked at him and hesitated.
“oh—good—if you are afraid—” said barlasch.
“i am not afraid—i will come,” she answered quickly.
the snow was hard when they set out, and squeaked under their feet, as it does with a low thermometer.
“we shall leave no tracks,” said barlasch, as he led the way off the langfuhr road towards the river. there was broken ground here, where earthworks had been begun and never completed. the trees had been partly cut, and beneath the snow were square mounds showing where the timber had been piled up. but since the departure of rapp, all had been left incomplete.
barlasch turned towards desiree and pointed out a rising knoll of land with fir-trees on it—an outline against the sky where a faint aurora borealis lit the north. she understood that louis was waiting there, and must necessarily see them approaching across the untrodden snow. for an instant she lingered, and barlasch turning, glanced at her sharply over his shoulder. she had come against her will, and her companion knew it. her feet were heavy with misgiving, like the feet of one who treads an uncertain road into a strange country. she had been afraid of louis d'arragon when she first caught sight of him in the frauengasse. the fear of him was with her now, and would not depart until he himself swept it away by the first word he spoke.
he came out from beneath the trees, made a few steps forward, and then stopped. again desiree lingered, and barlasch, who was naturally impatient, turned and took her by the arm.
“is it the snow—that you find slippery?” he asked, not requiring an answer. a moment later louis came forward.
“there is nothing but bad news,” he said laconically. “barlasch will have told you; but there is no need to give up hope. the army has reached the niemen; the rearguard has quitted vilna. there is nothing for it but to go and look for him.”
“who will go?” she asked quietly.
“i.”
he was looking at her with grave eyes trained to darkness. but she looked past him towards the sky, which was faintly lighted by the aurora. her averted eyes and rigid attitude were not without some suggestion of guilt.
“my ship is ice-bound at reval,” said d'arragon, in a matter-of-fact way. “they have no use for me until the winter is over, and they have given me three months' leave.”
“to go to england?” she asked.
“to go anywhere i like,” he said, with a short laugh. “so i am going to look for charles, and barlasch will come with me.”
“at a price,” put in that soldier, in a shrewd undertone. “at a price.”
“a small one,” corrected louis, turning to look at him with the close attention of one exploring a new country.
“bah! you give what you can. one does not go back across the niemen for pleasure. we bargained, and we came to terms. i got as much as i could.”
louis laughed, as if this were the blunt truth.
“if i had more, i would give you more. it is the money i placed in a dantzig bank for my cousin. i must take it out again, that is all.”
the last words were addressed to desiree, as if he had acted in assurance of her approval.
“but i have more,” she said; “a little—not very much. we must not think of money. we must do everything to find him—to give him help, if he needs it.”
“yes,” answered louis, as if she had asked him a question. “we must do everything; but i have no more money.”
“and i have none with me. i have nothing that i can sell.”
she withdrew her fur mitten and held out her hand, as if to show that she had no rings, except the plain gold one on her third finger.
“you have the ikon i brought you from moscow,” said barlasch gruffly. “sell that.”
“no,” answered desiree; “i will not sell that.”
barlasch laughed cynically.
“there you have a woman,” he said, turning to louis. “first she will not have a thing, then she will not part with it.”
“well,” said desiree, with some spirit, “a woman may know her own mind.”
“some do,” admitted barlasch carelessly; “the happy ones. and since you will not sell your ikon, i must go for what monsieur le capitaine offers me.
“five hundred francs,” said louis. “a thousand francs, if we succeed in bringing my cousin safely back to dantzig.”
“it is agreed,” said barlasch, and desiree looked from one to the other with an odd smile of amusement. for women do not understand that spirit of adventure which makes the mercenary soldier, and urges the sailor to join an exploring expedition without hope of any reward beyond his daily pay, for which he is content to work and die loyally.
“and i,” she asked, “what am i to do?”
“we must know where to find you,” replied d'arragon.
there was so much in the simple answer that desiree fell into a train of thought. it did not seem much for her to do, and yet it was all. for it summed up in six words a woman's life: to wait till she is found.
“i shall wait in dantzig,” she said at length.
barlasch held up his finger close to her face so that she could not fail to see it, and shook it slowly from side to side commanding her careful and entire attention.
“and buy salt,” he said. “fill a cupboard full of salt. it is cheap enough in dantzig now. the patron will not think of it. he is a dreamer. but a dreamer awakes at length, and is hungry. it is i who tell you—barlasch.”
he emphasized himself with a touch of his curved fingers on either shoulder.
“buy salt,” he said, and walked away to a rising knoll to make sure that no one was approaching. the moon was just below the horizon, and a yellow glow was already in the sky.
desiree and louis were left alone. he was looking at her, but she was watching barlasch with a still persistency.
“he said that it is the happy women who know their own minds,” she said slowly.
“i suppose he meant—duty,” she added at length, when louis made no sign of answering.
“yes,” he said.
barlasch was beckoning to her. she moved away, but stopped a few yards off, and looked at louis again.
“do you think it is any good trying?” she asked, with a short laugh.
“it is no good trying unless you mean to succeed,” he answered lightly. she laughed a second time and lingered, though barlasch was calling her to come.
“oh,” she said, “i am not afraid of you when you say things like that. it is what you leave unsaid. i am afraid of you, i think, because you expect so much.”
she tried to see his face.
“i am only an ordinary human being, you know,” she said warningly.
then she followed barlasch.
