oft expectation fails, and most oft there
where it most promises; and oft it hits
where hope is coldest and despair most sits.
love, it is said, is blind. but hatred is as bad. in antoine sebastian hatred of napoleon had not only blinded eyes far-seeing enough in earlier days, but it had killed many natural affections. love, too, may easily die—from a surfeit or a famine. hatred never dies; it only sleeps.
sebastian's hatred was all awake now. it was aroused by the disasters that had befallen napoleon; of which disasters the russian campaign was only one small part. for he who stands above all his compeers must expect them to fall upon him should he stumble. napoleon had fallen, and a hundred foes who had hitherto nursed their hatred in a hopeless silence were alert to strike a blow should he descend within their reach.
when whole empires had striven in vain to strike, how could a mere association of obscure men hope to record its blow? the tugendbund had begun humbly enough; and napoleon, with that unerring foresight which raised him above all other men, had struck at its base. for an association in which kings and cobblers stand side by side on an equal footing must necessarily be dangerous to its foes.
sebastian was not carried off his feet by the great events of the last six months. they only rendered him steadier. for he had waited a lifetime. it is only a sudden success that dazzles. long waiting nearly always ensures a wise possession.
sebastian, like all men absorbed in a great thought, was neglectful of his social and domestic obligations. has it not been shown that he allowed mathilde and desiree to support him by giving dancing lessons? but he was not the ordinary domestic tyrant who is familiar to all—the dignified father of a family who must have the best of everything, whose teaching to his offspring takes the form of an unconscious and solemn warning. he did not ask the best; he hardly noticed what was offered to him; and it was not owing to his demand, but to that feminine spirit of self-sacrifice which has ruined so many men, that he fared better than his daughters.
if he thought about it at all, he probably concluded that mathilde and desiree were quite content to give their time and thought to the support of himself—not as their father, but as the motive power of the tugendbund in prussia. many greater men have made the same mistake, and quite small men with a great name make it every day, thinking complacently that it is a privilege to some woman to minister to their wants while they produce their immortal pictures or deathless books; whereas, the woman would tend him as carefully were he a crossing-sweeper, and is only following the dictates of an instinct which is loftier than his highest thought and more admirable than his most astounding work of art.
barlasch had not lived so long in the frauengasse without learning the domestic economy of sebastian's household. he knew that desiree, like many persons with kind blue eyes, shaped her own course through life, and abided by the result with a steadfastness not usually attributed to the light-hearted. he concluded that he must make ready to take the road again before midnight. he therefore gave a careful and businesslike attention to the simple meal set before him by lisa; and, looking up over his plate, he saw for the second time in his life sebastian hurrying into his own kitchen.
barlasch half rose, and then, in obedience to a gesture from sebastian, or remembering perhaps the sturdy republicanism which he had not learnt until middle-age, he sat down again, fork in hand.
“you are prepared to accompany madame darragon to thorn?” inquired sebastian, inviting his guest by a gesture to make himself at home—scarcely a necessary thought in the present instance.
“yes.”
“and how do you propose to make the journey?”
this was so unlike sebastian's usual method, so far from his lax comprehension of a father's duty, that barlasch paused and looked at him with suspicion. with the back of his hand he pushed up the unkempt hair which obscured his eyes. this unusual display of parental anxiety required looking into.
“from what i could see in the streets,” he answered, “the general will not stand in the way of women and useless mouths who wish to quit dantzig.”
“that is possible; but he will not go so far as to provide horses.”
barlasch gave his companion a quick glance, and returned to his supper, eating with an exaggerated nonchalance, as if he were alone.
“will you provide them?” he asked abruptly, at length, without looking up.
“i can get them for you, and can ensure you relays by the way.”
barlasch cut a piece of meat very carefully, and, opening his mouth wide, looked at sebastian over the orifice.
“on one condition,” pursued sebastian quietly; “that you deliver a letter for me in thorn. i make no pretence; if it is found on you, you will be shot.”
barlasch smiled pleasantly.
“the risks are very great,” said sebastian, tapping his snuff-box reflectively.
“i am not an officer to talk of my honour,” answered barlasch, with a laugh. “and as for risk”—he paused and put half a potato into his mouth—“it is mademoiselle i serve,” concluded this uncouth knight with a curt simplicity.
so they set out at ten o'clock that night in a light sleigh on high runners, such as may be seen on any winter day in poland down to the present time. the horses were as good as any in dantzig at this date, when a horse was more costly than his master. the moon, sailing high overhead through fleecy clouds, found it no hard task to light a world all snow and ice. the streets of dantzig were astir with life and the rumble of waggons. at first there were difficulties, and barlasch explained airily that he was not so accomplished a whip in the streets as in the open country.
“but never fear,” he added. “we shall get there, soon enough.”
at the city gates there was, as barlasch had predicted, no objection made to the departure of a young girl and an old man. others were quitting dantzig by the same gate, on foot, in sleighs and carts; but all turned westward at the cross-roads and joined the stream of refugees hurrying forward to germany. barlasch and desiree were alone on the wide road that runs southward across the plain towards dirschau. the air was very cold and still. on the snow, hard and dry like white dust, the runners of the sleigh sang a song on one note, only varied from time to time by a drop of several octaves as they passed over a culvert or some hollow in the road, after which the high note, like the sound of escaping steam, again held sway. the horses fell into a long steady trot, their feet beating the ground with a regular, sleep-inducing thud. they were harnessed well forward to a very long pole, and covered the ground with free strides, unhampered by any thought of their heels. the snow pattered against the cloth stretched like a wind-sail from their flanks to the rising front of the sleigh.
barlasch sat upright, a thick motionless figure, four-square to the cutting wind. he drove with one hand at a time, sitting on the other to restore circulation between whiles. it was impossible to distinguish the form of his garments, for he was wrapped round in a woollen shawl like a mummy, showing only his eyes beneath the ragged fur of a sheepskin cap upon which the rime caused by the warmth of the horses and his own breath had frozen like a coating of frosted silver.
desiree was huddled down beside him, with her head bent forward so as to protect her face from the wind, which seared like a hot iron. she wore a hood of white fur lined with a darker fur, and when she lifted her face only her eyes, bright and wakeful, were visible.
“if you are warm, you may go to sleep,” said barlasch in a mumbling voice, for his face was drawn tight and his lips stiffened by the cold. “but if you shiver, you must stay awake.”
but desiree seemed to have no wish for sleep. whenever barlasch leant forward to peer beneath her hood she looked round at him with wakeful eyes. whenever, to see if she were still awake, he gave her an unceremonious nudge, she nudged back again instantly. as the night wore on, she grew more wakeful. when they halted at a wayside inn, which must have been minutely described to barlasch by sebastian, and desiree accepted the innkeeper's offer of a cup of coffee by the fire while fresh horses were being put into harness, she was wide awake and looked at barlasch with a reckless laugh as he shook the rime from his eyebrows. in response he frowningly scrutinized as much of her face as he could see, and shook his head disapprovingly.
“you laugh when there is nothing to laugh at,” he said grimly. “foolish. it makes people wonder what is in your mind.”
“there is nothing in my mind,” she answered gaily.
“then there is something in your heart, and that is worse!” said barlasch, which made desiree look at him doubtfully.
they had done forty miles with the same horses, and were nearly halfway. for some hours the road had followed the course of the vistula on the high tableland above the river, and would so continue until they reached thorn.
“you must sleep,” said barlasch curtly, when they were once more on the road. she sat silent beside him for an hour. the horses were fresh, and covered the ground at a great pace. barlasch was no driver, but he was skilful with the horses, and husbanded their strength at every hill.
“if we go on like this, when shall we arrive?” asked desiree suddenly.
“by eight o'clock, if all goes well.”
“and we shall find monsieur louis d'arragon awaiting us at thorn?”
barlasch shrugged his shoulders doubtfully.
“he said he would be there,” he muttered, and, turning in his seat, he looked down at her with some contempt.
“that is like a woman,” he said. “they think all men are fools except one, and that one is only to be compared with the bon dieu.”
desiree could not have heard the remark, for she made no answer and sat silent, leaning more and more heavily against her companion. he changed the reins to his other hand, and drove with it for an hour after all feeling had left it. desiree was asleep. she was still sleeping when, in the dim light of a late dawn, barlasch saw the distant tower of thorn cathedral.
they were no longer alone on the road now, but passed a number of heavy market-sleighs bringing produce and wood to the town. barlasch had been in thorn before. desiree was still sleeping when he turned the horses into the crowded yard of the “drei kronen.” the sleighs and carriages were packed side by side as in a warehouse, but the stables were empty. no eager host came out to meet the travellers. the innkeepers of thorn had long ceased to give themselves that trouble. for the city was on the direct route of the retreat, and few who got so far had any money left.
slowly and painfully barlasch unwound himself and disentangled his legs. he tried first one and then the other, as if uncertain whether he could walk. then he staggered numbly across the yard to the door of the inn.
a few minutes later desiree woke up. she was in a room warmed by a great white stove and dimly lighted by candles. some one was pulling off her gloves and feeling her hands to make sure that they were not frost-bitten. she looked sleepily at a white coffee-pot standing on the table near the candles; then her eyes, still uncomprehending, rested on the face of the man who was loosening her hood, which was hard with rime and ice. he had his back to the candles, and was half-hidden by the collar of his fur coat, which met the cap pressed down over his ears.
he turned towards the table to lay aside her gloves, and the light fell on his face. desiree was wideawake in an instant, and louis d'arragon, hearing her move, turned anxiously to look at her again. neither spoke for a minute. barlasch was holding his numbed hand against the stove, and was grinding his teeth and muttering at the pain of the restored circulation.
desiree shook the icicles from her hood, and they rattled like hail on the bare floor. her hair, all tumbled round her face, caught the light of the candles. her eyes were bright and the colour was in her cheeks. d'arragon glanced at her with a sudden look of relief, and then turned to barlasch. he took the numbed hand and felt it; then he held a candle close to it. two of the fingers were quite white, and barlasch made a grimace when he saw them. d'arragon began rubbing at once, taking no notice of his companion's moans and complaints.
without desisting, he looked over his shoulder towards desiree, but not actually at her face.
“i heard last night,” he said, “that the two carriages are standing in an inn-yard three leagues beyond this on the warsaw road. i have traced them step by step from kowno. my informant tells me that the escort has deserted, and that the officer in charge, colonel darragon, was going on alone, with the two drivers, when he was taken ill. he is nearly well again, and hopes to continue his journey to-morrow or the next day.”
desiree nodded her head to signify that she had heard and understood. barlasch gave a cry of pain, and withdrew his hand with a jerk.
“enough, enough!” he said. “you hurt me. the life is returning now; a drop of brandy perhaps—”
“there is no brandy in thorn,” said d'arragon, turning towards the table. “there is only coffee.”
he busied himself with the cups, and did not look at desiree when he spoke again.
“i have secured two horses,” he said, “to enable you to proceed at once, if you are able to. but if you would rather rest here to-day—”
“let us go on at once,” interrupted desiree hastily.
barlasch, crouching against the stove, glanced from one to the other beneath his heavy brows, wondering, perhaps, why they avoided looking at each other.
“you will wait here,” said d'arragon, turning towards him, “until—until i return.”
“yes,” was the answer. “i will lie on the floor here and sleep. i have had enough. i—”
louis left the room to give the necessary orders. when he returned in a few minutes, barlasch was asleep on the floor, and desiree had tied on her hood again, which concealed her face. he drank a cup of coffee and ate some dry bread absent-mindedly, in silence.
the sound of bells, feebly heard through the double windows, told them that the horses were being harnessed.
“are you ready?” asked d'arragon, who had not sat down; and in response, desiree, standing near the stove, went towards the door, which he held open for her to pass out. as she passed him, she glanced at his face, and winced.
in the sleigh she looked up at him as if expecting him to speak. he was looking straight in front of him. there was, after all, nothing to be said. she could see his steady eyes between his high collar and the fur cap. they were hard and unflinching. the road was level now, and the snow beaten to a gleaming track like ice. d'arragon put the horses to a gallop at the town gate, and kept them at it.
in half an hour he turned towards her and pointed with his whip to a roof half hidden by some thin pines.
“that is the inn,” he said.
in the inn yard he indicated with his whip two travelling-carriages standing side by side.
“colonel darragon is here?” he said to the cringing jew who came to meet them; and the innkeeper led the way upstairs. the house was a miserable one, evil-smelling, sordid. the jew pointed to a door, and, cringing again, left them.
desiree made a gesture telling louis to go in first, which he did at once. the room was littered with trunks and cases. all the treasure had been brought into the sick man's chamber for greater safety.
on a narrow bed near the window a man lay huddled on his side. he turned and looked over his shoulder, showing a haggard face with a ten-days' beard on it. he looked from one to the other in silence.
it was colonel de casimir.
