like plants in mines which never saw the sun,
but dream of him and guess where he may be,
and do their best to climb and get to him.
“oh yes,” barlasch was saying, “it is easier to die—it is that that you are thinking—it is easier to die.”
desiree did not answer. she was sitting in the little kitchen at the back of the house in the frauengasse. for they had no firing now, and were burning the furniture. her father had been buried a week. the siege was drawn closer than ever. there was nothing to eat, nothing to do, no one to talk to. for sebastian's political friends did not dare to come near his house. desiree was alone in this hopeless world with barlasch, who was on duty now in one of the trenches near the river. he went out in the morning, and only returned at night. he had just come in, and she could see by the light of the single candle that his face was grey and haggard, with deep lines drawn downwards from eyes to chin. desiree's own face had lost all its roundness and the bloom of her northern girlhood.
barlasch glanced at her, and bit his lip. he had brought nothing with him. at one time he had always managed to bring something to the house every day—a chicken, or a turnip, or a few carrots. but to-night there was nothing. and he was tired out. he did not sit down, however, but stood breathing on his fingers and rubbing them together to restore circulation. he pushed the candle farther forward on the table, so that it cast a better light upon her face.
“yes,” he said, “it is often so. i, who speak to you, have seen it so a dozen times in my life. when it is easier to sit down and die. bah! that is a fine thing to do—a brave thing—to sit down and die.”
“i am not going to do it, so do not make that mistake,” said desiree, with a laugh that had no mirth in it.
“but you would like to. listen. it is not what you feel that matters; it is what you do. remember that.”
there was an unusual vigour in his voice. of late, since the death of sebastian, barlasch seemed to have fallen victim to the settled apathy which lives within a prison wall and broods over a besieged city. it is a sort of silent mourning worn by the soul for a lost liberty. dantzig had soon succumbed to it, for the citizens had not even the satisfaction of being quite sure that they were deserving of the world's sympathy. it soon spread to the soldiers who were defending a prussian city for a french emperor who seemed to have forgotten them.
but to-night barlasch seemed to be more energetic. desiree looked round over her shoulder. he had not laid on the table any contribution to a bare larder; and yet his manner was that of one who has prepared a surprise and is waiting to enjoy its effect. he was restless, moving from one foot to another, rubbing together his crooked fingers and darting sidelong glances at her face.
“what is it?” she asked suddenly, and barlasch gave a start as if he had been detected in some deceit. he bustled forward to the smouldering fire and held his hands over it.
“it is that it is very cold to-night,” he answered, with that exaggerated ease of manner with which the young and the simple seek to conceal embarrassment. “tell me, mademoiselle, what have we for supper to-night? it is i who will cook it. to-night we will keep a fete. there is that piece of beef for you. i know a way to make it appetizing. for me there is my portion of horse. it is the friend of man—the horse.”
he laughed and made an effort to be gay, which had a poignant pathos in it that made desiree bite her lip.
“what fete is it that we are to keep?” she asked, with a wan smile. her kind blue eyes had that glitter in them which is caused by a constant and continuous hunger. six months ago they had only been gay and kind, now they saw the world as it is, as it always must be so long as the human heart is capable of happiness and the human reason recognizes the rarity of its attainment.
“the fete of st. matthias—my fete, mademoiselle.”
“but i thought your name was jean.”
“so it is. but i keep my fete at st. matthias, because on that day we won a battle in egypt. we will have wine—a bottle of wine—eh?”
so barlasch prepared a great feast which was to be celebrated by desiree in the dining-room, where he lighted a fire, and by himself in the kitchen. for he held strongly to a code of social laws which the great revolution had not succeeded in breaking. and one of these laws was that it would be in some way degrading to desiree to see him eat.
he was a skilled and delicate cook, only hampered by that insatiable passion for economy which is the dominant characteristic of the peasant of northern france. to-night, however, he was reckless, and desiree could hear him searching in his secret hiding-place beneath the floor for concealed condiments and herbs.
“there,” he said, when he set the dish before her, “eat it with an easy mind. there is nothing unclean in it. it is not rat or cat or the liver of a starved horse, such as we others eat and ask no better. it is all clean meat.”
he poured out wine, and stood in the darkened doorway watching her drink it. then he went away to his own meal in the kitchen, leaving desiree vaguely uneasy—for he was not himself to-night. she could hear him muttering as he ate and moved hither and thither in the kitchen. at short intervals he came and looked in at the door to make sure that she was doing full honour to st. matthias. when she had finished, he came into the room.
“ah!” he said, glancing at her suspiciously and rubbing his hands together. “that strengthens, eh?—that strengthens. we others who lead a rough life—we know that a little food and a glass of wine fit one out for any enterprise, for—well, any catastrophe.”
and desiree knew in a flash of comprehension that the food and the wine and the forced gaiety were nothing but preliminaries to bad news.
“what is it?” she asked a second time. “is it... bombardment?”
“bombardment,” he laughed, “they cannot shoot, those cossacks. it is only the french who understand artillery.”
“then what is it?—for you have something to tell me, i know.”
he ruffled his shock-head of white hair, with a grimace of despair.
“yes,” he admitted, “it is news.”
“from outside?” cried desiree, with a sudden break in her voice.
“from vilna,” answered barlasch. he came into the room, and went past her towards the fire, where he put the logs together carefully.
“it is that he is alive,” said desiree, “my husband.”
“no, it is not that,” barlasch corrected. he stood with his back to her, vaguely warming his hands. he had no learning, nor manners, nor any polish: nothing but those instincts of the heart that teach the head. and his instinct bade him turn his back on desiree, and wait in silence until she had understood his meaning.
“dead?” she asked, in a whisper.
and, still warming his hands, he nodded his head vigorously. he waited a long time for her to speak, and at last broke the silence himself without looking round.
“troubles,” he said, “troubles for us all. there is no avoiding them. one can only push against them as against your cold wind of dantzig that comes from the sea. one can only push on. you must push, mademoiselle.”
“when did he die?” asked desiree; “where?”
“at vilna, three months ago. he has been dead three months. i knew he was dead when you came back to the inn at thorn, and told me that you had seen de casimir. de casimir had left him dying—that liar. you remember, i met a comrade on the road—one of my own country—he told me that they had left ten thousand dead at vilna, and twenty thousand prisoners little better than dead. and i knew then that de casimir had left him there dying, or dead.”
he glanced back at her over his shoulder, and at the sight of her face made that little click in his throat which, in peasant circles, denotes a catastrophe. then he shook his head slowly from side to side.
“listen,” he said roughly, “the good god knows best. i knew when i saw you first, that day in june, in this kitchen, that you were beginning your troubles; for i knew the reputation of monsieur, your husband. he was not what you thought him. a man is never what a woman thinks him. but he was worse than most. and this trouble that has come to you is chosen by the good god—and he has chosen the least in his sack for you. you will know it some day—as i know it now.”
“you know a great deal,” said desiree, who was quick in speech, and he swung round on his heel to meet her spirit.
“you are right,” he said, pointing his accusatory finger. “i know a great deal about you—and i am a very old man.”
“how did you learn this news from vilna?” she asked, and his hand went up to his mouth as if to hide his thoughts and control his lips.
“from one who comes straight from there—who buried your husband there.”
desiree rose and stood with her hands resting on the table, looking at the persistent back again turned towards her.
“who?” she asked, in little more than a whisper.
“the captain—louis d'arragon.”
“and you have spoken to him to-day—here, in dantzig?”
barlasch nodded his head.
“was he well?” asked desiree, with a spontaneous anxiety that made barlasch turn slowly and look at her from beneath his great brows.
“oh, he was well enough,” he answered, “he is made of steel, that gentleman. he was well enough, and he has the courage of the devil. there are some fishermen who come from zoppot to sell their fish. they steal through the russian lines—on the ice of the river at night and come to our outposts at daylight. one of them said my name this morning. i looked at him. he was wrapped up only to show the eyes. he drew his scarf aside. it was the captain d'arragon.”
“and he was well?” asked desiree again, as if nothing else in the world mattered.
“oh, mon dieu, yes,” cried barlasch, impatiently, “he was well, i tell you. do you know why he came?”
desiree had sat down at the table again, where she leant her arms and rested her chin in the palms of her two hands; for she was weakened by starvation, and confinement, and sorrow.
“no,” she answered.
“he came because he had learnt that the patron was dead. it was known in konigsberg a week ago. it is known all over germany; that quiet old gentleman who scraped a fiddle here in the frauengasse. and it is only i, in all the world, who know that he was a greater man in paris than ever he was in germany—with his tugendbund—and i cannot remember his name.”
barlasch broke off and thumped his brow with his fists, as if to awaken that dead memory. and all the while he was searching desiree's face, with eyes made brighter and sharper than ever by starvation.
“and do you know what he came for—the captain—for he never does anything in idleness? he will run a great risk—but it is for a great purpose. do you know what he came for?”
“no.”
barlasch jerked his head back and laughed.
“for you.”
he turned and looked at her; but she had raised her clasped hands to her forehead, as if to shield her eyes from the light of the candle, and he could not see her face.
“do you remember,” said barlasch, “that night when the patron was so angry—on the mat—when mademoiselle mathilde had to make her choice. it is your turn to-night. you have to make your choice. will you go?”
“yes,” answered desiree, behind her fingers.
“'if mademoiselle will come,' he said to me, 'bring her to this place!' 'yes, mon capitaine,' answered i. 'at any cost, barlasch?' 'at any cost, mon capitaine.' and we are not men to break our words. i will take you there—at any cost, mademoiselle. and he will meet you there—at any cost.”
and barlasch expectorated emphatically into the fire, after the manner of low-born men.
“what a pity,” he added reflectively, “that he is only an englishman.”
“when are we to go?” asked desiree, still behind her barrier of clasped fingers.
“to-morrow night, after midnight. we have arranged it all—the captain and i—at the outpost nearest to the river. he has influence. he has rendered services to the russians, and the russian commander will make a night attack on the outpost. in the confusion we get through. we arranged it together. he pays me well. it is a bargain, and i am to have my money. we shook hands on it, and those who saw us must have thought that i was buying fish. i, who have no money—and he, who had no fish.”
