and i have laboured somewhat in my time
and not been paid profusely.
when desiree came down the next morning, she found barlasch talking to himself and laughing as he prepared his breakfast.
he met her with a gay salutation, and seemed unable to control his hilarity.
“it is,” he explained, “because to-night we shall be under fire. we shall be in danger. it makes me afraid, and i laugh. i cannot help it. when i am afraid, i laugh.”
he bustled about the room, and desiree saw that he had already opened his secret store beneath the floor, to take from it such delicacies as remained.
“you slept?” he asked sharply. “yes, i can see you did. that is good, for to-night we shall be awake. and now you must eat.”
for barlasch was a materialist. he had fought death in one form or another all his life, and he knew that those who eat and sleep are better equipped for the battle than those who cherish high ideals or think great thoughts.
“it is a good thing,” he said, looking at her, “that you are so slim. in a military coat—if you put on that short dress in which you skate, and your high boots—you will look like a soldier. it is a good thing that it is winter, for you can wear the hood of your military coat over your head, as they all do out in the trenches to keep their ears from falling. so you need not cut off your hair—all that golden hair. name of thunder, that would be a pity, would it not?”
he turned to the fire and stirred his coffee reflectively.
“in my own country,” he said, “a long time ago, there was a girl who had hair like yours. that is why we are friends, perhaps.”
he gave a queer, short laugh, and took up his sheepskin coat preparatory to going out.
“i have my preparations to make,” he said, with an air of importance. “there is much to be thought of. we had not long together, for the others were watching us. but we understand each other. i go now to give him the signal that it is for to-night. i have borrowed one of lisa's dusters—a blue one that will show against the snow—with which to give him the signal. and he is watching from zoppot with his telescope. that fat lisa—if i had held up my finger, she would have fallen in love with me. it has always been so. these women—”
and he went away muttering.
if he had preparations to make, desiree had no less. she could take but little with her, and she was quitting the house which had always been her home so long as she could remember. those trunks which barlasch had so unhesitatingly recognized as coming from france were, it seemed, destined never to be used again. mathilde had gone, taking with her her few simple possessions; for they had always been poor in the frauengasse. sebastian had departed on that journey which the traveller must face alone, taking naught with him. and it was characteristic of the man that he had left nothing behind him—no papers, no testament, no clue to that other life so different from his life in the frauengasse that it must have lapsed into a fleeting, intangible memory, such as the brain is sometimes allowed to retain of a dream dreamt in this existence, or perhaps in another. sebastian was gone—with his secret.
desiree, alone with hers, was left in this quiet house for a few hours longer. mechanically she set it in order. what would it matter to-morrow whether it were set in order or not? who would come to note the last touches? she worked with that feverish haste which is responsible for much unnecessary woman's work in this world—the haste that owes its existence to the fear of having time to think. many talk for the same reason. what a quiet world, if those who have nothing to say said nothing! but speech or work must fail at last, and lo! the thoughts are lying in wait.
desiree's thoughts found their opportunity when she went into the drawing-room upstairs, where her wedding-breakfast had been set before the guests only eight months ago. the guests—de casimir, the grafin, sebastian, mathilde, charles!
desiree stood alone now in the silent room. she did not look at the table. the guests were all gone. the dead past had buried its dead. she went to the window and drew aside the curtain as she had drawn it aside on her wedding-day to look down into the frauengasse and see louis d'arragon. and again her heart leapt in her breast with that throb of fear. she turned where she stood, and looked at the door as if she expected to see charles come in at it, laughing and gay, explaining (he was so good at explaining) his encounter in the street, and stepping aside to allow louis to come forward. louis, who looked at no one but her, and came into the room and into her life.
she had been afraid of him. she was afraid of him still. and her heart had leapt at the thought that he had been restlessly, sleeplessly thinking of her, working for her—had been to vilna and back for her, and was now waiting for her beyond the barrier of russian camp-fires. the dangers which made barlasch laugh—and she knew they were real enough, for it was only a real danger that stirred something in the old soldier's blood to make him gay—these dangers were of no account. she knew, she had known instantly and for all time when she looked down into the frauengasse and saw louis, that nothing in heaven or earth could keep them apart.
she stood now, looking at the empty doorway. what was the rest of her life to be?
barlasch returned in the afternoon. he was leisurely and inclined to contemplativeness. it would seem that his preparations having all been completed, he was left with nothing to do. war is a purifier; it clears the social atmosphere and puts womanly men and manly women into their right places. it is also a simplifier; it teaches us to know how little we really require in daily life, and how many of the environments with which men and women hamper themselves are superfluous and the fruit of idleness.
“i have nothing to do,” said barlasch, “i will cook a careful dinner. all that i have saved in money i cannot carry away; all that was stored beneath the floor must be left there. it is often so in war.”
he had told desiree that they would have to walk twelve miles across the snow-clad marshes bordering the frozen vistula, between midnight and dawn. it needed no telling that they could carry little with them.
“you will have to make a new beginning in life,” he said curtly, “with the clothes upon your back. how many times have i done it—the saints alone know! but take money, if you have it in gold or silver. mine is all in copper groschen, and it is too heavy to carry. i have never yet been anywhere that money was not useful—and name of a dog! i have never had it.”
so desiree divided what money she possessed with barlasch, who added it carefully up and repeated several times for accuracy the tale of what he had received. for, like many who do not hesitate to steal, he was very particular in money matters.
“as for me,” he said, “i shall make a new beginning, too. the captain will enable me to get back to france, when i shall go to the emperor again. it is no place for one of the old guard, here with rapp. i am getting old, but he will find something for me to do, that little emperor.”
at midnight they set out, quitting the house in the frauengasse noiselessly. the street was quiet enough, for half the houses were empty now. their footsteps were inaudible on the trodden snow. it was a dark night and not cold; for the great frosts of this terrible winter were nearly over.
barlasch carried his musket and bayonet. he had instructed desiree to walk in front of him, should they meet a patrol. but rapp had no men to spare for patrolling the town. there was no spirit left in dantzig; for typhus and starvation patrolled the narrow streets.
they quitted the town to the north-west, near the oliva gate. there was no guard-house here because langfuhr was held by the french, and rapp's outposts were three miles out on the road to zoppot.
“i have played this game for fifty years,” said barlasch, with a low laugh, when they reached the earthworks, completed, at such enormous cost of life and strength, by rapp; “follow me and do as i do. when i stoop, stoop; when i crawl, crawl; when i run, run.”
for he was a soldier now and nothing else. he stood erect, and looked round him with the air of a young man—ready, keen, alert. then he moved forward with confidence towards the high land which terminates in the johannesberg, where the peaceful dantzigers now repair on a sunday afternoon to drink thin beer and admire the view.
below them on the right hand lay the marshes, a white expanse of snow with a single dark line drawn across it—the langfuhr road with its double border of trees.
barlasch turned once or twice to make sure that desiree was following him; but he added nothing to his brief instructions. when he gained the summit of the tableland which runs parallel with the coast and the langfuhr road, he paused for breath.
“when i crawl, crawl. when i run, run,” he whispered again; and led the way. he went up the bed of a stream, turning his back to the coast, and at a certain point stopped and by a gesture of the hand bade desiree crouch down and wait till he returned. he came back and signed to her to quit the bed of the stream and follow him. when she came up to the tableland, she found that they were quite close to a camp-fire. through the low pines she could perceive the dark outline of a house.
“now run,” whispered barlasch, leading the way across an open space which seemed to extend to the line of the horizon. without looking back, desiree ran—her only thought was a sudden surprise that barlasch could move so quickly and silently.
when he gained the shelter of some trees, he threw himself down on the snow, and desiree coming up to him found him breathlessly holding his sides and laughing aloud.
“we are through the lines,” he gasped, “name of a dog, i was so frightened. there they go—pam! pam! buz.. z.. z..”
and he imitated the singing buzz of the bullets humming through the trees over their heads. for half a dozen shots were fired, while he was yet speaking, from behind the camp-fires. there were no more, however, and presently, having recovered his breath, barlasch rose.
“come,” he said, “we have a long walk. en route.”
they made a great circuit in the pine-woods, through which barlasch led the way with an unerring skill, and descending towards the plain far beyond langfuhr they came out on to a lower tableland, below which the great marshes of the vistula stretched in the darkness, slowly merging at last into the sea.
“those,” said barlasch, pausing at the edge of the slope, “those are the lights of oliva, where the russians are. that line of lights straight in front is the russian fleet lying off zoppot, and with them are english ships. one of them is the little ship of captain d'arragon. and he will take you home with him; for the ship is ordered to england, to plymouth—which is across the channel from my own country. ah—cristi! i sometimes want to see my own country again—and my own people—mademoiselle.”
he went on a few paces and then stopped again, and in the darkness held up one hand, commanding silence. it was the churches of dantzig striking the hour.
“six o'clock,” he whispered, “it will soon be dawn. yes—we are half an hour too early.”
he sat down, and, by a gesture, bade desiree sit beside him.
“yes,” he said, “the captain told me that he is bound for england to convoy larger ships, and you will sail in one of them. he has a home in the west of england, and he will take you there—a sister or a mother, i forget which—some woman. you cannot get on without women—you others. it is there that you will be happy, as the bon dieu meant you to be. it is only in england that no one fears napoleon. one may have a husband there and not fear that he will be killed. one may have children and not tremble for them—and it is that that makes you happy—you women.”
presently he rose and led the way down the slope. at the foot of it, he paused, and pointing out a long line of trees, said in a whisper—
“he is there—where there are three taller trees. between us and those trees are the french outposts. at dawn the russians attack the outposts, and during the attack we have simply to go through it to those trees. there is no other way—that is the rendezvous. those three tall trees. when i give the word, you get up and run to those trees—run without pausing, without looking round. i will follow. it is you he has come for—not barlasch. you think i know nothing. bah! i know everything. i have always known it—your poor little secret.”
they lay on the snow crouching in a ditch until a grey line appeared low down in the eastern sky and the horizon slowly distinguished itself from the thin thread of cloud that nearly always awaits the rising of the sun in northern latitudes.
a minute later the dark group of trees broke into intermittent flame and the sharp, short “hurrah!” of the cossacks, like an angry bark, came sweeping across the plain on the morning breeze.
“not yet,” whispered barlasch, with a gay chuckle of enjoyment. “not yet—not yet. listen, the bullets are not coming here, but are going past to the right of us. when you go, keep to the left. slowly at first—keep a little breath till the end. now, up! mademoiselle, run; name of thunder, let us run!”
desiree did not understand which were the french lines and which the line of russian attack. but there was a clear way to the three trees which stood above the rest, and she went towards them. she knew she could not run so far, so she walked. then the bullets, instead of passing to the right, seemed to play round her—like bees in a garden on a summer day—and she ran until she was tired.
the trees were quite close now, and the sky was light behind them. then she saw louis coming towards her, and she ran into his arms. the sound of the humming bullets was still in her dazed brain, and she touched him all over with her gloved hand as she clung to him, as a mother touches her child when it has fallen, to see whether it be hurt.
“how was i to know?” she whispered breathlessly. “how was i to know that you were to come into my life?”
the bullets did not matter, it seemed, nor the roar of the firing to the right of them. nothing mattered—except that louis must know that she had never loved charles.
he held her and said nothing. and she wanted him to say nothing. then she remembered barlasch, and looked back over her shoulder.
“where is barlasch?” she asked, with a sudden sinking at her heart.
“he is coming slowly,” replied louis. “he came slowly behind you all the time, so as to draw the fire away from you.”
they turned and waited for barlasch, who seemed to be going in the wrong direction with an odd vagueness in his movements. louis ran towards him with desiree at his heels.
“ca-y-est,” said barlasch; which cannot be translated, and yet has many meanings. “ca-y-est.”
and he sat down slowly on the snow. he sat quite upright and rigid, and in the cold light of the baltic dawn they saw the meaning of his words. one hand was within his fur coat. he drew it out, and concealed it from desiree behind his back. he did not seem to see them, but presently he put out his hand and lightly touched desiree. then he turned to louis with that confidential drop of the voice with which he always distinguished his friends from those who were not his friends.
“what is she doing?” he asked. “i cannot see in the dark. is it not dark? i thought it was. what is she doing? saying a prayer? what—because i have my affair? hey, mademoiselle. you may leave it to me. i will get in, i tell you that.”
he put his finger to his nose, and then shook it from side to side with an air of deep cunning.
“leave it to me. i shall slip in. who will stop an old man, who has many wounds? not st. peter, assuredly. let him try. and if the good god hears a commotion at the gate, he will only shrug his shoulders. he will say to st. peter, 'let pass; it is only papa barlasch!'”
and then there was silence. for barlasch had gone to his own people.
