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Updated: October 18, 2025
A shadow seemed to have fallen across the sunny nature of the proceedings; for never had bride and bridegroom set forth together with lighter hearts than those carried by Charles and Desiree Darragon down the steps of the Marienkirche. During its progress across the whole width of Germany, the carriage had left unrest behind it.
They had good fortune, or else they were more clever than other men; for they had the Imperial treasure to escort, and could take any man's horse for the carriages in which also they had placed their own treasure. It was Captain Darragon who held the appointment, and the other the Colonel had attached himself to him as volunteer.
There was nothing unusual in this sight in the streets of Dantzig, which were accustomed now to the clatter of the Saxon cavalry. But at the sight of the first troopers Charles Darragon threw up his head with a little exclamation of surprise. Desiree looked at him and then turned to follow the direction of his gaze. "What are these?" she murmured. For the uniforms were new and unfamiliar.
These were the heedless days of the beginning of the century, when men not only threw away their lives, but played ducks-and-drakes with their chances of happiness in a manner quite incomprehensible to the careful method of human thought to-day. Charles Darragon lived only in the present moment. He was in love with her. Desiree must marry him. It was quite different from what she had anticipated.
"Yes," she answered with her gay nod. "I will remember." "Then good-bye, mademoiselle." "Madame," she corrected lightly. "Madame, my cousin," he said, and departed smiling. Desiree went slowly upstairs again. Quand on se mefie on se trompe, quand on ne se mefie pas, on est trompe. Charles Darragon had come to Dantzig a year earlier.
Charles Darragon wore one of the countless uniforms that enlivened the outward world in the great days of the greatest captain that history has seen. He was unmistakably French unmistakably a French gentleman, as rare in 1812 as he is to-day.
Charles Darragon, sunburnt, dusty, hoarse with cheering, was among the first. He looked right and left for de Casimir, but could not see him. He had not seen his chief since Borodino, for he was temporarily attached to the staff of Prince Eugene, who had lost heavily at the Kalugha river.
While the Dantzigers with grave faces discussed the news of Borodino beneath the trees in the Frauengasse, Charles Darragon, white with dust, rose in his stirrups to catch the first sight of the domes and cupolas of Moscow. It was a sunny morning, and the gold on the churches gleamed and glittered in the shimmering heat like fairyland.
Charles must have been left behind at Vilna to recover from his exhaustion. He would, undoubtedly, make his way westward as soon as possible. He might have got away to the South. Any one of these huddled human landmarks might be Charles Darragon. Louis was essentially a thorough man. The sea is a mistress demanding a whole and concentrated attention and concentration soon becomes a habit.
In six months he possessed acquaintances in every street, and was on terms of easy familiarity with all his fellow-officers. "If the army of occupation had more officers like young Darragon," a town councillor had grimly said to Rapp, "the Dantzigers would soon be resigned to your presence." It seemed that Charles had the gift of popularity.
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