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The address was written on a piece of white leather cut from the uniform of one who had fallen at Borodino, and had no more need of sabretasche or trapping. "Madame Desiree Darragon nee Sebastian, Frauengasse 36, Dantzig." Desiree's heart stood still; for the writing was unknown to her. As she cut the network of string, she thought that Charles was dead.
There was no one so happy as Charles Darragon in all the world. He was going to tell Desiree that he loved her. At first Desiree was surprised, as was only natural. For she had not thought again of the pleasant young officer introduced to her by Mathilde. They had not even commented on him after he had made his gay bow and gone.
They had halted at Konigsberg to make inquiry, and now, almost in sight of the Niemen, where the land begins to heave in great waves, like those that roll round Cape Horn, they were asking still if any man had seen Charles Darragon. "Where are you going, comrades?" a hundred men had paused to ask them.
And the lodging offered to Louis was the room in which Charles Darragon had slept in his wet clothes six months earlier. So small is the world in which we live, and so narrow are the circles drawn by Fate around human existence and endeavour.
Your friends can easily find him, and give him the letter. It is of great importance to Mademoiselle. The Captain is not looking for Monsieur Charles Darragon, because he thinks that he is here in Dantzig. Colonel de Casimir assured him that Mademoiselle would find him here. Where is he that Monsieur Charles I wonder? It is of great importance to Mademoiselle.
"Bah!" he said, with a gesture dismissing the subject, "I cannot tell you more. It is a woman's secret, Monsieur, not mine. Will you deliver a letter for me in Dantzig, that is all I ask?" "I will give it to Madame Darragon to give to Mademoiselle Mathilde, if you like; I am not returning to Dantzig," replied Louis. But de Casimir shook his head.
As Desiree drew back in obedience to a movement of her husband's arm, she saw a face for an instant pale and set with eyes that seemed to look at everything and yet at something beyond. "Who was it? He looked at you, Charles," said Desiree. "It is the Emperor," answered Darragon. His face was white. His eyes were dull, like the eyes of one who has seen a vision and is not yet back to earth.
Her face and her averted eyes asked why, but her straight lips were silent. "Because I cannot claim to be more interesting than Charles Darragon," he hazarded. "And you, Mademoiselle, confess that you have no tolerance for a man who is in love." "I have no tolerance for a man who is weakened by love. He should be strengthened and hardened by it." "To ?"
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."
De Casimir had never seen Louis d'Arragon, and yet some dim resemblance to his cousin must have introduced the new-comer to a conscience not quite easy. "You seek me, Monsieur," he asked, not having recognized Desiree, who stood behind her companion, in her furs. "I seek Colonel Darragon, and was told that we should find him in this room."
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