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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.
Barlasch nudged Lisa, indicated his own mouth, and pushed her towards the kitchen. He nodded cunningly to Mathilde, as if to say that they were now free to discuss family affairs; and added, with a gesture towards his inner man "Since last night nothing." In a few minutes Desiree, having read the letter twice, handed it to her sister. It was characteristically short.
"To go to England?" she asked. "To go anywhere I like," he said, with a short laugh. "So I am going to look for Charles, and Barlasch will come with me." "At a price," put in that soldier, in a shrewd undertone. "At a price." "A small one," corrected Louis, turning to look at him with the close attention of one exploring a new country. "Bah! You give what you can.
For a time it was of the world forgotten, while, as Barlasch had predicted, free men continued at liberty, though their names had an evil savour, while innocent persons in prison were left to rot there. Desiree continued to receive letters from her husband, full of love and war. For a long time he lingered at Konigsberg, hoping every day to be sent forward.
Papa Barlasch turned and shook an admonitory finger at the servant, but he said nothing. He looked round at the highly polished utensils, at the table and floor both alike scrubbed clean by a vigorous northern arm. And he was kind enough to nod approval.
Suddenly he turned in his emphatic manner, and threw out his rugged forefinger to hold her attention. "If there had been some like that in Paris, there would have been no Revolution. Za-za, za-za!" he concluded, imitating effectively the buzz of many voices in an assembly. "Words and not deeds," Barlasch protested. Whereas to-night, he clearly showed by two gestures, they had met a man of deeds.
"Now tell me," he said, as they walked side by side; and in voluble French, Desiree launched into her story. It was rather incoherent, by reason, perhaps, of its frankness. "Stop stop," he interrupted gravely, "who is Barlasch?" Louis walked rather slowly in his stiff sea-boots at her side, and she instinctively spoke less rapidly as she explained the part that Barlasch had played.
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.
Will he come ashore at a word from me only Barlasch? Remember it is his life that he carries in his hand. An English sailor with a French name! Thunder of thunder! They would shoot him like a rat!" Desiree shook her head; but Barlasch was not to be denied. He brought pen and ink from the dresser, and pushed them across the table. "I would not ask it," he said, "if it was not necessary.
Mathilde was locked in her room, and refused to open the door. Desiree cooked her father's dinner while Barlasch made ready to depart on some vague errand in the town. "There may be news," he said. "Who knows? And afterwards the patron will go out, and it would not be wise for you to remain alone in the house." "Why not?" Barlasch turned and looked at her thoughtfully over his shoulder.
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