Barlasch of the Guard | Page 6

hurried
consultation by opening the door and putting his shaggy head round the
corner of it.
"It is not worth while to consult long about it," he said. "There is a little
room behind the kitchen, that opens into the yard. It is full of boxes.
But we can move them--a little straw--and there!"
With a gesture he described a condition of domestic peace and comfort
which far exceeded his humble requirements.

"The blackbeetles and I are old friends," he concluded cheerfully.
"There are no blackbeetles in the house, monsieur," said Desiree,
hesitating to accept his proposal.
"Then I shall resign myself to my solitude," he answered. "It is quiet. I
shall not hear the patron touching on his violin. It is that which
occupies his leisure, is it not?"
"Yes," answered Desiree, still considering the question.
"I too am a musician," said Papa Barlasch, turning towards the kitchen
again. "I played a drum at Marengo."
And as he led the way to the little room in the yard at the back of the
kitchen, he expressed by a shake of the head a fellow-feeling for the
gentleman upstairs, whose acquaintance he had not yet made, who
occupied his leisure by touching the violin.
They stood together in the small apartment which Barlasch, with the
promptitude of an experienced conqueror, had set apart for his own
accommodation.
"Those trunks," he observed casually, "were made in France"--a mental
note which he happened to make aloud, as some do for better
remembrance. "This solid girl and I will soon move them. And you,
mademoiselle, go back to your wedding."
"The good God be merciful to you," he added under his breath when
Desiree had gone.
She laughed as she mounted the stairs, a slim white figure amid the
heavy woodwork long since blackened by time. The stairs made no
sound beneath her light step. How many weary feet had climbed them
since they were built! For the Dantzigers have been a people of sorrow,
torn by wars, starved by siege, tossed from one conqueror to another
from the beginning until now.

Desiree excused herself for her absence and frankly gave the cause. She
was disposed to make light of the incident. It was natural to her to be
optimistic. Both she and Mathilde made a practice of withholding from
their father's knowledge the smaller worries of daily life which sour so
many women and make them whine on platforms to be given the larger
woes.
She was glad to note that her father did not attach much importance to
the arrival of Papa Barlasch; though Mathilde found opportunity to
convey her displeasure at the news by a movement of the eyebrows.
Antoine Sebastian had applied himself seriously now to his role of host,
so rarely played in the Frauengasse. He was courteous and quick to see
a want or a possible desire of any one of his guests. It was part of his
sense of hospitality to dismiss all personal matters, and especially a
personal trouble, from public attention.
"They will attend to him in the kitchen, no doubt," he said with that
grand air which the dancing academy tried to imitate.
Charles hardly noted what Desiree said. So sunny a nature as his might
have been expected to make light of a minor trouble, more especially
the minor trouble of another. He was unusually thoughtful. Some event
of the morning had, it would appear, given him pause on his primrose
path. He glanced more than once over his shoulder towards the window,
which stood open. He seemed at times to listen.
Suddenly he rose and went to the window. His action caused a brief
silence, and all heard the clatter of a horse's feet and the quick rattle of
a sword against spur and buckle.
After a glance he came back into the room.
"Excuse me," he said, with a bow towards Mathilde. "It is, I think, a
messenger for me."
And he hurried downstairs. He did not return at once, and soon the
conversation became general again.

"You," said the Grafin, touching Desiree's arm with her fan, "you, who
are now his wife, must be dying to know what has called him away. Do
not consider the 'convenances,' my child."
Desiree, thus admonished, followed Charles. She had not been aware of
this consuming curiosity until it was suggested to her.
She found Charles standing at the open door. He thrust a letter into his
pocket as she approached him, and turned towards her the face that she
had seen for a moment when he drew her back at the corner of the
Pfaffengasse to allow the Emperor's carriage to pass on its way. It was
the white, half-stupefied face of one who has for an instant seen a
vision of things not earthly.