"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.
Desiree turned to those behind her.
"It is the Emperor," she said, with an odd ring in her voice which
none had ever heard before. Then she stood looking after the
carriage.
Her father, who was at her elbow--tall, white-haired, with an
aquiline, inscrutable face--stood in a like attitude, looking down
the Pfaffengasse. His hand was raised before his face with
outspread fingers which seemed rigid in that gesture, as if lifted
hastily to screen his face and hide it.
"Did he see me?" he asked in a low voice which only Desiree heard.
She glanced at him, and her eyes, which were clear as a cloudless
sky, were suddenly shadowed by a suspicion quick and poignant.
"He seemed to see everything, but he only looked at Charles," she
answered. For a moment they all stood in the sunshine looking
towards the Langenmarkt where the tower of the Rathhaus rose above
the high roofs. The dust raised by the horses' feet and the
carriage wheels slowly settled on their bridal clothes.
It was Desiree who at length made a movement to continue their way
towards her father's house.
"Well," she said with a slight laugh, "he was not bidden to my
wedding, but he has come all the same."
Others laughed as they followed her.
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