She had even made the cake which
was now cut with some ceremony by her father.
"I tremble," she exclaimed aloud, "to think what it may be like in
the middle."
And Mathilde was the only person there who did not smile at the
unconscious admission. The cake was still under discussion, and the
Grafin had just admitted that it was almost as good as that other
cake which had been consumed in the days of Frederick the Great,
when the servant called Desiree from the room.
"It is a soldier," she said in a whisper at the head of the stairs.
"He has a paper in his hand. I know what that means. He is
quartered on us."
Desiree hurried downstairs. In the entrance-hall, a broad-built
little man stood awaiting her. He was stout and red, with hair all
ragged at the temples, almost white. His eyes were lost behind
shaggy eyebrows. His face was made broader by little whiskers
stopping short at the level of his ear. He had a snuff-blown
complexion, and in the wrinkles of his face the dust of a dozen
campaigns seemed to have accumulated.
"Barlasch," he said curtly, holding out a long strip of blue paper.
"Of the Guard. Once a sergeant. Italy, Egypt, the Danube."
He frowned at Desiree while she read the paper in the dim light that
filtered through the twisted bars of the fanlight above the door.
Then he turned to the servant who stood, comely and breathless,
looking him up and down.
"Papa Barlasch," he added for her edification, and he drew down his
left eyebrow with a jerk, so that it almost touched his cheek.
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