When Desiree turned towards the stairs, she met the guests
descending. They were taking their leave as they came down,
hurriedly, like persons conscious of having outstayed their welcome.
Mathilde listened coldly to the conventional excuses. So few people
recognize the simple fact that they need never apologize for going
away. Sebastian stood at the head of the stairs bowing in his most
Germanic manner. The urbane host, with a charm entirely French, who
had dispensed a simple hospitality so easily and gracefully a few
minutes earlier, seemed to have disappeared behind a pale and formal
mask.
Desiree was glad to see them go. There was a sense of uneasiness, a
vague unrest in the air. There was something amiss. The wedding
party had been a failure. All had gone well and merrily up to a
certain point--at the corner of the Pfaffengasse, when the dusty
travelling carriage passed across their path. From that moment
there had been a change. A shadow seemed to have fallen across the
sunny nature of the proceedings; for never had bride and bridegroom
set forth together with lighter hearts than those carried by Charles
and Desiree Darragon down the steps of the Marienkirche.
During its progress across the whole width of Germany, the carriage
had left unrest behind it. Men had travelled night and day to stand
sleepless by the roadside and see it pass. Whole cities had been
kept astir till morning by the mere rumour that its flying wheels
would be heard in the streets before dawn.
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