"It is a letter," said Lisa, returning. "A sailor brought it."
"Another?" said Barlasch, with a gesture of despair.
"Can you give me news of Charles?" Desiree read, in a writing that
was unknown to her. "I shall wait a reply until midnight on board
the Elsa, lying off the Krahn-Thor." The letter bore the signature,
"Louis d'Arragon." Desiree turned slowly and went upstairs,
carrying it folded small in her closed hand.
She was alone in the house, for Mathilde was out and her father had
not yet returned from his evening walk. She stood at the head of
the stairs, where the last of the daylight filtered through the
barred window, and read the letter again. Then she turned and gave
a slight start to see Barlasch at the foot of the stairs beckoning
to her. He made no attempt to come up, but stood on the mat like a
dog that has been forbidden the upper rooms.
"Is it about your father?" he asked, in a hoarse whisper.
"No!"
He made a gesture commanding secrecy and silence. Then he went to
close the kitchen door and returned on tip-toe.
"It is," he explained, "that they are talking of him in the cafes.
There are many to be arrested to-morrow. They say the patron is one
of them, and employs himself in plotting. That his name is not
Sebastian at all. That he is a Frenchman who escaped the
guillotine. What do I know? It is the gossip of the cafes. But I
tell it you because we are friends, you and I.
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