He had scarcely seated himself
when, after a fumbling knock, the sentry opened the door and
followed him into the room, still holding the letter in his hand.
"Mon capitaine," he said with a certain calmness of manner as from
an old soldier to a young one, "a word--that is all. This letter,"
he turned it in his hand as he spoke, and looking at Charles beneath
scowling brows, awaited an explanation. "Did you pick it up?"
"No--I wrote it."
"Good. I . . . " he paused, and tapped himself on the chest so that
there could be no mistake; there was a rattling sound behind him
suggestive of ironware. Indeed, he was hung about with other things
than clocks, and seemed to be of opinion that if a soldier sets
value upon any object he must attach it to his person. "I, Barlasch
of the Guard--Marengo, the Danube, Egypt--picked up after Borodino a
letter like it. I cannot read very quickly--indeed-- Bah! the old
Guard needs no pens and paper--but that letter I picked up was just
like this"
"Was it addressed like that to Madame Desiree Darragon?"
"So a comrade told me. It is you, her husband?"
"Yes," answered Charles, "since you ask; I am her husband."
"Ah!" replied Barlasch darkly, and his limbs and features settled
themselves into a patient waiting.
"Well," asked Charles, "what are you waiting for?"
"Whatever you may think proper, mon capitaine, for I gave the letter
to the surgeon who promised that it should be forwarded to its
address.
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