He was a sorry-
looking figure, not far removed from the animals, and in his
downward journey he had picked up, perhaps, the instinct which none
can explain, telling an animal to take its food in secret.
Desiree went to the window, turning her back to him, and looked out
into the yard. She heard him drink, and set the mug down again with
a gulp.
"You were in Moscow?" she said at length, half turning towards him
so that he could see her profile and her short upper lip, which was
parted as if to ask a question which she did not put into words. He
looked her slowly up and down beneath his heavy eyebrows, his little
cunning eyes alight with suspicion. He watched her parted lips,
which were tilted at the corners, showing humour and a nature quick
to laugh or suffer. Then he jerked his head upwards as if he saw
the unasked question quivering there, and bore her some malice for
her silence.
"Yes! I was in Moscow," he said, watching the colour fade from her
face. "And I saw him--your husband--there. I was on guard outside
his door the night we entered the city. It was I who carried to the
post the letter he wrote you. He was very anxious that it should
reach you. You received it--that love-letter?"
"Yes," answered Desiree gravely, in no wise responding to a sudden
forced gaiety in Papa Barlasch, which was only an evidence of the
shyness with which rough men all the world over approach the subject
of love.
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