Then he pushed across the kitchen table a
piece of writing-paper, rather yellow and woolly. It had been to
Moscow and back.
"Write a word to him," he said. "I will take it to Zoppot."
"But you can send a message by the fisherman whose name I have given
you," answered Desiree.
"And will he heed the message? Will he come ashore at a word from
me--only Barlasch? Remember it is his life that he carries in his
hand. An English sailor with a French name! Thunder of thunder!
They would shoot him like a rat!"
Desiree shook her head; but Barlasch was not to be denied. He
brought pen and ink from the dresser, and pushed them across the
table.
"I would not ask it," he said, "if it was not necessary. Do you
think he will mind the danger? He will like it. He will say to me,
'Barlasch, I thank you.' Ah? I know him. Write. He will come."
"Why?" asked Desiree.
"Why? How should I know that? He came before when you asked him."
Desiree leant over the table and wrote six words:
"Come, if you can come safely."
Barlasch took up the paper, and, pushing up the bandage which had
served to bring him unharmed through Russia, he frowned at it
without understanding.
"It is not all writings that I can read," he admitted. "Have you
signed it?"
"No."
"Then sign something that he will know, and no other--they might
shoot me. Your baptismal name."
And she wrote "Desiree" after the six words.
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