The joke of seeing a grave artilleryman clad in a lady's
ermine cloak had long since lost its savour for those who dwelt near
the Moscow road.
"Ah! comrade," said one of the boatmen, an Italian who spoke French
and had learnt his seamanship on the Mediterranean, by whose waters
he would never idle again. "Ah! you are from Moscow?"
"And you, countryman?" replied the new-comer, with a non-committing
readiness, as he stumbled over the gunwale.
"And you--an old man?" remarked the Italian, with the easy frankness
of Piedmont.
By way of reply, the new-comer held out one hand roughly swathed in
cloth, and shook it from side to side slowly, taking exception to
such personal matters on a short acquaintance.
"A week ago, when I quitted Dantzig on a mission to Kowno," he said,
with a careless air, "one could cross the Vistula anywhere. I have
been walking on the bank for half a league looking for a way across.
One would think there is a General in Dantzig now."
"There is Rapp," replied the Italian, poling his boat through the
floating ice.
"He will be glad to see me."
The Italian turned and looked over his shoulder. Then he gave a
curt, derisive laugh.
"Barlasch--of the Old Guard!" explained the new-comer, with a
careless air.
"Never heard of him."
Barlasch pushed up the bandage which he still wore over his left
eye, in order to get a better sight of this phenomenal ignoramus,
but he made no comment.
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