"Where are you from?"
"From Kowno."
Barlasch looked from one face to the other. His own was burnt red,
and the light of the lamp hanging over his head gleamed on the
icicles suspended to his eyebrows and ragged whiskers. In the
warmth of the house his frozen garments began to melt, and from his
limbs the water dripped to the floor with a sound like rain. Then
he caught sight of Desiree's face.
"He is alive, I tell you that," he said abruptly. "And well, so far
as we know. It was at Kowno that we got news of him. I have a
letter."
He opened his cloak, which was stiff like cardboard and creaked when
he bent the rough cloth. Under his cloak he wore a Russian
peasant's sheepskin coat, and beneath that the remains of his
uniform.
"A dog's country," he muttered, as he breathed on his fingers.
At last he found the letter, and gave it to Desiree.
"You will have to make your choice," he commented, with a grimace
indicative of a serious situation, "like any other woman. No doubt
you will choose wrong."
Desiree went up two steps in order to be nearer the lamp, and they
all watched her as she opened the letter.
"Is it from Charles?" asked Mathilde, speaking for the first time.
"No," answered Desiree, rather breathlessly.
Barlasch nudged Lisa, indicated his own mouth, and pushed her
towards the kitchen. He nodded cunningly to Mathilde, as if to say
that they were now free to discuss family affairs; and added, with a
gesture towards his inner man--
"Since last night--nothing.
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