He would not trust me--monsieur le marquis--he was afraid
that I should get at the brandy. And he was right. I only wanted
the opportunity. He is a strong one--that!" And Barlasch held up a
warning hand, as if to make known to all and sundry that it would be
inadvisable to trifle with Louis d'Arragon.
He drew the icicles one by one from his whiskers with a wry face
indicative of great agony, and threw them down on the mat.
"Well," he said, after a pause, to Desiree, "have you made your
choice?"
Desiree was reading the letter again, and before she could answer, a
quick knock on the front door startled them all. Barlasch's face
broke into that broad smile which was only called forth by the
presence of danger.
"Is it the patron?" he asked in a whisper, with his hand on the
heavy bolts affixed by that pious Hanseatic merchant who held that
if God be in the house there is no need of watchmen.
"Yes," answered Mathilde. "Open quickly."
Sebastian came in with a light step. He was like a man long saddled
with a burden of which he had at length been relieved.
"Ah! What news?" he asked, when he recognised Barlasch.
"Nothing that you do not know already, monsieur," replied Barlasch,
"except that the husband of Mademoiselle is well and on the road to
Warsaw. Here--read that."
And he took the letter from Desiree's hand.
"I knew he would come back safely," said Desiree; and that was all.
Sebastian read the letter in one quick glance--and then fell to
thinking.
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