We are the same--he and I--poor animals in
the ranks. A little gentleman rides up, all sabretasche and gold
lace. It is an officer of the staff. 'Go down into the valley and
get shot,' he says. And--bon jour! we go. No--no. He has no news,
my poor comrade."
They were at the inn now, and found the huge yard still packed with
sleighs and disabled carriages, and the stables ostentatiously
empty.
"Go in," said Barlasch; "and tell them who your father is--say
Antoine Sebastian and nothing else. I would do it myself, but when
it is so cold as that, the lips are stiff, and I cannot speak German
properly. They would find out that I am French, and it is no good
being French now. My comrade told me that in Konigsberg, Murat
himself was ill-received by the burgomaster and such city stuff as
that."
It was as Barlasch foretold. For at the name of Antoine Sebastian
the innkeeper found horses--in another stable.
It would take a few minutes, he said, to fetch them, and in the
meantime there were coffee and some roast meat--his own dinner.
Indeed, he could not do enough to testify his respect for Desiree,
and his commiseration for her, being forced to travel in such
weather through a country infested by starving brigands.
Barlasch consented to come just within the inner door, but refused
to sit at the table with Desiree. He took a piece of bread, and ate
it standing.
"See you," he said to her when they were left alone, "the good God
has made very few mistakes, but there is one thing I would have
altered.
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