Mathilde went to the door, but
paused there. Without looking round, she stood thinking deeply.
They had grown from childhood together--motherless--with a father
whom neither understood. Together they had faced the difficulties
of life; the hundred petty difficulties attending a woman's life in
a strange land, among neighbours who bear the sleepless grudge of
unsatisfied curiosity. They had worked together for their daily
bread. And now the full stream of life had swept them together from
the safe moorings of childhood.
"Will you come too?" asked Mathilde. "All that he says about
Dantzig is true."
"No, thank you," answered Desiree, gently enough. "I will wait
here. I must wait in Dantzig."
"I cannot," said Mathilde, half excusing herself. "I must go. I
cannot help it. You understand?"
"Yes," said Desiree, and nothing more.
Had Mathilde asked her the question six months ago, she would have
said "No." But she understood now, not that Mathilde could love De
Casimir; that was beyond her individual comprehension, but that
there was no alternative now.
Soon after Mathilde had gone, Barlasch returned.
"If Mademoiselle Mathilde is going, she will have to go to-morrow,"
he said. "Those that are coming in at the gates now are the
rearguard of the Heudelet Division which was driven out of Elbing by
the Cossacks three days ago."
He sat mumbling to himself by the fire, and only turned to the
supper which Desiree had placed in readiness for him when she
quitted the room and went upstairs.
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