It was true that news continued to filter in, and never quite
ceased, all through the terrible twelve months that were to follow.
More especially did news that was unfavourable to the French find
its way into the beleaguered city. But it was not authentic news,
and Sebastian gathered little comfort from the fact--not unknown to
the whispering citizens--that Rapp himself had heard nothing from
the outer world since the Elbing mail-cart had been turned back by
the first of the Cossacks on the night of the seventh of January.
Perhaps Sebastian had that most fatal of maladies--to which nearly
all men come at last--weariness of life.
"Why don't you fortify yourself, and laugh at fortune?" asked
Barlasch, twenty years his senior, as he stood sturdily on his
stocking-feet at the sick man's bedside.
"I take what my daughter gives me," protested Sebastian, half
peevishly.
"But that does not suffice," answered the materialist. "It does not
suffice to swallow evil fortune--one must digest it."
Sebastian made no answer. He was a quiet patient, and lay all day
with wide-open, dreaming eyes. He seemed to be waiting for
something. This, indeed, was his mental attitude as presented to
his neighbours, and perhaps to the few friends he possessed in
Dantzig. He had waited through the years during which Desiree had
grown to womanhood. He waited on doggedly through the first month
of the siege, without enthusiasm, without comment--without hope,
perhaps.
Pages:
242
243
244
245
246
247
248
249
250
251
252
253
254
255
256
257
258
259
260
261
262
263
264
265
266