He still nourished a lingering belief in De Casimir's word. Charles
must have been left behind at Vilna to recover from his exhaustion.
He would, undoubtedly, make his way westward as soon as possible.
He might have got away to the South. Any one of these huddled human
landmarks might be Charles Darragon.
Louis was essentially a thorough man. The sea is a mistress
demanding a whole and concentrated attention--and concentration soon
becomes a habit. Louis did not travel at night, for fear of passing
Charles on the road, alive or dead. He knew his cousin better than
any in the Frauengasse had learnt to know this gay and inconsequent
Frenchman. A certain cunning lay behind the happy laugh--a great
capacity was hidden by the careless manner. If ready wit could
bring man through the dangers of the retreat, Charles had as good a
chance of surviving as any.
Nevertheless, Louis rarely passed a dead man on the road, but drew
up, and quitting his sleigh, turned over the body, which was almost
invariably huddled with its back offered to the deadly, prevailing
North wind. Against each this wind had piled a sloping bank of that
fine snow which, even in the lightest breeze, drifts over the
surface of the land like an ivory mist, waist high, and cakes the
clothes. In a high wind it will rise twenty feet in the air, and
blind any who try to face it.
As often as not a mere glance sufficed to show that this was not
Charles, for few of the bodies were clad.
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