"
He poured out wine, and stood in the darkened doorway watching her
drink it. Then he went away to his own meal in the kitchen, leaving
Desiree vaguely uneasy--for he was not himself to-night. She could
hear him muttering as he ate and moved hither and thither in the
kitchen. At short intervals he came and looked in at the door to
make sure that she was doing full honour to St. Matthias. When she
had finished, he came into the room.
"Ah!" he said, glancing at her suspiciously and rubbing his hands
together. "That strengthens, eh?--that strengthens. We others who
lead a rough life--we know that a little food and a glass of wine
fit one out for any enterprise, for--well, any catastrophe."
And Desiree knew in a flash of comprehension that the food and the
wine and the forced gaiety were nothing but preliminaries to bad
news.
"What is it?" she asked a second time. "Is it . . . bombardment?"
"Bombardment," he laughed, "they cannot shoot, those Cossacks. It
is only the French who understand artillery."
"Then what is it?--for you have something to tell me, I know."
He ruffled his shock-head of white hair, with a grimace of despair.
"Yes," he admitted, "it is news."
"From outside?" cried Desiree, with a sudden break in her voice.
"From Vilna," answered Barlasch. He came into the room, and went
past her towards the fire, where he put the logs together carefully.
"It is that he is alive," said Desiree, "my husband.
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