"
"No, it is not that," Barlasch corrected. He stood with his back to
her, vaguely warming his hands. He had no learning, nor manners,
nor any polish: nothing but those instincts of the heart that teach
the head. And his instinct bade him turn his back on Desiree, and
wait in silence until she had understood his meaning.
"Dead?" she asked, in a whisper.
And, still warming his hands, he nodded his head vigorously. He
waited a long time for her to speak, and at last broke the silence
himself without looking round.
"Troubles," he said, "troubles for us all. There is no avoiding
them. One can only push against them as against your cold wind of
Dantzig that comes from the sea. One can only push on. You must
push, mademoiselle."
"When did he die?" asked Desiree; "where?"
"At Vilna, three months ago. He has been dead three months. I knew
he was dead when you came back to the inn at Thorn, and told me that
you had seen De Casimir. De Casimir had left him dying--that liar.
You remember, I met a comrade on the road--one of my own country--he
told me that they had left ten thousand dead at Vilna, and twenty
thousand prisoners little better than dead. And I knew then that De
Casimir had left him there dying, or dead."
He glanced back at her over his shoulder, and at the sight of her
face made that little click in his throat which, in peasant circles,
denotes a catastrophe. Then he shook his head slowly from side to
side.
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