she said. "You do not understand. You think
I judge from that letter. That is only a confirmation of something that
has been in my mind for a long time--ever since my wedding-day. I knew
when you came into the room upstairs on that day that you did not trust
Charles."

"I--?" he asked.

"Yes," she answered, standing squarely in front of him and looking
him in the eyes. "You did not trust him. You were not glad that I had
married him. I could see it in your face. I have never forgotten."

D'Arragon turned away towards the window. Sebastian and Mathilde were
in the street below, in the shade of the trees, talking with the eager
neighbours.

"You would have stopped it if you could," said Desiree; and he did not
deny it.

"It was some instinct," he said at length. "Some passing misgiving."

"For Charles?" she asked sharply.

And D'Arragon, looking out of the window, would not answer. She gave a
sudden laugh.

"One cannot compliment you on your politeness," she said. "Was it for
Charles that you had misgivings?"

At last D'Arragon turned on his heel.

"Does it matter?" he asked. "Since I came too late."

"That is true," she said, after a pause. "You came too late; so it
doesn't matter. And the thing is done now, and I..., well, I suppose I
must do what others have done before me--I must make the best of it."

"I will help you," said D'Arragon slowly, almost carefully, "if I can."

He was still avoiding her eyes, still looking out of the window.
Sebastian was coming up the steps.

CHAPTER XIV. MOSCOW.

Nothing is so disappointing as failure--except success.

While the Dantzigers with grave faces discussed the news of Borodino
beneath the trees in the Frauengasse, Charles Darragon, white with dust,
rose in his stirrups to catch the first sight of the domes and cupolas
of Moscow.

It was a sunny morning, and the gold on the churches gleamed and
glittered in the shimmering heat like fairyland. Charles had ridden to
the summit of a hill and sat for a moment, as others had done, in
silent contemplation. Moscow at last! All around him men were shouting:
"Moscow! Moscow!" Grave, white-haired generals waved their shakos in the
air. Those at the summit of the hill called the others to come. Far down
in the valley, where the dust raised by thousands of feet hung in the
air like a mist, a faint sound like the roar of falling water could be
heard. It was the word "Moscow!" sweeping back to the rearmost