his person. "I, Barlasch of the Guard--Marengo, the
Danube, Egypt--picked up after Borodino a letter like it. I cannot read
very quickly--indeed--Bah! the old Guard needs no pens and paper--but
that letter I picked up was just like this."

"Was it addressed like that to Madame Desiree Darragon?"

"So a comrade told me. It is you, her husband?"

"Yes," answered Charles, "since you ask; I am her husband."

"Ah!" replied Barlasch darkly, and his limbs and features settled
themselves into a patient waiting.

"Well," asked Charles, "what are you waiting for?"

"Whatever you may think proper, mon capitaine, for I gave the letter to
the surgeon who promised that it should be forwarded to its address."

Charles laughingly sought his purse. But there was nothing in it, so he
looked round the room.

"Here, add this to your collection," and he took a small French clock
from the writing-table, a pretty, gilded toy from Paris.

"Thank you, mon capitaine."

Barlasch, with shaking fingers, unknotted the rope around his shoulders.
As he was doing so one of the clocks on his back began to strike. He
paused, and stood looking gravely at his superior officer. Another clock
took up the tale and a third, while Barlasch sternly stood at attention.

"Four o'clock," he said to himself, "and I, who have not yet
breakfasted--"

With a grunt and a salute he turned towards the door which stood open.
Some one was coming up the stairs rather slowly, his spurs clinking,
his scabbard clashing against the gilded banisters. Papa Barlasch stood
aside at attention, and Colonel de Casimir came into the room with a gay
word of greeting. Barlasch went out, but he did not close the door. It
is to be presumed that he stood without, where he might have overheard
all that they said to each other for quite a long time, until it was
almost the half-hour when the clocks would strike again. But de Casimir,
perceiving that the door was open, closed it quietly from within, and
Barlasch, shut out on the wide landing, made a grimace at the massive
woodwork before turning to descend the stairs.

It was the middle of September, and the days were shortening. The dusk
of evening had already closed over the city when de Casimir and Charles
at length came downstairs. No one had troubled to open the shutters of
such rooms as were not required; and these were many. For Moscow was
even at that day a great city, though less spacious and more fantastic
than it is t