ered gruffly, "since I am here."

"And yet you believe in that man still," flashed out Desiree, turning to
face him.

Barlasch held up a warning finger, as if bidding her to be silent on a
subject on which she was not capable of forming a judgment. He wagged
his head from side to side and heaved a sigh.

"I tell you," he said, "I saw his face after Malo-Jaroslavetz; we lost
ten thousand that day. And I was afraid. For I saw in it that he
was going to leave us as he did in Egypt. I am not afraid when he is
there--not afraid of the Devil--or the bon Dieu, but when Napoleon is
not there--" He broke off with a gesture describing abject terror.

"They say in Dantzig," said Desiree, "that he will never get back across
the Beresina, for the Russians are bringing two armies to stop him
there. They say that the Prussians will turn against him."

"Ah--they say that already?"

"Yes."

He looked at her with a sudden light of anger in his eyes.

"Who has taught you to hate Napoleon?" he asked bluntly.

And again Desiree turned away from his glance as if she could not meet
it.

"No one," she answered.

"It is not the patron," said Barlasch, muttering his thoughts as
he hobbled to the door of his little room, and began unloading his
belongings with a view to ablution; for he was a self-contained
traveller, carrying with him all he required. "It is not the patron.
Because such a hatred as his cannot be spoken of. It is not your
husband, because Napoleon is his god."

He broke off with one of his violent jerks of the head, almost
threatening to dislocate his neck, and looked at her fixedly.

"It is because you have grown into a woman since I went away."

And out came his accusing finger, though Desiree had her back turned
towards him, and there was none other to see.

"Ah!" he said, with deadly contempt, "I see, I see!"

"Did you expect me to grow up into a man?" asked Desiree, over her
shoulder.

Barlasch stood in the doorway, his lips and jaw moving as if he were
masticating winged words. At length, having failed to find a tremendous
answer, he softly closed the door.

This was not the only wise old veteran of the Grand Army to see which
way the wind blew; for many another after the battle of Malo-Jaroslavetz
packed upon his back such spoil as he could carry, and set off on foot
for France. For the cold had come at length, and not a horse in the
French army was roughed for the snowy roads, nor, indeed, had provi