to side.

"Listen," he said roughly, "the good God knows best. I knew when I saw
you first, that day in June, in this kitchen, that you were beginning
your troubles; for I knew the reputation of Monsieur, your husband. He
was not what you thought him. A man is never what a woman thinks him.
But he was worse than most. And this trouble that has come to you is
chosen by the good God--and he has chosen the least in his sack for you.
You will know it some day--as I know it now."

"You know a great deal," said Desiree, who was quick in speech, and he
swung round on his heel to meet her spirit.

"You are right," he said, pointing his accusatory finger. "I know a
great deal about you--and I am a very old man."

"How did you learn this news from Vilna?" she asked, and his hand went
up to his mouth as if to hide his thoughts and control his lips.

"From one who comes straight from there--who buried your husband there."

Desiree rose and stood with her hands resting on the table, looking at
the persistent back again turned towards her.

"Who?" she asked, in little more than a whisper.

"The Captain--Louis d'Arragon."

"And you have spoken to him to-day--here, in Dantzig?"

Barlasch nodded his head.

"Was he well?" asked Desiree, with a spontaneous anxiety that made
Barlasch turn slowly and look at her from beneath his great brows.

"Oh, he was well enough," he answered, "he is made of steel, that
gentleman. He was well enough, and he has the courage of the devil.
There are some fishermen who come from Zoppot to sell their fish. They
steal through the Russian lines--on the ice of the river at night and
come to our outposts at daylight. One of them said my name this morning.
I looked at him. He was wrapped up only to show the eyes. He drew his
scarf aside. It was the Captain d'Arragon."

"And he was well?" asked Desiree again, as if nothing else in the world
mattered.

"Oh, mon Dieu, yes," cried Barlasch, impatiently, "he was well, I tell
you. Do you know why he came?"

Desiree had sat down at the table again, where she leant her arms and
rested her chin in the palms of her two hands; for she was weakened by
starvation, and confinement, and sorrow.

"No," she answered.

"He came because he had learnt that the patron was dead. It was known
in Konigsberg a week ago. It is known all over Germany; that quiet old
gentleman who scraped a fiddle here in the Frauengasse. And it is only
I, in all the world, who know tha