r girlhood, in
the Frauengasse, had been marked by the various woes of Prussia, by each
successive step in the development of Napoleon's ambition. There were
no bogey-men in the night-nursery at the beginning of the century. One
Aaron's rod of a bogey had swallowed all the rest, and children buried
their sobs in the pillow for fear of Napoleon. There were no ghosts in
the dark corners of the stairs when Desiree, candle in hand, went to bed
at eight o'clock, half an hour before Mathilde. The shadows on the wall
were the shadows of soldiers--the wind roaring in the chimney was
like the sound of distant cannon. When the timid glanced over their
shoulders, the apparition they looked for was that of a little man in a
cocked hat and a long grey coat.

This was not an age in which the individual life was highly valued. Men
were great to-day and gone to-morrow. Women were of small account. It
was the day of deeds and not of words.

Desiree had never been oppressed by a sense of her own importance, which
oppression leaves its mark on many a woman's face in these times. She
had not, it would seem, expected much from life; and when much was
given to her she received it without misgivings. She was young and
light-hearted, and she lived in a reckless age.

She was not surprised when Charles failed to return. The chaise that was
to carry them to Zoppot stood in the Frauengasse on the shady side of
the street in the heat of the afternoon for more than an hour. Then she
ran out and told the driver to go back to his stables.

"One cannot go for a honeymoon alone," she explained airily to her
father, who was peevish and restless, standing by the window with the
air of one who expects without knowing what to expect. "It is, at all
events, quite clear that there is nothing for me to do but wait."

She made light of it, and laughed at her father's grave face. Mathilde
said nothing, but her silence seemed to suggest that this was no more
than she had foretold, or at all events foreseen. She was too proud or
too generous to put her thoughts into words. For pride and generosity
are often confounded. There are many who give because they are too proud
to withhold.

Desiree got her needlework and sat by the open window awaiting Charles.
She could hear the continuous clatter of carts on the quay, and the
voices of the men working in the great granaries across the river.

The whole city seemed to be astir, and men hurried to and fro in even