“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.”