“Some do,” admitted Barlasch carelessly; “the happy ones. And since you will not sell your ikon, I must go for what Monsieur le capitaine offers me.
“Five hundred francs,” said Louis. “A thousand francs, if we succeed in bringing my cousin safely back to Dantzig.”
“It is agreed,” said Barlasch, and Desiree looked from one to the other with an odd smile of amusement. For women do not understand that spirit of adventure which makes the mercenary soldier, and urges the sailor to join an exploring expedition without hope of any reward beyond his daily pay, for which he is content to work and die loyally.
“And I,” she asked, “what am I to do?”
“We must know where to find you,” replied D'Arragon.
There was so much in the simple answer that Desiree fell into a train of thought. It did not seem much for her to do, and yet it was all. For it summed up in six words a woman's life: to wait till she is found.
“I shall wait in Dantzig,” she said at length.
Barlasch held up his finger close to her face so that she could not fail to see it, and shook it slowly from side to side commanding her careful and entire attention.
“And buy salt,” he said. “Fill a cupboard full of salt. It is cheap enough in Dantzig now. The patron will not think of it. He is a dreamer. But a dreamer awakes at length, and is hungry. It is I who tell you—Barlasch.”
He emphasized himself with a touch of his curved fingers on either shoulder.