He drew the icicles one by one from his whiskers with a wry face indicative of great agony, and threw them down on the mat.
“Well,” he said, after a pause, to Desiree, “have you made your choice?”
Desiree was reading the letter again, and before she could answer, a quick knock on the front door startled them all. Barlasch's face broke into that broad smile which was only called forth by the presence of danger.
“Is it the patron?” he asked in a whisper, with his hand on the heavy bolts affixed by that pious Hanseatic merchant who held that if God be in the house there is no need of watchmen.
“Yes,” answered Mathilde. “Open quickly.”
Sebastian came in with a light step. He was like a man long saddled with a burden of which he had at length been relieved.
“Ah! What news?” he asked, when he recognised Barlasch.
“Nothing that you do not know already, monsieur,” replied Barlasch, “except that the husband of Mademoiselle is well and on the road to Warsaw. Here—read that.”
And he took the letter from Desiree's hand.
“I knew he would come back safely,” said Desiree; and that was all.