De Casimir lay back on the pillow in an attitude which betrayed his weakness and exhaustion. He looked at the ceiling with lustreless eyes.
“It must have been a fortnight ago,” he said at length. “I was trying to count the days. We have lost all account of dates since quitting Moscow. One day has been like another—and all, terrible. Believe me, madame, it has always been in my mind that you were awaiting the return of your husband at Dantzig. I spared him all I could. A dozen times we saved each other's lives.”
In six words Desiree could have told him all she knew: that he was a spy who had betrayed to death and exile many Dantzigers whose hospitality had been extended to him as a Polish officer; that Charles was a traitor who had gained access to her father's house in order to watch him—though he had honestly fallen in love with her. He was in love with her still, and he was her husband. It was this thought that broke into her sleep at night, that haunted her waking hours.
She glanced at Louis d'Arragon, and held her peace.
“Then, Monsieur,” he said, “you have every reason to suppose that if Madame returns to Dantzig now, she will find her husband there?”
De Casimir looked at D'Arragon, and hesitated for an instant. They both remembered afterwards that moment of uncertainty.
“I have every reason to suppose it,” replied De Casimir at length, speaking in a low voice, as if fearful of being overheard.
Louis waited a moment, and glanced at Desiree, who, however, had evidently nothing more to say.
“Then we will not trouble you farther,” he said, going towards the door, which he held open for Desiree to pass out. He was following her when De Casimir called him back.
“Monsieur,” cried the sick man, “Monsieur, one moment, if you can spare it.”