Louis came back. They looked at each other in silence while they heard Desiree descend the stairs and speak in German to the innkeeper who had been waiting there.
“I will be quite frank with you,” said De Casimir, in that voice of confidential friendliness which so rarely failed in its effect. “You know that Madame Darragon has an elder sister, Mademoiselle Mathilde Sebastian?”
“Yes.”
De Casimir raised himself on his elbows again, with an effort, and gave a short, half shamefaced laugh which was quite genuine. It was odd that Mathilde and he, who had walked most circumspectly, should both have been tripped up, as it were, by love.
“Bah!” he said, with a gesture dismissing the subject, “I cannot tell you more. It is a woman's secret, Monsieur, not mine. Will you deliver a letter for me in Dantzig, that is all I ask?”
“I will give it to Madame Darragon to give to Mademoiselle Mathilde, if you like; I am not returning to Dantzig,” replied Louis. But de Casimir shook his head.
“I am afraid that will not do,” he said doubtfully. “Between sisters, you understand—”
And he was no doubt right; this man of quick perception. Is it not from our nearest relative that our dearest secret is usually withheld?
“You cannot find another messenger?” asked De Casimir, and the anxiety in his face was genuine enough.
“I can—if you wish it.”