“But you would like to. Listen. It is not what you feel that matters; it is what you do. Remember that.”
There was an unusual vigour in his voice. Of late, since the death of Sebastian, Barlasch seemed to have fallen victim to the settled apathy which lives within a prison wall and broods over a besieged city. It is a sort of silent mourning worn by the soul for a lost liberty. Dantzig had soon succumbed to it, for the citizens had not even the satisfaction of being quite sure that they were deserving of the world's sympathy. It soon spread to the soldiers who were defending a Prussian city for a French Emperor who seemed to have forgotten them.
But to-night Barlasch seemed to be more energetic. Desiree looked round over her shoulder. He had not laid on the table any contribution to a bare larder; and yet his manner was that of one who has prepared a surprise and is waiting to enjoy its effect. He was restless, moving from one foot to another, rubbing together his crooked fingers and darting sidelong glances at her face.
“What is it?” she asked suddenly, and Barlasch gave a start as if he had been detected in some deceit. He bustled forward to the smouldering fire and held his hands over it.
“It is that it is very cold to-night,” he answered, with that exaggerated ease of manner with which the young and the simple seek to conceal embarrassment. “Tell me, mademoiselle, what have we for supper to-night? It is I who will cook it. To-night we will keep a fete. There is that piece of beef for you. I know a way to make it appetizing. For me there is my portion of horse. It is the friend of man—the horse.”
He laughed and made an effort to be gay, which had a poignant pathos in it that made Desiree bite her lip.
“What fete is it that we are to keep?” she asked, with a wan smile. Her kind blue eyes had that glitter in them which is caused by a constant and continuous hunger. Six months ago they had only been gay and kind, now they saw the world as it is, as it always must be so long as the human heart is capable of happiness and the human reason recognizes the rarity of its attainment.
“The fete of St. Matthias—my fete, mademoiselle.”
“But I thought your name was Jean.”
“So it is. But I keep my fete at St. Matthias, because on that day we won a battle in Egypt. We will have wine—a bottle of wine—eh?”