“Yes,” he admitted, “it is news.”
“From outside?” cried Desiree, with a sudden break in her voice.
“From Vilna,” answered Barlasch. He came into the room, and went past her towards the fire, where he put the logs together carefully.
“It is that he is alive,” said Desiree, “my husband.”
“No, it is not that,” Barlasch corrected. He stood with his back to her, vaguely warming his hands. He had no learning, nor manners, nor any polish: nothing but those instincts of the heart that teach the head. And his instinct bade him turn his back on Desiree, and wait in silence until she had understood his meaning.
“Dead?” she asked, in a whisper.
And, still warming his hands, he nodded his head vigorously. He waited a long time for her to speak, and at last broke the silence himself without looking round.
“Troubles,” he said, “troubles for us all. There is no avoiding them. One can only push against them as against your cold wind of Dantzig that comes from the sea. One can only push on. You must push, mademoiselle.”
“When did he die?” asked Desiree; “where?”
“At Vilna, three months ago. He has been dead three months. I knew he was dead when you came back to the inn at Thorn, and told me that you had seen De Casimir. De Casimir had left him dying—that liar. You remember, I met a comrade on the road—one of my own country—he told me that they had left ten thousand dead at Vilna, and twenty thousand prisoners little better than dead. And I knew then that De Casimir had left him there dying, or dead.”