He glanced back at her over his shoulder, and at the sight of her face made that little click in his throat which, in peasant circles, denotes a catastrophe. Then he shook his head slowly from side to side.
“Listen,” he said roughly, “the good God knows best. I knew when I saw you first, that day in June, in this kitchen, that you were beginning your troubles; for I knew the reputation of Monsieur, your husband. He was not what you thought him. A man is never what a woman thinks him. But he was worse than most. And this trouble that has come to you is chosen by the good God—and he has chosen the least in his sack for you. You will know it some day—as I know it now.”
“You know a great deal,” said Desiree, who was quick in speech, and he swung round on his heel to meet her spirit.
“You are right,” he said, pointing his accusatory finger. “I know a great deal about you—and I am a very old man.”
“How did you learn this news from Vilna?” she asked, and his hand went up to his mouth as if to hide his thoughts and control his lips.
“From one who comes straight from there—who buried your husband there.”
Desiree rose and stood with her hands resting on the table, looking at the persistent back again turned towards her.
“Who?” she asked, in little more than a whisper.
“The Captain—Louis d'Arragon.”
“And you have spoken to him to-day—here, in Dantzig?”