“No.”
Barlasch jerked his head back and laughed.
“For you.”
He turned and looked at her; but she had raised her clasped hands to her forehead, as if to shield her eyes from the light of the candle, and he could not see her face.
“Do you remember,” said Barlasch, “that night when the patron was so angry—on the mat—when Mademoiselle Mathilde had to make her choice. It is your turn to-night. You have to make your choice. Will you go?”
“Yes,” answered Desiree, behind her fingers.
“'If Mademoiselle will come,' he said to me, 'bring her to this place!' 'Yes, mon capitaine,' answered I. 'At any cost, Barlasch?' 'At any cost, mon capitaine.' And we are not men to break our words. I will take you there—at any cost, mademoiselle. And he will meet you there—at any cost.”
And Barlasch expectorated emphatically into the fire, after the manner of low-born men.
“What a pity,” he added reflectively, “that he is only an Englishman.”
“When are we to go?” asked Desiree, still behind her barrier of clasped fingers.