Still he could not see from the pale profile whether Mathilde knew anything at all.
“And if I procure information for you?” asked she at length, in a quiet and collected voice.
“You will help me to attain a position such as I could ask—even you—to share with me. And you would do your father no harm. You would even render him a service. For all the secret societies in Germany will not stop Napoleon. It is only God who can stop him now, Mademoiselle. All men who attempt it will only be crushed beneath the wheels. I might save your father.”
But Mathilde did not seem to be thinking of her father.
“I am hampered by poverty,” de Casimir said, changing his ground. “In the old days it did not matter. But now, in the Empire, one must be rich. I shall be rich—at the end of this campaign.”
Again his voice was sincere, and again her eyes responded. He made a step forward, and gently taking her hand, he raised it to his lips.
“You will help me!” he said, and, turning abruptly on his heel, he left her.
De Casimir's quarters were in the Langenmarkt. On returning to them, he took from his despatch-case a letter which he turned over thoughtfully in his hand. It was addressed to Desiree, and sealed carefully with a wafer.
“She may as well have it,” he said. “It will be as well that she should be occupied with her own affairs.”