But at the sight of the first troopers Charles Darragon threw up his head with a little exclamation of surprise.
Desiree looked at him and then turned to follow the direction of his gaze.
“What are these?” she murmured. For the uniforms were new and unfamiliar.
“Cavalry of the Old Guard,” replied her husband, and as he spoke he caught his breath.
The horsemen vanished into the continuation of the Pfaffengasse, and immediately behind them came a travelling carriage, swung on high wheels, three times the size of a Dantzig drosky, white with dust. It had small square windows. As Desiree drew back in obedience to a movement of her husband's arm, she saw a face for an instant—pale and set—with eyes that seemed to look at everything and yet at something beyond.
“Who was it? He looked at you, Charles,” said Desiree.
“It is the Emperor,” answered Darragon. His face was white. His eyes were dull, like the eyes of one who has seen a vision and is not yet back to earth.
Desiree turned to those behind her.
“It is the Emperor,” she said, with an odd ring in her voice which none had ever heard before. Then she stood looking after the carriage.
Her father, who was at her elbow—tall, white-haired, with an aquiline, inscrutable face—stood in a like attitude, looking down the Pfaffengasse. His hand was raised before his face with outspread fingers which seemed rigid in that gesture, as if lifted hastily to screen his face and hide it.