“That must have been a long time ago,” answered Desiree with her gay laugh, only giving him half her attention.
“Yes, it was a century ago. But they were the same then as they are now, as they always will be—inconvenient. They waited, however, till they were grown up!”
And with his ever-ready accusing finger he drew Desiree's attention to her own slimness. They were left alone for a minute while Lisa answered a knock at the door, during which time Barlasch sat in grim silence.
“It is a letter,” said Lisa, returning. “A sailor brought it.”
“Another?” said Barlasch, with a gesture of despair.
“Can you give me news of Charles?” Desiree read, in a writing that was unknown to her. “I shall wait a reply until midnight on board the Elsa, lying off the Krahn-Thor.” The letter bore the signature, “Louis d'Arragon.” Desiree turned slowly and went upstairs, carrying it folded small in her closed hand.
She was alone in the house, for Mathilde was out and her father had not yet returned from his evening walk. She stood at the head of the stairs, where the last of the daylight filtered through the barred window, and read the letter again. Then she turned and gave a slight start to see Barlasch at the foot of the stairs beckoning to her. He made no attempt to come up, but stood on the mat like a dog that has been forbidden the upper rooms.
“Is it about your father?” he asked, in a hoarse whisper.
“No!”
He made a gesture commanding secrecy and silence. Then he went to close the kitchen door and returned on tip-toe.