“Was it addressed like that to Madame Desiree Darragon?”
“So a comrade told me. It is you, her husband?”
“Yes,” answered Charles, “since you ask; I am her husband.”
“Ah!” replied Barlasch darkly, and his limbs and features settled themselves into a patient waiting.
“Well,” asked Charles, “what are you waiting for?”
“Whatever you may think proper, mon capitaine, for I gave the letter to the surgeon who promised that it should be forwarded to its address.”
Charles laughingly sought his purse. But there was nothing in it, so he looked round the room.
“Here, add this to your collection,” and he took a small French clock from the writing-table, a pretty, gilded toy from Paris.
“Thank you, mon capitaine.”
Barlasch, with shaking fingers, unknotted the rope around his shoulders. As he was doing so one of the clocks on his back began to strike. He paused, and stood looking gravely at his superior officer. Another clock took up the tale and a third, while Barlasch sternly stood at attention.