And it is painful to record that he here resorted to graphic illustration.
“Ah!” he went on triumphantly, “I know. I can see right into the mind of such a man. I will tell you why. It is because I am that sort of man myself.”
“You do not seem to have been so successful--since you are poor,” said Desiree, with a laugh.
He frowned at her apparently in speechless anger, seeking an answer. But for the moment he could think of none, so he turned to the knives again, which he was cleaning on a board on the kitchen-table. At length he paused and glanced at Desiree.
“And your husband,” he said slowly. “Remember that he is a partner with this De Casimir. They hunt together. I know it; for I was in Moscow. Ah! that makes you stand stiffly, and push your chin out.”
He went on cleaning the knives, and, without looking at her, seemed to be speaking his own thoughts aloud.
“Yes! He is a traitor. And he is worse than the other; for he is no Pole, but a Frenchman. And if he returns to France, the Emperor will say: 'Where are my despatches, my maps, my papers, which were given into your care?'”
He finished the thought with three gestures, which seemed to illustrate the placing of a man against a wall and shooting him. His meaning could not be mistaken.
“And that is what the patron means when he says that Monsieur Charles Darragon will not return to Dantzig. I knew that he meant that last night, when he was so angry--on the mat.”
Barlasch looked at her thoughtfully for a moment, before replying slowly and impressively.
“Because, if I had told you, you might have decided to quit Dantzig with Mademoiselle Mathilde, and go hunting your husband in a country overrun by desperate fugitives and untamed Cossacks. And I did not want that. I want you here--in Dantzig; in the Frauengasse; in this kitchen; under my hand--so that I can take care of you till the war is over. I--who speak to you--Papa Barlasch, at your service. And there is not another man in the world who will do it so well. No; not one.”
And his eyes flashed as he threw the knives into a drawer.
“But why should you do all this for me?” asked Desiree. “You could have gone home to France--quite easily--and have left us to our fate here in Dantzig. Why did you not go home?”