xplanation too late.

CHAPTER XIII. IN THE DAY OF REJOICING.

Truth, though it crush me.

The door of the room stood open, and the sound of a step in the passage
made Desiree glance up, as she hastily put together the papers found on
the battlefield of Borodino.

Louis d'Arragon was coming into the room, and for an instant, before his
expression changed, she saw all the fatigue that he must have endured
during the night; all that he must have risked. His face was usually
still and quiet; a combination of that contemplative calm which
characterises seafaring faces, and the clean-cut immobility of a racial
type developed by hereditary duties of self-restraint and command.

He knew that there had been a battle, and, seeing the papers on the
table, his eyes asked her the inevitable question which his lips were
slow to put into words.

In reply Desiree shook her head. She looked at the papers in quick
thought. Then she withdrew from them the letter written to her by
Charles--and put the others together.

"You told me to send for you," she said in a quiet, tired voice, "if I
wanted you. You have saved me the trouble."

His eyes were hard with anxiety as he looked at her. She held the
letters towards him.

"By coming," she added, with a glance at him which took in the dust,
and the stains of salt-water on his clothes, the fatigue he sought
to conceal by a rigid stillness, and the tension that was left by the
dangers he had passed through--daring all--to come.

Seeing that he looked doubtfully at the papers, she spoke again.

"One," she said, "that one on the stained paper, is addressed to me. You
can read it--since I ask you."

The letter told him, at all events, that Charles was not killed, and,
seeing his face clear as he read, she gave an odd, curt laugh.

"Read the others," she said. "Oh! you need not hesitate. You need not be
so particular. Read one, the top one. One is enough."

The windows stood open, and the morning breeze fluttering the curtains
brought in the gay sound of bells, the high clear bells of Hanseatic
days, rejoicing at Napoleon's new success--by order of Napoleon. A bee
sailed harmoniously into the room, made the circuit of it, and sought
the open again with a hum that faded drowsily into silence.

D'Arragon read the letter slowly from beginning to the unsigned end,
while Desiree, sitting at the table, upon which she leant one elbow,
resting her small square chin in the palm