rmies
and war and treaties of peace. For all the world thought that Alexander
of Russia would be brought to his knees by the battle of Borodino. None
knew better how to turn a victory to account than he who claimed to be
victor now. "It does not suffice," Napoleon wrote to his brother at this
time, "to gain a victory. You must learn to turn it to advantage."

Save for the one reference to his life in the Baltic during the past two
months, D'Arragon said nothing of himself, of his patient, dogged work
carried on by day and by night in all weathers. Content to have escaped
with his life, he neither referred to, nor thought of, his part in the
negotiations which had resulted in the treaty just signed. For he had
been the link between Russia and England; the never-failing messenger
passing from one to the other with question and answer which were
destined to bear fruit at last in an understanding brought to perfection
in Paris, culminating at Elba.

Both were guarded in what they said of passing events, and both seemed
to doubt the truth of the reports now flying through the streets of
Dantzig. Even in the quiet Frauengasse all the citizens were out on
their terraces calling questions to those that passed by beneath the
trees. The itinerant tradesman, the milkman going his round, the vendors
of fruit from Langfuhr and the distant villages of the plain, lingered
at the doors to tell the servants the latest gossip of the market-place.
Even in this frontier city, full of spies, strangers spoke together in
the streets, and the sound of their voices, raised above the clang of
carillons, came in at the open window.

"At first a victory is always a great one," said D'Arragon, looking
towards the window.

"It is so easy to ring a bell," added Sebastian, with his rare smile.

He was quite himself this morning, and only once did the dull look
arrest his features into the stony stillness which his daughters knew.

"You are the only one of your name in Dantzig," said D'Arragon, in the
course of question and answer as to the safe delivery of letters in time
of war.

"So far as I know, there is no other Sebastian," replied he; and
Desiree, who had guessed the motive of the question, which must have
been in D'Arragon's mind from the beginning, was startled by the fulness
of the answer. It seemed to make reply to more than D'Arragon had asked.
It shattered the last faint hope that there might have been another
Sebastian of whom Cha