mindedly and went
upstairs. He could hear the sisters talking together in a low voice in
the drawing-room, which he had never seen, at the top of the stairs.

Then Desiree came down, and he helped her to find in a shed in the
yard one of those travelling-trunks which he had recognized as being of
French manufacture. He took off his boots, and carried it upstairs for
her.

It was ten o'clock before Sebastian came in. He nodded his thanks
to Barlasch, and watched him bolt the door. He made no inquiry as to
Mathilde, but extinguished the lamp, and went to his room. He never
mentioned her name again.

Early the next morning, the girls were astir. But Barlasch was before
them, and when Desiree came down, she found the kitchen fire alight.
Barlasch was cleaning a knife, and nodded a silent good morning.
Desiree's eyes were red, and Barlasch must have noted this sign of
grief, for he gave a contemptuous laugh, and continued his occupation.

It was barely daylight when the Grafin's heavy, old-fashioned carriage
drew up in front of the house. Mathilde came down, thickly veiled and
in her travelling furs. She did not seem to see Barlasch, and omitted to
thank him for carrying her travelling-trunk to the carriage.

He stood on the terrace beside Desiree until the carriage had turned the
corner into the Pfaffengasse.

"Bah!" he said, "let her go. There is no stopping them, when they are
like that. It is the curse--of the Garden of Eden."

CHAPTER XXV. A DESPATCH.

In counsel it is good to see dangers; and in execution not to
see them unless they be very great.

Mathilde had told Desiree that Colonel de Casimir made no mention of
Charles in his letter to her. Barlasch was able to supply but little
further information on the matter.

"It was given to me by the Captain Louis d'Arragon at Thorn," he said.
"He handled it as if it were not too clean. And he had nothing to say
about it. You know his way, for the rest. He says little; but he knows
the look of things. It seemed that he had promised to deliver the
letter--for some reason, who knows what? and he kept his promise. The
man was not dying by any chance--that De Casimir?"

And his little sharp eyes, reddened by the smoke of camp-fires, inflamed
by the glare of sun on snow, searched her face. He was thinking of the
treasure.

"Oh no!"

"Was he ill at all?"

"He was in bed," answered Desiree, doubtfully.

Barlasch scratched his head without ceremony,