an that he had left nothing behind him--no papers, no testament,
no clue to that other life so different from his life in the Frauengasse
that it must have lapsed into a fleeting, intangible memory, such as
the brain is sometimes allowed to retain of a dream dreamt in this
existence, or perhaps in another. Sebastian was gone--with his secret.

Desiree, alone with hers, was left in this quiet house for a few hours
longer. Mechanically she set it in order. What would it matter to-morrow
whether it were set in order or not? Who would come to note the last
touches? She worked with that feverish haste which is responsible for
much unnecessary woman's work in this world--the haste that owes its
existence to the fear of having time to think. Many talk for the same
reason. What a quiet world, if those who have nothing to say said
nothing! But speech or work must fail at last, and lo! the thoughts are
lying in wait.

Desiree's thoughts found their opportunity when she went into the
drawing-room upstairs, where her wedding-breakfast had been set before
the guests only eight months ago. The guests--De Casimir, the Grafin,
Sebastian, Mathilde, Charles!

Desiree stood alone now in the silent room. She did not look at the
table. The guests were all gone. The dead past had buried its dead. She
went to the window and drew aside the curtain as she had drawn it aside
on her wedding-day to look down into the Frauengasse and see Louis
d'Arragon. And again her heart leapt in her breast with that throb
of fear. She turned where she stood, and looked at the door as if she
expected to see Charles come in at it, laughing and gay, explaining (he
was so good at explaining) his encounter in the street, and stepping
aside to allow Louis to come forward. Louis, who looked at no one but
her, and came into the room and into her life.

She had been afraid of him. She was afraid of him still. And her heart
had leapt at the thought that he had been restlessly, sleeplessly
thinking of her, working for her--had been to Vilna and back for her,
and was now waiting for her beyond the barrier of Russian camp-fires.
The dangers which made Barlasch laugh--and she knew they were real
enough, for it was only a real danger that stirred something in the old
soldier's blood to make him gay--these dangers were of no account. She
knew, she had known instantly and for all time when she looked down into
the Frauengasse and saw Louis, that nothing in heaven or earth co