"He has a paper in his hand. I know what that means. He is
quartered on us."

Desiree hurried downstairs. In the entrance-hall, a broad-built
little man stood awaiting her. He was stout and red, with hair all
ragged at the temples, almost white. His eyes were lost behind
shaggy eyebrows. His face was made broader by little whiskers
stopping short at the level of his ear. He had a snuff-blown
complexion, and in the wrinkles of his face the dust of a dozen
campaigns seemed to have accumulated.

"Barlasch," he said curtly, holding out a long strip of blue paper.
"Of the Guard. Once a sergeant. Italy, Egypt, the Danube."

He frowned at Desiree while she read the paper in the dim light that
filtered through the twisted bars of the fanlight above the door.

Then he turned to the servant who stood, comely and breathless,
looking him up and down.

"Papa Barlasch," he added for her edification, and he drew down his
left eyebrow with a jerk, so that it almost touched his cheek. His
right eye, grey and piercing, returned her astonished gaze with a
fierce steadfastness.

"Does this mean that you are quartered upon us?" asked Desiree
without seeking to hide her disgust. She spoke in her own tongue.

"French?" said the soldier, looking at her. "Good. Yes. I am
quartered here. Thirty-six, Frauengasse. Sebastian; musician. You