UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA 
 AT LOS ANGELES 
 
 GIFT OF 
 
 Krs. Llabel Herbert
 
 MASTERPIECES OF 
 
 FRENCH FICTION 
 
 Grownefc b 
 
 The Academie Francaise 
 
 > 
 
 l?nown as 
 
 "THE IMMORTALS"
 
 
 o g
 
 
 PRINCE ZIL 
 
 -AH 
 
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 (LE "PRINCE Z1LAI 
 
 
 By JULES CLAR 
 
 ETIE 
 
 
 Crowned by the French Academy 
 
 
 Wilh a Preface by Q^fS^Cl^ 
 SONVILLE, of the French Academy 
 IlIurtr.tifnJM fc6H&& &Mjft 
 
 and 
 y T^obert Kastor 
 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 Current Literature Publishing Company 
 
 1908 
 

 
 
 
 
 
 PRINCE Z1LAH 
 
 (LE 'PRINCE ZILAH) 
 By JULES CLARETIE 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 Crowned by the French Academy 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 With a Preface by COMTE d'HAUS- 
 SONVILLE, of the French Academy, and 
 Illustrations by HERMAN ROUNTREE 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 Current Literature Publishing Company 
 
 1908 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 ; t .''>" /', h ,'' '" ' '" 

 
 COPYRIGHT, 1905 
 
 BY 
 ROBERT ARNOT
 
 PC 
 
 JULES CLARETIE 
 
 LSfcNE ARNAUD CLARETIE (com- 
 monly called Jules), was born on 
 December 3, 1840, at Limoges, the pic- 
 turesque and smiling capital of Li- 
 mousin. He has been rightly called 
 the "Roi de la Chronique" and the 
 "Themistocle de la Litterature Con- 
 temporaine." In fact, he has written, 
 since early youth, romances, drama, history, novels, 
 tales, chronicles, dramatic criticism, literary criticism, 
 military correspondence, virtually everything! He was 
 elected to the French Academy in 1888. 
 
 Claretie was educated at the Lycee Bonaparte, and 
 was destined for a commercial career. He entered a 
 business-house as bookkeeper, but was at the same time 
 contributing already to newspapers and reviews. In 
 : 1862 we find him writing for the Diogene; under the 
 pseudonym, "Olivier de Jalin," he sends articles to La 
 France; his nom-de-plume in U Illustration is "Perdi- 
 can"; he also contributes to the Figaro, U Independence 
 Beige, Opinion Nationale (1867-1872) ; he signs articles 
 in the Rappel as "Candide"; in short, his fecundity in 
 this field of literature is very great. He is to-day a 
 most popular journalist and writes for the Presse, Petit 
 Journal, Temps, and others. He has not succeeded as
 
 PREFACE 
 
 a politician. Under the second Empire he was often 
 in collision with the Government; in 1857 he was sen- 
 tenced to pay a fine of i ,000 francs, which was a splendid 
 investment ; more than once lectures to be given by him 
 were prohibited (1865-1868); in 1871 he was an unsuc- 
 cessful candidate for L'Assemblee Nationale, both 
 for La Haute Vienne and La Seine. Since that time 
 he has not taken any active part in politics. Perhaps 
 we should also mention that as a friend of Victor Noir 
 he was called as a witness in the process against Peter 
 Bonaparte ; and that as administrator of the Comedie 
 Francaise he directed, in 1899, an open letter to the 
 "President and Members of the Court Martial trying 
 Captain Dreyfus" at Rennes, advocating the latter's 
 acquittal. So much about Claretie as a politician! 
 
 The number of volumes and essays written by Jules 
 Claretie surpasses imagination, and it is, therefore, al- 
 most impossible to give a complete list. As a historian 
 he has selected mostly revolutionary subjects. The 
 titles of some of his prominent works in this field are: 
 Les Dernier s Montagnards (1867); Histoire de la Revo- 
 lution de 1870-71 (second edition, 1875, 5 vols.); La 
 France Envahie (1871); Le Champ de Bataille de Sedan 
 (1871) ; Paris assiege and Les Prussians chez eux (1872) ; 
 Cinq Ans apres, L J Alsace et la Lorraine depuis VAn- 
 nexion (1876); La Guerre Nationale 1870-1871, etc., 
 most of them in the hostile, anti-German vein, natural 
 to a "Chauvinist"; Ruines et Fantomes (1873). Les 
 Femmes de la Revolution (1898) contains a great number 
 of portraits, studies, and criticisms, partly belonging to 
 political, partly to literary, history. To the same category 
 
 [vi]
 
 PREFACE 
 
 belong: Moliere, sa Vie et ses (Euvres (1873); Peintres et 
 Sculpteurs Contemporains, and T. B. Carpeaux (1875); 
 UArt et les Artistes Contemporains (1876), and others. 
 Quite different from the above, and in another phase of 
 thought, are: Voyages <Tun Parisien (1865); Journees 
 de Voyage en Espagne et France (1870); Journees de 
 Vacances (1887) ; and others. 
 
 It is, however, as a novelist that the fame of Claretie 
 will endure. He has followed the footsteps of George 
 Sand and of Balzac. He belongs to the school of "Im- 
 pressionists," and, although he has a liking for excep- 
 tional situations, wherefrom humanity does not always 
 issue without serious blotches, he yet is free from pessi- 
 mism. He has no nervous disorder, no "brain fag," he 
 is no pagan, not even a non-believer, and has happily 
 preserved his wholesomeness of thought ; he is averse to 
 exotic ideas, extravagant depiction, and inflammatory 
 language. His novels and tales contain the essential 
 qualities which attract and retain the reader. Some of 
 his works in chronological order, omitting two or three 
 novels, written when only twenty or twenty-one years 
 old, are: Pierrille, Histoirede Village (1863); Mademoi- 
 selle Cache-mire (1867); Un Assassin, also known under 
 the title Robert Burnt (1867); Madeleine Berlin, replete 
 with moderated sentiment, tender passion, and exquisite 
 scenes of social life (1868); Les Muscadins (1874, 2 
 vols.) ; Le Train No. 17 (1877) ; La Maison Vide (1878) ; 
 Le Troisieme dessous (1879); La Maitresse (1880); 
 Monsieur le Ministre (1882); Mceurs du Jour (1883); 
 Le Prince Zilah (1884), crowned by the Academy four 
 years before he was elected; Candidat! (1887); Puy- 
 
 [vii]
 
 PREFACE 
 
 joli (1890); U Americaine (1892); La Fr ontiere (1894); 
 Mariage Manque (1894); Divette (1896); UAccusateur 
 (1897), and others. 
 
 It is, perhaps, interesting to know that after the flight 
 of the Imperial family from the Tuileries, Jules Claretie 
 was appointed to put into order the various papers, 
 documents, and letters left behind in great chaos, 
 and to publish them, if advisable. 
 
 Very numerous and brilliant have also been the 
 incursions of Jules Claretie into the theatrical domain, 
 though he is a better novelist than playwright. He 
 was appointed director of the Comedie Francaise in 
 1885. His best known dramas and comedies are: La 
 Famille de Gueux, in collaboration with Delia Gattina 
 (Ambigu, 1869); Raymond Lindey (Menus Plaisirs, 
 1869, forbidden for some time by French censorship); 
 Les Muscadins (Theatre Historique, 1874); Un Pere 
 (with Adrien Decourcelle, Gymnase, 1874); Le Regi- 
 ment de Champagne (Theatre Historique, 1877); Mon- 
 sieur le Ministre, together with Dumas fits and Busnach 
 (Gymnase, 1883); and Prince Zilah (Gymnase, 1885). 
 
 Some of them, as will be noticed, are adapted to 
 the stage from his novels. In Le Regiment de Cham- 
 pagne, at least, he has written a little melodramatically. 
 But thanks to the battles, fumes of powder, muskets, 
 and cannons upon the stage the descendants of Jean 
 Chauvin accept it with frenetic applause. In most of the 
 plays, however, he exhibits a rather nervous talent, rich 
 imagination, and uses very scintillating and picturesque 
 language, if he is inclined to do so and he is very 
 often inclined. He received the "Prix Vitet" in 
 
 [viii]
 
 PREFACE 
 
 1879 from the Academy for Le Drapeau. Despite 
 our unlimited admiration for Claretie the journalist, 
 Claretie the historian, Claretie the dramatist, and 
 Claretie the art-critic, we think his novels conserve a 
 precious and inexhaustible mine for the Faguets and 
 Lansons of the twentieth century, who, while frequently 
 utilizing him for the exemplification of the art of fiction, 
 will salute him as "Le Roi de la Romance." 
 
 de l'Acade"mie Francaise. 
 
 ["1
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 PAGE 
 
 THE BETROTHAL FETE i 
 
 CHAPTER II 
 THE BARONESS'S MATCHMAKING 9 
 
 CHAPTER HI 
 THE STORY OF THE ZILAHS 16 
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 "WHEN HUNGARY is FREE!" 23 
 
 CHAPTER V 
 "MY FATHER WAS A RUSSIAN!" 29 
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 A GYPSY PRINCESS ; 40 
 
 CHAPTER Vn 
 THE STORY OF MARSA 47 
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 "HAVE I NO RIGHT TO BE HAPPY?" ...... 57 
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 "O LIBERTY! O LOVE! THESE Two I NEED!" ... 68 
 
 CHAPTER X 
 < ( Js FATE so JUST?" ........... 75
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 CHAPTER XI 
 
 PAGE 
 
 A RIVER FETE 83 
 
 CHAPTER XII 
 A DARK PAGE 92 
 
 CHAPTER XIH 
 "Mv LETTERS OR MYSELF" 108 
 
 CHAPTER XIV 
 "HAVE I THE RIGHT TO LIE?" 116 
 
 CHAPTER XV 
 "As CLINGS THE LEAF UNTO THE TREE" 128 
 
 CHAPTER XVI 
 "!T is A MAN THEY ARE DEVOURING!" 138 
 
 CHAPTER XVH 
 MARSA'S GUARDIANS 142 
 
 CHAPTER XVm 
 "THERE is NO NEED OF ACCUSING ANYONE" .... 149 
 
 CHAPTER XLX 
 "A BEAUTIFUL DREAM" 151 
 
 CHAPTER XX 
 THE BRIDAL DAY 161 
 
 CHAPTER XXI 
 "THE TZIGANA is THE MOST LOVED OF ALL!" ... 168 
 
 CHAPTER XXH 
 A DREAM SHATTERED 174
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 CHAPTER XXIH 
 
 PAGE 
 
 "THE WORLD HOLDS BUT ONE FAIR MAIDEN" . . .184 
 
 CHAPTER XXIV 
 A LITTLE PARISIAN ROMANCE 192 
 
 CHAPTER XXV 
 THE HOME OF "PUCK" 206 
 
 CHAPTER XXVI 
 "AM I AVENGED?" 224 
 
 CHAPTER XXVII 
 "WHAT MATTERS IT How MUCH WE SUFFER?" ... 236 
 
 CHAPTER XXVEH 
 THE STRICKEN SOUL 238 
 
 CHAPTER XXIX 
 "LET THE DEAD PAST BURY ITS DEAD" 253 
 
 CHAPTER XXX 
 "To SEEK FORGETFULNESS " 264 
 
 CHAPTER XXXE 
 "IF MENKO WERE DEAD!" 274 
 
 CHAPTER XXXH 
 THE VALE OF VIOLETS 285 
 
 CHAPTER XXXHI 
 THE DUEL 292 
 
 CHAPTER XXXTV 
 A NEW LIFE 30* 
 
 [xiiij
 
 ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 FACING PACK 
 
 Jules Claretie (portrait) Frontispiece 
 
 "Now? Now?" demanded Andras 66 
 
 It seemed to her that the hated past was a bad dream. . .162
 
 XCUSE me, Monsieur, but pray tell me 
 what vessel that is over there." 
 
 The question was addressed to a 
 small, dark man, who, leaning upon the 
 parapet of the Quai des Tuileries, was 
 rapidly writing in a note-book with a 
 large combination pencil, containing a 
 knife, a pen, spare leads, and a paper- 
 cutter all the paraphernalia of a reporter accustomed 
 to the expeditions of itinerant journalism. 
 
 When he had filled, in his running hand, a leaf of the 
 book, the little man tore it hastily off, and extended it to 
 a boy in dark blue livery with silver buttons, bearing 
 the initial of the newspaper, UActualite; and then, still 
 continuing to write, he replied : 
 
 "Prince Andras Zilah is giving a ]Ue on board one 
 of the boats belonging to the Compagnie de la Seine." 
 "A fete? Why?" 
 
 "To celebrate his approaching marriage, Monsieur." 
 "Prince Andras! Ah!" said the first speaker, as if 
 he knew the name well; "Prince Andras is to be mar- 
 ried, is he? And who does Prince Andras Zil"
 
 JULES CLARETIE 
 
 "Zilah! He is a Hungarian, Monsieur." 
 
 The reporter appeared to be in a hurry, and, handing 
 another leaf to the boy, he said: 
 
 "Wait here a moment. I am going on board, and I 
 will send you the rest of the list of guests by a sailor. 
 They can prepare the article from what you have, and 
 set it up in advance, and I will come myself to the office 
 this evening and make the necessary additions." 
 
 "Very well, Monsieur Jacquemin." 
 
 "And don't lose any of the leaves." 
 
 "Oh, Monsieur Jacquemin ! I never lose anything ! " 
 
 "They will have some difficulty, perhaps, in reading 
 the names they are all queer; but I shall correct the 
 proof myself." 
 
 "Then, Monsieur," asked the lounger again, eager to 
 obtain all the information he could, "those people who 
 are going on board are almost all foreigners?" 
 
 "Yes, Monsieur; yes, Monsieur; yes, Monsieur!" 
 responded Jacquemin, visibly annoyed. "There are 
 many foreigners in the city, very many; and I prefer 
 them, myself, to the provincials of Paris." 
 
 The other did not seem to understand; but he smiled, 
 thanked the reporter, and strolled away from the para- 
 pet, telling all the people he met: "It is a fete! Prince 
 Andras, a Hungarian, is about to be married. Prince 
 Andras Zilah! A fete on board a steamer! What a 
 droll idea!" 
 
 Others, equally curious, leaned over the Quai des 
 Tuileries and watched the steamer, whose tricolor flag 
 at the stern, and red streamers at the mastheads, floated 
 with gay flutterings in the fresh morning breeze. The 
 
 [2]
 
 PRINCE ZILAH 
 
 boat was ready to start, its decks were waxed, its benches 
 covered with brilliant stuffs, and great masses of azaleas 
 and roses gave it the appearance of a garden or con- 
 servatory. There was something highly attractive to 
 the loungers on the quay in the gayly decorated steamer, 
 sending forth long puffs of white smoke along the bank. 
 A band of dark-complexioned musicians, clad in red 
 trousers, black waistcoats heavily embroidered in som- 
 bre colors, and round fur caps, played odd airs upon the 
 deck; while bevies of laughing women, almost all pretty 
 in their light summer gowns, alighted from coupes and 
 barouches, descended the flight of steps leading to the 
 river, and crossed the plank to the boat, with little co- 
 quettish graces and studied raising of the skirts, allow- 
 ing ravishing glimpses of pretty feet and ankles. The 
 defile of merry, witty Parisiennes, with their attendant 
 cavaliers, while the orchestra played the passionate notes 
 of the Hungarian czardas, resembled some vision of a 
 painter, some embarkation for the dreamed-of Cythera, 
 realized by the fancy of an artist, a poet, or a great lord, 
 here in nineteenth-century Paris, close to the bridge, 
 across which streamed, like a living antithesis, the real- 
 ism of crowded cabs, full omnibuses, and hurrying foot- 
 passengers. 
 
 Prince Andras Zilah had invited his friends, this July 
 morning, to a breakfast in the open air, before the mov- 
 ing panorama of the banks of the Seine. 
 
 Very well known in Parisian society, which he had 
 sought eagerly with an evident desire to be diverted, 
 like a man who wishes to forget, the former defender of 
 Hungarian independence, the son of old Prince Zilah 
 
 [3]
 
 JULES GLARETIE 
 
 Sandor, who was the last, in 1849, to hold erect the tat- 
 tered standard of his country, had been prodigal of his 
 invitations, summoning to his side his few intimate 
 friends, the sharers of his solitude and his privacy, and 
 also the greater part of those chance fugitive acquaint- 
 ances which the life of Paris inevitably gives, and which 
 are blown away as lightly as they appeared, in a breath 
 of air or a whirlwind. 
 
 Count Yanski Varhely, the oldest, strongest, and most 
 devoted friend of all those who surrounded the Prince, 
 knew very well why this fanciful idea had come to An- 
 dras. At forty-four, the Prince was bidding farewell to 
 his bachelor life: it was no folly, and Yanski saw with 
 delight that the ancient race of the Zilahs, from time 
 immemorial servants of patriotism and the right, was 
 not to be extinct with Prince Andras. Hungary, whose 
 future seemed brightening, needed the Zilahs in the 
 future as she had needed them in the past. 
 
 " I have only one objection to make to this marriage," 
 said Varhely; " it should have taken place sooner." But 
 a man can not command his heart to love at a given 
 hour. When very young, Andras Zilah had cared for 
 scarcely anything but his country; and, far from her, in 
 the bitterness of exile, he had returned to the passion of 
 his youth, living in Paris only upon memories of his 
 Hungary. He had allowed year after year to roll by, 
 without thinking of establishing a home of his own by 
 marriage. A little late, but with heart still warm, his 
 spirit young and ardent, and his body strengthened 
 rather than worn out by life, Prince Andras gave to a 
 woman's keeping his whole being, his soul with his name, 
 
 [4]
 
 PRINCE ZILAH 
 
 the one as great as the other. He was about to marry a 
 girl of his own choice, whom he loved romantically; and 
 he wished to give a surrounding of poetic gayety to this 
 farewell to the past, this greeting to the future. The 
 men of his race, in days gone by, had always displayed a 
 gorgeous, almost Oriental originality: the generous ec- 
 centricities of one of Prince Andras's ancestors, the old 
 Magyar Zilah, were often cited ; he it was who made this 
 answer to his stewards, when, figures in hand, they 
 proved to him, that, if he would farm out to some Eng- 
 lish or German company the cultivation of his wheat, 
 corn, and oats, he would increase his revenue by about 
 six hundred thousand francs a year: 
 
 "But shall I make these six hundred thousand francs 
 from the nourishment of our laborers, farmers, sowers, 
 and gleaners ? No, certainly not ; I would no more take 
 that money from the poor fellows than I would take the 
 scattered grains from the birds of the air." 
 
 It was also this grandfather of Andras, Prince Zilah 
 Ferency, who, when he had lost at cards the wages of 
 two hundred masons for an entire year, employed these 
 men in constructing chateaux, which he burned down at 
 the end of the year to give himself the enjoyment of fire- 
 works upon picturesque ruins. 
 
 The fortune of the Zilahs was then on a par with 
 the almost fabulous, incalculable wealth of the Ester- 
 hazys and Batthyanyis. Prince Paul Esterhazy alone 
 possessed three hundred and fifty square leagues of ter- 
 ritory in Hungary. The Zichys, the Karolyis and the 
 Szchenyis, poorer, had but two hundred at this time, 
 when only six hundred families were proprietors of six 
 
 [5]
 
 JULES CLARETIE 
 
 thousand acres of Hungarian soil, the nobles of Great 
 Britain possessing not more than five thousand in Eng- 
 land. The Prince of Lichtenstein entertained for a 
 week the Emperor of Austria, his staff an.d his army. 
 Old Ferency Zilah would have done as much if he had 
 not always cherished a profound, glowing, militant 
 hatred of Austria : never had the family of the magnate 
 submitted to Germany, become the master, any more 
 than it had bent the knee in former times to the con- 
 quering Turk. 
 
 From his ancestors Prince Andras inherited, therefore, 
 superb liberality, with a fortune greatly diminished by all 
 sorts of losses and misfortunes half of it confiscated by 
 Austria in 1849, and enormous sums expended for the 
 national cause, Hungarian emigrants and proscribed 
 compatriots. Zilah nevertheless remained very rich, 
 and was an imposing figure in Paris, where, some years 
 before, after long journeyings, he had taken up his 
 abode. 
 
 The little fete given for his friends on board the Pa- 
 risian steamer was a trifling matter to the descendant of 
 the magnificent Magyars; but still there was a certain 
 charm about the affair, and it was a pleasure for the 
 Prince to see upon the garden-like deck the amusing, 
 frivolous, elegant society, which was the one he mingled 
 with, but which he towered above from the height of his 
 great intelligence, his conscience, and his convictions. 
 It was a mixed and bizarre society, of different national- 
 ities; an assemblage of exotic personages, such as are 
 met with only in Paris in certain peculiar places where 
 aristocracy touches Bohemianism, and nobles mingle 
 
 [6]
 
 PRINCE ZILAH 
 
 with quasi-adventurers; a kaleidoscopic society, grafting 
 its vices upon Parisian follies, coming to inhale the 
 aroma and absorb the poison of Paris, adding thereto 
 strange intoxications, and forming, in the immense ag- 
 glomeration of the old French city, a sort of peculiar 
 syndicate, an odd colony, which belongs to Paris, but 
 which, however, has nothing of Paris about it except its 
 eccentricities, which drive post-haste through life, fill 
 the little journals with its great follies, is found and 
 found again wherever Paris overflows at Dieppe, 
 Trouville, Vichy, Cauteret, upon the sands of Etretat, 
 under the orange-trees of Nice, or about the gaming 
 tables of Monaco, according to the hour, season, and 
 fashion. 
 
 This was the sort of assemblage which, powdered, 
 perfumed, exquisitely dressed, invaded, with gay laugh- 
 ter and nervous desire to be amused, the boat chartered 
 by the Prince. Above, pencil in hand, the little dark 
 man with the keen eyes, black, pointed beard and waxed 
 moustache, continued to take down, as the cortege defiled 
 before him, the list of the invited guests: and upon the 
 leaves fell, briskly traced, names printed a hundred 
 times a day in Parisian chronicles among the reports of 
 the races of first representations at the theatres; names 
 with Slav, Latin, or Saxon terminations; Italian names, 
 Spanish, Hungarian, American names; each of which 
 represented fortune, glory, power, sometimes scandal- 
 one of those imported scandals which break out in Paris 
 as the trichinae of foreign goods are hatched there. 
 
 The reporter wrote on, wrote ever, tearing off and 
 handing to the page attached to UActualite the last 
 
 [7]
 
 JULES CLARETIE 
 
 leaves of his list, whereon figured Yankee generals of the 
 War of the Rebellion, Italian princesses, American girls 
 flirting with everything that wore trousers; ladies who, 
 rivals of Prince Zilah in wealth, owned whole counties 
 somewhere in England ; great Cuban lords, compromised 
 in the latest insurrections and condemned to death in 
 Spain; Peruvian statesmen, publicists, and military 
 chiefs at once, masters of the tongue, the pen, and the 
 revolver; a crowd of originals, even a Japanese, an ele- 
 gant young man, dressed in the latest fashion, with a 
 heavy sombrero which rested upon his straight, inky- 
 black hair, and which every minute or two he took off 
 and placed under his left arm, to salute the people of his 
 acquaintance with low bows in the most approved French 
 manner. 
 
 All these odd people, astonishing a little and interest- 
 ing greatly the groups of Parisians gathered above on 
 the sidewalks, crossed the gangway leading to the boat, 
 and, spreading about on the deck, gazed at the banks 
 and the houses, or listened to the czardas which the 
 Hungarian musicians were playing with a sort of savage 
 frenzy beneath the French tricolor united to the three 
 colors of their own country. 
 
 The Tzigani thus saluted the embarkation of the 
 guests; and the clear, bright sunshine enveloped the 
 whole boat with a golden aureole, joyously illuminating 
 the scene of feverish gayety and childish laughter. 
 
 [8]
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 THE BARONESS'S MATCHMAKING 
 
 [E PRINCE ZILAH met his guests 
 with easy grace, on the deck in front 
 of the foot-bridge. He had a pleasant 
 word for each one as they came on 
 board, happy and smiling at the idea of 
 a breakfast on the deck of a steamer, a 
 novel amusement which made these 
 insatiable pleasure-seekers forget the 
 fashionable restaurants and the conventional receptions 
 of every day. 
 
 "What a charming thought this was of yours, Prince; 
 so unexpected, so Parisian, ah, entirely Parisian!" 
 
 In almost the same words did each newcomer ad- 
 dress the Prince, who smiled, and repeated a phrase from 
 Jacquemin's chronicles: "Foreigners are more Parisian 
 than the Parisians themselves." 
 
 A smile lent an unexpected charm to the almost severe 
 features of the host. His usual expression was rather 
 sad, and a trifle haughty. His forehead was broad and 
 high, the forehead of a thinker and a student rather than 
 that of a soldier; his eyes were of a deep, clear blue, 
 looking directly at everything; his nose was straight and 
 regular, and his beard and moustache were blond, 
 slightly gray at the corners of the mouth and the chin. 
 His whole appearance, suggesting, as it did, reserved 
 
 [9]
 
 JULES CLARETIE 
 
 strength and controlled passion, pleased all the more be- 
 cause, while commanding respect, it attracted sympathy: 
 beneath the powerful exterior, you felt there was a tender 
 kindliness of heart. 
 
 There was no need for the name of Prince Andras 
 Zilah or, as they say in Hungary, Zilah Andras to 
 have been written in characters of blood in the history 
 of his country, for one to divine the hero in him: his 
 erect figure, the carriage of his head, braving life as it had 
 defied the bullets of the enemy, the strange brilliance of 
 his gaze, the sweet inflections of his voice accustomed to 
 command, and the almost caressing gestures of his hand 
 used to the sword all showed the good man under the 
 brave, and, beneath the indomitable soldier, the true 
 gentleman. 
 
 When they had shaken the hand of their host, the 
 guests advanced to the bow of the boat to salute a young 
 girl, an exquisite, pale brunette, with great, sad eyes, and 
 a smile of infinite charm, who was half -extended in a 
 low armchair beneath masses of brilliant parti-colored 
 flowers. A stout man, of the Russian type, with heavy 
 reddish moustaches streaked with gray, and an apoplec- 
 tic neck, stood by her side, buttoned up in his frock-coat 
 as in a military uniform. 
 
 Every now and then, leaning over and brushing with 
 his moustaches her delicate white ear, he would ask : 
 
 "Are you happy, Marsa?" 
 
 And Marsa would answer with a smile ending in a 
 sigh, as she vaguely contemplated the scene before her: 
 
 "Yes, uncle, very happy." 
 
 Not far from these two was a little woman, still very
 
 PRINCE ZILAH 
 
 pretty, although of a certain age the age of embon- 
 point a brunette, with very delicate features, a little 
 sensual mouth, and pretty rosy ears peeping forth from 
 skilfully arranged masses of black hair. With a plump, 
 dimpled hand, she held before her myopic eyes a pair of 
 gold-mounted glasses; and she was speaking to a man 
 of rather stern aspect, with a Slav physiognomy, a large 
 head, crowned with a mass of crinkly hair as white as 
 lamb's wool, a long, white moustache, and shoulders as 
 broad as an ox; a man already old, but with the robust 
 strength of an oak. He was dressed neither well nor 
 ill, lacking distinction, but without vulgarity. 
 
 " Indeed, my dear Varhely, I am enchanted with this 
 idea of Prince Andras. I am enjoying myself exces- 
 sively already, and I intend to enjoy myself still more. 
 Do you know, this scheme of a breakfast on the water is 
 simply delightful ! Don't you find it so ? Oh! do be a 
 little jolly, Varhely!" 
 
 "Do I seem sad, then, Baroness?" 
 
 Yanski Varhely, the friend of Prince Andras, was very 
 happy, however, despite his rather sombre air. He 
 glanced alternately at the little woman who addressed 
 him, and at Marsa, two very different types of beauty: 
 Andras's fiancee, slender and pale as a beautiful lily, and 
 the little Baroness Dinati, round and rosy as a ripe peach. 
 And he was decidedly pleased with this Marsa Laszlo, 
 against whom he had instinctively felt some prejudice 
 when Zilah spoke to him for the first time of marrying 
 her. To make of a Tzigana for Marsa was half Tzi- 
 gana a Princess Zilah, seemed to Count Varhely a 
 slightly bold resolution, The brave old soldier had
 
 JULES CLARETIE 
 
 never understood much of the fantastic caprices of pas- 
 sion, and Andras seemed to him in this, as in all other 
 things, just a little romantic. But, after all, the Prince 
 was his own master, and whatever a Zilah did was well 
 done. So, after reflection, Zilah's marriage became a 
 joy to Varhely, as he had just been declaring to the 
 fiancee's uncle, General Vogotzine. 
 
 Baroness Dinati was therefore wrong to suspect old 
 Yanski Varhely of any arriere-pensee. How was it 
 possible for him not to be enchanted, when he saw An- 
 dras absolutely beaming with happiness? 
 
 They were now about to depart, to raise the anchor 
 and glide down the river along the quays. Already 
 Paul Jacquemin, casting his last leaves to the page of 
 L'Actualite, was quickly descending the gangplank. 
 Zilah scarcely noticed him, for he uttered a veritable cry 
 of delight as he perceived behind the reporter a young 
 man whom he had not expected. 
 
 "Menko! My dear Michel!" he exclaimed, stretch- 
 ing out both hands to the newcomer, who advanced, 
 excessively pale. " By what happy chance do I see you, 
 my dear boy?" 
 
 "I heard in London that you were to give this fete. 
 The English newspapers had announced your marriage, 
 and I did not wish to wait longer I ." 
 
 He hesitated a little as he spoke, as if dissatisfied, 
 troubled, and a moment before (Zilah had not noticed 
 it) he had made a movement as if to go back to the quay 
 and leave the boat. 
 
 Michel Menko, however, had not the air of a timid 
 man. He was tall, thin, of graceful figure, a man of the 
 
 [12]
 
 PRINCE ZILAH 
 
 world, a military diplomat. For some reason or other, 
 at this moment, he exhibited a certain uneasiness in his 
 face, which ordinarily bore a rather brilliant color, but 
 which was now almost sallow. He was instinctively 
 seeking some one among the Prince's guests, and his 
 glance wandered about the deck with a sort of dull 
 anger. 
 
 Prince Andras saw only one thing in Menko's sudden 
 appearance; the young man, to whom he was deeply 
 attached, and who was the only relative he had in the 
 world (his maternal grandmother having been a Coun- 
 tess Menko), his dear Michel, would be present at his 
 marriage. He had thought Menko ill in London; but 
 the latter appeared before him, and the day was decid- 
 edly a happy one. 
 
 "How happy you make me, my dear fellow!" he said 
 to him in a tone of affection which was almost paternal. 
 
 Each demonstration of friendship by the Prince 
 seemed to increase the young Count's embarrassment. 
 Beneath a polished manner, the evidence of an imperi- 
 ous temperament appeared in the slightest glance, the 
 least gesture, of this handsome fellow of twenty-seven or 
 twenty-eight years. Seeing him pass by, one could 
 easily imagine him with his fashionable clothes cast 
 aside, and, clad in the uniform of the Hungarian hus- 
 sars, with closely shaven chin, and moustaches brushed 
 fiercely upward, manoeuvring his horse on the Prater 
 with supple grace and nerves like steel. 
 
 Menko's gray eyes, with blue reflections in them, 
 which made one think of the reflection of a storm in a 
 placid lake, became sad when calm, but were full of
 
 JULES CLARETIE 
 
 a threatening light when animated. The gaze of the 
 young man had precisely this aggressive look when he 
 discovered, half hidden among the flowers, Marsa seated 
 in the bow of the boat; then, almost instantaneously a 
 singular expression of sorrow or anguish succeeded, only 
 in its turn to fade away with the rapidity of the light of a 
 falling star; and there was perfect calm in Menko's atti- 
 tude and expression when Prince Zilah said to him: 
 
 "Come, Michel, let me present you to my fiancee. 
 Varhely is there also." 
 
 And, taking Menko's arm, he led him toward Marsa. 
 "See," he said to the young girl, "my happiness is com- 
 plete." 
 
 She, as Michel Menko bowed low before her, coldly 
 and almost imperceptibly inclined her dark head, while 
 her large eyes, under the shadow of their heavy lashes, 
 seemed vainly trying to meet the gray eyes of the young 
 man. 
 
 Andras beckoned Varhely to come to Marsa, who was 
 white as marble, and said softly, with a hand on the 
 shoulder of each of the two friends, who represented to 
 him his whole life Varhely, the past; Michel Menko, 
 his recovered youth and the future. 
 
 "If it were not for that stupid superstition which for- 
 bids one to proclaim his happiness, I should tell you how 
 happy I am, very happy. Yes, the happiest of men," 
 he added. 
 
 Meanwhile, the little Baroness Dinati, the pretty bru- 
 nette, who had just found Varhely a trifle melancholy, 
 had turned to Paul Jacquemin, the accredited reporter 
 of her salon, 
 
 EH)
 
 PRINCE ZILAH 
 
 "That happiness, Jacquemin," she said, with a proud 
 wave of the hand, " is my work. Without me, those two 
 charming savages, so well suited to each other, Marsa 
 and Andras Zilah, would never have met. On what 
 does happiness depend!" 
 
 "On an invitation card engraved by Stern," laughed 
 Jacquemin. "But you have said too much, Baroness. 
 You must tell me the whole story. Think what an arti- 
 cle it would make : The Baroness's Matchmaking ! The 
 romance! Quick, the romance! The romance, or 
 death!" 
 
 "You have no idea how near you are to the truth, my 
 dear Jacquemin: it is indeed a romance; and, what is 
 more, a romantic romance. A romance which has no 
 resemblance to you have invented the word those 
 brutalistic stories which you are so fond of." 
 
 "Which I am very fond of, Baroness, I confess, espe- 
 cially when they are just a little you know!" 
 
 "But this romance of Prince Andras is by no means 
 just a little you know ! It is how shall I express it ? 
 It is epic, heroic, romantic what you will. I will relate 
 it to you." 
 
 "It will sell fifty thousand copies of our paper," gayly 
 exclaimed Jacquemin, opening his ears, and taking 
 notes mentally. 
 
 [15]
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 JNDRAS ZILAH, Transylvanian Count 
 and Prince of the Holy Empire, was 
 one of those heroes who devote their 
 whole lives to one aim, and, when they 
 love, love always. 
 
 Born for action, for chivalrous and 
 incessant struggle, he had sacrificed his 
 first youth to battling for his country, 
 "The Hungarian was created on horseback," says a 
 proverb, and Andras did not belie the saying. In '48, 
 at the age of fifteen, he was in the saddle, charging the 
 Croatian hussars, the red-cloaks, the terrible dark- 
 skinned Ottochan horsemen, uttering frightful yells, and 
 brandishing their big damascened guns. It seemed then 
 to young Andras that he was assisting at one of the 
 combats of the Middle Ages, during one of those revolts 
 against the Osmanlis, of which he had heard so much 
 when a child. 
 
 In the old castle, with towers painted red in the 
 ancient fashion, where he was born and had grown up, 
 Andras, like all the males of his family and his country, 
 had been imbued with memories of the old wars. A 
 few miles from his father's domain rose the Castle of the 
 Isle, which, in the middle of the sixteenth century, 
 
 [16]
 
 PRINCE ZILAH 
 
 Zringi had defended against the Turks, displaying lofty 
 courage and unconquerable audacity, and forcing Soli- 
 man the Magnificent to leave thirty thousand soldiers 
 beneath the walls, the Sultan himself dying before he 
 could subjugate the Hungarian. Often had Andras's 
 father, casting his son upon a horse, set out, followed by 
 a train of cavaliers, for Mohacz, where the Mussulmans 
 had once overwhelmed the soldiers of young King Louis, 
 who died with his own family and every Hungarian 
 who was able to carry arms. Prince Zilah related to 
 the little fellow, who listened to him with burning tears 
 of rage, the story of the days of mourning and the terri- 
 ble massacres which no Hungarian has ever forgotten. 
 Then he told him of the great revolts, the patriotic up- 
 risings, the exploits of Botzkai, Bethlen Gabor, or Ra- 
 koczy, whose proud battle hymn made the blood surge 
 through the veins of the little prince. 
 
 Once at Buda, the father had taken the son to the 
 spot, where, in 1795, fell the heads of noble Hungarians, 
 accused of republicanism ; and he said to him, as the boy 
 stood with uncovered head: 
 
 "This place is called the Field of Blood. Martino- 
 witz was beheaded here for his faith. Remember, that 
 a man's life belongs to his duty, and not to his happi- 
 ness." 
 
 And when he returned to the great sombre halls of the 
 castle, whence in bygone days the Turks had driven out 
 his ancestors, and whence, in their turn, throwing off the 
 yoke of the conquerors, his ancestors had driven out the 
 Turks, little Prince Andras found again examples before 
 him in the giants in semi-oriental costumes, glittering in 
 
 2 [17]
 
 JULES CLARETIE 
 
 steel or draped in purple, who looked down upon him 
 from their frames; smoke-blackened paintings wherein 
 the eagle eyes and long moustaches of black hussars, con- 
 temporaries of Sobieski, or magnates in furred robes, 
 with aigrettes in their caps, and curved sabres garnished 
 with precious stones and enamel, attracted and held 
 spellbound the silent child, while through the window 
 floated in, sung by some shepherd, or played by wander- 
 ing Tzigani, the refrain of the old patriotic ballad Czaty 
 Demeter, the origin of which is lost in the mist of ages : 
 
 Remember, oh, yes/ remember our ancestors! Brave, proud Mag- 
 yars, when you left the land of the Scythians, brave ancestors, great 
 forefathers, you did not suspect that your sons would be slaves! Re- 
 member, oh, yes! remember our ancestors! 
 
 Andras did remember them, and he knew by heart 
 their history. He knew the heroism of Prinee Zilah 
 Sandor falling in Mohacz in 1566 beside his wife Hanska 
 who had followed him, leaving in the cradle her son 
 Janski, whose grandson, Zilah Janos, in 1867, at the 
 very place where his ancestor had been struck, sabred 
 the Turks, crying: "Sandor and Hanska, look down 
 upon me; your blood avenges you!" 
 
 There was not one of those men, whose portraits fol- 
 lowed the child with their black eyes, who was not re- 
 corded in the history of his country for some startling 
 deed or noble sacrifice. All had fought for Hungary: 
 the greater part had died for her. There was a saying 
 that the deathbed of the Zilahs was a bloody battle- 
 ground. When he offered his name and his life to 
 Maria Theresa, one of the Zilah princes had said proudly 
 
 [18]
 
 PRINCE ZILAH 
 
 to the Empress: "You demand of the Hungarians gold, 
 they bring you steel. The gold was to nourish your 
 courtiers, the steel will be to save your crown. For- 
 ward!" These terrible ancestors were, besides, like all 
 the magnates of Hungary, excessively proud of their no- 
 bility and their patriarchal system of feudalism. They 
 knew how to protect their peasants, who were trained 
 soldiers, how to fight for them, and how to die at their 
 head; but force seemed to them supreme justice, and 
 they asked nothing but their sword with which to defend 
 their right. Andras's father, Prince Sandor, educated by 
 a French tutor who had been driven from Paris by the 
 Revolution, was the first of all his family to form any 
 perception of a civilization based upon justice and law, 
 and not upon the almighty power of the sabre. The 
 liberal education which he had received, Prince Sandor 
 transmitted to his son. The peasants, who detested the 
 pride of the Magyars, and the middle classes of the 
 cities, mostly tradesmen who envied the castles of these 
 magnates, soon became attracted, fascinated, and en- 
 raptured with this transformation in the ancient family 
 of the Zilahs. No man, not even Georgei, the Spartan- 
 like soldier, nor the illustrious Kossuth, was more popu- 
 lar in 1849, at the time of the struggle against Austria, 
 than Prince Sandor Zilah and his son, then a handsome 
 boy of sixteen, but strong and well built as a youth of 
 twenty. 
 
 At this youthful age, Andras Zilah had been one of 
 those magnates, who, the kalpach on the head, the na- 
 tional attila over the shoulder and the hand upon the 
 hilt of the sword, had gone to Vienna to plead before 
 
 [19]
 
 JULES CLARETIE 
 
 the Emperor the cause of Hungary. They were not 
 listened to, and one evening, the negotiations proving 
 futile, Count Batthyanyi said to Jellachich: 
 
 "We shall soon meet again upon the Drave!" 
 
 "No," responded the Ban of Croatia, "I will go my- 
 self to seek you upon the Danube!" 
 
 This was war; and Prince Sandor went, with his son, 
 to fight bravely for the old kingdom of St. Stephen 
 against the cannon and soldiers of Jellachich. 
 
 All these years of blood and battle were now half 
 forgotten by Prince Andras; but often Yanski Varhely, 
 his companion of those days of hardship, the bold soldier 
 who in former times had so often braved the broad- 
 sword of the Bohemian cuirassiers of Auersperg's regi- 
 ment, would recall to him the past with a mournful 
 shake of the head, and repeat, ironically, the bitter re- 
 frain of the song of defeat: 
 
 Dance, dance, daughters of Hungary! 
 Tread now the measure so long delayed. 
 Murdered our sons by the shot or the hangman! 
 In this land of pleasure, oh! be not dismayed; 
 Now is the time, brown daughters of Hungary, 
 To dance to the measure of true hearts betrayed! 
 
 And then, these melancholy words calling up the 
 memory of disaster, all would revive before Andras Zi- 
 lah's eyes the days of mourning and the days of glory; 
 the exploits of Bern; the victories of Dembiski; the Aus- 
 trian flags taken at Goedollce; the assaults of Buda; 
 the defence of Comorn; Austria, dejected and defeated, 
 imploring the aid of Russia; Hungary, beaten by the 
 
 [20]
 
 PRINCE ZILAH 
 
 force of numbers, yet resisting Paskiewich as she had 
 resisted Haynau, and appealing to Europe and the 
 world in the name of the eternal law of nations, which 
 the vanquished invoke, but which is never listened to 
 by the countries where the lion is tearing his prey. And 
 again, Zilah would remember the heroic fatherland 
 struck down at Temesvar; the remnants of an armed 
 people in refuge at Arad; and Klapka still holding out 
 in the island of Comorn at the moment when Georgei 
 had surrendered. Then, again, the obscure deaths of 
 his comrades; the agonies in the ditches and in the 
 depths of the woods; the last despairing cries of a con- 
 quered people overwhelmed by numbers: 
 
 Dance, dance, daughters of Hungary! 
 
 All this bloody past, enveloped as in a crimson cloud, 
 but glorious with its gleams of hope and its flashes of 
 victory, the Prince would revive with old Varhely, in the 
 corner of whose eye at intervals a tear would glisten. 
 
 They both saw again the last days of Comorn, with 
 the Danube at the foot of the walls, and the leaves of the 
 trees whirling in the September wind, and dispersed like 
 the Hungarians themselves; and the shells falling upon 
 the ramparts; and the last hours of the siege; and the 
 years of mournful sadness and exile; their companions 
 decimated, imprisoned, led to the gallows or the stake ; 
 the frightful silence and ruin falling like a winding-sheet 
 over Hungary; the houses deserted, the fields laid waste, 
 and the country, fertile yesterday, covered now with 
 those Muscovite thistles, which were unknown in Hun- 
 gary before the year of massacre, and the seeds of which 
 
 [21]
 
 JULES CLARETIE 
 
 the Cossack horses had imported in their thick manes 
 and tails. 
 
 Beloved Hungary, whose sons, disdaining the uni- 
 verse, used proudly to boast: "Have we not all that man 
 needs? Banat, which gives us wheat; Tisza, wine; the 
 mountain, gold and salt. Our country is sufficient for 
 her children!" And this country, this fruitful country, 
 was now covered with gibbets and corpses. 
 
 [22]
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 "WHEN HUNGARY is FREE!" 
 
 F all these bitter memories Prince 
 Andras, in spite of the years that had 
 passed, kept ever in his mind one sad 
 and tragic event the burial of his 
 father, Sandor Zilah, who was shot in 
 the head by a bullet during an encounter 
 with the Croats early in the month of 
 January, 1849. 
 Prince Sandor was able to grasp the hand of his son, 
 and murmur in the ear of this hero of sixteen: 
 "Remember! Love and defend the fatherland!" 
 Then, as the Austrians were close at hand, it was nec- 
 essary to bury the Prince in a trench dug in the snow, at 
 the foot of a clump of fir-trees. 
 
 Some Hungarian honveds, bourgeois militia, and Var- 
 hely's hussars held at the edge of the black opening res- 
 inous torches, which the wintry wind shook like scarlet 
 plumes, and which stained the snow with great red spots 
 of light. Erect, at the head of the ditch, his fingers 
 grasping the hand of Yanski Varhely, young Prince An- 
 dras gazed upon the earthy bed, where, in his hussar's 
 uniform, lay Prince Sandor, his long blond moustache 
 falling over his closed mouth, his blood-stained hands 
 crossed upon his black embroidered vest, his right hand 
 still clutching the handle of his sabre, and on his fore- 
 
 [23]
 
 JULES CLARETIE 
 
 head, like a star, the round mark of the bit of lead that 
 had killed him. 
 
 Above, the whitened branches of the firs looked like 
 spectres, and upon the upturned face of the dead soldier 
 fell flakes of snow like congealed tears. Under the 
 flickering of the torch-flames, blown about by the north 
 wind, the hero seemed at times to move again, and a 
 wild desire came to Andras to leap down into the grave 
 and snatch away the body. He was an orphan now, 
 his mother having died when he was an infant, and he 
 was alone in the world, with only the stanch friendship 
 of Varhely and his duty to his country to sustain him. 
 
 "I will avenge you, father," he whispered to the pa- 
 triot, who could no longer hear his words. 
 
 The hussars and honveds had advanced, ready to fire 
 a final salvo over the grave of the Prince, when, sud- 
 denly, gliding between the ranks of the soldiers, ap- 
 peared a band of Tzigani, who began to play the March 
 of Rakoczy, the Hungarian Marseillaise, the stirring 
 melody pealing forth in the night-air, and lending a cer- 
 tain mysteriously touching element to the sad scene. 
 A quick shudder ran through the ranks of the soldiers, 
 ready to become avengers. 
 
 The national hymn rang out like a song of glory over 
 the resting-place of the vanquished. The soul of the 
 dead seemed to speak in the voice of the heroic music, 
 recalling to the harassed contestants for liberty the great 
 days of the revolts of the fatherland, the old memories 
 of the struggles against the Turks, the furious charges 
 of the cavaliers across the free puszta, the vast Hun- 
 garian plain. 
 
 [24]
 
 And while, With long sweeps of his arm, the chief of 
 the Tzigani marked the measure, and the czimbalom 
 poured forth its heartrending notes, it seemed to the 
 poor fellows gathered about that the music of the March 
 of Rakoczy summoned a whole fantastic squadron of 
 avengers, horsemen with floating pelisses and herons' 
 plumes in their hats, who, erect in their saddles and with 
 sabres drawn, struck, struck the frightened enemy, and 
 recovered, foot by foot, the conquered territory. There 
 was in this exalted march a sound of horses' hoofs, the 
 clash of arms, a shaking of the earth under the gallop 
 of horsemen, a flash of agraffes, a rustle of pelisses in the 
 wind, an heroic gayety and a chivalrous bravery, like 
 the cry of a whole people of cavaliers sounding the 
 charge of deliverance. 
 
 And the young Prince, gazing down upon his dead 
 father, remembered how many times those mute lips had 
 related to him the legend of the czardas, that legend, 
 symbolic of the history of Hungary, summing up all the 
 bitter pain of the conquest, when the beautiful dark girls 
 of Transylvania danced, their tears burning their cheeks, 
 under the lash of the Osmanlis. At first, cold and mo- 
 tionless, like statues whose calm looks silently insulted 
 their possessors, they stood erect beneath the eye of the 
 Turk; then little by little, the sting of the master's whip 
 falling Upon their shoulders and tearing their sides and 
 cheeks, their bodies twisted in painful, revolted spasms; 
 the flesh trembled under the cord like the muscles of a 
 horse beneath the spur; and, in the morbid exaltation of 
 suffering, a sort of wild delirium took possession of them, 
 their arms were waved in the air, their heads with hair
 
 JULES CLARETIE 
 
 dishevelled were thrown backward, and the captives, 
 uttering a sound at once plaintive and menacing, danced, 
 their dance, at first slow and melancholy, becoming 
 gradually active, nervous, and interrupted by cries 
 which resembled sobs. And the Hungarian czardas, 
 symbolizing thus the dance of these martyrs, kept still, 
 will always keep, the characteristic of contortions under 
 the lash of bygone days; and, slow and languishing at 
 first, then soon quick and agitated, tragically hysterical, 
 it also is interrupted by melancholy chords, dreary, 
 mournful notes and plaintive accents like drops of blood 
 from a wound from the mortal wound of Prince San- 
 dor, lying there in his martial uniform. 
 
 The bronzed Tzigani, fantastically illumined by the 
 red glare of the torches, stood out against the white back- 
 ground like demons of revenge; and the hymn, feverish, 
 bold, ardent, echoed through the snow-covered branches 
 like a hurricane of victory. They were wandering mu- 
 sicians, who, the evening before, had been discovered in 
 a neighboring village by some of Jellachich's Croats, and 
 whom Prince Sandor had unceremoniously rescued at 
 the head of his hussars; and they had come, with their 
 ancient national airs, the voice of their country, to pay 
 their debt to the fallen hero. 
 
 When they had finished, the wintry night-wind bear- 
 ing away the last notes of their war-song, the pistols of 
 the hussars and the guns of the honveds discharged a 
 salute over the grave. The earth and snow were shov- 
 elled in upon the body of Sandor Zilah, and Prince An- 
 dras drew away, after marking with a cross the place 
 where his father reposed. 
 
 [26]
 
 PRINCE ZILAH 
 
 A few paces away, he perceived, among the Tzigani 
 musicians, a young girl, the only woman of the tribe, 
 who wept with mournful sobbings like the echoes of 
 the deserts of the Orient. 
 
 He wondered why the girl wept so bitterly, when he, 
 the son, could not shed a tear. 
 
 "Because Prince Zilah Sandor was valiant among the 
 valiant," she replied, in answer to his question, "and he 
 died because he would not wear the talisman which I 
 offered him." 
 
 Andras looked at the girl. 
 
 "What talisman?" 
 
 "Some pebbles from the lakes of Tatra, sewn up in a 
 little leather bag." 
 
 Andras knew what a powerful superstition is attached 
 by the people of Hungary to these deep lakes of Tatra, 
 the " eyes of the sea," where, say theold legends, the most 
 beautiful carbuncle in the world lies hidden, a carbuncle 
 which would sparkle like the sun, if it could be discov- 
 ered, and which is guarded by frogs with diamond eyes 
 and with lumps of pure gold for feet. He felt more 
 touched than astonished at the superstition of the Tzig- 
 ana, and at the offer which, the evening before, Prince 
 Sandor had refused with a smile. 
 
 " Give me what you wished to give my father," he said. 
 "I will keep it in memory of him." 
 
 A bright, joyous light flashed for a moment across the 
 face of the Tzigana. She extended to the young Prince 
 the little bag of leather containing several small, round 
 pebbles like grains of maize. 
 
 "At all events," exclaimed the young girl, "there will 
 
 [27]
 
 JULES CLARETIE 
 
 be one Zilah whom the balls of the Croats will spate for 
 the safety of Hungary." 
 
 Andtas slowly detached from his shoulder the silver 
 agraffe, set with opals, which clasped his fur pelisse, and 
 handed it to the gypsy, who regarded it with admiring 
 eyes as it flashed in the red light. 
 
 "The day when my father is avenged," he said, "and 
 our Hungary is free, bring me this jewel, and you and 
 yours come to the castle of the Zilahs. I will give you 
 a life of peace in memory of this night of mourning." 
 
 Already, at a distance, could be heard a rapid fusil- 
 lade about the outposts. The Austrians had perhaps 
 perceived the light from the torches, and were attempt- 
 ing a night attack. 
 
 "Extinguish the torches!" cried Yanski Varhely. 
 
 The resinous knots hissed as they were thrust into the 
 snow, and the black, sinister night of winter, with the cries 
 of the wind in the branches, fell upon the troop of men, 
 ready to die as their chief had died ; and all disappeared 
 ^ vision, phantoms^-theTzigani silently taking refuge in 
 the sombre forest, while here and there could be heard the 
 rattle of the ramrods as the honveds loaded their guns. 
 
 This January night appeared now to Andras as an 
 almost fantastic dream. Since then he had erected a 
 mausoleum of marble on the very spot where Prince 
 Sandor fell; and of all the moments of that romantic, 
 picturesque war, the agonizing moment, the wild scene 
 of the burial of his father, was most vivid in his memory 
 the picture of the warrior stretched in the snow, his 
 hand on the handle of his sword, remained before his 
 eyes, imperishable in its melancholy majesty. 
 
 [28]
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 "MY FATHER WAS A AtJSSlAN!" 
 
 ;HEN the war was over, the Prince 
 roamed sadly for years about Europe 
 Europe, which, unmindful of the 
 martyrs, had permitted the massacre of 
 the vanquished . It was many year s be- 
 fore he could accustom himself to the 
 idea that he had no longer a country. 
 He counted always upon the future; it 
 was impossible that fate would forever be implacable to 
 a nation. He often repeated this to Yanski Varhely, 
 who had never forsaken him Yanski Varhely, the 
 impoverished old hussar, the ruined gentleman, now 
 professor of Latin and mathematics at Paris, and living 
 near the Prince off the product of his lessons and a small 
 remnant he had managed to save from the wreck of his 
 property. 
 
 "Hungary will spring up again, Yanski; Hungary is 
 immortal!" Andras would exclaim. 
 
 "Yes, on one condition," was Varhely's response. 
 "She must arrive at a comprehension that if she has 
 succumbed, it is because she has committed faults. All 
 defeats have their geneses. Before the enemy we were 
 not a unit, There were too many discussions, and not 
 enough action; such a state of affairs is always fatal*" 
 The years brought happy changes to Hungary. She
 
 JULES CLARETIE 
 
 practically regained her freedom; by her firmness she 
 made the conquest of her own autonomy by the side 
 of Austria. Deak's spirit, in the person of Andrassy, 
 recovered the possession of power. But neither Andras 
 nor Varhely returned to their country. The Prince had 
 become, as he himself said with a smile, "a Magyar of 
 Paris." He grew accustomed to the intellectual, re- 
 fined life of the French city; and this was a consolation, 
 at times, for the exile from his native land. 
 
 "It is not a difficult thing to become bewitched with 
 Paris," he would say,, as if to excuse himself. 
 
 He had no longer, it is true, the magnificent land- 
 scapes of his youth; the fields of maize, the steppes, 
 dotted here and there with clumps of wild roses; the 
 Carpathian pines, with their sombre murmur; and all 
 the evening sounds which had been his infancy's lullaby ; 
 the cowbells, melancholy and indistinct ; the snapping of 
 the great whips of the czikos; the mounted shepherds, 
 with their hussar jackets, crossing the plains where grew 
 the plants peculiar to the country; and the broad hori- 
 zons with the enormous arms of the windmills outlined 
 against the golden sunset. But Paris, with its ever- 
 varying seductions, its activity in art and science, its 
 perpetual movement, had ended by becoming a real need 
 to him, like a new existence as precious and as loved as 
 the first. The soldier had become a man of letters, 
 jotting down for himself, not for the public, all that 
 struck him in his observation and his reading; mingling 
 in all societies, knowing them all, but esteeming only 
 one, that of honest people; and thus letting the years pass 
 by, without suspecting that they were flying, regarding 
 
 [30] '
 
 himself somewhat as a man away on a visit, and sud- 
 denly awaking one fine morning almost old, wondering 
 how he had lived all this time of exile which, despite 
 many mental troubles, seemed to him to have lasted 
 only a few months. 
 
 " We resemble," he said to Varhely, " those emigrants 
 who never unpack their boxes, certain that they are soon 
 to return home. They wait, and some day, catching a 
 glimpse of themselves in a glass, they are amazed to find 
 wrinkles and gray hairs." 
 
 No longer having a home in his own country, Prince 
 Andras had never dreamed of making another abroad. 
 He hired the sumptuous hotel he inhabited at the top of 
 the Champs Elysees, when houses were rather scattered 
 there. Fashion, and the ascensional movement of Paris 
 toward the Arc de Triomphe, had come to seek him. 
 His house was rich in beautiful pictures and rare books, 
 and he sometimes received there his few real friends, his 
 companions in troublous times, like Varhely. He was 
 generally considered a little of a recluse, although he 
 loved society and showed himself, during the winter, at 
 all entertainments where, by virtue of his fame and rank, 
 he would naturally be expected to be present. But he 
 carried with him a certain melancholy and gravity, 
 which contrasted strongly with the frivolous trivialities 
 and meaningless smiles of our modern society. In the 
 summer, he usually passed two months at the seashore, 
 where Varhely frequently joined him; and upon the 
 leafy terrace of the Prince's villa the two friends had 
 long and confidential chats, as they watched the sun 
 sink into the sea.
 
 Andras had never thought of marrying* At first, he 
 had a sort of feeling that he was doomed to an early 
 death, ever expecting a renewal of the struggle with 
 Austria; and he thought at that time that the future 
 would bring to him his father's fate a ball in the fore- 
 head and a ditch, Then, without knowing it, he had 
 reached and passed his fortieth year. 
 
 "Now it is too late," he said, gayly. "The psycho- 
 logical moment is long gone by. We shall both end old 
 bachelors, my good Varhely, and spend our evenings 
 playing checkers, that mimic warfare of old men." 
 
 "Yes, that is all very well for me, who have no very 
 famous name to perpetuate; but the Zilahs should not 
 end with you. I want some sturdy little hussar whom 
 I can teach to sit a horse, and who also will call me his 
 good old Yanski." 
 
 The Prince smiled, and then replied, gravely, almost 
 sadly : " I greatly fear that one can not love two things at 
 once; the heart is not elastic. I chose Hungary for my 
 bride, and my life must be that of a widower." 
 
 In the midst of the austere and thoughtful life he led, 
 Andras preserved, nevertheless, a sort of youthful buoy- 
 ancy. Many men of thirty were less fresh in mind and 
 body than he. He was one of those beings who die, as 
 they have lived, children: even the privations of the 
 hardest kind of an existence can not take away from 
 them that purity and childlike trust which seem to be 
 an integral part of themselves, and which, although 
 they may be betrayed, deceived and treated harshly by 
 life, they never wholly lose; very manly and heroic in 
 time of need and danger, they are by nature peculiarly 
 
 [32]
 
 PRINCE ZILAH 
 
 exposed to treasons and deceptions which astonish but 
 do not alter them. Since man, in the progress of time, 
 must either harden or break to pieces, the hero in them 
 is of iron; but, on the other hand, their hearts are easily 
 wounded by the cruel hand of some woman or the care- 
 less one of a child. 
 
 Andras Zilah had not yet loved deeply, as it was in his 
 nature to love. More or less passing caprices had not 
 dried up the spring of real passion which was at the bot- 
 tom of his heart. But he had not sought this love; for 
 he adored his Hungary as he would have loved a wo- 
 man, and the bitter recollection of her defeat gave him 
 the impression of a love that had died or been cruelly 
 betrayed. 
 
 Yanski, on the whole, had not greatly troubled him- 
 self to demonstrate mathematically or philosophically 
 that a " hussar pupil" was an absolute necessity to him. 
 People can not be forced, against their will, to marry; 
 and the Prince, after all, was free, if he chose, to let the 
 name of Zilah die with him. 
 
 " Taking life as it is," old Varhely would growl, "per- 
 haps it isn't necessary to bring into the world little be- 
 ings who never asked to come here. And yet" 
 breaking off in his pessimism, and with a vision before 
 his eyes of another Andras, young, handsome, leading 
 his hussars to the charge "and yet, it is a pity, An- 
 dras, it is a pity." 
 
 The decisions of men are more often dependent upon 
 chance than upon then* own will. Prince Andras re- 
 ceived an invitation to dinner one day from the little 
 Baroness Dinati, whom he liked very much, and whose 
 3 [33]
 
 JULES CLARETIE 
 
 husband, Orso Dinati, one of the defenders of Venice 
 in the time of Manin, had been his intimate friend. 
 The house of the Baroness was a very curious place; the 
 reporter Jacquemin, who was there at all times, testing 
 the wines and correcting the menus, would have called 
 it "bizarre." The Baroness received people in all cir- 
 cles of society; oddities liked her, and she did not dis- 
 like oddities. Very honest, very spirituelle, an excel- 
 lent woman at heart, she gave evening parties, readings 
 from unheard-of books, and performances of the works 
 of unappreciated musicians; and the reporters, who 
 came to absorb her salads and drink her punch, laughed 
 at her in their journals before their supper was di- 
 gested. 
 
 The Prince, as we have said, was very fond of the 
 Baroness, with an affection which was almost fraternal.. 
 He pardoned her childishness and her little absurdities 
 for the sake of her great good qualities. "My dear 
 Prince," she said to him one day, "do you know that I 
 would throw myself into the fire for you?" 
 
 "I am sure of it; but there would not be any great 
 merit in your doing so." 
 
 "And why not, please?" 
 
 " Because you would not run any risk of being burned. 
 This must be so, because you receive in your house a 
 crowd of highly suspicious people, and no one has ever 
 suspected you yourself. You are a little salamander, 
 the prettiest salamander I ever met. You live in fire, 
 and you have neither upon your face nor your reputa- 
 tion the slightest little scorch." 
 
 "Then you think that my guests arc"- 
 
 [34]
 
 PRINCE ZILAH 
 
 "Charming. Only, they are of two kinds: those 
 whom I esteem, and who do not amuse me often ; and 
 those who amuse me, and whom I esteem never." 
 
 "I suppose you will not come any more to the Rue 
 Murillo, then?" 
 
 "Certainly I shall to see you." 
 
 And it really was to see her that the Prince went to the 
 Baroness Dinati's, where his melancholy characteristics 
 clashed with so many worldly follies and extravagances. 
 The Baroness seemed to have a peculiar faculty in choos- 
 ing extraordinary guests : Peruvians, formerly dictators, 
 now become insurance agents, or generals transformed 
 into salesmen for some wine house; Cuban chiefs half 
 shot to pieces by the Spaniards; Cretes exiled by the 
 Turks; great personages from Constantinople, escaped 
 from the Sultan's silken bowstring, and displaying 
 proudly their red fez in Paris, where the opera permitted 
 them to continue their habits of polygamy ; Americans, 
 whose gold-mines or petroleum-wells made them billion- 
 aires for a winter, only to go to pieces and make them 
 paupers the following summer; politicians out of a place; 
 unknown authors; misunderstood poets; painters of the 
 future in short, the greater part of the people who 
 were invited by Prince Andras to his water-party, Bar- 
 oness Dinati having pleaded for her friends and obtained 
 for them cards of invitation. It was a sort of ragout 
 of real and shady celebrities, an amusing, bustling 
 crowd, half Bohemian, half aristocratic, entirely cosmo- 
 politan. Prince Andras remembered once having dined 
 with a staff officer of Garibaldi's army on one side of 
 him, and the Pope's nuncio on the other. 
 
 [35]
 
 JULES CLARETIE 
 
 On a certain evening the Baroness was very anxious 
 that the Prince should not refuse her latest invitation. 
 
 " I am arranging a surprise for you , ' ' she said . "I am 
 going to have to dinner" 
 
 "Whom? The Mikado? The Shah of Persia?" 
 
 "Better than the Mikado. A charming young girl 
 who admires you profoundly, for she knows by heart the 
 whole history of your battles of 1849. She has read 
 Georgei, Klapka, and all the rest of them ; and she is so 
 thoroughly Bohemian in heart, soul and race, that she is 
 universally called the Tzigana." 
 
 "The Tzigana?" 
 
 This simple word, resembling the clank of cymbals, 
 brought up to Prince Andras a whole world of recollec- 
 tions. Hussad czigany! The rallying cry of the wan- 
 dering musicians of the puszta had some element in it 
 like the cherished tones of the distant bells of his father- 
 land. 
 
 "Ah! yes, indeed, my dear Baroness," he said; "that 
 is a charming surprise. I need not ask if your Tzigana 
 is pretty; all the Tzigani of my country are adorable, 
 and I am sure I shall fall in love with her." 
 
 The Prince had no notion how prophetic his words 
 were. The Tzigana, whom the Baroness requested him 
 to take hi to dinner, was Marsa, Marsa Laszlo, dressed 
 in one of the black toilettes which she affected, and 
 whose clear, dark complexion, great Arabian eyes, and 
 heavy, wavy hair seemed to Andras's eyes to be the in- 
 carnation, in a prouder and more refined type, of the 
 warm, supple, nervous beauty of the girls of his country. 
 
 He was surprised and strangely fascinated, attracted 
 
 [36]
 
 PRINCE ZILAH 
 
 by the incongruous mixture of extreme refinement and 
 a sort of haughty unconventionality he found in Marsa. 
 A moment before, he had noticed how silent, almost 
 rigid she was, as she leaned back in her armchair; but 
 now this same face was strangely animated, illumined 
 by some happy emotion, and her eyes burned like coals 
 of fire as she fixed them upon Andras. 
 
 During the whole dinner, the rest of the dining-room 
 disappeared to the Prince; he saw only the girl at his 
 side; and the candles and polished mirrors were only 
 there to form a sparkling background for her pale, mid- 
 night beauty. 
 
 " Do you know, Prince," said Marsa, in her rich, warm 
 contralto voice, whose very accents were like a caress, 
 "do you know that, among all those who fought for 
 our country, you are the one admiration of my life?" 
 
 He smiled, and mentioned more illustrious names. 
 
 "No, no," she answered; "those are not the names I 
 care for, but yours. I will tell you why." 
 
 And she recalled, in a voice vibrating with emotion, 
 all that Prince Zilah Sandor and his son had attempted, 
 twenty years before, for the liberty of Hungary. She 
 told the whole story in the most vivid manner; had her 
 age permitted her to have been present at those battles, 
 she could not have related them with more spirited en- 
 thusiasm. 
 
 "I know, perfectly, how, at the head of your hussars, 
 you wrested from the soldiers of Jellachich the first 
 standard captured by the Hungarians from the ranks of 
 Austria. Shall I tell you the exact date ? and the day of 
 the week? It was Thursday." 
 
 [37] 
 
 377308
 
 The whole history, ignored, forgotten, lost in the 
 smoke of more recent wars, the strange, dark-eyed girl, 
 knew day by day, hour by hour; and there, in that 
 Parisian dining-room, surrounded by all that crowd, 
 where yesterday's bon mot, the latest scandal, the new 
 operetta, were subjects of paramount importance, An- 
 dras, voluntarily isolated, saw again, present and living, 
 his whole heroic past rise up before him, as beneath the 
 wave of a fairy's wand. 
 
 "But how do you know me so well ?" he asked, fixing 
 his clear eyes upon Marsa Laszlo's face. "Was your 
 father one of my soldiers?" 
 
 "My father was a Russian," responded Marsa, 
 abruptly, her voice suddenly becoming harsh and cut- 
 ting. 
 
 "A Russian?" 
 
 "Yes, a Russian," she repeated, emphasizing the 
 word w r ith a sort of dull anger. "My mother alone was 
 a Tzigana, and my mother's beauty was part of the 
 spoils of those who butchered your soldiers?" 
 
 In the uproar of conversation, which became more 
 animated with the dessert, she could not tell him of the 
 sorrows of her life ; and yet, he guessed there was some 
 sad story in the life of the young girl, and almost im- 
 plored her to speak, stopping just at the limit where 
 sympathy might change into indiscretion. 
 
 " I beg your pardon," he said, as she was silent, with a 
 dark shadow overspreading her face. "I have no right 
 to know your life simply because you are so well ac- 
 quainted with mine." 
 
 "Oh! you!" she said, with a sad smile; "your life is 
 
 [38]
 
 PRINCE ZILAH 
 
 history; mine is drama, melodrama even. There is a 
 great difference." 
 
 "Pardon my presumption!" 
 
 "Oh! I will willingly tell you of my life, if the ex- 
 istence of a useless being like myself can interest you; 
 but not here in the noise of this dinner. It would be 
 absurd," with a change of tone, "to mingle tears with 
 champagne. By-and-bye! By-and-bye!" 
 
 She made an evident effort to appear gay, like the 
 pretty women who were there, and who, despite their 
 prettiness, seemed to Andras perfectly insignificant ; but 
 she did not succeed in driving away the cloud of sadness 
 which overshadowed her exquisite, dark face. And in 
 the ears of the Prince rang again the bitter accents of 
 that voice saying in a harsh, almost revolted tone: 
 "Yes, a Russian! My father was a Russian!" 
 
 [39]
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 A GYPSY PRINCESS 
 
 mystery which seemed to envelop 
 Marsa, the flash of anger with which 
 she had spoken of the Russian who 
 was her father, all attracted the Prince 
 toward her; and he experienced a de- 
 liciously disquieting sentiment, as if 
 the secret of this girl's existence were 
 now grafted upon his own life. 
 She seemed to have no wish to keep her secret from 
 him. At their first meeting, during the conversation 
 which followed the dinner and the musical exhibition 
 given by extraordinary musicians with long, unkempt 
 locks, Marsa, trusting with a sort of joy to the one 
 whom she regarded as a hero, told Prince Andras the 
 story of her life. 
 
 She related to him the assault made by soldiers of 
 Paskiewich upon the little Hungarian village, and how 
 her grandfather, leaving his czimbalom, had fired upon 
 the Russians from the ranks of the honveds. There 
 was a combat, or rather a butchery, in the sole street of 
 the town, one of the last massacres of the campaign. 
 The Russians destroyed everything, shooting down the 
 prisoners, and burning the poor little houses. There 
 were some women among the Hungarians and Tzigani; 
 
 [40]
 
 PRINCE ZILAH 
 
 they had loaded the guns of the wounded, comforted 
 the dying and avenged the dead. Many of them were 
 killed. One of them, the youngest and prettiest, a 
 gypsy, was seized by the Russian officer, and, when 
 peace was declared soon after, carried off by him to 
 Russia. This was Tisza Laszlo, Marsa's mother. The 
 officer, a great Russian nobleman, a handsome fellow 
 and extremely rich, really loved her with a mad sort of 
 love. He forced her to become his mistress; but he 
 tried in every way to make her pardon the brutality of his 
 passion; keeping her half a captive in his castle near 
 Moscow, and yet offering her, by way of expiation, not 
 only his fortune but his name, the princely title of which 
 the Tchereteffs, his ancestors, had been so proud, and 
 which the daughter of wandering Tzigani refused with 
 mingled hatred and disgust. Princess? She, the gypsy, 
 a Russian princess ? The title would have appeared to 
 her like a new and still more abhorrent stigma. He 
 implored her, but she was obdurate. It was a strange, 
 tragic existence these two beings led, shut up in the im- 
 mense castle, from the windows of which Tisza could 
 perceive the gilded domes of Moscow, the superb city 
 in which she would never set her foot, preferring the 
 palace, sad and gloomy as a cell. Alone in the world, 
 the sole survivor of her massacred tribe, the Russians to 
 her were the murderers of her people, the assassins of 
 the free musicians with eagle profiles she used to follow 
 as they played the czardas from village to village. 
 
 She never saw Prince Tchereteff, handsome, generous, 
 charming, loving her and trembling before her glance 
 although he had ruthlessly kidnapped her from her coun-
 
 JULES CLARETIE 
 
 try, that she did not think of him, sword in hand, enter- 
 ing the burning Hungarian village, his face reddened by 
 the flames, as the bayonets of his soldiers were reddened 
 with blood. She hated this tall young man, his droop- 
 ing moustache, his military uniform, his broad figure, his 
 white-gloved hands: he represented to the imprisoned 
 Tzigana the conqueror and murderer of her people. 
 And yet a daughter was born to them. She had defend- 
 ed herself with the cries of a tigress; and then she had 
 longed to die, to die of hunger, since, a close prisoner, 
 she could not obtain possession of a weapon, nor cast 
 herself into the water. She had lived, nevertheless, and 
 then her daughter reconciled her to life. The child 
 which was born to her was all in all to Tizsa. Marsa 
 was an exact reproduction, feature by feature, of her 
 mother, and, strange to say, daughters generally re- 
 sembling the father, had nothing of Tchereteff, nothing 
 Russian about her: on the contrary, she was all Tzigana 
 Tzigana in the clear darkness of her skin, in her vel- 
 vety eyes, and her long, waving black hair, with its 
 bronze reflections, which the mother loved to wind about 
 her thin fingers. 
 
 Her beauty, faded by long, slow sorrow, Tisza found 
 again in her child, a true daughter of Hungary like her- 
 self; and, as Marsa grew up, she told her the legends, 
 the songs, the heroism, the martyrdom, of Hungary, pic- 
 turing to the little girl the great, grassy plain, the free 
 puszta, peopled with a race in whose proud language the 
 word honor recurs again and again. 
 
 Marsa grew up in the Muscovite castle, loving nothing 
 in the world except her mother, and regarding with 
 
 [4*]
 
 PRINCE ZILAH 
 
 frightened eyes the blond stranger who sometimes took 
 her upon his knees and gazed sadly into her face. Be- 
 fore this man, who was her father, she felt as if she were 
 in the presence of an enemy. As Tisza never went out, 
 Marsa rarely quitted the castle; and, when she went to 
 Moscow, she hastened to return to her mother. The 
 very gayeties of that noisy city weighed upon her heart ; 
 for she never forgot the war-tales of the Tzigana, and, 
 perhaps, among the passers-by was the wretch who had 
 shot down her grandfather, old Mihal. 
 
 The Tzigana cultivated, with a sort of passion, a love 
 of far-off Hungary and a hatred for the master in the 
 impressionable mind of her daughter. There is a Ser- 
 vian proverb which says, that when a Wallachian has 
 crossed the threshold the whole house becomes Wal- 
 lachian. Tisza did not wish the house to become 
 Hungarian ; but she did wish that the child of her loins 
 should be and should remain Hungarian. 
 
 The servants of Prince Tchereteff never spoke of their 
 mistress except as The Tzigana, and this was the name 
 which Marsa wished to bear also. It seemed to her like 
 a title of nobility. 
 
 And the years passed without the Tzigana pardoning 
 the Russian, and without Marsa ever having called him 
 father. 
 
 In the name of their child, the Prince one day sol- 
 emnly asked Tisza Laszlo to consent to become his 
 wife, and the mother refused. 
 
 "But our daughter?" said the Prince. 
 
 "My daughter? She will bear the name of her 
 mother, which at least is not a Russian name," 
 
 [43]
 
 JULES CLARETIE 
 
 The Prince was silenced. 
 
 As Marsa grew up, Moscow became displeasing to the 
 Prince. He had his daughter educated as if she were 
 destined to be the Czarina. He summoned to the castle 
 a small army of instructors, professors of music and 
 singing; French, English, and German masters, drawing 
 masters, etc., etc. The young girl, with the prodigious 
 power of assimilation peculiar to her race, learned every- 
 thing, loving knowledge for its own sake, but, neverthe- 
 less, always deeply moved by the history of that un- 
 known country, which was that of her mother, and even 
 her own, the land of her heart and her soul Hungary. 
 She knew, from her mother, about all its heroes: Klapka, 
 Georgei, Dembiski; Bern, the conqueror of Buda; Kos- 
 suth, the dreamer of a sort of feudal liberty; and those 
 chivalrous Zilah princes, father and son, the fallen mar- 
 tyr and the living hero. 
 
 Prince Tchereteff, French in education and sentiment, 
 wished to take to France the child, who did not bear his 
 name, but whom he adored. France also exercised a 
 powerful fascination over Marsa's imagination ; and she 
 departed joyously for Paris, accompanied by the Tzig- 
 ana, her mother, who felt like a prisoner set at liberty. 
 To quit Russian soil was in itself some consolation, and 
 who knew ? perhaps she might again see her dear father- 
 land. 
 
 Tisza, in fact, breathed more freely in Paris, repeating 
 however, like a mournful refrain, the proverb of her 
 country: Away from Hungary, life is not lije. The 
 Prince purchased, at Maisons-Lafitte, not far from the 
 forest of Saint- Germain, a house surrounded by an im- 
 
 [44]
 
 PRINCE ZILAH 
 
 mense garden. Here, as formerly at Moscow, Tisza 
 and the Prince lived together, and yet apart the Tzig- 
 ana, implacable in her resentment, bitterly refusing all 
 pardon to the Russian, and always keeping alive in 
 Marsa a hatred of all that was Muscovite; the Prince, 
 disconsolate, gloomy, discouraged between the woman 
 whom he adored and whose heart he could not win, and 
 the girl, so wonderfully beautiful, the living portrait of 
 her mother, and who treated him with the cold respect 
 one shows to a stranger. 
 
 Not long after their arrival in Paris, a serious heart 
 trouble attacked Marsa 's father. He summoned to his 
 deathbed the Tzigana and her daughter; and, in a sort 
 of supreme confession, he openly asked his child, be- 
 fore the mother, to forgive him for her birth. 
 
 "Marsa," he said, slowly, "your birth, which should 
 make the joy of my existence, is the remorse of my 
 whole life. But I am dying of the love which I can not 
 conquer. Will you kiss me as a token that you have 
 pardoned me?" 
 
 For the first time, perhaps, Marsa's lips, trembling 
 with emotion, then touched the Prince's forehead. But, 
 before kissing him, her eyes had sought those of her 
 mother, who bowed her head in assent. 
 
 "And you," murmured the dying Prince, "will you 
 forgive me, Tisza?" 
 
 The Tzigana saw again her native village in flames, 
 her brothers dead, her father murdered, and this man, 
 now lying thin and pale amid the pillows, erect, with 
 sabre drawn, crying: "Courage! Charge! Forward!" 
 
 Then she saw herself dragged almost beneath a horse's 
 
 [45]
 
 JULES CLARETIE 
 
 hoofs, cast into a wagon with wrists bound together, car- 
 ried in the rear of an army with the rest of the victor's 
 spoils, and immured within Russian walls. She felt 
 again on her lips the degradation of the first kiss of this 
 man whose suppliant, pitiful love was hideous to her. 
 She made a step toward the dying man as if to force 
 herself to whisper, "I forgive you;" but all the resent- 
 ment and suffering of her life mounted to her heart, 
 almost stifling her, and she paused, going no farther, 
 and regarding with a haggard glance the man whose 
 eyes implored her pardon, and who, after raising his 
 pale face from the pillow, let his head fall back again 
 with one long, weary sigh. 
 
 1461
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 
 THE STORY OF MARSA 
 
 'RINCE TCHERETEFF left his whole 
 
 fortune to Marsa Laszlo, leaving her 
 in the hands of his uncle Vogotzine, 
 an old, ruined General, whose property 
 had been confiscated by the Czar, and 
 who lived in Paris half imbecile with 
 fear, having become timid as a child 
 since his release from Siberia, where 
 he had been sent on some pretext or other, no one knew 
 exactly the reason why. 
 
 It had been necessary to obtain the sovereign inter- 
 vention of the Czar that Czar whose will is the sole law, 
 a law above laws to permit Prince Tchereteff to give 
 his property to a foreigner, a girl without a name. The 
 state would gladly have seized upon the fortune, as the 
 Prince had no other relative save an outlaw; but the 
 Czar graciously gave his permission, and Marsa in- 
 herited. 
 
 Old General Vogotzine was, in fact, the only living 
 relative of Prince Tchereteff. In consideration of a 
 yearly income, the Prince charged him to watch over 
 Marsa, and see to her establishment in life. Rich as 
 she was, Marsa would have no lack of suitors; but 
 Tisza, the half-civilised Tzigana, was not the one to 
 
 [47]
 
 JULES CLARETIE 
 
 guide and protect a young girl in Paris. The Prince be- 
 lieved Vogotzine to be less old and more acquainted 
 with Parisian life than he really was, and it was a con- 
 solation to the father to feel that his daughter would 
 have a guardian. 
 
 Tisza did not long survive the Prince. She died in 
 that Russian house, every stone of which she hated, 
 even to the Muscovite crucifix over the door, which her 
 faith, however, forbade her to have removed; she died 
 making her daughter swear that the last slumber which 
 was coming to her, gently lulling her to rest after so 
 much suffering, should be slept in Hungarian soil; and, 
 after the Tzigana's death, this young girl of twenty, 
 alone with Vogotzine, who accompanied her on the 
 gloomy journey with evident displeasure, crossed 
 France, went to Vienna, sought in the Hungarian plain 
 the place where one or two miserable huts and some 
 crumbling walls alone marked the site of the village 
 burned long ago by Tchereteff's soldiers; and there, in 
 Hungarian soil, close to the spot where the men of her 
 tribe had been shot down, she buried the Tzigana, 
 whose daughter she so thoroughly felt herself to be, 
 that, hi breathing the air of the puszta, she seemed to 
 find again in that beloved land something already seen, 
 like a vivid memory of a previous existence. 
 
 And yet, upon the grave of the martyr, Marsa prayed 
 also for the executioner. She remembered that the one 
 who reposed in the cemetery of Pere-Lachaise, beneath 
 a tomb in the shape of a Russian dome, was her father, 
 as the Tzigana, interred in Hungary, was her mother; 
 and she asked in her prayer, that these two beings, sepa,- 
 
 [48]
 
 PRINCE ZILAH 
 
 rated in life, should pardon each other in the unknown, 
 obscure place of departed souls. 
 
 So Marsa Laszlo was left alone in the world. She re- 
 turned to France, which she had become attached to, 
 and shut herself up in the villa of Maisons-Lafitte, let- 
 ting old Vogotzine install himself there as a sort of 
 Mentor, more obedient than a servant, and as silent as 
 a statue; and this strange guardian, who had formerly 
 fought side by side with Schamyl, and cut down the Cir- 
 cassians with the sang-froid of a butcher's boy wringing 
 the neck of a fowl, and who now scarcely dared to open 
 his lips, as if the entire police force of the Czar had its 
 eye upon him ; this old soldier, who once cared nothing 
 for privations, now, provided he had his chocolate in 
 the morning, his kiimmel with his coffee at breakfast, 
 and a bottle of brandy on the table all day left Marsa 
 free to think, act, come and go as she pleased. 
 
 She had accepted the Prince's legacy, but with this 
 mental reservation and condition, that the Hungarian 
 colony of Paris should receive half of it. It seemed to 
 her that the money thus given to succor the compatri- 
 ots of her mother would be her father's atonement. She 
 waited, therefore, until she had attained her majority; 
 and then she sent this enormous sum to the Hungarian 
 aid society, saying that the donor requested that part of 
 the amount should be used in rebuilding the little vil- 
 lage in Transylvania which had been burned twenty 
 years before by Russian troops. When they asked 
 what name should be attached to so princely a gift, 
 Marsa replied: "That which was my mother's and 
 which is mine, The Tzigana." More than ever now 
 4 [49]
 
 JULES CLARETIE 
 
 did she cling to that cognomen of which she was so 
 proud. 
 
 "And," she said to Zilah, after she had finished the 
 recital of her story, " it is because I am thus named that 
 I have the right to speak to you of yourself." 
 
 Prince Andras listened with passionate attention to 
 the beautiful girl, thus evoking for him the past, confi- 
 dent and even happy to speak and make herself known 
 to the man whose life of heroic devotion she knew so 
 well. 
 
 He was not astonished at her sudden frankness, at the 
 confidence displayed at a first meeting; and it seemed 
 to him that he had long been acquainted with this Tzig- 
 ana, whose very name he had been ignorant of a few 
 hours before. It appeared to him quite simple that 
 Marsa should confide in him, as he on his side would 
 have related to her his whole life, if she had asked it 
 with a glance from her dark eyes. He felt that he had 
 reached one of the decisive moments of his life. Marsa 
 called up visions of his youth his first tender dreams 
 of love, rudely broken by the harsh voice of war; and 
 he felt as he used to feel, in the days long gone by, when 
 he sat beneath the starry skies of a summer night and 
 listened to the old, heart-stirring songs of his country 
 and the laughter of the brown maidens of Budapest. 
 
 "Prince," said Marsa Laszlo, suddenly, "do you 
 know that I have been seeking you for a long time, and 
 that when the Baroness Dinati presented you to me, 
 she fulfilled one of my most ardent desires?" 
 
 "Me, Mademoiselle? You have been seeking 
 me?" 
 
 [So]
 
 PRINCE ZILAH 
 
 " Yes, you. Tisza, of whom I spoke to you, my Tzig- 
 ana mother, who bore the name of the blessed river of 
 our country, taught me to repeat your name. She met 
 you years ago, in the saddest moment of your life." 
 
 "Your mother?" said Andras, waiting anxiously for 
 the young girl to continue. 
 
 "Yes, my mother." 
 
 She pointed to the buckle which clasped the belt of 
 her dress. 
 
 "See," she said. 
 
 Andras felt a sudden pang, which yet was not alto- 
 gether pain, dart through his heart, and his eyes wan- 
 dered questioningly from the buckle to Marsa's face. 
 Smiling, but her beautiful lips mute, Marsa seemed to 
 say to him: "Yes, it is the agraffe which you detached 
 from your soldier's pelisse and gave to an unknown 
 Tzigana near your father's grave." 
 
 The silver ornament, incrusted with opals, recalled 
 sharply to Prince Zilah that sad January night when the 
 dead warrior had been laid in his last resting-place. 
 He saw again the sombre spot, the snowy fir-trees, 
 the black trench, and the broad, red reflections of the 
 torches, which, throwing a flickering light upon the 
 dead, seemed to reanimate the pale, cold face. 
 
 And that daughter of the wandering musicians who 
 had, at the open grave, played as a dirge, or, rather, as 
 a ringing hymn of resurrection and deliverance, the 
 chant of the fatherland that dark girl to whom he had 
 said : " Bring me this jewel, and come and live in peace 
 with the Zilahs" was the mother of this beautiful, fas- 
 cinating creature, whose every word, since he had first
 
 JULES CLARETIE 
 
 met her a few hours before, had exercised such a power- 
 ful effect upon him. 
 
 "So," he said, slowly, with a sad smile, "your moth- 
 er's talisman was worth more than mine. I have kept 
 the lake pebbles she gave me, and death has passed me 
 by; but the opals of the agraffe did not bring happiness 
 to your mother. It is said that those stones are unlucky. 
 Are you superstitious?" 
 
 "I should not be Tisza's daughter if I did not believe 
 a little in all that is romantic, fantastic, improbable, 
 impossible even. Besides, the opals are forgiven now: 
 for they have permitted me to show you that you were 
 not unknown to me, Prince; and, as you see, I wear 
 this dear agraffe always. It has a double value to me, 
 since it recalls the memory of my poor mother and the 
 name of a hero." 
 
 She spoke these words in grave, sweet accents, which 
 seemed more melodious to Prince Andras than all the 
 music of Baroness Dinati's concert. He divined that 
 Marsa Laszlo found as much pleasure in speaking to 
 him as he felt in listening. As he gazed at her, a deli- 
 cate flush spread over Marsa' s pale, rather melancholy 
 face, tingeing even her little, shell-like ears, and making 
 her cheeks glow with the soft, warm color of a peach. 
 
 Just at this moment the little Baroness came hastily 
 up to them, and, with an assumed air of severity, began 
 to reproach Marsa for neglecting the unfortunate musi- 
 cians, suddenly breaking off to exclaim : 
 
 "Really, you are a hundred times prettier than ever 
 this evening, my dear Marsa. What have you been do- 
 ing to yourself?" 
 
 [5']
 
 PRINCE ZILAH 
 
 "Oh! it is because I am very happy, I suppose,'* 
 replied Marsa. 
 
 "Ah! my dear Prince," and the Baroness broke into 
 a merry peal of laughter, "it is you, O ever-conquering 
 hero, who have worked this miracle." 
 
 But, as if she had been too hasty in proclaiming 
 aloud her happiness, the Tzigana suddenly frowned, a 
 harsh, troubled look crept into her dark eyes, and her 
 cheeks became pale as marble, while her gaze was fixed 
 upon a tall young man who was crossing the salon and 
 coming toward her. 
 
 Instinctively Andras Zilah followed her look. Mi- 
 chel Menko was advancing to salute Marsa Laszlo, and 
 take with affectionate respect the hand which Andras 
 extended to him. 
 
 Marsa coldly returned the low bow of the young 
 man, and took no part in the conversation which fol- 
 lowed. Menko remained but a few moments, evidently 
 embarrassed at his reception; and after his departure, 
 Zilah, who had noticed the Tzigana' s coldness, asked 
 her if she knew his friend. 
 
 "Very well," she said, in a peculiar tone. 
 
 " It would be difficult to imagine so from the way in 
 which you received him," said Andras, laughing. 
 "Poor Michel! Have you any reason to be angry with 
 him?" 
 
 "None." 
 
 "I like him very much. He is a charming boy, and 
 his father was one of my companions in arms. I have 
 been almost a guardian to his son. We are kinsmen, 
 and when the young count entered diplomacy he asked 
 
 [53]
 
 JULES CLARETIE 
 
 my advice, as he hesitated to serve Austria. I told him 
 that, after having fought Austria with the sword, it was 
 our duty to absorb it by our talents and devotion. Was 
 I not right ? Austria is to-day subservient to Hungary, 
 and, when Vienna acts, Vienna glances toward Pesth to 
 see if the Magyars are satisfied. Michel Menko has 
 therefore served his country well; and I don't under- 
 stand why he gave up diplomacy. He makes me un- 
 easy: he seems to me, like all young men of his gener- 
 ation, a little too undecided what object to pursue, what 
 duty to fulfil. He is nervous, irresolute. We were 
 more unfortunate but more determined; we marched 
 straight on without that burden of pessimism with 
 which our successors are loaded down. I am sorry that 
 Michel has resigned his position: he had a fine future 
 before him, and he would have made a good -diplo- 
 matist." 
 
 "Too good, perhaps," interrupted Marsa, dryly. 
 
 "Ah, decidedly," retorted the Prince, with a smile, 
 "you don't like my poor Menko." 
 
 "He is indifferent to me;" and the way in which she 
 pronounced the words was a terrible condemnation of 
 Michel Menko. "But," added the Tzigana, "he him- 
 self has told me all that you have said of him. He, on 
 his side, has a great affection and a deep veneration for 
 you; and it is not astonishing that it should be so, for 
 men like you are examples for men like him, and " 
 
 She paused abruptly, as if unwilling to say more. 
 
 "And what?" asked the Prince. 
 
 "Nothing. 'Examples' is enough; I don't know 
 what I was going to say." 
 
 [54]
 
 PRINCE ZILAH 
 
 She made a little gesture with her pretty hand as if 
 to dismiss the subject; and, after wondering a moment 
 at the girl's singular reticence after her previous frank- 
 ness, Andras thought only of enjoying her grace and 
 charm, until the Tzigana gave him her hand and bade 
 him good-night, begging him to remember that she 
 would be very happy and proud to receive him in her 
 own house. 
 
 "But, indeed," she added, with a laugh which dis- 
 played two rows of pearly teeth, "it is not for me to 
 invite you. That is a terrible breach of the proprieties. 
 General!" 
 
 At her call, from a group near by, advanced old 
 General Vogotzine, whom Zilah had not noticed since 
 the beginning of the evening. Marsa laid her hand on 
 his arm, and said, distinctly, Vogotzine being a little 
 deaf: 
 
 "Prince Andras Zilah, uncle, will do us the honor of 
 coming to see us at Maisons-Lafitte." 
 
 "Ah! Ah! Very happy! Delighted! Very flatter- 
 ing of you, Prince," stammered the General, pulling his 
 white moustache, and blinking his little round eyes. 
 "Andras Zilah! Ah! 1848! Hard days, those! All 
 over now, though! All over now! Ah! Ah! We no 
 longer cut one another's throats! No! No! No 
 longer cut one another's throats!" 
 
 He held out to Andras his big, fat hand, and re- 
 peated, as he shook that of the Prince: 
 
 "Delighted! Enchanted! Prince Zilah! Yes! 
 Yes!" 
 
 In another moment they were gone, and the evening 
 
 [55]
 
 JULES CLARETIE 
 
 seemed to Andras like a vision, a beautiful, feverish 
 dream. 
 
 He sent away his coupe", and returned home on foot, 
 feeling the need of the night air; and, as he walked up 
 the Champs-Ely sees beneath the starry sky, he was sur- 
 prised to find a new, youthful feeling at his heart, stir- 
 ring his pulses like the first, soft touch of spring.
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 
 "HAVE i NO RIGHT TO BE HAPPY?" 
 
 'HERE was a certain womanly coquetry, 
 mingled with a profound love of the 
 soil where her martyred mother re- 
 posed, in the desire which Marsa 
 Laszlo had to be called the Tzigana, 
 instead of by her own name. The 
 Tzigana! This name, as clear cut, re- 
 sonant and expressive as the czimba- 
 loms of the Hungarian musicians, lent her an additional, 
 original charm. She was always spoken of thus, when 
 she was perceived riding her pure-blooded black mare, 
 or driving, attached to a victoria, a pair of bay horses 
 of the Kisber breed. Before the horses ran two superb 
 Danish hounds, of a lustrous dark gray, with white 
 feet, eyes of a peculiar blue, rimmed with yellow, and 
 sensitive, pointed ears Duna and Bundas, the Hun- 
 garian names for the Danube and the Velu. 
 
 These hounds, and an enormous dog of the Hima- 
 layas, with a thick, yellow coat and long, sharp teeth, 
 a half -savage beast, bearing the name of Ortog (Satan), 
 were Marsa's companions in her walks; and their sub- 
 mission to their young mistress, whom they could have 
 knocked down with one pat of their paws, gave the 
 Tziganaa reputation for eccentricity, which, however,
 
 JULES CLARETIE 
 
 neither pleased nor displeased her, as she was perfectly 
 indifferent to the opinion of the public at large. 
 
 She continued to inhabit, near the forest of Saint- 
 Germain, beyond the fashionable avenues, the villa, 
 ornamented with the holy Muscovite icon, which 
 Prince Tchereteff had purchased ; and she persisted in 
 remaining there alone with old Vogotzine, who re- 
 garded her respectfully with his round eyes, always 
 moist with kwass or brandy. 
 
 Flying the crowded city, eager for space and air, a 
 true daughter of Hungary, Marsa loved to ride through 
 the beautiful, silent park, down the long, almost de- 
 serted avenues, toward the bit of pale blue horizon dis- 
 cernible in the distance at the end of the sombre arch 
 formed by the trees. Birds, startled by the horses' 
 hoofs, rose here and there out of the bushes, pouring 
 forth their caroling to the clear ether; and Marsa, spur- 
 ring her thoroughbred, would dash in a mad gallop 
 toward a little, almost unknown grove of oaks, with 
 thickets full of golden furze and pink heather, where 
 woodcutters worked, half buried in the long grass pep- 
 pered with blue cornflowers and scarlet poppies. 
 
 Or, at other times, with Duna and Bundas bounding 
 before her, disappearing, returning, disappearing again 
 with yelps of joy, it was Marsa's delight to wander 
 alone under the great limes of the Albine avenue 
 shade over her head, silence about her and then slowly, 
 by way of a little alley bordered with lofty poplars 
 trembling at every breath of wind, to reach the borders 
 of the forest. In ten steps she would suddenly find her- 
 self plunged in solitude as in a bath of verdure, shade 
 
 [58]
 
 PRINCE ZILAH 
 
 and oblivion. The sweet silence surrounding her 
 calmed her, and she would walk on and on through the 
 thick grass under the great trees. The trunks of the 
 giant oaks were clothed in robes of emerald moss, and 
 wild flowers of all descriptions raised their heads amid 
 the grass. There was no footstep, no sound; a bee 
 lazily humming, a brilliant butterfly darting across the 
 path, something quick and red flashing up a tree a 
 squirrel frightened by the Danish hounds; that was all. 
 And Marsa was happy with the languorous happiness 
 which nature gives, her forehead cooled by the fresh 
 breeze, her eyes rested by the deep green which hid the 
 skies, her whole being refreshed by the atmosphere of 
 peace which fell from the trees. 
 
 Then, calling her dogs, she would proceed to a little 
 farmhouse, and, sitting down under the mulberry- 
 trees, wait until the farmer's wife brought her some 
 newly baked bread and a cup of milk, warm from the 
 cows. Then she would remain idly there, surrounded 
 by chickens, ducks, and great, greedy geese, which she 
 fed, breaking the bread between her white fingers, 
 while Duna and Bundas crouched at her feet, pricking 
 up their ears, and watching these winged denizens of 
 the farmyard, which Marsa forbade them to touch. 
 Finally the Tzigana would slowly wend her way home, 
 enter the villa, sit down before the piano, and play, with 
 ineffable sweetness, like souvenirs of another life, the 
 free and wandering life of her mother, the Hungarian 
 airs of Janos Nemeth, the sad "Song of Plevna," the 
 sparkling air of "The Little Brown Maid of Buda- 
 pest," and that bitter, melancholy romance, "The 
 
 [59]
 
 JULES CLARETIE 
 
 World holds but One Fair Maiden," a mournful and 
 despairing melody, which she preferred to all others, 
 because it responded, with its tearful accents, to a par- 
 ticular state of her own heart. 
 
 The girl was evidently concealing some secret suffer- 
 ing. The bitter memory of her early years ? Perhaps. 
 Physical pain ? Possibly. She had been ill some years 
 before, and had been obliged to pass a winter at Pau. 
 But it seemed rather some mental anxiety or torture 
 which impelled the Tzigana to seek solitude and silence 
 in her voluntary retreat. 
 
 The days passed thus in that villa of Maisons-Lafitte, 
 where Tisza died. Very often, in the evening, Marsa 
 would shut herself up in the solitude of that death- 
 chamber, which remained just as her mother had left 
 it. Below, General Vogotzine smoked his pipe, with a 
 bottle of brandy for company: above, Marsa prayed. 
 
 One night she went out, and through the sombre 
 alleys, in the tender light of the moon, made her way to 
 the little convent in the Avenue Egle, where the blue 
 sisters were established; those sisters whom she often 
 met in the park, with their full robes of blue cloth, their 
 white veils, a silver medallion and crucifix upon their 
 breasts, and a rosary of wooden beads suspended at 
 their girdles. The little house of the community was 
 shut, the grating closed. The only sign of life was in 
 the lighted windows of the chapel. 
 
 Marsa paused there, leaning her heated brow against 
 the cold bars of iron, with a longing for death, and a 
 terrible temptation to end all by suicide. 
 
 "Who knows?" she murmured. "Perhaps forget- 
 
 [60]
 
 PRINCE ZILAH 
 
 fulness, deep, profound forgetfulness, lies within these 
 walls." Forgetfulness! Marsa, then, wished to for- 
 get? What secret torture gave to her beautiful face 
 that expression so bitter, so terrible in its agony ? 
 
 She stood leaning there, gazing at the windows of the 
 chapel. Broken words of prayers, of muttered verses 
 and responses, reached her like the tinkling of far-off 
 chimes, like the rustling of invisible wings. The blue 
 sisters, behind those walls, were celebrating their ves- 
 per service. 
 
 Does prayer drive away anguish and heartrending 
 memories ? 
 
 Marsa was a Catholic, her mother having belonged 
 to the minority of Tzigani professing the faith of Rome ; 
 and Tisza's daughter could, therefore, bury her youth 
 and beauty in the convent of the blue sisters. 
 
 The hollow murmur of the verses and prayers, which 
 paused, began again, and then died away in the night 
 like sighs, attracted her, and, like the trees of the forest, 
 gave her an impression of that peace, that deep repose, 
 which was the longed-for dream of her soul. 
 
 But, suddenly, the Tzigana started, removed her 
 gaze from the light streaming through the blue and crim- 
 son glass, and hurried away, crying aloud in the dark- 
 ness: 
 
 "No: repose is not there. And, after all, where is 
 repose ? Only in ourselves ! It can be found nowhere, 
 if it is not in the heart!" 
 
 Then, after these hours of solitude, this longing for 
 the cloister, this thirsting for annihilation and oblivion, 
 Marsa would experience a desire for the dashing, false, 
 
 [61]
 
 JULES CLARETIE 
 
 and frivolous life of Paris. She would quit Maisons, 
 taking with her a maid, or sometimes old Vogotzine, go 
 to some immense hotel, like the Continental or the 
 Grand, dine at the table d'hote, or in the restaurant, 
 seeking everywhere bustle and noise, the antithesis of the 
 life of shade and silence which she led amid the leafy 
 trees of her park. She would show herself everywhere, 
 at races, theatres, parties as when she accepted the 
 Baroness Dinati's invitation; and, when she became 
 nauseated with all the artificiality of worldly life, she 
 would return eagerly to her woods, her dogs and her 
 solitude, and, if it were winter, would shut herself up 
 for long months in her lonely, snow-girt house. 
 
 And was not this existence sweet and pleasant, com- 
 pared with the life led by Tisza in the castle of the sub- 
 urbs of Moscow ? 
 
 In this solitude, in the villa of Maisons-Lafitte, An- 
 dras Zilah was again to see Marsa Laszlo. He came not 
 once, but again and again. He was, perhaps, since the 
 death of Prince Tchereteff, the only man General Vo- 
 gotzine had seen in his niece's house, and Marsa was 
 always strangely happy when Andras came to see her. 
 
 " Mademoiselle is very particular when Prince Zilah 
 is coming to Maisons," said her maid to her. 
 
 "Because Prince Zilah is not a man like other men. 
 He is a hero. In my mother's country there is no 
 name more popular than his." 
 
 "So I have heard Count Menko say to Mademoi- 
 selle." 
 
 .If it were the maid's wish to remove all happiness from 
 her mistress's face, she had met with complete success. 
 
 [62]
 
 PRINCE ZILAH 
 
 At the name of Menko, Marsa's expression became 
 dark and threatening. Prince Andras had noticed this 
 same change in the Tzigana's face, when he was speak- 
 ing to her at Baroness Dinati's. 
 
 The Prince had forgotten no detail of that first fascin- 
 ating interview, at which his love for the Tzigana was 
 born. This man, who had hardly any other desire 
 than to end in peace a life long saddened by defeat and 
 exile, suddenly awoke to a happy hope of a home and 
 family joys. He was rich, alone in the world, and in- 
 dependent; and he was, therefore, free to choose the 
 woman to be made his princess. No caste prejudice 
 prevented him from giving his title to the daughter of 
 Tisza. The Zilahs, in trying to free their country, had 
 freed themselves from all littleness; and proud, but not 
 vain, they bore but slight resemblance to those Magyars 
 of whom Szechenyi, the great count, who died of de- 
 spair in 1849, ^d: "The overweening haughtiness of 
 my people will be their ruin." 
 
 The last of the Zilahs did not consider his pride hu- 
 miliated by loving and wedding a Tzigana. Frankly, 
 in accents of the deepest love and the most sincere de- 
 votion, Andras asked Marsa Laszlo if she would con- 
 sent to become his wife. But he was terrified at the 
 expression of anguish which passed over the pale face 
 of the young girl. 
 
 Marsa, Princess Zilah! Like her mother, she would 
 have refused from a Tchereteff this title of princess 
 which Andras offered her, nay, laid at her feet with 
 passionate tenderness. But Princess Zilah ! 
 
 She regarded with wild eyes the Prince, who stood
 
 JULES CLARETIE 
 
 before her, timid and with trembling lips, awaiting her 
 reply. But, as she did not answer, he stooped over and 
 took her hands in his. 
 
 "What is it?" he cried; for Marsa's fingers were icy. 
 
 It cost the young girl a terrible effort to prevent her- 
 self from losing consciousness. 
 
 "But speak to me, Marsa," exclaimed Andras, "do 
 not keep me in suspense." 
 
 He had loved her now for six months, and an iron 
 hand seemed to clutch the heart of this man, who had 
 never known what it was to fear, at the thought that 
 perhaps Marsa did not return his love. 
 
 He had, doubtless, believed that he had perceived in 
 her a tender feeling toward himself which had embold- 
 ened him to ask her to be his wife. But had be been 
 deceived? Was it only the soldier in him that had 
 pleased Marsa ? Was he about to suffer a terrible dis- 
 appointment? Ah, what folly to love, and to love at 
 forty years, a young and beautiful girl like Marsa ! 
 
 Still, she made him no answer, but sat there before 
 him like a statue, pale to the lips, her dark eyes fixed 
 on him in a wild, horrified stare. 
 
 Then, as he pressed her, with tears in his voice, to 
 speak, she forced her almost paralyzed tongue to utter 
 a response which fell, cruel as a death-sentence, upon 
 the heart of the hero : 
 
 "Never!" 
 
 Andras stood motionless before her in such terrible 
 stillness that she longed to throw herself at his feet and 
 cry out: "I love you! I love you! But your wife 
 no, never!" 
 
 [64]
 
 PRINCE ZILAH 
 
 She loved him ? Yes, madly better than that, with 
 a deep, eternal passion, a passion solidly anchored in 
 admiration, respect and esteem; with an unconquer- 
 able attraction toward what represented, to her harassed 
 soul, honor without a blemish, perfect goodness in per- 
 fect courage, the immolation of a life to duty, all incar- 
 nate in one man, radiant in one illustrious name Zilah. 
 
 And Andras himself divined something of this feel- 
 ing; he felt that Marsa, despite her enigmatical refusal, 
 cared for him in a way that was something more than 
 friendship; he was certain of it. Then, why did she 
 command him thus with a single word to despair? 
 "Never!" She was not free, then? And a question 
 for which he immediately asked her pardon by a ges- 
 ture, escaped, like the appeal of a drowning man, from 
 his lips: 
 
 "Do you love some one else, Marsa?" 
 
 She uttered a cry. 
 
 " No ! I swear to you no ! " 
 
 He urged her, then, to explain what was the meaning 
 of her refusal, of the fright she had just shown; and, in 
 a sort of nervous hysteria which she forced herself to 
 control, in the midst of stifled sobs, she told him that 
 if she could ever consent to unite herself to anyone, it 
 would be to him, to him alone, to the hero of her coun- 
 try, to him whose chivalrous devotion she had admired 
 long before she knew him, and that now And here 
 she stopped short, just on the brink of an avowal. 
 
 "Well, now? Now?" demanded Andras, awaiting 
 the word which, in her overstrung condition, Marsa 
 had almost spoken. " Now ? ' ' 
 5 [65]
 
 JULES CLARETIE 
 
 But she did not speak these words which Zilah begged 
 for with ne\vly awakened hope. She longed to end this 
 interview which was killing her, and in broken accents 
 asked him to excuse her, to forgive her but she was 
 really ill. 
 
 "But if you are suffering, I can not, I will not leave 
 you." 
 
 "I implore you. I need to be alone." 
 
 "At least you will permit me to come to-morrow, 
 Marsa, and ask for your answer?" 
 
 "My answer? I have given it to you." 
 
 "No! No! I do not accept that refusal. No: you 
 did not know w r hat you were saying. I swear to you, 
 Marsa, that without you life is impossible to me; all 
 my existence is bound up in yours. You will reflect: 
 there was an accent in your voice which bade me hope. 
 I will come again to-morrow. To-morrow, Marsa. 
 What you have said to-day does not count. To-mor- 
 row, to-morrow; and remember that I adore you." 
 
 And she, shuddering at the tones of his voice, not 
 daring to say no, and to bid him an eternal farewell, let 
 him depart, confident, hopeful, despite the silence to 
 which she obstinately, desperately clung. Then, when 
 Andras was gone, at the end of her strength, she threw 
 herself, like a mad woman, down upon the divan. 
 Once alone, she gave way utterly, sobbing passionately, 
 and then, suddenly ceasing, with wild eyes fixed upon 
 vacancy, to mutter with dry, feverish lips: 
 
 "Yet it is life he brings to me happiness he offers 
 me. Have I no right to be happy I ? My God ! To 
 be the wife of such a man! To love him to devote 
 
 [66]
 
 "Now! Now!* demanded Andms. 
 
 [Fror an Or;j> -it Drawing by Herman Rt-untree, \
 
 tagged 
 
 awak< this 
 
 Inch wa'~ 
 io excus< 
 
 are suh ! eave 
 
 \t least you iu to come to-morrow, 
 
 -sa, and ask 
 
 HI." 
 
 that ret -ou 
 
 hat you were saying. I swear to you, 
 
 -Mlt h jy^' -viosvjjto/t*me; a11 
 
 ray reflect: 
 
 ope. 
 rsa. 
 
 ount. To-mor- 
 row, re you." 
 
 ; his voice, not 
 
 y no, as rnal farewell, let 
 
 depart, cor spite th c to 
 
 whigh she c lung. hen 
 
 Andras was gor -rcw 
 
 a mad woman, dmv .-an. 
 
 v, sobbing pasjaonately, 
 
 sing, with wild vd upon 
 
 \ith dn% feveris 
 
 lie brings to me happiws ? he offers 
 
 o be happy ,od! To 
 
 To 1< devote
 
 PRINCE ZILAH 
 
 myself to him to make his existence one succession of 
 happy days! To be his slave, his thing! Shall I marry 
 him? Or shall I kill myself? Kill myself!" with a 
 horrible, agonizing laugh. "Yes, that is the only thing 
 for me to do. But but I am a coward, now that I 
 love him a coward! a coward! a miserable wretch!" 
 And she fell headlong forward, crouching upon the 
 floor in a fierce despair, as if either life or reason was 
 about to escape from her forever. 
 
 [67]
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 
 "o LIBERTY! o LOVE! THESE TWO i NEED!" 
 
 ;HEN Zilah came the next day he found 
 Marsa perfectly calm. At first he only 
 questioned her anxiously as to her 
 health. 
 
 "Oh! I am well," she replied, smil- 
 ing a little sadly; and, turning to the 
 piano at which she was seated, she 
 began to play the exquisitely sad ro- 
 mance which was her favorite air. 
 
 1 ' That is by Janos Nemeth, is it not ? ' ' asked the Prince. 
 "Yes, by Janos Nemeth. I am very fond of his mu- 
 sic; it is so truly Hungarian in its spirit." 
 
 The music fell upon the air like sighs like the dis- 
 tant tones of a bell tolling a requiem a lament, poetic, 
 mournful, despairing, yet ineffably sweet and tender, 
 ending in one deep, sustained note like the last clod of 
 earth falling upon a new-made grave. 
 
 "What is that called, Marsa?" said Andras. 
 She made no reply. 
 
 Rising, he looked at the title, printed in Hungarian; 
 then, leaning over the Tzigana till his breath fanned her 
 cheek, he murmured: 
 
 " Janos Nemeth was right. The world holds but one 
 fair maiden." 
 
 [68]
 
 PRINCE ZILAH 
 
 She turned very pale, rose from the piano, and giving 
 him her hand, said: 
 
 "It is almost a madrigal, my dear Prince, is it not? 
 I am going to be frank with you. You love me, I know; 
 and I also love you. Will you give me a month to re- 
 flect ? A whole month ? " 
 
 "My entire life belongs to you now," said the Prince. 
 "Do with it what you will." 
 
 "Well! Then in a month I will give you your 
 answer," she said firmly. 
 
 "But," said Andras, smiling beneath his blond 
 moustache, "remember that I once took for my motto 
 the verses of Petcefi. You know well those beautiful 
 verses of our country: 
 
 O Liberty! O Love! 
 
 These two I need. 
 
 My chosen meed, 
 To give my love for Liberty, 
 
 My life for Love. 
 
 "Well," he added, "do you know, at this moment 
 the Andras Zilah of 'forty-eight would almost give 
 liberty, that passion of his whole life, for your love, 
 Marsa, my own Marsa, who are to me the living in- 
 carnation of my country." 
 
 Marsa was moved to the depths of her heart at hear- 
 ing this man speak such words to her. The ideal of the 
 Tzigana, as it is of most women, was loyalty united 
 with strength. Had she ever, in her wildest flights of 
 fancy, dreamed that she should hear one of the heroes 
 
 [69]
 
 JULES CLARETIE 
 
 of the war of independence, a Zilah Andras, supplicate 
 her to bear his name? 
 
 Marsa knew Yanski Varhely. The Prince had 
 brought him to see her at Maisons-Lafitte. She was 
 aware that Count Varhely knew the Prince's most se- 
 cret thoughts, and she was certain that Andras had con- 
 fided all his hopes and his fears to his old friend. 
 
 "What do you think would become of the Prince if I 
 should not marry him ?" she asked him one day without 
 warning. 
 
 "That is a pointblank question which I hardly ex- 
 pected," said Yanski, gazing at her in astonishment. 
 "Don't you wish to become a Zilah?" 
 
 Any hesitation even seemed to him insulting, almost 
 sacrilegious. 
 
 "I don't say that," replied the Tzigana, "but I ask 
 you what would become of the Prince if, for one reason 
 or another 
 
 "I can very easily inform you," interrupted Varhely. 
 "The Prince, as you must be aware, is one of those men 
 who love but once during their lives. Upon my word of 
 honor, I believe that, if you should refuse him, he would 
 commit some folly, some madness, something fatal. 
 Do you understand?" 
 
 " Ah ! " ejaculated Marsa, with an icy chill in her veins. 
 
 "That is my opinion," continued Yanski, harshly. 
 "He is wounded. It remains with you to decide 
 whether the bullet be mortal or not." 
 
 Varhely's response must have had great weight in
 
 PRINCE ZILAH 
 
 Marsa Laszlo's reflections, full of anguish, fever, revolt 
 and despair as they were, during the few weeks preced- 
 ing the day upon which she had promised to tell Prince 
 Andras if she would consent to become his wife or not. 
 It was a yes, almost as curt as another refusal, which 
 fell at last from the lips of the Tzigana. But the Prince 
 was not cool enough to analyze an intonation. 
 
 "Ah!" he exclaimed, "I have suffered so much dur- 
 ing these weeks of doubt; but this happiness makes 
 amends for all." 
 
 "Do you know what Varhely said to me?" asked 
 Marsa. 
 
 "Yes, I know." 
 
 "Well, since the Zilahs treat their love-affairs as 
 they do their duels, and risk their whole existence, so be 
 it! I accept. Your existence for mine! Gift for gift! I 
 do not wish you to die!" 
 
 He did not try to understand her; but he took her 
 burning hands between his own, and covered them 
 with kisses. And she, with trembling lip, regarded, 
 through her long eyelashes, the brave man who now 
 bent before her, saying: " I love you." 
 
 Then, in that moment of infinite happiness, on the 
 threshold of the new life which opened before her, she 
 forgot all to think only of the reality, of the hero whose 
 wife she was to be. His wife ! So, as in a dream, with- 
 out thinking, without resisting, abandoning herself to 
 the current which bore her along, not trying to take 
 account of time or of the future, loving, and beloved, 
 living in a sort of charmed somnambulism, the Tzigana 
 watched the preparations for her marriage.
 
 JULES CLARETIE 
 
 The Prince, with the impatience of a youth of twenty, 
 had urged an early day for their union. He announced 
 his engagement to the society, at once Parisian and for- 
 eign, of which he formed a part ; and this marriage of 
 the Magyar with the Tzigana was an event in aristo- 
 cratic circles. There was an aroma of chivalrous ro- 
 mance about this action of Prince Andras, who was 
 rich enough and independent enough to have married, 
 if he had wished, a shepherdess, like the kings of fairy 
 tales. 
 
 "Isn't it perfectly charming?'* exclaimed the little 
 Baroness Dinati, enthusiastically. "Jacquemin, my 
 dear friend, I will give you all the details of their first 
 meeting. You can make a delicious article out of it, 
 delicious!" 
 
 The little Baroness was almost as delighted as the 
 Prince. Ah! what a man that Zilah was! He would 
 give, as a wedding-gift to the Tzigana, the most beau- 
 tiful diamonds in the world, those famous Zilah dia- 
 monds, which Prince Joseph had once placed disdain- 
 fully upon his hussar's uniform when he charged the 
 Prussian cuirassiers of Ziethen, sure of escaping the 
 sabre cuts, and not losing a single one of the stones 
 during the combat. It was said that Marsa, until she 
 was his wife, would not accept any jewels from the 
 Prince. The opals in the silver agraffe were all she 
 wanted. 
 
 "You know them, don't you, Jacquemin? The fa- 
 mous opals of the Tzigana? Put that all in, every 
 word of it." 
 
 "Yes, it is chic enough," answered the reporter. "It
 
 PRINCE ZILAH 
 
 is very romantic, a little too much so; my readers will 
 never believe it. Never mind, though, I will write it all 
 up in my best manner." 
 
 The fete on board the steamer, given by the Prince in 
 honor of his betrothal, had been as much talked of as 
 a sensational first night at the Francais, and it added 
 decidedly to the romantic prestige of Andras Zilah. 
 There was not a marriageable young girl who was not 
 a little in love with him, and their mothers envied the 
 luck of the Tzigana. 
 
 "It is astonishing how jealous the mammas are," 
 said the Baroness, gayly. "They will make me pay 
 dearly for having been the matchmaker; but I am 
 proud of it, very proud. Zilah has good taste, that is 
 all. And, as for him, I should have been in love with 
 him myself, if I had not had my guests to attend to. 
 Ah, society is as absorbing as a husband!" 
 
 Upon the boat, Paul Jacquemin did not leave the 
 side of the matchmaker. He followed her everywhere, 
 He had still to obtain a description of the bride's toi- 
 lettes, the genealogy of General Vogotzine, a sketch of 
 the bridegroom's best friend, Varhely, and a thousand 
 other details. 
 
 "Where will the wedding take place?" he asked the 
 Baroness. 
 
 "At Maisons-Lafitte. Oh! everything is perfect, my 
 dear Jacquemin, perfect! An idyl! All the arrange- 
 ments are exquisite, exquisite! I only wish that you 
 had charge of the supper." 
 
 Jacquemin, general overseer of the Baroness's par- 
 ties in t}ie Rue Murillo, did not confess himself inferior 
 
 [73]
 
 JULES CLARET1E 
 
 to any one as an epicure. He would taste the wines, 
 with the air of a connoisseur, holding his glass up to the 
 light, while the liquor caressed his palate, and shutting 
 his eyes as if more thoroughly to decide upon its merits. 
 
 "Pomard!" would slowly fall from his lips, or "Ac- 
 ceptable Musigny!" "This Chambertin is really very 
 fair!" "The Chateau Yquem is not half bad!" etc., 
 etc. And the next morning would appear in the re- 
 ports, which he wrote himself under various pseudo- 
 nyms: "Our compliments to our friend Jacquemin, if 
 he had anything to do with the selection of the wines, in 
 addition to directing the rehearsals of the Baroness's 
 operetta, which latter work he most skilfully accom- 
 plished. Jacquemin possesses talents of all kinds; he 
 knows how to make the best of all materials. As the 
 proverb says, 'A good mill makes everything flour. " : 
 
 Jacquemin had already cast an eye over the menu of 
 the Prince's fete, and declared it excellent, very correct, 
 very pure. 
 
 The steamer was at last ready to depart, and Prince 
 Zilah had done the honors to all his guests. It started 
 slowly off, the flags waving coquettishly in the breeze, 
 while the Tzigani musicians played with spirit the vi- 
 brating notes of the March of Rakoczy, that trium- 
 phant air celebrating the betrothal of Zilah, as it had 
 long ago saluted the burial of his father. 
 
 [74]
 
 CHAPTER X 
 
 "IS FATE SO JUST?" 
 
 E are moving! We are off!" cried the 
 lively little Baroness. "I hope we 
 shan't be shipwrecked," retorted Jac- 
 quemin; and he then proceeded to 
 draw a comical picture of possible ad- 
 ventures wherein figured white bears, 
 icebergs, and death by starvation. "A 
 subject for a novel, 'The Shipwreck 
 of the Betrothed.'" 
 
 As they drew away from Paris, passing the quays of 
 Passy and the taverns of Point-du-Jour, tables on 
 wooden horses were rapidly erected, and covered with 
 snowy cloths; and soon the guests of the Prince were 
 seated about the board, Andras between Marsa and 
 the Baroness, and Michel Menko some distance down 
 on the other side of the table. The pretty women and 
 fashionably dressed men made the air resound with 
 gayety and laughter, while the awnings flapped joy- 
 ously in the wind, and the boat glided on, cutting the 
 smooth water, in which were reflected the long shadows 
 of the aspens and willows on the banks, and the white 
 clouds floating in the clear sky. Every now and then a 
 cry of admiration would be uttered at some object in 
 the panorama moving before them, the slopes of Su^ 
 
 [75]
 
 JULES CLARETIE 
 
 resnes, the black factories of Saint-Denis with their 
 lofty chimneys, the red-roofed villas of Asnieres, or the 
 heights of Marly dotted with little white houses. 
 
 " Ah ! how pretty it is ! How charming ! ' ' 
 
 "Isn't it queer that we have never known anything 
 about all this? It is a veritable voyage of discovery." 
 
 "Ladies and gentlemen," cried, above the other 
 voices, Jacquemin, whom Zilah did not know, and to 
 whom the Baroness had made him give a card of invi- 
 tation, "we are now entering savage countries. It is 
 Kamtschatka, or some such place, and there must be 
 cannibals here." 
 
 The borders of the Seine, which were entirely fresh to 
 them, and which recalled the pictures of the salon, were 
 a delightful novelty to these people, accustomed to the 
 dusty streets of the city. 
 
 Seated between the Prince and the Japanese, and 
 opposite Varhely and General Vogotzine, the Baroness 
 thoroughly enjoyed her breakfast. Prince Andras had 
 not spared the Tokay that sweet, fiery wine, of which 
 the Hungarians say proudly: "It has the color and the 
 price of gold;" and the liquor disappeared beneath the 
 moustache of the Russian Reneral as in a funnel. The 
 little Baroness, as she sipped it with pretty little airs of 
 an epicure, chatted with the Japanese, and, eager to in- 
 crease her culinary knowledge, asked him for the receipt 
 for a certain dish which the little yellow fellow had 
 made her taste at a dinner given at his embassy. 
 
 "Send it to me, will you, Yamada? I will have my 
 cook make it; nothing gives me so much pleasure as to 
 be able to offer to my guests a new and strange dish, I
 
 PRINCE ZILAH 
 
 will give you the receipt also, Jacquemin. Oh! it is 
 such an odd-tasting dish! It gives you a sensation of 
 having been poisoned." 
 
 "Like the guests in Lucrezia Borgia," laughed the 
 Parisian Japanese. 
 
 "Do you know Lucrezia Borgia?" 
 
 "Oh, yes; they have sung it at Yokohama. Oh! we 
 are no longer savages, Baroness, believe me. If you 
 want ignorant barbarians, you must seek the Chinese." 
 
 The little Japanese was proud of appearing so pro- 
 foundly learned in European affairs, and his gimlet eyes 
 sought an approving glance from Paul Jacquemin or 
 Michel Menko; but the Hungarian was neither listen- 
 ing to nor thinking of Yamada. He was entirely ab- 
 sorbed in the contemplation of Marsa; and, with lips a 
 little compressed, he fixed a strange look upon the beau- 
 tiful young girl to whom Andras was speaking, and 
 who, very calm, almost grave, but evidently happy, an- 
 swered the Prince with a sweet smile. 
 
 There was a sort of Oriental grace about Marsa, 
 with her willowy figure, flexible as a Hindoo convol- 
 vulus, and her dark Arabian eyes fringed with their 
 heavy lashes. Michel Menko took in all the details of 
 her beauty, and evidently suffered, suffered cruelly, his 
 eyes invincibly attracted toward her. In the midst of 
 these other women, attired in robes of the last or the 
 next fashion, of all the colors of the rainbow, Marsa, in 
 her gown of black lace, was by far the loveliest of them 
 all. Michel watched her every movement; but she, 
 quiet, as if a trifle weary, spoke but little, and only in 
 answer to the Prince and Varhely, and, when her beau- 
 
 [77]
 
 JULES CLARETIE 
 
 tiful eyes met those of Menko, she turned them away, 
 evidently avoiding his look with as much care as he 
 sought hers. 
 
 The breakfast over, they rose from the table, the 
 men lighting cigars, and the ladies seeking the mirrors 
 in the cabin to rearrange their tresses disheveled by the 
 wind. 
 
 The boat stopped at Marly until it was time for the 
 lock to be opened, before proceeding to Maisons-Lafitte, 
 where Marsa was to land. Many of the passengers, 
 with almost childish gayety, landed, and strolled about 
 on the green bank. 
 
 Marsa was left alone, glad of the silence which reigned 
 on the steamer after the noisy chatter of a moment ago. 
 She leaned over the side of the boat, listening idly to the 
 swish of the water along its sides. 
 
 Michel Menko was evidently intending to approach 
 her, and he had made a few steps toward her, when he 
 felt a hand laid upon his shoulder. He turned, think- 
 ing it was the Prince; but it was Yanski Varhely, who 
 said to the young man : 
 
 "Well, my dear Count, you did right to come from 
 London to this jete. Not only is Zilah delighted to see 
 you, but the fantastic composition of the guests is very 
 curious. Baroness Dinati has furnished us with an 
 ollapodrida which would have pleased her husband. 
 There is a little of everything. Doesn't it astonish 
 you?" 
 
 "No," said Michel. "This hybrid collection is rep- 
 resentative of modern society. I have met almost all 
 these faces at Nice; they are to be seen everywhere,"
 
 PRINCE ZILAH 
 
 "To me," retorted Yanski, in his guttural voice, 
 " these people are phenomena." 
 
 " Phenomena ? Not at all. Life of to-day is so com- 
 plicated that the most unexpected people and events 
 find their place in it. You have not lived, Varhely, or 
 you have lived only for your idol, your country, and 
 everything amazes you. If you had, like me, wandered 
 all over the world, you would not be astonished at any- 
 thing; although, to tell the truth" and the young 
 man's voice became bitter, trenchant, and almost threat- 
 ening "we have only to grow old to meet with terrible 
 surprises, very hard to bear." 
 
 As he spoke, he glanced, involuntarily perhaps, at 
 Marsa Laszlo, leaning on the railing just below him. 
 
 "Oh! don't speak of old age before you have passed 
 through the trials that Zilah and I have," responded 
 Varhely. "At eighteen, Andras Zilah could have said: 
 'I am old.' He was in mourning at one and the same 
 time for all his people and for our country. But you! 
 You have grown up, my dear fellow, in happy times. 
 Austria, loosening her clutch, has permitted you to 
 love and serve our cause at your ease. You were born 
 rich, you married the most charming of women "- 
 
 Michel frowned. 
 
 "That is, it is true, the sorrow of your life," contin- 
 ued Varhely. "It seems to me only yesterday that you 
 lost the poor child." 
 
 "It is over two years, however," said Michel, gravely. 
 1 1 Two years ! How time flies ! ' ' 
 
 "She was so charming," said old Yanski, not per- 
 the expression of annoyance mingled with sad-
 
 JULES CLARETIE 
 
 ness which passed over the young man's face. "I 
 knew your dear wife when she was quite small, hi her 
 father's house. He gave me an asylum at Prague, after 
 the capitulation signed by Georgei. Although I was an 
 Hungarian, and he a Bohemian, her father and I were 
 great friends." 
 
 "Yes," said Menko, rapidly, "she often spoke of 
 you, my dear Varhely. They taught her to love you, 
 too. But," evidently seeking to turn the conversation 
 to avoid a subject which was painful to him, "you 
 spoke of Georgei. Ah! our generation has never 
 known your brave hopes; and your grief, believe me, 
 was better than our boredom. We are useless encum- 
 berers of the earth. Upon my word, it seems to me that 
 we are unsettled, enfeebled, loving nothing and loving 
 everything, ready to commit all sorts of follies. I envy 
 you those days of battle, those magnificent deeds of 
 'forty-eight and 'forty-nine. To fight thus was to 
 live!" 
 
 But even while he spoke, his thin face became more 
 melancholy, and his eyes again sought the direction of 
 Prince Andras's fiancee. 
 
 After a little more desultory conversation, he strolled 
 away from Varhely, and gradually approached Marsa, 
 who, her chin resting on her hand, and her eyes low- 
 ered, seemed absorbed in contemplation of the cease- 
 less flow of the water. 
 
 Greatly moved, pulling his moustache, and glancing 
 with a sort of uneasiness at Prince Andras, who was 
 promenading on the bank with the Baroness, Michel 
 Menko paused before addressing Marsa, who had not 
 
 [80]
 
 PRINCE ZILAH 
 
 perceived his approach, and who was evidently far 
 away in some day-dream. 
 
 Gently, hesitatingly, and in a low voice, he at last 
 spoke her name : 
 
 "Marsa!" 
 
 The Tzigana started as if moved by an electric 
 shock, and, turning quickly, met the supplicating eyes 
 of the young man. 
 
 " Marsa!" repeated Michel, in a humble tone of en- 
 treaty. 
 
 "What do you wish of me?" she said. "Why do 
 you speak to me? You must have seen what care I 
 have taken to avoid you." 
 
 "It is that which has wounded me to the quick. 
 You are driving me mad. If you only knew what I am 
 suffering!" 
 
 He spoke almost in a whisper, and very rapidly, as if 
 he felt that seconds were worth centuries. 
 
 She answered him in a cutting, pitiless tone, harsher 
 even than the implacable look in her dark eyes. "You 
 suffer? Is fate so just as that ? You suffer?" 
 
 Her tone and expression made Michel Menko trem- 
 ble as if each syllable of these few words was a blow in 
 the face. 
 
 "Marsa!" he exclaimed, imploringly. "Marsa!" 
 
 "My name is Marsa Laszlo; and, in a few days, I 
 shall be Princess Zilah," responded the young girl, 
 passing haughtily by him, "and I think you will hardly 
 force me to make you remember it." 
 
 She uttered these words so resolutely, haughtily, al- 
 most disdainfully, and accompanied them with such a 
 6 [81]
 
 flash from her beautiful eyes that Menko instinctively 
 bowed his head, murmuring: 
 
 "Forgive me!" 
 
 But he drove his nails into the palm of his clenched 
 hand as he saw her leave that part of the boat, and 
 retire as far from him as she could, as if his presence 
 were an insult to her. Tears of rage started into the 
 young man's eyes as he watched her graceful figure re- 
 sume its former posture of dreamy absorption. 
 
 [82]
 
 CHAPTER XI 
 
 A RIVER F&TE 
 
 LOSE alongside of the Prince's boat, 
 waiting also for the opening of the 
 lock, was one of those great barges 
 which carry wood or charcoal up and 
 down the Seine. 
 
 A whole family often lives on board 
 these big, heavy boats. The smoke of 
 the kitchen fire issues from a sort of 
 wooden cabin where several human beings breathe, eat, 
 sleep, are born and die, sometimes without hardly 
 ever having set foot upon the land. Pots of geranium 
 or begonia give a bit of bright color to the dingy sur- 
 roundings; and the boats travel slowly along the river, 
 impelled by enormous oars, which throw long shadows 
 upon the water. 
 
 It was this motionless barge that Marsa was now re- 
 garding. 
 
 The hot sun, falling upon the boat, made its brown, 
 wet sides sparkle like the brilliant wings of some gigan- 
 tic scarabee; and, upon the patched, scorched deck, 
 six or seven half -naked, sunburned children, boys and 
 girls, played at the feet of a bundle of rags and brown 
 flesh, which was a woman, a young woman, but prema- 
 turely old and wasted, who was nursing a little baby. 
 
 [83]
 
 JULES CLARETIE 
 
 A little farther off, two men one tough and strong, 
 a man of thirty, whom toil had made forty, the other 
 old, wrinkled, white-haired and with skin like leather, 
 father and grandfather, doubtless, of the little brats be- 
 yond were eating bread and cheese, and drinking, 
 turn by turn, out of a bottle of wine, which they swal- 
 lowed in gulps. The halt was a rest to these poor 
 people. 
 
 As Marsa watched them, she seemed to perceive in 
 these wanderers of the river, as in a vision, those other 
 wanderers of the Hungarian desert, her ancestors, the 
 Tzigani, camped in the puszta, the boundless plain, 
 crouched down in the long grass beneath the shade of 
 the bushes, and playing their beautiful national airs. 
 She saw the distant fires of the bivouac of those un- 
 known Tzigani whose daughter she was; she seemed to 
 breathe again the air of that country she had seen but 
 once, when upon a mournful pilgrimage; and, in the 
 presence of that poor bargeman's wife, with her skin 
 tanned by the sun, she thought of her dead, her cher- 
 ished dead, Tisza. 
 
 Tisza! To the gipsy had doubtless been given the 
 name of the river on the banks of which she had been 
 born. They called the mother Tisza, in Hungary, as 
 In Paris they called the daughter the Tzigana. And 
 Marsa was proud of her nickname; she loved these 
 Tzigani, whose blood flowed in her veins; sons of 
 India, perhaps, who had descended to the valley of the 
 Danube, and who for centuries had lived free in the 
 open air, electing their chiefs, and having a king ap- 
 pointed by the Palatine a king, who commanding 
 
 [84]
 
 PRINCE ZILAH 
 
 beggars, bore, nevertheless, the name of Magnificent; 
 indestructible tribes, itinerant republics, musicians 
 playing the old airs of their nation, despite the Turkish 
 sabre and the Austrian police ; agents of patriotism and 
 liberty, guardians of the old Hungarian honor. 
 
 These poor people, passing their lives upon the river 
 as the Tzigani lived in the fields and hedges, seemed to 
 Marsa like the very spectres of her race. More than the 
 musicians with embroidered vests did the poor prison- 
 ers of the solitary barge recall to her the great pro- 
 scribed family of her ancestors. 
 
 She called to the children playing upon the sun- 
 beaten deck: "Come here, and hold up your aprons!" 
 
 They obeyed, spreading out their little tattered gar- 
 ments. "Catch these!" she cried. 
 
 They could not believe their eyes. From the steamer 
 she threw down to them mandarins, grapes, ripe figs, 
 yellow apricots, and great velvety peaches; a rain of 
 dainties which would have surprised a gourmand : the 
 poor little things, delighted and afraid at the same time, 
 wondered if the lady, who gave them such beautiful 
 fruit, was a fairy. 
 
 The mother then rose ; and, coming toward Marsa to 
 thank her, her sunburnt skin glowing a deeper red, the 
 poor woman, with tears in her tired eyes, and a wan smile 
 upon her pale lips, touched, surprised, happy in the pleas- 
 ure of her children, murmured, faltering and confused : 
 
 "Ah! Madame! Madame! how good you are! 
 You are too good, Madame!" 
 
 "We must share what we have!" said Marsa, with a 
 smile. "See how happy the children are!" 
 
 [85]
 
 JULES CLARETIE 
 
 "Very happy, Madame. They are not accustomed 
 to such things. Say 'Thank you,' to the beautiful 
 lady. Say 'Thank you,' Jean; you are the oldest. Say 
 like this : ' Thank you Ma dame.' ' 
 
 "Thank you Ma dame" faltered the boy, rais- 
 ing to Marsa big, timid eyes, which did not understand 
 why anybody should either wish him ill or do him a 
 kindness. And other low, sweet little voices repeated, 
 like a refrain: "Thank you Ma dame." 
 
 The two men, in astonishment, came and stood be- 
 hind the children, and gazed silently at Marsa. 
 
 "And your baby, Madame?" said the Tzigana, look- 
 ing at the sleeping infant, that still pressed its rosy lips 
 to the mother's breast. "How pretty it is! Will you 
 permit me to offer it its baptismal dress?" 
 
 "Its baptismal dress?" repeated the mother. 
 
 "Oh, Madame!" ejaculated the father, twisting his 
 cap between his fingers. 
 
 "Or a cloak, just as you please," added Marsa. 
 
 The poor people on the barge made no reply, but 
 looked at one another in bewilderment. 
 
 "Is it a little girl?" asked the Tzigana. 
 
 "No, Madame, no," responded the mother. "A 
 boy." 
 
 "Come here, Jean," said Marsa to the oldest child. 
 "Yes, come here, my little man." 
 
 Jean came forward, glancing askance at his mother, 
 as if to know whether he should obey. 
 
 "Here, Jean," said the young girl, "this is for your 
 baby brother." 
 
 And into the little joined hands of the boy, Marsa let 
 
 [86]
 
 PRINCE ZILAH 
 
 fall a purse, through whose meshes shone yellow pieces 
 of gold. 
 
 The people of the barge thought they were dreaming, 
 and stood open-mouthed in amazement, while Jean 
 cried out : 
 
 "Mamma, see, mamma! Mamma! Mamma!" 
 
 Then the younger bargeman said to Marsa: 
 
 "Madame, no, no! we can not accept. It is too 
 much. You are too good. Give it back, Jean." 
 
 "It is true, Madame," faltered his wife. "It is im- 
 possible. It is too much." 
 
 "You will cause me great pain if you refuse to accept 
 it," said Marsa. "Chance has brought us together for 
 a moment, and I am superstitious. I would like to 
 have the little children pray that those I love that the 
 one I love may be happy." And she turned her eyes 
 upon Prince Andras, who had returned to the deck, and 
 was coming toward her. 
 
 The lock was now opened. 
 
 "All aboard!" shouted the captain of the steamer. 
 
 The poor woman upon the barge tried to reach the 
 hand of Marsa to kiss it. 
 
 "May you be happy, Madame, and thank you with 
 all our hearts for your goodness to both big and 
 little." 
 
 The two bargemen bowed low in great emotion, and 
 the whole bevy of little ones blew kisses to the beautiful 
 lady in the black dress, whom the steamer was already 
 bearing away. 
 
 "At least tell us your name, Madame," cried the 
 father. "Your name, that we may never forget you." 
 
 [87]
 
 JULES CLARETIE 
 
 A lovely smile appeared on Marsa's lips, and, in al- 
 most melancholy accents, she said : 
 
 "My name!" Then, after a pause, proudly: "The 
 Tzigana!" 
 
 The musicians, as she spoke, suddenly struck up one 
 of the Hungarian airs. Then, as in a flying vision, the 
 poor bargemen saw the steamer move farther and far- 
 ther away, a long plume of smoke waving behind it. 
 
 Jacquemin, hearing one of those odd airs, which in 
 Hungary start all feet moving and keeping time to the 
 music, exclaimed: 
 
 "A quadrille! Let us dance a quadrille! An Hun- 
 garian quadrille ! ' ' 
 
 The poor people on the barge listened to the music, 
 gradually growing fainter and fainter; and they would 
 have believed that they had been dreaming, if the purse 
 had not been there, a fortune for them, and the fruit 
 which the children were eating. The mother, without 
 understanding, repeated that mysterious name: "The 
 Tzigana." 
 
 And Marsa also gazed after them, her ears caressed 
 by the czardas of the musicians. The big barge disap- 
 peared in the distance in a luminous haze ; but the Tzig- 
 ana could still vaguely perceive the little beings perched 
 upon the shoulders of the men, and waving, in sign of 
 farewell, pieces of white cloth which their mother had 
 given them. 
 
 A happy torpor stole over Marsa; and, while the 
 guests of the Baroness Dinati, the Japanese Yamada, 
 the English heiresses, the embassy attaches, all these 
 Parisian foreigners, led by Jacquemin, the director of 
 
 [88]
 
 PRINCE ZILAH 
 
 the gayety, were organizing a ballroom on the deck, 
 and asking the Tzigani for polkas of Fahrbach and 
 waltzes of Strauss, the young girl heard the voice of 
 Andras murmur low in her ear : 
 
 " Ah ! how I love you ! And do you love me, Marsa ? " 
 
 "I am happy," she answered, without moving, and 
 half closing her eyes, "and, if it were necessary for me 
 to give my life for you, I would give it gladly." 
 
 In the stern of the boat, Michel Menko watched, 
 without seeing them, perhaps, the fields, the houses of 
 Pecq, the villas of Saint-Germain, the long terrace 
 below heavy masses of trees, the great plain beside 
 Paris with Mont Valerien rising in its midst, the two 
 towers of the Trocadero, whose gilded dome sparkled 
 in the sun, and the bluish-black cloud which hung over 
 the city like a thick fog. 
 
 The boat advanced very slowly, as if Prince Andras 
 had given the order to delay as much as possible the 
 arrival at Maisons-Lafitte, where the whole jete would 
 end for him, as Marsa was to land there. Already, 
 upon the horizon could be perceived the old mill, with 
 its broad, slated roof. The steeple of Sartrouville 
 loomed up above the red roofs of the houses and the 
 poplars which fringe the bank of the river. A pale 
 blue light, like a thin mist, enveloped the distant 
 landscape. 
 
 "The dream is over," murmured Marsa. 
 
 "A far more beautiful one will soon begin," said 
 Andras, "and that one will be the realization of what I 
 have waited for all my life and never found love." 
 
 Marsa turned to the Prince with a look full of pas- 
 
 [89]
 
 JULES CLARETIE 
 
 sionate admiration and devotion, which told him how 
 thoroughly his love was returned. 
 
 The quadrille had ended, and a waltz was beginning. 
 The little Japanese, with his eternal smile, like the 
 bronze figures of his country, was dancing with a pre- 
 raphaelite English girl. 
 
 "How well you dance," she said. 
 
 "If we only had some favors," replied the Japanese, 
 showing his teeth in a grin, "I would lead the co- 
 tillon." 
 
 The boat stopped at last at Maisons-Lafitte. The 
 great trees of the park formed a heavy mass, amid 
 which the roof of the villa was just discernible. 
 
 "What a pity it is all over," cried the Baroness, who 
 was ruddy as a cherry with the exercise of dancing. 
 "Let us have another; but Maisons-Lafitte is too near. 
 We will go to Rouen the next time; or rather, I invite 
 you all to a day fete in Paris, a game of polo, a lunch, 
 a garden party, whatever you like. I will arrange the 
 programme with Yamada and Jacquemin." 
 
 "Willingly," responded the Japanese, with a low 
 bow. "To collaborate with Monsieur Jacquemin will 
 be very amusing." 
 
 As Marsa Laszlo was leaving the boat, Michel Menko 
 stood close to the gangway, doubtless on purpose to 
 speak to her; and, in the confusion of landing, without 
 any one hearing him, he breathed in her ear these brief 
 words : 
 
 "At your house this evening. I must see you." 
 
 She gave him an icy glance. Michel Menko's eyes 
 were at once full of tears and flames. 
 
 [90]
 
 PRINCE ZILAH 
 
 "I demand it!" he said, firmly. 
 
 The Tzigana made no reply; but, going to Andras 
 Zilah, she took his arm ; while Michel, as if nothing had 
 happened, raised his hat. 
 
 General Vogotzine, with flaming face, followed his 
 niece, muttering, as he wiped the perspiration unsteadily 
 from his face: 
 
 "Fine day! Fine day! By Jove! But the sun was 
 hot, though! Ah, and the wines were good!"
 
 CHAPTER XII 
 
 A DARK PAGE 
 
 Marsa departed with Vogotzine in the 
 carriage which had been waiting for 
 them on the bank, she waved her hand 
 to Zilah with a passionate gesture, 
 implying an infinity of trouble, sad- 
 ness, and love. The Prince then 
 returned to his guests, and the boat, 
 which Marsa watched through the 
 window of the carriage, departed, bearing away the 
 dream, as she had said to Andras. During the drive 
 home she did not say a word. By her side the General 
 grumbled sleepily of the sun, which, the Tokay aiding, 
 had affected his head. But, when Marsa was alone 
 in her chamber, the cry which was wrung from her 
 breast was a cry of sorrow, of despairing anger: 
 
 "Ah, when I think when I think that I am envied!" 
 She regretted having allowed Andras to depart with- 
 out having told him on the spot, the secret of her life. 
 She would not see him again until the next day, and she 
 felt as if she could never live through the long, dull 
 hours. She stood at the window, wrapped in thought, 
 gazing mechanically before her, and still hearing the 
 voice of Michel Menko hissing like a snake in her ear. 
 What was it this man had said ? She did not dare to
 
 PRINCE ZILAH 
 
 believe it. "I demand it!" He had said: "I demand 
 it!" Perhaps some one standing near had heard it. 
 "I demand it!" 
 
 Evening came. Below the window the great masses 
 of the chestnut-trees and the lofty crests of the poplars 
 waved in the breeze like forest plumes, their peaks 
 touched by the sun setting in a sky of tender blue, while 
 the shadowy twilight crept over the park where, through 
 the branches, patches of yellow light, like golden and 
 copper vapors, still gave evidence of the god of day. 
 
 Marsa, her heart full of a melancholy which the twi- 
 light increased, repeated over and over again, with shud- 
 ders of rage and disgust, those three words which Michel 
 Menko had hurled at her like a threat: "I demand it!" 
 Suddenly she heard in the garden the baying of dogs, 
 and she saw, held in check by a domestic, Duna and 
 Bundas, bounding through the masses of flowers toward 
 the gate, where a man appeared, whom Marsa, leaning 
 over the balcony, recognized at once. 
 
 "The wretch!" she exclaimed between her clenched 
 teeth. It was Menko. 
 
 He must have debarked before reaching Paris, and 
 have come to Maisons-Lafitte in haste. 
 
 Marsa's only thought, in the first moment of anger, 
 was to refuse to see him. "I can not," she thought, "I 
 will not!" Then suddenly her mind changed. It was 
 braver and more worthy of her to meet the danger face 
 to face. She rang, and said to the domestic who an- 
 swered the bell: "Show Count Menko into the little 
 salon." 
 
 "We shall see what he will dare," muttered the Tzig- 
 
 [93]
 
 JULES CLARETIE 
 
 ana, glancing at the mirror as if to see whether she ap- 
 peared to tremble before danger and an enemy. 
 
 The little salon into which the young Count was in- 
 troduced was in the left wing of the villa; and it was 
 Marsa's favorite room, because it was so quiet there. 
 She had furnished it with rare taste, in half Byzantine 
 and half Hindoo fashion a long divan running along 
 the wall, covered with gray silk striped with garnet; 
 Persian rugs cast here and there at random; paintings 
 by Petenkofen Hungarian farms and battle-scenes, 
 sentinels lost in the snow; two consoles loaded with 
 books, reviews, and bric-a-brac ; and a round table with 
 Egyptian incrustations, covered with an India shawl, 
 upon which were fine bronzes of Lanceray, and little 
 jewelled daggers. 
 
 This salon communicated with a much larger one, 
 where General Vogotzine usually took his siesta, and 
 which Marsa abandoned to him, preferring the little 
 room, the windows of which, framed in ivy, looked out 
 upon the garden, with the forest in the distance. 
 
 Michel Menko was well acquainted with this little 
 salon, where he had more than once seen Marsa seated 
 at the piano playing her favorite airs. He remembered 
 it all so well, and, nervously twisting his moustache, he 
 longed for her to make her appearance. He listened for 
 the frou-frou of Marsa's skirts on the other side of the 
 lowered portiere which hung between the two rooms; 
 but he heard no sound. 
 
 The General had shaken hands with Michel, as he 
 passed through the large salon, saying, in his thick 
 voice ; 
 
 [94]
 
 PRINCE ZILAH 
 
 "Have you come to see Marsa? You have had 
 enough of that water-party, then? It was very pretty; 
 but the sun was devilish hot. My head is burning now; 
 but it serves me right for not remaining quiet at home." 
 
 Then he raised his heavy person from the armchair 
 he had been sitting in, and went out into the garden, 
 saying: "I prefer to smoke in the open air; it is stifling 
 in here." Marsa, who saw Vogotzine pass out, let him 
 go, only too willing to have him at a distance during her 
 interview with Michel Menko ; and then she boldly en- 
 tered the little salon, where the Count, who had heard 
 her approach, was standing erect as if expecting some 
 attack. 
 
 Marsa closed the door behind her; and, before 
 speaking a word, the two faced each other, as if meas- 
 uring the degree of hardihood each possessed. The 
 Tzigana, opening fire first, said, bravely and without 
 preamble : 
 
 "Well, you wished to see me. Here I am! What do 
 you want of me?" 
 
 "To ask you frankly whether it is true, Marsa, that 
 you are about to marry Prince Zilah." 
 
 She tried to laugh; but her laugh broke nervously 
 off. She said, however, ironically: 
 
 " Oh! is it for that that you are here ?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "It was perfectly useless, then, for you to take the 
 trouble: you ask me a thing which you know well, 
 which all the world knows, which all the world must 
 have told you, since you had the audacity to be present 
 at that fete to-day." 
 
 [95]
 
 JULES CLARETIE 
 
 "That is true," said Michel, coldly; "but I only 
 learned it by chance. I wished to hear it from your 
 own lips." 
 
 "Do I owe you any account of my conduct?" asked 
 Marsa, with crushing hauteur. 
 
 He was silent a moment, strode across the room, laid 
 his hat down upon the little table, and suddenly be- 
 coming humble, not in attitude, but in voice, said : 
 
 "Listen, Marsa: you are a hundred times right to 
 hate me. I have deceived you, lied to you. I have con- 
 ducted myself in a manner unworthy of you, unworthy 
 of myself. But to atonef or my fault my crime, if you 
 will I am ready to do anything you order, to be your 
 miserable slave, in order to obtain the pardon which I 
 have come to ask of you, and which I will ask on my 
 knees, if you command me to do so." 
 
 The Tzigana frowned. 
 
 "I have nothing to pardon you, nothing to command 
 you," she said with an air more wearied than stern, 
 humiliating, and disdainful. "I only ask you to leave 
 me in peace, and never appear again in my life." 
 
 "So! I see that you do not understand me," said 
 Michel, with sudden brusqueness. 
 
 "No, I acknowledge it, not in the least." 
 
 "When I asked you whether you were to marry Prince 
 Andras, didn't you understand that I asked you also an- 
 other thing : Will you marry me, me Michel Menko ? " 
 
 "You!" cried the Tzigana. 
 
 And there was in this cry, in this "You!" ejaculated 
 with a rapid movement of recoil amazement, fright, 
 scorn, and anger. 
 
 [96]
 
 PRINCE ZILAH 
 
 "You!" she said again. And Michel Menko felt in 
 this word a mass of bitter rancor and stifled hatred 
 which suddenly burst its bonds. 
 
 "Yes, me!" he said, braving the insult of Marsa's cry 
 and look. "Me, who love you, and whom you have 
 loved!" 
 
 "Ah, don't dare to say that!" she cried, drawing 
 close to the little table where the daggers rested amid 
 the objects of art. "Don't be vile enough to speak to 
 me of a past of which nothing remains to me but dis- 
 gust! Let not one word which recalls it to me mount 
 to your lips, not one, you understand, or I will kill you 
 like the coward you are!" 
 
 "Do so, Marsa!" he cried with wild, mad passion. 
 "I should die by your hand, and you would not marry 
 that man!" 
 
 Afraid of herself, wresting her eyes from the glitter- 
 ing daggers, she threw herself upon the divan, her 
 hands clasped tightly in her lap, and watched, with the 
 look of a tigress, Michel, who said to her now, in a voice 
 which trembled with the tension of his feelings: "You 
 must know well, Marsa, that death is not the thing that 
 can frighten a man like me ! What does frighten me is 
 that, having lost you once, I may lose you forever; to 
 know that another will be your husband, will love you, 
 will receive your kisses. The very idea that that is pos- 
 sible drives me insane. I feel myself capable of any 
 deed of madness to prevent it. Marsa! Marsa! You 
 did love me once!" 
 
 "I love honor, truth, justice," said Marsa, sternly and 
 implacably. "I thought I loved you; but I never did." 
 7 [97]
 
 JULES CLARETIE 
 
 "You did not love me?" he said. 
 
 This cruel recalling of the past, which was the re- 
 morse of her life, was like touching her flesh with a 
 red-hot iron. 
 
 "No, no, no! I did not love you! I repeat, I thought 
 I loved you. What did I know of life when I met you ? 
 I was suffering, ill ; I thought myself dying, and I never 
 heard a word of pity fall from any other lips than yours. 
 I thought you were a man of honor. You were only a 
 wretch. You deceived me ; you represented yourself to 
 me as free and you were married. Weakly oh, I 
 could kill myself at the very thought ! I listened to you ! 
 I took for love the trite phrases you had used to dozens 
 of other women; half by violence, half by ruse, you be- 
 came my lover. I do not know when I do not know 
 how. I try to forget that horrible dream; and when, 
 deluded by you, thinking that what I felt for you was 
 love, for I did think so, I imagined that I had given my- 
 self for life to a man worthy of the deepest devotion, 
 ready for all sacrifices for me, as I felt myself to be for 
 him ; when you had taken me, body and soul, I learn by 
 what? by a trifling conversation, by a chance, in a 
 crowded ballroom that this Michel Menko, whose 
 name I was to bear, who was to be my husband; this 
 Count Menko, this man of honor, the one in whom I 
 believed blindly, was married ! Married at Vienna, and 
 had already given away the name on which he traded! 
 Oh, it is hideous!" And the Tzigana, whose whole 
 body was shuddering with horror, recoiled instinctively 
 to the edge of the divan as at the approach of some de- 
 tested contact. 
 
 [98]
 
 PRINCE ZILAH 
 
 Michel, his face pale and convulsed, had listened to 
 her with bowed head. 
 
 "All that you say is the truth, Marsa; but I will give 
 my life, my whole life, to expiate that lie!" 
 
 "There are infamies which are never effaced. There 
 is no pardon for him who has no excuse." 
 
 "No excuse? Yes, Marsa; I have one! I have one: 
 I loved you!" 
 
 "And because you loved me, was it necessary for 
 you to betray me, lie to me, ruin me?" 
 
 "What could I do? I did not love the w r oman I had 
 married; you dawned on me like a beautiful vision; I 
 wished, hoping I know not what impossible future, to 
 be near you, to make you love me, and I did not dare to 
 confess that I was not free. If I lied to you, it was be- 
 cause I trembled at not being able to surround you with 
 my devotion; it was because I was afraid to lose your 
 love, knowing that the adoration I had for you would 
 never die till my heart was cold and dead! Upon all 
 that is most sacred, I swear this to you! I swear it!" 
 
 He then recalled to her, while she sat rigid and mo- 
 tionless with an expression of contempt and disdain 
 upon her beautiful, proud lips, their first meetings ; that 
 evening at Lady Brolway's, in Pau, where he had met 
 her for the first time; their conversation; the inefface- 
 able impression produced upon him by her beauty; 
 that winter season; the walks they had taken together 
 beneath the trees, which not a breath of wind stirred; 
 their excursions in the purple and gold valleys, with the 
 Pyrenees in the distance crowned with eternal snow. 
 Did she not remember their long talks upon the terrace, 
 
 [99]
 
 the evenings which felt like spring, and that day when 
 she had been nearly killed by a runaway horse, and he 
 had seized the animal by the bridle and saved her life ? 
 Yes, he had loved her, loved her well; and it was be- 
 cause, possessing her love, he feared, like a second 
 Adam, to see himself driven out of paradise, that he 
 had hidden from Marsa the truth. If she had ques- 
 tioned one of the Hungarians or Viennese, who were 
 living at Pau, she could doubtless have known that 
 Count Menko, the first secretary of the embassy of 
 Austria-Hungary at Paris, had married the heiress of 
 one of the richest families of Prague; a pretty but un- 
 intelligent girl, not understanding at all the character 
 of her husband ; detesting Vienna and Paris, and grad- 
 ually exacting from Menko that he should live at 
 Prague, near her family, whose ancient ideas and prej- 
 udices and inordinate love of money displeased the 
 young Hungarian. He was left free to act as he pleased ; 
 his wife would willingly give up a part of her dowry to 
 regain her independence. It was only just, she said in- 
 solently, that, having been mistaken as to the tastes of 
 the man she had married for reasons of convenience 
 rather than of inclination, she should pay for her stu- 
 pidity. Pay! The word made the blood mount to 
 Menko' s face. If he had not been rich, as he was, he 
 would have hewn stone to gain his daily bread rather 
 than touch a penny of her money. He shook off the 
 yoke the obstinate daughter of the Bohemian gentle- 
 man would have imposed upon him, and departed, 
 brusquely breaking a union in which both husband and 
 wife so terribly perceived their error. 
 
 [100]
 
 PRINCE ZILAI 
 
 Marsa might have known of all this if she had, for a 
 moment, doubted Menko's word. But how was she to 
 suspect that the young Count was capable of a lie or of 
 concealing such a secret? Besides, she knew hardly 
 any one at Pau, as her physicians had forbidden her 
 any excitement; at the foot of the Pyrenees, she lived, 
 as at Maisons-Lafitte, an almost solitary life; and Mi- 
 chel Menko had been during that winter, which he now 
 recalled to Marsa, speaking of it as of a lost Eden, her 
 sole companion, the only guest of the house she inhab- 
 ited with Vogotzine in the neighborhood of the castle. 
 
 Poor Marsa, enthusiastic, inexperienced, her heart 
 enamored with chivalrous audacity, intrepid courage, 
 all the many virtues which were those of Hungary her- 
 self; Marsa, her mind imbued from her infancy with the 
 almost fantastic recitals of the war of independence, 
 and later, with her readings and reflections; Marsa, 
 full of the stories of the heroic past must necessarily 
 have been the dupe of the first being who, coming into 
 her life, was the personal representative of the bravery 
 and charm of her race. So, when she encountered one 
 day Michel Menko, she was invincibly attracted toward 
 him by something proud, brave, and chivalrous, which 
 was characteristic of the manly beauty of the young 
 Hungarian. She was then twenty, very ignorant of 
 life, her great Oriental eyes seeing nothing of stern 
 reality; but, with all her gentleness, there was a species 
 of Muscovite firmness which was betrayed in the con- 
 tour of her red lips. It was in vain that sorrow had early 
 made her a woman; Marsa remained ignorant of the 
 world, without any other guide than Vogotzine; suffer- 
 
 [101]
 
 ing and languid, she was fatally at the mercy of the first 
 lie which should caress her ear and stir her heart. 
 From the first, therefore, she had loved Michel; she 
 had, as she herself said, believed that she loved him 
 with a love which would never end, a very ingenuous 
 love, having neither the silliness of a girl who has just 
 left the convent, nor the knowledge of a Parisienne 
 whom the theatre and the newspapers have instructed 
 in all things. Michel, then, could give to this virgin 
 and pliable mind whatever bent he chose; and Marsa, 
 pure as the snow and brave as her own favorite heroes, 
 became his without resistance, being incapable of di- 
 vining a treachery or fearing a lie. Michel Menko, 
 moreover, loved her madly; and he thought only of 
 winning and keeping the love of this incomparable 
 maiden, exquisite in her combined gentleness and 
 pride. The folly of love mounted to his brain like in- 
 toxication, and communicated itself to the poor girl 
 who believed in him as if he were the living faith ; and, 
 in the madness of his passion, Michel, without being a 
 coward, committed a cowardly action. 
 
 No: a coward he certainly was not. He was one of 
 those nervous natures, as prompt to hope as to despair, 
 going to all extremes, at times foolishly gay, and at 
 others as grave and melancholy as Hamlet. There were 
 days when Menko did not value his life at a penny, and 
 when he asked himself seriously if suicide were not the 
 simplest means to reach the end; and again, at the 
 least ray of sunshine, he became sanguine and hopeful 
 to excess. Of undoubted courage, he would have faced 
 the muzzle of a loaded cannon out of mere bravado, at 
 
 [102]
 
 PRINCE ZILAH 
 
 the same time wondering, with a sarcastic smile upon 
 his lips, Cui bono ? 
 
 He sometimes called heroism a trick; and yet, in 
 everyday life, he had not much regard for tricksters. 
 Excessively fond of movement, activity, and excitement, 
 he yet counted among his happiest days those spent 
 in long meditations and inactive dreams. He was a 
 strange combination of faults and good qualities, with- 
 out egregious vices, but all his virtues capable of being 
 annihilated by passion, anger, jealousy, or grief. With 
 such a nature, everything was possible: the sublimity 
 of devotion, or a fall into the lowest infamy. He often 
 said, in self -analysis : "I am afraid of myself." In 
 short, his strength was like a house built upon sand; 
 all, in a day, might crumble. 
 
 "If I had to choose the man I should prefer to be," 
 he said once, "I would be Prince Andras Zilah, because 
 he knows neither my useless discouragements, apropos 
 of everything and nothing, nor my childish delights, nor 
 my hesitations, nor my confidence, which at times ap- 
 proaches folly as my misanthropy approaches injus- 
 tice; and because, in my opinion, the supreme virtue 
 in a man is firmness." 
 
 The Zilahs were connected by blood with the Menkos, 
 and Prince Andras was very fond of this young man, 
 who promised to Hungary one of those diplomats ca- 
 pable of wielding at once the pen and the sword, and 
 who in case of war, before drawing up a protocol, would 
 have dictated its terms, sabre in hand. Michel indeed 
 stood high with his chief in the embassy, and he was 
 very much sought after in society. Before the day he 
 
 [103]
 
 JULES CLARETIE 
 
 met Marsa, he had, to tell the truth, only experienced 
 the most trivial love-affairs. 
 
 He did not speak of his wife at Pau any more than 
 he did on the boulevards. She lived far away, in the 
 old city of Prague, and troubled Michel no more than 
 if she had never existed. Perhaps he had forgotten, 
 really forgotten, with that faculty of forgetfulness which 
 belongs to the imaginative, that he was married, when 
 he encountered Marsa, the candid, pure-hearted girl, 
 who did not reflect nor calculate, but simply believed 
 that she had met a man of honor. 
 
 So, what sudden revolt, humiliation, and hatred did 
 the poor child feel when she learned that the man in 
 whom she had believed as in a god had deceived her, 
 lied to her! He was married. He had treated her as 
 the lowest of women ; perhaps he had never even loved 
 her! The very thought made her long to kill herself, or 
 him, or both. She, unhappy, miserable woman, was 
 ruined, ruined forever! 
 
 She had certainly never stopped to think where the 
 love she had for Michel would lead her. She thought 
 of nothing except that Michel was hers, and she was 
 his, and she believed that their love would last forever. 
 She did not think that she had long to live, and her ex- 
 istence seemed to her only a breath which any moment 
 might cease. Why had she not died before she knew 
 that Menko had lied ? 
 
 All deception seemed hideous to Marsa Laszlo, and 
 this hideousness she had discovered in the man to 
 whom she had given herself, believing in the eternity 
 as well as in the loyalty of his love. 
 
 [104]
 
 PRINCE ZILAH 
 
 It was at a ball, at the English embassy, after her 
 return from Pau, that, while smiling and happy, she 
 overheard between two Viennese, strangers to her, this 
 short dialogue, every word of which was like a knife in 
 her heart: "What a charming fellow that Menko is!" 
 "Yes; is his wife ugly or a humpback ? or is he jealous 
 as Othello? She is never seen." "His wife! Is he 
 married?" "Yes: he married a Blavka, the daughter 
 of Angel Blavka, of Prague. Didn't you know it?" 
 
 Married ! 
 
 Marsa felt her head reel, and the sudden glance she 
 cast at the speakers silenced, almost terrified them. Half 
 insane, she reached home, she never knew how. The 
 next day Michel Menko presented himself at her apart- 
 ments in the hotel where she was living; she ordered 
 him out of her presence, not allowing him to offer any 
 excuse or explanation. 
 
 "You are married, and you are a coward!" 
 
 He threw himself at her knees, and implored her to 
 listen to him. 
 
 "Go! Go!" 
 
 "But our love, Marsa? For I love you, and you 
 love me." 
 
 "I hate and scorn you. My love is dead. You have 
 killed it. All is over. Go! And let me never know 
 that there exists a Michel Menko in the world ! Never ! 
 Never! Never!" 
 
 He felt his own cowardice and shame, and he disap- 
 peared, not daring again to see the woman whose love 
 haunted him, and who shut herself away from the world 
 more obstinately than ever. She left Paris, and in the 
 
 1 '5 J
 
 JULES CLARETIE 
 
 solitude of Maisons-Lafitte lived the life of a recluse, 
 while Michel tried in vain to forget the bitterness of his 
 loss. The Tzigana hoped that she was going to die, 
 and bear away with her forever the secret of her be- 
 trayal. But no; science had been mistaken; the poor 
 girl was destined to live. In spite of her sorrow and 
 anguish, her beauty blossomed in the shade, and she 
 seemed each day to grow more lovely, w r hile her heart 
 became more sad, and her despair more poignant. 
 
 Then death, which would not take Marsa, came to 
 another, and gave Menko an opportunity to repair and 
 efface all. He learned that his wife had died suddenly 
 at Prague, of a malady of the heart. This death, which 
 freed him, produced a strange effect upon him, not un- 
 mingled with remorse. Poor woman! She had wor- 
 thily borne his name, after all. Unintelligent, cold, and 
 wrapped up in her money, she had never understood 
 him; but, perhaps, if he had been more patient, things 
 might have gone better between them. 
 
 But no; Marsa was his one, his never-to-be-forgotten 
 love. As soon as he heard of his freedom, he wrote her 
 a letter, telling her that he was able now to dispose of 
 his future as he would, imploring her to pardon him, 
 offering her not his love, since she repelled it, but his 
 name, which was her right a debt of honor which he 
 wished her to acquit with the devotion of his life. Marsa 
 answered simply with these words: "I will never bear 
 the name of a man I despise." 
 
 The wound made in her heart by Menko's lie was 
 incurable; the Tzigana would never forgive. He tried 
 to see her again, confident that, if he should be face to 
 
 [*!
 
 PRINCE ZILAH 
 
 face with her, he could find words to awaken the past 
 and make it live again; but she obstinately refused to 
 see him, and, as she did not go into society, he never 
 met her. Then he cast himself, with a sort of frenzy, 
 into the dissipation of Paris, trying to forget, to forget 
 at any cost: failing in this, he resigned his position at 
 the embassy, and went away to seek adventure, going to 
 fight in the Balkans against the Russians, only to return 
 weary and bored as he had departed, always invinci- 
 bly and eternally haunted by the image of Marsa, an 
 image sad as a lost love, and grave as remorse.
 
 CHAPTER XIII 
 
 [ MY LETTERS OR MYSELF " 
 
 T was that past, that terrible past, which 
 Michel Menko had dared to come and 
 speak of to the Tzigana. At first, 
 she had grown crimson with anger, as 
 if at an insult; now, by a sudden oppo- 
 site sentiment, as she listened to him 
 recalling those days, she felt an im- 
 pression of deadly pain as if an old 
 wound had been reopened. Was it true that all this 
 had ever existed ? Was it possible, even ? 
 
 The man who had been her lover was speaking to 
 her; he was speaking to her of his love; and, if the ter- 
 rible agony of memory had not burned in her heart, she 
 would have wondered whether this man before her, this 
 sort of stranger, had ever even touched her hand. 
 
 She waited, with the idle curiosity of a spectator who 
 had no share in the drama, for the end of Menko' s 
 odious argument: "I lied because I loved you!" 
 
 He returned again and again, in the belief that women 
 easily forgive the ill-doing of which they are the cause, 
 to that specious plea, and Marsa asked herself, in amaze- 
 ment, what aberration had possession of this man that 
 he should even pretend to excuse his infamy thus. 
 "And is that," she said at last, "all that you have to 
 [io81
 
 PRINCE ZILAH 
 
 say to me ? According to you, the thief has only to cry: 
 'What could I do? I loved that money, and so I stole 
 it.' Ah," rising abruptly, "this interview has lasted 
 too long! Good-evening!" 
 
 She walked steadily toward the door; but Michel, 
 hastening round the other side of the table, barred her 
 exit, speaking in a suppliant tone, in which, however, 
 there was a hidden threat: 
 
 "Marsa! Marsa, I implore you, do not marry Prince 
 Andras! Do not marry him if you do not wish some 
 horrible tragedy to happen to you and me!" 
 
 "Really?" she retorted. "Do I understand that it is 
 you who now threaten to kill me?" 
 
 " I do not threaten ; I entreat, Marsa. But you know 
 all that there is in me at times of madness and folly. I 
 am almost insane: you know it well. Have pity upon 
 me ! I love you as no woman was ever loved before ; I 
 live only in you; and, if you should give yourself to an- 
 other " 
 
 "Ah!" she said, interrupting him with a haughty 
 gesture, "you speak to me as if you had a right to dic- 
 tate my actions. I have given you my forgetfulness 
 after giving you my love. That is enough, I think. 
 Leave me!" 
 
 "Marsa!" 
 
 "I have hoped for a long time that I was forever de- 
 livered from your presence. I commanded you to dis- 
 appear. Why have you returned?" 
 
 "Because, after I saw you one evening at Baroness 
 Dinati's (do you remember? you spoke to the Prince 
 for the first time that evening), I learned, in London, of 
 
 [109]
 
 JULES CLARETIE 
 
 this marriage. If I have consented to live away from 
 you previously, it was because, although you were no 
 longer mine, you at least were no one else's; but I will 
 not pardon me, I can not endure the thought that 
 your beauty, your grace, will be another's. Think of 
 the self-restraint I have placed upon myself! Although 
 living in Paris, I have not tried to see you again, Marsa, 
 since you drove me from your presence; it was by 
 chance that I met you at the Baroness's; but now 
 
 " It is another woman you have before you. A woman 
 who ignores that she has listened to your supplications, 
 yielded to your prayers. It is a woman who has for- 
 gotten you, who does not even know that a wretch has 
 abused her ignorance and her confidence, and who 
 loves who loves as one loves for the first time, with a 
 pure and holy devotion, the man whose name she is 
 to bear." 
 
 "That man I respect as honor itself. Had it been 
 another, I should already have struck him in the face. 
 But you who accuse me of having lied, are you going to 
 lie to him, to him?" 
 
 Marsa became livid, and her eyes, hollow as those of 
 a person sick to death, flamed in the black circles which 
 surrounded them. 
 
 "I have no answer to make to one who has no right 
 to question me," she said. "But, should I have to pay 
 with my life for the moment of happiness I should feel 
 in placing my hand in the hand of a hero, I would grasp 
 that moment!" 
 
 "Then," cried Menko, "you wish to push me to ex- 
 tremities! And yet I have told you there are certaiq 
 
 [no]
 
 PRINCE ZILAH 
 
 hours of feverish insanity in which I am capable of 
 committing a crime." 
 
 "I do not doubt it," replied the young girl, coldly. 
 "But, in fact, you have already done that. There is no 
 crime lower than that of treachery." 
 
 "There is one more terrible," retorted Michel Menko. 
 " I have told you that I loved you. I love you a hundred 
 times more now than ever before. Jealousy, anger, 
 whatever sentiment you choose to call it, makes my 
 blood like fire in my veins ! I see you again as you were. 
 I feel your kisses on my lips. I love you madly, pas- 
 sionately! Do you understand, Marsa? Do you un- 
 derstand?" and he approached with outstretched 
 hands the Tzigana, whose frame was shaken with in- 
 dignant anger. "Do you understand ? I love you still. 
 I was your lover, and I will, I will be so again." 
 
 "Ah, miserable coward!" cried the Tzigana, with a 
 rapid glance toward the daggers, before which stood 
 Menko, preventing her from advancing, and regard- 
 ing her with eyes which burned with reckless passion, 
 wounded self-love, and torturing jealousy. "Yes, cow- 
 ard!" she repeated, "coward, coward to dare to taunt 
 me with an infamous past and speak of a still more in- 
 famous future!" 
 
 "I love you!" exclaimed Menko again. 
 
 "Go!" she cried, crushing him with look and gest- 
 ure. "Go! I order you out of my presence, lackey! 
 Go!" 
 
 All the spirit of the daughters of the puszta, the vio- 
 lent pride of her Hungarian blood, flashed from her 
 eyes; and Menko, fascinated, gazed at her as if turned
 
 JULES CLARETIE 
 
 to stone, as she stood there magnificent in her anger, 
 superb in her contempt. 
 
 "Yes, I will go to-day," he said at last, "but to-mor- 
 row night I shall come again, Marsa. As my dearest 
 treasure, I have preserved the key of that gate I opened 
 once to meet you who were waiting for me in the shadow 
 of the trees. Have you forgotten that, also? You say 
 you have forgotten all." 
 
 And as he spoke, she saw again the long alley behind 
 the villa, ending in a small gate which, one evening after 
 the return from Pau, Michel opened, and came, as he 
 said, to meet her waiting for him. It was true. Yes, it 
 was true. Menko did not lie this time ! She had waited 
 for him there, two years before, unhappy girl that she 
 was! All that hideous love she had believed lay buried 
 in Pau as in a tomb. 
 
 "Listen, Marsa," continued Menko, suddenly recov- 
 ering, by a strong effort of the will, his coolness, "I 
 must see you once again, have one more opportunity to 
 plead my cause. The letters you wrote to me, those 
 dear letters which I have covered with my kisses and 
 blistered with my tears, those letters which I have kept 
 despite your prayers and your commands, those letters 
 which have been my only consolation I will bring 
 them to you to-morrow night. Do you understand 
 me?" 
 
 Her great eyes fixed, and her lips trembling horribly, 
 Marsa made no reply. 
 
 "Do you understand me, Marsa?" he repeated, im- 
 ploring and threatening at once. 
 
 "Yes," she murmured at last.
 
 PRINCE ZILAH 
 
 She paused a moment; then a broken, feverish laugh 
 burst from her lips, and she continued, with stinging 
 irony : 
 
 "Either my letters or myself! It is a bargain pure 
 and simple! Such a proposition has been made once 
 before it is historical you probably remember it. 
 In that case, the woman killed herself. I shall act oth- 
 erwise, believe me!" 
 
 There was in her icy tones a threat, which gave pleas- 
 ure to Michel Menko. He vaguely divined a danger. 
 "You mean?" he asked. 
 
 "I mean, you must never again appear before me. 
 You must go to London, to America; I don't care 
 where. You must be dead to the one you have cowardly 
 betrayed. You must burn or keep those letters, it little 
 matters to me which; but you must still be honorable 
 enough not to use them as a weapon against me. This 
 interview, which wearies more than it angers me, 
 must be the last. You must leave me to my sorrows or 
 my joys, without imagining that you could ever have 
 anything in common with a woman who despises you. 
 You have crossed the threshold of this house for the 
 last time. Or, if not Ah! if not I swear to you that 
 I have energy enough and resolution enough to defend 
 myself alone, and alone to punish you! In your turn, 
 you understand me, I imagine?" 
 
 "Certainly," said Michel. "But you are too impru- 
 dent, Marsa. I am not a man to make recoil by speak- 
 ing of danger. Through the gate, or over the wall if the 
 gate is barricaded, I shall come to you again, and you 
 will have to listen to me." 
 
 8 11
 
 JULES CLARETIE 
 
 The lip of the Tzigana curled disdainfully. 
 
 "I shall not even change the lock of that gate, and 
 besides, the large gate of the garden remains open these 
 summer nights. You see that you have only to come. 
 But I warn you neither to unlock the one nor to pass 
 through the other. It is not I whom you will find at 
 the rendezvous." 
 
 "Still, I am sure that it would be you, Marsa, if I 
 should tell you that to-morrow evening I shall be under 
 the window of the pavilion at the end of the garden, 
 and that you must meet me there to receive from my 
 hand your letters, all your letters, which I shall bring 
 you." 
 
 "Do you think so?" 
 
 "I am certain of it." 
 
 "Certain? Why?" 
 
 "Because you will reflect." 
 
 "I have had time to reflect. Give me another 
 reason." 
 
 "Another reason is that you can not afford to leave 
 such proofs in my hands. I assure you that it would be 
 folly to make of a man like me, who would willingly die 
 for you, an open and implacable enemy." 
 
 "I understand. A man like you would die willingly 
 for a woman, but he insults and threatens her, like 
 the vilest of men, with a punishment more cruel than 
 death itself. Well! it matters little to me. I shall not 
 be in the pavilion where you have spoken to me of your 
 love, and I will have it torn down and the debris of it 
 burned within three days. I shall not await you. I 
 shall never see you again. I do not fear you. And I
 
 PRINCE ZILAH 
 
 leave you the right of doing with those letters what you 
 please!" 
 
 Then, surveying him from head to foot, as if to meas- 
 ure the degree of audacity to which he could attain, 
 "Adieu!" she said. 
 
 "Au revoir!" he rejoined coldly, giving to the saluta- 
 tion an emphasis full of hidden meaning. 
 
 The Tzigana stretched out her hand, and pulled a 
 silken bell-cord. 
 
 A servant appeared. 
 
 "Show this gentleman out," she said, very quietly. 
 
 [US]
 
 CHAPTER XIV 
 
 "HAVE i THE RIGHT TO LIE?" 
 
 ;HEN the Tzigana's romance, in which 
 she had put all her faith and her belief, 
 had ended, like a bad dream, she said 
 to herself: "My life is over!" 
 
 What remained to her? Expiation? 
 Forgetf ulness ? 
 
 She thought of the cloister and the 
 life of prayer of those blue sisters she 
 saw under the trees of Maisons-Lafitte. She lived in 
 the solitude of her villa, remaining there during the 
 winter in a melancholy tete-a-tete with old Vogotzine, 
 who was always more or less under the effect of liquor. 
 Then, as death would not take her, she gradually began 
 to go into Parisian society, slowly forgetting the past, 
 and the folly which she had taken for love little by 
 little faded mistily away. It was like a recovery from 
 an illness, or the disappearance of a nightmare in the 
 dawn of morning. Now, Marsa Laszlo, who, two years 
 before, had longed for annihilation and death, occa- 
 sionally thought the little Baroness Dinati right when 
 she said, in her laughing voice: "What are you think- 
 ing of, my dear child ? Is it well for a girl of your age 
 to bury herself voluntarily and avoid society?" She 
 was then twenty-four: in three or four years she had 
 
 [116]
 
 aged mentally ten; but her beautiful oval face had re- 
 mained unchanged, with the purity of outline of a 
 Byzantine Madonna. 
 
 Then life has its awakenings she met Prince An- 
 dras : all her admirations as a girl, her worship of patri- 
 otism and heroism, flamed forth anew; her heart, 
 which she had thought dead, throbbed, as it had never 
 throbbed before, at the sound of the voice of this man, 
 truly loyal, strong and gentle, and who was (she knew 
 it well, the unhappy girl !) the being for whom she was 
 created, the ideal of her dreams. She loved him si- 
 lently, but with a deep and eternal passion; she loved 
 him without saying to herself that she no longer had 
 any right to love. Did she even think of her past? 
 Does one longer think of the storm when the wind has 
 driven off the heavy, tear-laden clouds, and the thun- 
 der has died away in the distance? It seemed to her 
 now that she had never had but one name in her heart, 
 and upon her lips Zilah. 
 
 And then this man, this hero, her hero, asked her 
 hand, and said to her, "I love you." 
 
 Andras loved her! With what a terrible contraction 
 of the heart did she put to herself the formidable ques- 
 tion : " Have I the right to lie ? Shall I have the courage 
 to confess?" 
 
 She held in her grasp the most perfect happiness 
 a woman could hope for, the dream of her whole life; 
 and, because a worthless scoundrel had deceived her, 
 because there were, in her past, hours which she re- 
 membered only to curse, effaced hours, hours which ap- 
 peared to her now never to have existed, was she obliged 
 
 ["7]
 
 JULES CLARETIE 
 
 to ruin her life, to break her heart, and, herself the vic- 
 tim, to pay for the lie uttered by a coward? Was it 
 right ? Was it just ? Was she to be forever bound to 
 that past, like a corpse to its grave? What! She had 
 no longer the right to love ? no longer the right to live ? 
 
 She adored Andras; she would have given her life 
 for him. And he also loved her; she was the first 
 woman who had ever touched his heart. He had evi- 
 dently felt himself isolated, with his old chivalrous 
 ideas, in a world devoted to the worship of low things, 
 tangible successes, and profitable realities. He was, so 
 to speak, a living anachronism in the midst of a society 
 which had faith in nothing except victorious brutalities, 
 and which marched on, crushing, beneath its iron-shod 
 heels, the hopes and visions of the enthusiastic. He re- 
 called those evenings after a battle when, in the woods 
 reddened by the setting sun, his father and Varhely 
 said to him : "Let us remain to the last, and protect the 
 retreat!" And it seemed to him that, amid the bestiali- 
 ties of the moment and the vulgarities of the century, he 
 still protected the retreat of misunderstood virtues and 
 generous enthusiasms; and it pleased him to be the 
 rear guard of chivalry in defeat. 
 
 He shut himself up obstinately in his isolation, like 
 Marsa in her solitude ; and he did not consider himself 
 ridiculously absurd or foolishly romantic, when he re- 
 membered that his countrymen, the Hungarians, were 
 the only people, perhaps, who, in the abasement of all 
 Europe before the brutality of triumph and omnipo- 
 tent pessimism, had preserved their traditions of ideal- 
 ism, chivalry, and faith in the old honor; the Hun- 
 
 [118]
 
 PRINCE ZILAH 
 
 garian nationality was also the only one which had 
 conquered its conquerors by its virtues, its persistence 
 in its hopes, its courage, its contempt of all baseness, its 
 extraordinary heroism, and had finally imposed its law 
 upon Austria, bearing away the old empire as on the 
 croup of its horse toward the vast plains of liberty. The 
 ideal would, therefore, have its moments of victory: an 
 entire people proved it in history. 
 
 "Let this world boast," said Andras, "of the delights 
 of its villainy, and grovel in all that is low and base. 
 Life is not worth living unless the air one breathes is 
 pure and free! Man is not the brother of swine!" 
 
 And these same ideas, this same faith, this same 
 dreamy nature and longing for all that is generous and 
 brave, he suddenly found again in the heart of Marsa. 
 She represented to him a new and happy existence. 
 Yes, he thought, she would render him happy; she 
 would understand him, aid him, surround him with the 
 fondest love that man could desire. And she, also, 
 thinking of him, felt herself capable of any sacrifice. 
 Who could tell ? Perhaps the day would come when it 
 would be necessary to fight again; then she would fol- 
 low him, and interpose her breast between him and the 
 balls. What happiness to die in saving him ! But, no, 
 no ! To live loving him, making him happy, was her 
 duty now; and was it necessary to renounce this de- 
 light because hated kisses had once soiled her lips? 
 No, she could not! And yet and yet, strict honor 
 whispered to Marsa, that she should say No to the 
 Prince; she had no right to his love. 
 
 But, if she should reject Andras, he would die
 
 JULES CLARETIE 
 
 Varhely had said it. She would then slay two beings, 
 Andras and herself, with a single word. She! She did 
 not count! But he! And yet she must speak. But why 
 speak? Was it really true that she had ever loved an- 
 other ? Who was it ? The one whom she worshipped 
 with all her heart, with all the fibres of her being, was 
 Andras ! Oh, to be free to love him ! Marsa's sole hope 
 and thought were now to win, some day, forgiveness for 
 having said nothing by the most absolute devotion that 
 man had ever encountered. Thinking continually these 
 same thoughts, always putting off taking a decision 
 till the morrow, fearing to break both his heart and 
 hers, the Tzigana let the time slip by until the day came 
 when the fete in celebration of her betrothal was to take 
 place. And on that very day Michel Menko appeared 
 before her, not abashed, but threatening. Her dream 
 of happiness ended in this reality Menko saying: 
 "You have been mine; you shall be mine again, or you 
 are lost!" 
 
 Lost! And how? 
 
 With cold resolution, Marsa Laszlo asked herself this 
 question, terrible as a question of life or death: 
 
 "What would the Prince do, if, after I became his 
 wife, he should learn the truth?" 
 
 "What would he do? He would kill me," thought 
 the Tzigana. "He would kill me. So much the 
 better!" It was a sort of a bargain which she proposed 
 to herself, and which her overwhelming love dictated. 
 
 "To be his wife, and with my life to pay for that mo- 
 ment of happiness! If I should speak now, he would 
 fly from me, I should never see him again and I love 
 
 [120]
 
 PRINCE ZILAH 
 
 him. Well, I sacrifice what remains to me of existence 
 to be happy for one short hour!" She grew to think 
 that she had a right thus to give her life for her love, to 
 belong to Andras, to be the wife of that hero if only for 
 a day, and to die then, to die saying to him: "I was un- 
 worthy of you, but I loved you; here, strike!" Or 
 rather to say nothing, to be loved, to take opium or digi- 
 talis, and to fall asleep with this last supremely happy 
 thought: "I am his wife, and he loves me!" What 
 power in the world could prevent her from realizing her 
 dream? Would she resemble Michel in lying thus? 
 No ; since she would immediately sacrifice herself with- 
 out hesitation, with joy, for the honor of her hus- 
 band. 
 
 "Yes, my life against his love. I shall be his wife 
 and die!" ' 
 
 She did not think that, in sacrificing her life, she 
 would condemn Zilah to death. Or rather, with one of 
 those subterfuges by which we voluntarily deceive our- 
 selves, she thought: "He will be consoled for my death, 
 if he ever learns what I was." But why should he ever 
 learn it? She would take care to die so that it should 
 be thought an accident. 
 
 Marsa's resolve was taken. She had contracted a 
 debt, and she would pay it with her blood. Michel now 
 mattered little to her, let him do what he would. The 
 young man's threat: "To-morrow night!" returned to 
 her mind without affecting her in the least. The con- 
 temptuous curl of her lip seemed silently to brave Michel 
 Menko. 
 
 In all this there was a different manifestation of her
 
 JULES CLARETIE 
 
 double nature: in her love for Andras and her longing 
 to become his wife, the blood of the Tzigana, her 
 mother, spoke; Prince Tchereteff, the Russian, on the 
 other hand, revived in her silent, cold bravado. 
 
 She lay down to rest, still feverish from the struggle, 
 and worn out, slept till morning, to awaken calm, lan- 
 guid, but almost happy. 
 
 She passed the whole of the following day in the gar- 
 den, wondering at times if the appearance of Menko 
 and his to-morrow were not a dream, a nightmare. To- 
 morrow? That was to-day. 
 
 "Yes, yes, he will come! He is quite capable of com- 
 ing," she murmured. 
 
 She despised him enough to believe that he would 
 dare, this time, to keep his word. 
 
 Lying back in a low wicker chair, beneath a large 
 oak, whose trunk was wreathed with ivy, she read or 
 thought the hours away. A Russian belt, enamelled 
 with gold and silver, held together her trailing white 
 robes of India muslin, trimmed with Valenciennes, and 
 a narrow scarlet ribbon encircled her throat like a line 
 of blood. The sunlight, filtering through the leaves, 
 flickered upon her dress and clear, dark cheeks, while, 
 near by, a bush of yellow roses flung its fragrance upon 
 the air. The only sound in the garden was the gentle 
 rustle of the trees, which recalled to her the distant 
 murmur of the sea. Gradually she entirely forgot 
 Michel, and thought only of the happy moments of the 
 previous day, of the boat floating down the Seine past the 
 silvery willows on the banks of the sparkling water, of 
 the good people on the barge calling out to her, "Be 
 
 [122]
 
 PRINCE ZILAH 
 
 happy! be happy!" and the little children throwing 
 smiling kisses to her. 
 
 A gentle languor enveloped the warm, sunny garden. 
 Old Sol poured his golden light down upon the emerald 
 turf, the leafy trees, the brilliant flowerbeds and the 
 white walls of the villa. Under the green arch of the 
 trees, where luminous insects, white and flame-colored 
 butterflies, aimlessly chased one another, Mirsa half 
 slumbered in a sort of voluptuous oblivion, a happy 
 calm, in that species of nirvana which the open air of 
 summer brings. She felt herself far away from the en- 
 tire world in that corner of verdure, and abandoned 
 herself to childish hopes and dreams, in profound en- 
 joyment of the beautiful day. 
 
 The Baroness Dinati came during the afternoon to 
 see Marsa; she fluttered out into the garden, dressed in 
 a clinging gown of some light, fluffy material, with a red 
 umbrella over her head ; and upon her tiny feet, of all 
 things in the world, ebony sabots, bearing her mono- 
 gram in silver upon the instep. It was a short visit, 
 made up of the chatter and gossip of Paris. Little 
 Jacquemin's article upon Prince Zilah's nautical jete 
 had created a furore. That little Jacquemin was a 
 charming fellow; Marsa knew him. No! Really? 
 What! she didn't know Jacquemin of UActualite? 
 Oh ! but she must invite him to the wedding, he would 
 write about it, he wrote about everything; he was very 
 well informed, was Jacquemin, on every subject, even 
 on the fashions. 
 
 "Look! It was he who told me that these sabots 
 were to be worn, The miserable things nearly made
 
 JULES CLARETIE 
 
 me break my neck when I entered the carriage; but 
 they are something new. They attract attention. 
 Everybody says, What are they? And when one has 
 pretty feet, not too large, you know," etc., etc. 
 
 She rattled on, moistening her pretty red lips with a 
 lemonade, and nibbling a cake, and then hastily de- 
 parted just as Prince Andras's carriage stopped before 
 the gate. The Baroness waved her hand to him with a 
 gay smile, crying out : 
 
 "I will not take even a minute of your time. You 
 have to-day something pleasanter to do than to occupy 
 yourself with poor, insignificant me!" 
 
 Marsa experienced the greatest delight in seeing An- 
 dras, and listening to the low, tender accents of his 
 voice; she felt herself to be loved and protected. She 
 gave herself up to boundless hopes she, who had be- 
 fore her, perhaps, only a few days of life. She felt per- 
 fectly happy near Andras; and it seemed to her that 
 to-day his manner was tenderer, the tones of his voice 
 more caressing, than usual. 
 
 "I was right to believe in chimeras," he said, "since 
 all that I longed for at twenty years is realized to-day. 
 Very often, dear Marsa, when I used to feel sad and 
 discouraged, I wondered whether my life lay behind me. 
 But I was longing for you, that was all. I knew in- 
 stinctively that there existed an exquisite woman, born 
 for me, my wife my wife! and I waited for you." 
 
 He took her hands, and gazed upon her face with a 
 look of infinite tenderness. 
 
 "And suppose that you had not found me?" she 
 asked, 
 
 [M4]
 
 PRINCE ZILAH 
 
 "I should have continued to drag out a weary ex- 
 istence. Ask Varhely what I have told him of my 
 life." 
 
 Marsa felt her heart sink within her; but she forced 
 herself to smile. All that Varhely had said to her re- 
 turned to her mind. Yes, Zilah had staked his very 
 existence upon her love. To drag aside the veil from 
 his illusion would be like tearing away the bandages 
 from a wound. Decidedly, the resolution she had taken 
 was the best one to say nothing, but, in the black si- 
 lence of suicide, which would be at once a deliverance 
 and a punishment, to disappear, leaving to Zilah only 
 a memory. 
 
 But why not die now? Ah! why? why? To this 
 eternal question Marsa made reply, that, for deceiving 
 him by becoming his wife, she would pay with her life. 
 A kiss, then death. In deciding to act a lie, she con- 
 demned herself. She only sought to give to her death 
 the appearance of an accident, not wishing to leave 
 to Andras the double memory of a treachery and a 
 crime. 
 
 She listened to the Prince as he spoke of the future, 
 of all the happiness of their common existence. She 
 listened as if her resolution to die had not been taken, 
 and as if Zilah was promising her, not a minute, but an 
 eternity, of joy. 
 
 General Vogotzine and Marsa accompanied the 
 Prince to the station, he having come to Maisons by the 
 railway. The Tzigana's Danish hounds went with 
 them, bounding about Andras, and licking his hands 
 as he caressed them.
 
 JULES CLARETIE 
 
 "They already know the master," laughed Vogotzine. 
 
 "I have rarely seen such gentle animals," remarked 
 the Prince. 
 
 " Gentle? That depends!" said Marsa. 
 
 After separating from the Prince, she returned, silent 
 and abstracted, with Vogotzine. She saw Andras depart 
 with a mournful sadness, and a sudden longing to have 
 him stay to protect her, to defend her, to be there if 
 Michel should come. 
 
 It was already growing dark when they reached 
 home. Marsa ate but little at dinner, and left Vogot- 
 zine alone to finish his wine. 
 
 Later, the General came, as usual, to bid his niece 
 good-night. He found Marsa lying upon the divan in 
 the little salon. 
 
 "Don't you feel well ? What is the matter ? " 
 
 "Nothing." 
 
 "I feel a little tired, and I was going to bed. You 
 don't care to have me keep you company, do you, my 
 dear?" 
 
 Sometimes he was affectionate to her, and sometimes 
 he addressed her with timid respect; but Marsa never 
 appeared to notice the difference. 
 
 "I prefer to remain alone," she answered. 
 
 The General shrugged his shoulders, bent over, took 
 Marsa' s delicate hand in his, and kissed it as he would 
 have kissed that of a queen. 
 
 Left alone, Marsa lay there motionless for more than 
 an hour. Then she started suddenly, hearing the clock 
 strike eleven, and rose at once. 
 
 The domestics had closed the house, $he went out 
 
 [Hi]
 
 PRINCE ZILAH 
 
 by a back door which was used by the servants, the key 
 of which was in the lock. 
 
 She crossed the garden, beneath the dark shadows of 
 the trees, with a slow, mechanical movement, like that 
 of a somnambulist, and proceeded to the kennel, where 
 the great Danish hounds and the colossus of the Hima- 
 layas were baying, and rattling their chains. 
 
 "Peace, Ortog! Silence, Duna!" 
 
 At the sound of her voice, the noise ceased as by en- 
 chantment. 
 
 She pushed open the door of the kennel, entered, and 
 caressed the heads of the dogs, as they placed their 
 pa\vs upon her shoulders. Then she unfastened their 
 chains, and in a clear, vibrating voice, said to them: 
 
 "Go!" 
 
 She saw them bound out, run over the lawn, and 
 dash into the bushes, appearing and disappearing like 
 great, fantastic shadows, in the pale moonlight. Then, 
 slowly, and with the Muscovite indifference \vhich her 
 father, Prince Tchereteff, might have displayed when 
 ordering a spy or a traitor to be shot, she retraced her 
 steps to the house, where all seemed to sleep, murmur- 
 ing, with cold irony, in a sort of impersonal affirmation, 
 as if she were thinking not of herself, but of another : 
 
 "Now, I hope that Prince Zilah's fiancee is well 
 guarded!" 
 
 IrJ
 
 CHAPTER XV 
 
 C AS CLINGS THE LEAF UNTO THE TREE" 
 
 ^ICHEL MENKO was alone in the 
 little house he had hired in Paris, in 
 the Rue d'Aumale. He had ordered 
 his coachman to have his coupe in 
 readiness for the evening. 
 
 "Take Trilby," he said. "He is a 
 better horse than Jack, and we have a 
 long distance to go; and take some 
 coverings for yourself, Pierre. Until this evening, I am 
 at home to no one." 
 
 The summer day passed very slowly for him in the 
 suspense of waiting. He opened and read the letters of 
 which he had spoken to Marsa the evening before; they 
 always affected him like a poison, to which he returned 
 again and again with a morbid desire for fresh suffering 
 love-letters, the exchange of vows now borne away as 
 by a whirlwind, but which revived in Michel's mind 
 happy hours, the only hours of his life in which he had 
 really lived, perhaps. These letters, dated from Pau, 
 burned him like a live coal as he read them. They still 
 retained a subtle perfume, a fugitive aroma, which had 
 survived their love, and which brought Marsa vividly 
 before his eyes. Then, his heart bursting with jealousy 
 rage, he threw the package into the drawer from 
 [128]
 
 PRINCE ZILAH 
 
 which he had taken it, and mechanically picked up a 
 volume of De Musset, opening to some page which re- 
 called his own suffering. Casting this aside, he took 
 up another book, and his eyes fell upon the passionate 
 verses of the soldier-poet, Petcefi, addressed to his 
 Etelka: 
 
 Thou lovest me not ? What matters it ? 
 My soul is linked to thine, 
 As clings the leaf unto the tree : 
 Cold winter comes; it falls; let be ! 
 So I for thee will pine. 
 My fate pursues me to the tomb. 
 Thou fiiest ? Even in its gloom 
 Thou art not free. 
 
 What follows in thy steps ? Thy shade ? 
 Ah, no! my soul in pain, sweet maid, 
 E'er watches thee. 
 
 "My soul is linked to thine, as clings the leaf unto the 
 tree!" Michel repeated the lines with a sort of defi- 
 ance in his look, and longed impatiently and nervously 
 for the day to end. 
 
 A rapid flush of anger mounted to his face as his valet 
 entered with a card upon a salver, and he exclaimed, 
 harshly: 
 
 "Did not Pierre give you my orders that I would re- 
 ceive no one?" 
 
 "I beg your pardon, Monsieur; but Monsieur La- 
 banoff insisted so strongly ' 
 
 "Labanoff ?" repeated Michel. 
 
 "Monsieur Labanoff, who leaves Paris this evening, 
 and desires to see Monsieur before his departure." 
 9 [ I2 9 ]
 
 JULES CLARETIE 
 
 The name of Labanoff recalled to Michel an old friend 
 whom he had met in all parts of Europe, and whom he 
 had not seen for a long time. He liked him exceedingly 
 for a sort of odd pessimism of aggressive philosophy, a 
 species of mysticism mingled with bitterness, which La- 
 banoff took no pains to conceal. The young Hungarian 
 had, perhaps, among the men of his own age, no other 
 friend in the world than this Russian with odd ideas, 
 whose enigmatical smile puzzled and interested him. 
 
 He looked at the clock. Labanoff 's visit might make 
 the time pass until dinner. 
 
 " Admit Monsieur Labanoff!" 
 
 In a few moments Labanoff entered. He was a tall, 
 thin young man, with a complexion the color of wax, 
 flashing eyes, and a little pointed mustache. His hair, 
 black and curly, was brushed straight up from his fore- 
 head. He had the air of a soldier in his long, closely 
 buttoned frock-coat. 
 
 It was many months since these two men had met; 
 but they had been long bound together by a powerful 
 sympathy, born of quiet talks and confidences, in which 
 each had told the other of similar sufferings. A long 
 deferred secret hope troubled Labanoff as the memory 
 of Marsa devoured Menko; and they had many times 
 exchanged dismal theories upon the world, life, men, 
 and laws. Their common bitterness united them. 
 And Michel received Labanoff, despite his resolution 
 to receive no one, because he was certain that he 
 should find in him the same suffering as that expressed 
 by De Musset and Petoefi. 
 
 Labanoff, to-day, appeared to him more enigmatical 
 [130]
 
 PRINCE ZILAH 
 
 and gloomy than ever. From the lips of the Russian 
 fell only words of almost tragical mystery. 
 
 Menko made him sit down by his side upon a divan, 
 and he noticed that an extraordinary fever seemed to 
 burn in the blue eyes of his friend. 
 
 "I learned that you had returned from London," said 
 Labanoff; "and, as I was leaving Paris, I wished to see 
 you before my departure. It is possible that we may 
 never see each other again." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 "I am going to St. Petersburg on pressing business." 
 
 "Have you finished your studies in Paris?" 
 
 "Oh! I had already received my medical diploma 
 when I came here. I have been living in Paris only to 
 be more at my ease to pursue a project which inter- 
 ests me." 
 
 "A project?" 
 
 Menko asked the question mechanically, feeling very 
 little curiosity to know Labanoff' s secret; but the 
 Russian's face wore a strange, ironical smile as he 
 answered : 
 
 "I have nothing to say on that subject, even to the 
 man for whom I have the most regard." 
 
 His brilliant eyes seemed to see strange visions before 
 them. He remained silent for a moment, and then rose 
 with an abrupt movement. 
 
 "There," he said, "that is all I had to tell you, my 
 dear Menko. Now, au revoir, or rather, good-by ; for, 
 as I said before, I shall probably never see you again." 
 
 "And why, pray?" 
 
 " Oh! I don't know; it is an idea of mine. And then, 
 [131]
 
 JULES CLARETIE 
 
 my beloved Russia is such a strange country. Death 
 comes quickly there." 
 
 He had still upon his lips that inexplicable smile, 
 jesting and sad at once. 
 
 Menko grasped the long, white hand extended to him. 
 
 " My dear Labanoff, it is not difficult to guess that you 
 are going on some dangerous errand. ' ' Smiling : ' ' I will 
 not do you the injustice to believe you a nihilist." 
 
 Labanoff's blue eyes flashed. 
 
 " No," he said, " no, I am not a nihilist. Annihilation 
 is absurd; but liberty is a fine thing!" 
 
 He stopped short, as if he feared that he had already 
 said too much. 
 
 "Adieu, my dear Menko." 
 
 The Hungarian detained him with a gesture, saying, 
 with a tremble in his voice: 
 
 "Labanoff! You have found me when a crisis in my 
 life is also impending. I am about, like yourself, to 
 commit a great folly; a different one from yours, no 
 doubt. However, I have no right to tell you that you 
 are about to commit some folly." 
 
 "No," calmly replied the Russian, very pale, but still 
 smiling, "it is not a folly." 
 
 "But it is a danger?" queried Menko. 
 
 Labanoff made no reply. 
 
 "I do not know either," said Michel, "how my affair 
 will end. But, since chance has brought us together to- 
 day, face to face " 
 
 " It was not chance, but my own firm resolution to see 
 you again before my departure." 
 
 "I know what your friendship for me is, and it is for
 
 PRINCE ZILAH 
 
 that reason that I ask you to tell me frankly where you 
 will be in a month." 
 
 "In a month?" repeated Labanoff. 
 
 " Give me the route you are going to take ? Shall you 
 be a fixture at St. Petersburg?" 
 
 "Not immediately," responded the Russian, slowly, 
 his gaze riveted upon Menko. " In a month I shall still 
 be at W.?.rsaw. At St. Petersburg the month after." 
 
 "Thanks. I only ask you to let me know, in some 
 way, where you are." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 "Because, I should like to join you." 
 
 "You!" 
 
 " It is only a fancy," said Menko, with an attempt at a 
 laugh. "I am bored with life you know it; I find it a 
 nuisance. If we did not spur it like an old, musty 
 horse, it would give us the same idiotic round of days. 
 I do not know I do not wish to know why you are 
 going to Russia, and what this final farewell of which 
 you have just spoken signifies; I simply guess that you 
 are off on some adventure, and it is possible that I may 
 ask you to allow me to share it." 
 
 "Why?" said Labanoff, coldly. "You are not a 
 Russian." 
 
 Menko smiled, and, placing his hands upon the thin 
 shoulders of his friend, he said: 
 
 "Those words reveal many things. It is well that 
 they were not said before an agent of police." 
 
 "Yes," responded Labanoff, firmly. "But I am not 
 in the habit of recklessly uttering my thoughts; I know 
 that I am speaking now to Count Menko." 
 
 [i33]
 
 JULES CLARETIE 
 
 "And Count Menko will be delighted, my dear Laba- 
 noff , if you will let him know where, in Poland or Russia, 
 he must go, soon, to obtain news of you. Fear nothing: 
 neither there nor here will I question you. But I shall 
 be curious to know what has become of you, and you 
 know that I have enough friendship for you to be uneasy 
 about you. Besides, I long to be on the move; Paris, 
 London, the world, in short, bores me, bores me, bores 
 me!" 
 
 "The fact is, it is stupid, egotistical and cowardly," 
 responded Labanoff. 
 
 He again held out to Menko his nervous hand, burn- 
 ing, like his blue eyes, with fever. 
 
 "Farewell!" he said. 
 
 "No, no, au revoir!" 
 
 " Au revoir be it then. I will let you know what has 
 become of me." 
 
 "And where you are?" 
 
 "And where I am." 
 
 "And do not be astonished if I join you some fine 
 morning." 
 
 "Nothing ever astonishes me," said the Russian. 
 "Nothing!" 
 
 And in that word nothing were expressed pro- 
 found disgust with life and fierce contempt of 
 death. 
 
 Menko warmly grasped his friend's thin and emaci- 
 ated hand; and, the last farewell spoken to the fanatic 
 departing for some tragical adventure, the Hungarian 
 became more sombre and troubled than before, and 
 Labanoff 's appearance seemed like a doubtful appari-
 
 PRINCE ZILAH 
 
 tion. He returned to his longing to see the end of the 
 most anxious day of his life. 
 
 At last, late in the evening, Michel entered his coupe, 
 and was driven away down the Rue d'Aumale, 
 through the Rue Pigalle and the Rue de Douai, to the 
 rondpoint of the Place Clichy, the two lanterns casting 
 their clear light into the obscurity. The coupe then 
 took the road to Maisons-Lafitte, crossing the plain and 
 skirting wheat-fields and vineyards, with the towering 
 silhouette of Mont Valerien on the left, and on the 
 right, sharply defined against the sky, a long line of 
 hills, dotted with woods and villas, and with little vil- 
 lages nestling at their base, all plunged in a mysterious 
 shadow. 
 
 Michel, with absent eyes, gazed at all this, as Trilby 
 rapidly trotted on. He was thinking of what lay before 
 him, of the folly he was about to commit, as he had said 
 to Labanoff. It was a folly; and yet, who could tell? 
 Might not Marsa have reflected? Might she not, 
 alarmed at his threats, be now awaiting him? Her 
 exquisite face, like a lily, rose before him; an over- 
 whelming desire to annihilate time and space took pos- 
 session of him, and he longed to be standing , key in 
 hand, before the little gate in the garden wall. 
 
 He was well acquainted with the great park of Mai- 
 sons-Lafitte, with the white villas nestling among the 
 trees. On one side Prince Tchereteff's house looked 
 out upon an almost desert tract of land, on which a race- 
 course had been mapped out, and on the other extended 
 with the stables and servants' quarters to the forest, the 
 wall of the Avenue Lafittc bounding the garden. In 
 
 [i35]
 
 JULES CLARETIE 
 
 front of the villa was a broad lawn, ending in a low wall 
 with carved gates, allowing, through the branches of the 
 oaks and chestnuts, a view of the hills of Cormeilles. 
 
 After crossing the bridge of Sartrouville, Michel 
 ordered his coachman to drive to the corner of the 
 Avenue Corneille, where he alighted in the shadow of 
 a clump of trees. 
 
 "You will wait here, Pierre," he said, "and don't 
 stir till I return." 
 
 He walked past the sleeping houses, under the mys- 
 terious alleys of the trees, until he reached the broad 
 avenue which, cutting the park in two, ran from the 
 station to the forest. The alley that he was seeking 
 descended between two rows of tall, thick trees, forming 
 an arch overhead, making it deliciously cool and shady 
 in the daytime, but now looking like a deep hole, black 
 as a tunnel. Pushing his way through the trees and 
 bushes, and brushing aside the branches of the acacias, 
 the leaves of which fell in showers about him, Michel 
 reached an old wall, the white stones of which were over- 
 grown with ivy. Behind the wall the wind rustled amid 
 the pines and oaks like the vague murmur of a coming 
 storm. And there, at the end of the narrow path, half 
 hidden by the ivy, was the little gate he was seeking. 
 He cautiously brushed aside the leaves and felt for the 
 keyhole; but, just as he was about to insert the key, 
 which burned in his feverish fingers, he stopped short. 
 
 Was Marsa awaiting him? Would she not call for 
 help, drive him forth, treat him like a thief? 
 
 Suppose the gate was barred from within? He 
 looked at the wall, and saw that by clinging to the ivy 
 
 [136]
 
 PRINCE ZILAH 
 
 / 
 
 he could reach the top. He had not come here to hesi- 
 tate. No, a hundred times no! 
 
 Besides, Marsa was certainly there, trembling, fear- 
 ful, cursing him perhaps, but still there. 
 
 "No," he murmured aloud in the silence, "were even 
 death behind that gate, I would not recoil."
 
 CHAPTER XVI 
 
 "IT IS A MAN THEY ARE DEVOURING!" 
 
 [CHEL MENKO was right. The 
 beautiful Tzigana was awaiting him. 
 
 She stood at her window, like a 
 spectre in her white dress, her hands 
 clutching the sill, and her eyes striving 
 to pierce the darkness which enveloped 
 everything, and opened beneath her 
 like a black gulf. With heart oppressed 
 with fear, she started at the least sound. 
 
 All she could see below in the garden were the 
 branches defined against the sky; a single star shining 
 through the leaves of a poplar, like a diamond in a 
 woman's tresses; and under the window the black 
 stretch of the lawn crossed by a band of a lighter shade, 
 which was the sand of the path. The only sound to be 
 heard was the faint tinkle of the water falling into the 
 fountain. 
 
 Her glance, shifting as her thoughts, wandered 
 vaguely over the trees, the open spaces which seemed 
 like masses of heavy clouds, and the sky set with con- 
 stellations. She listened with distended ears, and a 
 shudder shook her whole body as she heard suddenly 
 the distant barking of a dog. 
 The dog perceived some one. Was it Menko ?
 
 PRINCE ZILAH 
 
 No: the sound, a howling rather than a barking, came 
 from a long distance, from Sartrouville, beyond the 
 Seine. 
 
 "It is not Duna or Bundas," she murmured, "nor 
 Ortog. What folly to remain here at the window! 
 Menko will not come. Heaven grant that he does not 
 come!" 
 
 And she ^sighed a happy sigh as if relieved of a terrible 
 weight. 
 
 Suddenly, with a quick movement, she started vio- 
 lently back, as if some frightful apparition had risen up 
 before her. 
 
 Hoarse bay ings, quite different from the distant bark- 
 ing of a moment before, rent the air, and were repeated 
 more and more violently below there in the darkness. 
 This time it was indeed the great Danish hounds and 
 the shaggy colossus of the Himalayas, which were pre- 
 cipitating themselves upon some prey. 
 
 "Great God! He is there, then! He is there!" 
 whispered Marsa, paralyzed with horror. 
 
 There was something gruesome in the cries of the dogs, 
 By the continued repetition of the savage noises, sharp, 
 irritated, frightful snarls and yelps, Marsa divined some 
 horrible struggle in the darkness, of a man against the 
 beasts. Then all her terror seemed to mount to her lips 
 in a cry of pity, which was instantly repressed. She 
 steadied herself against the window, striving, with all her 
 strength, to reason herself into calmness. 
 
 "It was his own wish," she thought. 
 
 Did she not know, then, what she was doing when, 
 wishing to place a living guard between herself and
 
 JULES CLARETIE 
 
 danger, she had descended to the kennel and unloosed 
 the ferocious animals, which, recognizing her voice, had 
 bounded about her and licked her hands with many 
 manifestations of joy ? She had ascended again to her 
 chamber and extinguished the light, around which 
 fluttered the moths, beating the opal shade with their 
 downy wings; and, in the darkness, drinking in the night- 
 air at the open window, she had waited, saying to her- 
 self that Michel Menko would not come; but, if he did 
 come, it was the will of fate that he should fall a victim 
 to the devoted dogs which guarded her. 
 
 Why should she pity him? 
 
 She hated him, this Michel. He had threatened her, 
 and she had defended herself, that was all. Ortog's teeth 
 were made for thieves and intruders. No pity! No, 
 no no pity for such a coward, since he had dared 
 
 But yet, as the ferocious bayings of the dogs below 
 became redoubled in their fury, she imagined, in terror, 
 a crunching of bones and a tearing of flesh; and, as her 
 imagination conjured up before her Michel fighting, in 
 hideous agony, against the bites of the dogs, she shud- 
 dered; she was afraid, and again a stifled cry burst forth 
 from her lips. A sort of insanity took possession of her. 
 She tried to cry out for mercy as if the animals could 
 hear her; she sought the door of her chamber, groping 
 along the wall with her hands outspread before her, in 
 order to descend the staircase and rush out into the 
 garden; but her limbs gave way beneath her, and she 
 sank an inert mass upon the carpet in an agony of fear 
 and horror. 
 
 "My GocJ! My God! It is a man they are devour* 
 [140]
 
 PRINCE ZILAH 
 
 ing;" and her voice died away in a smothered call for 
 help. 
 
 Then she suddenly raised her head, as if moved by 
 an electric shock. 
 
 There was no more noise! Nothing! The black 
 night had all at once returned to its great, mysterious 
 silence. Marsa experienced a sensation of seeing a pall 
 stretched over a dead body. And in the darkness there 
 seemed to float large spots of blood. 
 
 "Ah! the unhappy man!" she faltered. 
 
 Then, again, the voices of the dogs broke forth, rapid, 
 angry, still frightfully threatening. The animals ap- 
 peared now to be running, and their bayings became 
 more and more distant. 
 
 What had happened? 
 
 One would have said that they were dragging away 
 their prey, tearing it with hideous crimson fangs. 
 
 t'4'J
 
 CHAPTER XVII 
 
 MARSA'S GUARDIANS. 
 
 ?AS Michel Menko indeed dead? We 
 left him just as he was turning the key 
 in the little gate in the wall. He 
 walked in boldly, and followed a path 
 leading to an open space where was the 
 pavilion he had spoken of to Marsa. 
 He looked to see whether the windows of 
 the pavilion were lighted, or whether 
 there were a line of light under the door. No: the 
 delicate tracery of the pagoda-like structure showed 
 dimly against the sky; but there was no sign of life. 
 Perhaps, however, Marsa was there in the darkness. 
 
 He would glide under the window and call. Then, 
 hearing him and frightened at so much audacity, she 
 would descend. 
 
 He advanced a few steps toward the pavilion ; but, all 
 at once, in the part of the garden which seemed lightest, 
 upon the broad gravel walk, he perceived odd, creeping 
 shadows, which the moon, emerging from a cloud, 
 showed to be dogs, enormous dogs, with their ears erect, 
 which, with a bound and a low, deep growl, made a dash 
 toward him with outspread limbs a dash terrible as 
 the leap of a tiger. 
 A quick thought illumined Michel's brain like a flash
 
 PRINCE ZILAH 
 
 of electricity: "Ah! this is Marsa's answer!" He had 
 just time to mutter, with raging irony: 
 
 "I was right, she was waiting for me!" 
 
 Then, before the onslaught of the dogs, he recoiled, 
 clasping his hands upon his breast and boldly thrusting 
 out his elbows to ward off their ferocious attacks. With 
 a sudden tightening of the muscles he repulsed the 
 Danish hounds, which rolled over writhing on the 
 ground, and then, with formidable baying, returned 
 more furiously still to the charge. 
 
 Michel Menko had no weapon. 
 
 With a knife he could have defended himself, and slit 
 the bellies of the maddened animals; but he had noth- 
 ing! Was he to be forced, then, to fly, pursued like a 
 fox or a deer? 
 
 Suppose the servants, roused by the noise of the 
 dogs, should come in their turn, and seize him as a 
 thief ? At all events, that would be comparative safety ; 
 at least, they would rescue him from these monsters. 
 But no: nothing stirred in the silent, impassive 
 house. 
 
 The hounds, erect upon their hind legs, rushed again 
 at Michel, who, overturning them with blows from his 
 feet, and striking them violently in the jaws, now stag- 
 gered back, Ortog having leaped at his throat. By a 
 rapid movement of recoil, the young man managed to 
 avoid being strangled ; but the terrible teeth of the dog, 
 tearing his coat and shirt into shreds, buried themselves 
 deep in the flesh of his shoulder. 
 
 The steel-like muscles and sinewy strength of the 
 Iiungaria.q now stood him in good stead, He must
 
 JULES CLARETIE 
 
 either 'free himself, or perish there in the hideous car- 
 nage of a quarry. He seized with both hands, in a vise- 
 like grip, Ortog's enormous neck, and, at the same time, 
 with a desperate jerk, shook free his shoulder, leaving 
 strips of his flesh between the jaws of the animal, whose 
 hot, reeking breath struck him full in the face. With 
 wild, staring eyes, and summoning up, in an instinct of 
 despair, all his strength and courage, he buried his fin- 
 gers in Ortog's neck, and drove his nails through the skin 
 of the colossus, which struck and beat with his paws 
 against the young man's breast. The dog's tongue 
 hung out of his mouth, under the suffocating pressure 
 of the hands of the human being struggling for his life. 
 As he fought thus against Ortog, the Hungarian gradu- 
 ally retreated, the two hounds leaping about him, now 
 driven off by kicks (Duna's jaw was broken), and now, 
 with roars of rage and fiery eyes, again attacking their 
 human prey. 
 
 One of them, Bundas, his teeth buried in Michel's left 
 thigh, shook him, trying to throw him to the ground. A 
 slip, and all would be over; if he should fall upon the 
 gravel, the man would be torn to pieces and crunched 
 like a deer caught by the hounds. 
 
 A terrible pain nearly made Michel faint Bundas 
 had let go his hold, stripping off a long tongue of flesh; 
 but, in a moment, it had the same effect upon him as 
 that of the knife of a surgeon opening a vein, and the 
 weakness passed away. The unfortunate man still 
 clutched, as in a death-grip, Ortog's shaggy neck, and 
 he perceived that the struggles of the dog were no longer 
 of the same terrible violence; the eyes of the ferocious 
 
 [M4]
 
 PRINCE ZILAH 
 
 brute were rolled back in his head until they looked like 
 two large balls of gleaming ivory. Michel threw the 
 heavy mass furiously from him, and the dog, suffocated, 
 almost dead, fell upon the ground with a dull, heavy 
 sound. 
 
 Menko had now to deal only with the Danish hounds, 
 which were rendered more furious than ever by the 
 smell of blood. One of them, displaying his broken 
 teeth in a hideous, snarling grin, hesitated a little to re- 
 new the onslaught, ready, as he was, to spring at his 
 enemy's throat at the first false step; but the other, 
 Bundas, with open mouth, still sprang at Michel, who 
 repelled, with his left arm, the attacks of the bloody 
 jaws. Suddenly a hollow cry burst from his lips like a 
 death-rattle, forced from him as the dog buried his fangs 
 in his forearm, until they nearly met. It seemed to 
 him that the end had now come. 
 
 Each second took away more and more of his strength. 
 The tremendous tension of muscles and nerves, which 
 had been necessary in the battle with Ortog, and the 
 blood he had lost, his whole left side being gashed as 
 with cuts from a knife, weakened him. He calculated, 
 that, unless he could reach the little gate before the 
 other dog should make up his mind to leap upon him, 
 he was lost, irredeemably lost. 
 
 Bundas did not let go his hold, but twisting himself 
 around Michel's body, he clung with his teeth to the 
 young man's lacerated arm; the other, Duna, bayed 
 horribly, ready to spring at any moment. 
 
 Michel gathered together all the strength that re- 
 mained to him, and ran rapidly backward, carrying with 
 10 [ 145 ]
 
 JULES CLARETIE 
 
 him the furious beast, which was crushing the very bones 
 of his arm. 
 
 He reached the end of the walk, and the gate was 
 there before him. Groping in the darkness with his 
 free hand, he found the key, turned it, and the gate flew 
 open. Fate evidently did not wish him to perish. 
 
 Then, in the same way as he had shaken off Ortog, 
 whom he could now hear growling and stumbling over 
 the gravel a little way off, Michel freed his arm from 
 Bundas, forcing his ringers and nails into the animal's 
 ears; and the moment he had thrown the brute to the 
 ground, he dashed through the gate, and slammed it to 
 behind him, just as the two dogs together were preparing 
 to leap again upon him. 
 
 Then, leaning against the gate, and steadying himself, 
 so as not to fall, he stood there weak and faint, while the 
 dogs, on the other side of the wooden partition which 
 now separated him from death and what a death! 
 erect upon their hind legs, like rampant, heraldic 
 animals, tried to break through, cracking, in their gory 
 jaws, long strips of wood torn from the barrier which 
 kept them from their human prey. 
 
 Michel never knew how long he remained there, lis- 
 tening to the hideous growling of his bloodthirsty ene- 
 mies. At last the thought came to him that he must go ; 
 but how was he to drag himself to the place where Pierre 
 was waiting for him ? It was so far ! so far ! He would 
 faint twenty times before reaching there. Was he about 
 to fail now after all he had gone through? 
 
 His left leg was frightfully painful ; but he thought he 
 could manage to walk with it. His left shoulder and 
 
 [146]
 
 PRINCE ZILAH 
 
 arm, however, at the least movement, caused him atro- 
 cious agony, as if the bones had been crushed by the 
 wheel of some machine. He sought for his handker- 
 chief, and enveloped his bleeding arm in it, tying the 
 ends of it with his teeth. Then he tottered to a wood- 
 pile near by, and, taking one of the long sticks, he man- 
 aged with its aid to drag himself along the alley, while 
 through the branches the moon looked calmly down 
 upon him. 
 
 He was worn out, and his head seemed swimming in a 
 vast void, when he reached the end of the alley, and saw, 
 a short way off down the avenue, the arch of the old 
 bridge near which the coupe had stopped. One effort 
 more, a few steps, and he was there! He was afraid 
 now of falling unconscious, and remaining there in a 
 dying condition, without his coachman even suspecting 
 that he was so near him. 
 
 "Courage!" he murmured. "On! On!" 
 
 Two clear red lights appeared the lanterns of the 
 coupe. "Pierre!" cried Michel in the darkness, 
 "Pierre!" But he felt that his feeble voice would not 
 reach the coachman, who was doubtless asleep on his 
 box. Once more he gathered together his strength, 
 called again, and advanced a little, saying to himself 
 that a step or two more perhaps meant safety. Then, 
 all at once, he fell prostrate upon his side, unable to pro- 
 ceed farther; and his voice, weaker and weaker, gradu- 
 ally failed him. 
 
 Fortunately, the coachman had heard him cry, and 
 realized that something had happened. He jumped 
 from his box, ran to his master, lifted him up, and car- 
 
 [i47l
 
 JULES CLARETIE 
 
 ried him to the carriage. As the light of the lamps fell 
 on the torn and bloody garments of the Count, whose 
 pallid and haggard face was that of a dead man, Pierre 
 uttered a cry of fright. 
 
 "Great heavens! Where have you been?" he ex- 
 claimed. "You have been attacked?" 
 
 "The coupe place me in the coupe." 
 
 "But there are doctors here. I will go " 
 
 "No do nothing. Make no noise. Take me to 
 Paris I do not wish any one to know To Paris at 
 once," and he lost consciousness. 
 
 Pierre, with some brandy he luckily had with him, 
 bathed his master's temples, and forced a few drops be- 
 tween his lips; and, when the Count had recovered, he 
 whipped up his horse and galloped to Paris, growling, 
 with a shrug of the shoulders: 
 
 "There must have been a woman in this. Curse the 
 women! They make all the trouble in the world." 
 
 It was daybreak when the coupe reached Paris. 
 
 Pierre heard, as they passed the barrier, a laborer say 
 to his mate: 
 
 " That's a fine turnout. I wish I was in the place of 
 the one who is riding inside!" 
 
 "So do I!" returned the other. 
 
 And Pierre thought, philosophically : " Poor fools ! If 
 they only knew!" 
 
 [148]
 
 CHAPTER XVIII 
 
 : THERE IS NO NEED OF ACCUSING ANYONE." 
 
 JT the first streak of daylight, Marsa de- 
 scended, trembling, to the garden, and 
 approached the little gate, wondering 
 what horror would meet her eyes. 
 
 Rose-colored clouds, like delicate, 
 silky flakes of wool, floated across the 
 blue sky; the paling crescent of the 
 moon, resembling a bent thread of 
 silver wire, seemed about to fade mistily away; and, 
 toward the east, in the splendor of the rising sun, the 
 branches of the trees stood out against a background 
 of burnished gold as in a Byzantine painting. The 
 dewy calm and freshness of the early morning enveloped 
 everything as in a bath of purity and youth. 
 
 But Marsa shuddered as she thought that perhaps 
 this beautiful day was dawning upon a dead body. She 
 stopped abruptly as she saw the gardener, with very pale 
 face, come running toward her. 
 
 "Ah, Mademoiselle, something terrible has hap- 
 pened! Last night the dogs barked and barked; but 
 they bark so often at the moon and the shadows, that 
 no one got up to see what was the matter." 
 
 "Well well?" gasped Marsa, her hand involuntarily 
 seeking her heart. 
 
 "Well, there was a thief here last night, or several of
 
 JULES CLARETIE 
 
 them, for poor Ortog is half strangled; but the rascals 
 did not get away scot free. The one who came through 
 the little path to the pavilion was badly bitten; his 
 tracks can be followed in blood for a long distance 
 a very long distance." 
 
 "Then," asked Marsa, quickly, "he escaped ? He is 
 not dead?" 
 
 "No, certainly not. He got away." 
 
 "Ah! Thank heaven for that!" cried the Tzigana, 
 her mind relieved of a heavy weight. 
 
 "Mademoiselle is too good," said the gardener. 
 "When a man enters, like that, another person's place, 
 he exposes himself to be chased like a rabbit, or to be 
 made mincemeat of for the dogs. He must have had big 
 muscles to choke Ortog, the poor beast ! not to men- 
 tion that Duna's teeth are broken. But the scoundrel 
 got his share, too ; for he left big splashes of blood upon 
 the gravel." 
 
 "Blood!" 
 
 "The most curious thing is that the little gate, to 
 which there is no key, is unlocked. They came in and 
 went out there. If that idiot of a Saboureau, whom 
 General Vogotzine discharged and rightly too, Made- 
 moiselle were not dead, I should say that he was at 
 the bottom of all this." 
 
 "There is no need of accusing anyone," said Marsa, 
 turning away. 
 
 The gardener returned to the neighborhood of the 
 pavilion, and, examining the red stains upon the ground, 
 he said: "All the same, this did not happen by itself. 
 I am going to inform the police!" 
 
 [150]
 
 CHAPTER XIX 
 
 : A BEAUTIFUL DREAM 5 * 
 
 T was the eve of the marriage-day of 
 Prince Andras Zilah and Mademoiselle 
 Marsa Laszlo, and Marsa sat alone in 
 her chamber, where the white robes she 
 was to wear next day were spread out 
 on the bed; alone for the last time 
 to-morrow she would be another's. 
 The fiery Tzigana, who felt in her heart, 
 implacable as it was to evil and falsehood, all capabili- 
 ties of devotion and truth, was condemned to lie, or to 
 lose the love of Prince Andras, which was her very life. 
 There was no other alternative. No, no : since she had 
 met this man, superior to all others, since he loved her 
 and she loved him, she would take an hour of his life 
 and pay for that hour with her own. She had no doubt 
 but that an avowal would forever ruin her in Andras' s 
 eyes. No, again and forever no : it was much better to 
 take the love which fate offered her in exchange for her 
 life. 
 
 And, as she threw herself back in her chair with an 
 expression of unchangeable determination in her dark, 
 gazelle-like eyes, there suddenly came into her mind the 
 memory of a day long ago, when, driving along the road 
 from Maisons-Lafitte to Saint-Germain, she had met
 
 JULES CLARETIE 
 
 some wandering gipsies, two men and a woman, with 
 copper-colored skins and black eyes, in which burned, 
 like a live coal, the passionate melancholy of the race. 
 The woman, a sort of long spear in her hand, was driving 
 some little shaggy ponies, like those which range about 
 the plains of Hungary. Bound like parcels upon the 
 backs of these ponies were four or five little children, 
 clothed in rags, and covered with the dust of the road. 
 The woman, tall, dark and faded, a sort of turban upon 
 her head, held out her hand toward Marsa's carriage 
 with a graceful gesture and a broad smile the suppli- 
 cating smile of those who beg. A muscular young fel- 
 low, his crisp hair covered with a red fez, her brother 
 the woman was old, or perhaps she was less so than she 
 seemed, for poverty brings wrinkles walked by her side 
 behind the sturdy little ponies. Farther along, another 
 man waited for them at a corner of the road near a 
 laundry, the employees of which regarded him with 
 alarm, because, at the end of a rope, the gipsy held a 
 small gray bear. As she passed by them, Marsa in- 
 voluntarily exclaimed, in the language of her mother: 
 " Be szomoru!" (How sad it is !) The man, at her words, 
 raised his head, and a flash of joy passed over his face, 
 which showed, or Marsa thought so (who knows? per- 
 haps she was mistaken), a love for his forsaken country. 
 Well, now, she did not know why, the remembrance of 
 these poor beings returned to her, and she said to her- 
 self that her ancestors, humble and insignificant as these 
 unfortunates in the dust and dirt of the highway, would 
 have been astonished and incredulous if any one had 
 told them that some day a girl born of their blood would
 
 PRINCE ZILAH 
 
 wed a Zilah, one of the chiefs of that Hungary whose 
 obscure and unknown minstrels they were ! Ah ! what an 
 impossible dream it seemed, and yet it was realized now. 
 
 At all events, a man's death did not lie between her 
 and Zilah. Michel Menko, after lying at death's door, 
 was cured of his wounds. She knew this from Baroness 
 Dinati, who attributed Michel's illness to a sword wound 
 secretly received for some woman. This was the rumor 
 in Paris. The young Count had, in fact, closed his 
 doors to every one; and no one but his physician had 
 been admitted. What woman could it be? The little 
 Baroness could not imagine. 
 
 Marsa thought again, with a shudder, of the night 
 when the dogs howled ; but, to tell the truth, she had no 
 remorse. She had simply defended herself! The in- 
 quiry begun by the police had ended in no definite re- 
 sult. At Maisons-Lantte, people thought that the Rus- 
 sian house had been attacked by some thieves who had 
 been in the habit of entering unoccupied houses and 
 rifling them of their contents. They had even arrested 
 an old vagabond, and accused him of the attempted 
 robbery at General Vogotzine's; but the old man had 
 answered: "I do not even know the house." But was 
 not this Menko a hundred times more culpable than a 
 thief ? It was more and worse than money or silver that 
 he had dared to come for : it was to impose his love upon 
 a woman whose heart he had wellnigh broken. Against 
 such an attack all weapons were allowable, even Or- 
 tog's teeth. The dogs of the Tzigana had known how 
 to defend her; and it was what she had expected from 
 her comrades. 
 
 [153]
 
 JULES CLARETIE 
 
 Had Michel Menko died, Marsa would have said, 
 with the fatalism of the Orient: "It was his own will!" 
 She was grateful, however, to fate, for having punished 
 the wretch by letting him live. Then she thought no 
 more of him except to execrate him for having poisoned 
 her happiness, and condemned her either to a silence 
 as culpable as a lie, or to an avowal as cruel as a 
 suicide. 
 
 The night passed and the day came at last, when it 
 was necessary for Marsa to become the wife of Prince 
 Andras, or to confess to him her guilt. She wished that 
 she had told him all, now that she had not the courage 
 to do so. She had accustomed herself to the idea that a 
 woman is not necessarily condemned to love no more 
 because she has encountered a coward who has abused 
 her love. She was in an atmosphere of illusion and 
 chimera ; what was passing about her did not even seem 
 to exist. Her maids dressed her, and placed upon her 
 dark hair the bridal veil: she half closed her eyes and 
 murmured : 
 
 "It is a beautiful dream." 
 
 A dream, and yet a reality, consoling as a ray of light 
 after a hideous nightmare. Those things which were 
 false, impossible, a lie, a phantasmagoria born of a fever, 
 were Michel Menko, the past years, the kisses of long 
 ago, the threats of yesterday, the bayings of the infuri- 
 ated dogs at that shadow which did not exist. 
 
 General Vogotzine, in a handsome uniform, half suf- 
 focated in his high vest, and with a row of crosses upon 
 his breast the military cross of St. George, with its red 
 and black ribbon; the cross of St, Anne, with its rec] 
 
 [S4]
 
 PRINCE ZILAH 
 
 ribbon; all possible crosses was the first to knock at 
 his niece's door, his sabre trailing upon the floor. 
 
 "Who is it?" said Marsa. 
 
 "I, Vogotzine." 
 
 And, permission being given him, he entered the 
 room. 
 
 The old soldier walked about his niece, pulling his 
 moustache, as if he were conducting an inspection. He 
 found Marsa charming. Pale as her white robe, with 
 Tizsa's opal agraffe at her side, ready to clasp the bou- 
 quet of flowers held by one of her maids, she had never 
 been so exquisitely beautiful; and Vogotzine, who was 
 rather a poor hand at turning a compliment, compared 
 her to a marble statue. 
 
 "How gallant you are this morning, General," she 
 said, her heart bursting with emotion. 
 
 She waved away, with a brusque gesture, the orange- 
 flowers which her maid was about to attach to her 
 corsage. 
 
 "No," she said. "Not that! Roses." 
 
 "But, Mademoiselle 
 
 "Roses," repeated Marsa. "And for my hair white 
 rosebuds also." 
 
 At this, the old General risked another speech. 
 
 "Do you think orange-blossoms are too vulgar, Marsa ? 
 By Jove! They don't grow in the ditches, though!" 
 
 And he laughed loudly at what he considered wit. 
 But a frowning glance from the Tzigana cut short his 
 hilarity; and, with a mechanical movement, he drew 
 himself up in a military manner, as if the Czar were 
 passing by, 
 
 ['55 J
 
 JULES CLARETIE 
 
 "I will leave you to finish dressing, my dear," he said, 
 after a moment. 
 
 He already felt stifled in the uniform, which he was no 
 longer accustomed to wear, and he went out in the gar- 
 den to breathe freer. While waiting there for Zilah, he 
 ordered some cherry cordial, muttering, as he drank it: 
 
 "It is beautiful August weather. They will have a 
 fine day; but I shall suffocate!" 
 
 The avenue was already filled with people. The 
 marriage had been much discussed, both in the fash- 
 ionable colony which inhabited the park and in the 
 village forming the democratic part of the place; even 
 from Sartrouville and Mesnil, people had come to see 
 the Tzigana pass in her bridal robes. 
 
 "What is all that noise?" demanded Vogotzine of the 
 liveried footman. 
 
 "That noise, General? The inhabitants of Maisons 
 who have come to see the wedding procession." 
 
 "Really? Ah! really? Well, they haven't bad 
 taste. They will see a pretty woman and a handsome 
 uniform." And the General swelled out his breast as he 
 used to do in the great parades of the time of Nicholas, 
 and the reviews in the camp of Tsarskoe-Selo. 
 
 Outside the garden, behind the chestnut-trees which 
 hid the avenue, there was a sudden sound of the rolling 
 of wheels, and the gay cracking of whips. 
 
 "Ah!" cried the General, "It is Zilah!" 
 
 And, rapidly swallowing a last glass of the cordial, he 
 wiped his moustache, and advanced to meet Prince An- 
 dras, who was descending from his carriage. 
 
 Accompanying the Prince were Yanski Varhe*ly, and
 
 PRINCE ZILAH 
 
 an Italian friend of Zilah's, Angelo Valla, a former min- 
 ister of the Republic of Venice, in the time of Manin. 
 Andras Zilah, proud and happy, appeared to have 
 hardly passed his thirtieth year; a ray of youth ani- 
 mated his clear eyes. He leaped lightly out upon the 
 gravel, which cracked joyously beneath his feet; and, as 
 he advanced through the aromatic garden, to the villa 
 where Marsa awaited him, he said to himself that no 
 man in the world was happier than he. 
 
 Vogotzine met him, and, after shaking his hand, 
 asked him why on earth he had not put on his national 
 Magyar costume, which the Hungarians wore with such 
 graceful carelessness. 
 
 "Look at me, my dear Prince! I am in full battle 
 array!" 
 
 Andras was in haste to see Marsa. He smiled 
 politely at the General's remark, and asked him where 
 his niece was. 
 
 "She is putting on her uniform," replied Vogotzine, 
 with a loud laugh which made his sabre rattle. 
 
 Most of the invited guests were to go directly to the 
 church of Maisons. Only the intimate friends came 
 first to the house, Baroness Dinati, first of all, accom- 
 panied by Paul Jacquemin, who took his eternal notes, 
 complimenting both Andras and the General, the latter 
 especially eager to detain as many as possible to the 
 lunch after the ceremony. Vogotzine, doubtless, wished 
 to show himself in all the eclat of his majestic appetite. 
 
 Very pretty, in her Louis Seize gown of pink brocade, 
 and a Rembrandt hat with a long white feather (Jacque- 
 min, who remained below, had already written down
 
 JULES CLARETIE 
 
 the description in his note-book), the little Baroness 
 entered Marsa's room like a whirlwind, embracing the 
 young girl, and going into ecstasy over her beauty. 
 
 "Ah! how charming you are, my dear child! You 
 are the ideal of a bride ! You ought to be painted as you 
 are ! And what good taste to wear roses, and not orange- 
 flowers, which are so common, and only good for shop- 
 girls. Turn around! You are simply exquisite." 
 
 Marsa, paler than her garments, looked at herself in 
 the glass, happy in the knowledge of her beauty, since 
 she was about to be his, and yet contemplating the tall, 
 white figure as if it were not her own image. 
 
 She had often felt this impression of a twofold being, 
 in those dreams where one seems to be viewing the life 
 of another, or to be the disinterested spectator of one's 
 own existence. 
 
 It seemed to her that it was not she who was to be 
 married, or that suddenly the awakening would come. 
 
 "The Prince is below," said the Baroness Dinati. 
 
 "Ah!" said Marsa. 
 
 She started with a sort of involuntary terror, as this 
 very name of Prince was at once that of a husband and 
 that of a judge. But when, superb in the white draper- 
 ies, which surrounded her like a cloud of purity, her 
 long train trailing behind her, she descended the stairs, 
 her little feet peeping in and out like two white doves, 
 and appeared at the door of the little salon where An- 
 dras was waiting, she felt herself enveloped in an atmos- 
 phere of love. The Prince advanced to meet her, his 
 face luminous with happiness; and, taking the young 
 girl's hands, he kissed the long lashes which rested upon
 
 PRINCE ZILAH 
 
 her cheek, saying, as he contemplated the white vision of 
 beauty before him: 
 
 "How lovely you are, my Marsa! And how I love 
 you!" 
 
 The Prince spoke these words in a tone, and with 
 a look, which touched the deepest depths of Marsa's 
 heart. 
 
 Then they exchanged those words, full of emotion, 
 which, in their eternal triteness, are like music in the 
 ears of those who love. Every one had withdrawn to 
 the garden, to leave them alone in this last, furtive, 
 happy minute, which is never found again, and which, 
 on the threshold of the unknown, possesses a joy, sad 
 as a last farewell, yet full of hope as the rising of the 
 sun. 
 
 He told her how ardently he loved her, and how grate- 
 ful he was to her for having consented, in her youth and 
 beauty, to become the wife of a quasi-exile, who still 
 kept, despite his efforts, something of the melancholy 
 of the past. 
 
 And she, with an outburst of gratitude, devotion, and 
 love, in which all the passion of her nature and her race 
 vibrated, said, in a voice which trembled with unshed 
 tears: 
 
 "Do not say that I give you my life. It is you who 
 make of a girl of the steppes a proud and honored wife, 
 who asks herself why all this happiness has come to 
 her." Then, nestling close to Andras, and resting her 
 dark head upon his shoulder, she continued: "We 
 have a proverb, you remember, which says, Life is a 
 jemfest, I have repeated it very often with bitter sao> 
 
 ['59} '
 
 JULES CLARETIE 
 
 ness. But now, that wicked proverb is effaced by the 
 refrain of our old song, Life is a chaplet of pearls." 
 
 And the Tzigana, lost in the dream which was now 
 a tangible reality, saying nothing, but gazing with her 
 beautiful eyes, now moist, into the face of Andras, re- 
 mained encircled in his arms, while he smiled and 
 whispered, again and again, "I love you!" 
 
 All the rest of the world had ceased to exist for these 
 two beings, absorbed in each other.
 
 CHAPTER XX 
 
 THE BRIDAL DAY 
 
 'HE little Baroness ran into the room, 
 laughing, and telling them how late it 
 was; and Andras and Marsa, awakened 
 to reality, followed her to the hall, 
 where Varhely, Vogotzine, Angelo 
 Valla, Paul Jacquemin and other guests 
 were assembled as a sort of guard of 
 honor to the bride and groom. 
 Andras and the Baroness, with Varhely, immediately 
 entered the Prince's carriage ; Vogotzine taking his place 
 in the coupe with Marsa. Then there was a gay crack- 
 ling of the gravel, a flash of wheels in the sunlight, a 
 rapid, joyous departure. Clustered beneath the trees 
 in the ordinarily quiet avenues of Maisons, the crowd 
 watched the cortege; and old Vogotzine good-humoredly 
 displayed his epaulettes and crosses for the admiration 
 of the people who love uniforms. 
 
 As she descended from the carriage, Marsa cast a 
 superstitious glance at the facade of the church, a 
 humble facade, with a Gothic porch and cheap stained- 
 glass windows, some of which were broken; and above 
 a plaster tower covered with ivy and surmounted with a 
 roughly carved cross. She entered the church almost 
 trembling, thinking again how strange was this fate 
 ii [ 161 ]
 
 JULES CLARETIE 
 
 which united, before a village altar, a Tzigana and a 
 Magyar. She walked up the aisle, seeing nothing, but 
 hearing about her murmurs of admiration, and knelt 
 down beside Andras, upon a velvet cushion, near which 
 burned a tall candle, in a white candlestick. 
 
 The little church, dimly lighted save where the priest 
 stood, was hushed to silence, and Marsa felt penetrated 
 with deep emotion. She had really drunk of the cup of 
 oblivion ; she was another woman, or rather a young girl, 
 with all a young girl's purity and ignorance of evil. It 
 seemed to her that the hated past was a bad dream ; one 
 of those unhealthy hallucinations which fly away at the 
 dawn of day. 
 
 She saw, in the luminous enclosure of the altar, the 
 priest in his white stole, and the choir boys in their 
 snowy surplices. The waxen candles looked like stars 
 against the white hangings of the chancel; and above 
 the altar, a sweet-faced Madonna looked down with 
 sad eyes upon the man and woman kneeling before her. 
 Through the parti-colored windows, crossed with broad 
 bands of red, the branches of the lindens swayed in the 
 wind, and the fluttering tendrils of the ivy cast strange, 
 flickering shadows of blue, violet, and almost sinister 
 scarlet upon the guests seated in the nave. 
 
 Outside, in the square in front of the church, the 
 crowd waited the end of the ceremony. Shopgirls from 
 the Rue de 1'Eglise, and laundresses from the Rue de 
 Paris, curiously contemplated the equipages, with their 
 stamping horses, and the coachmen, erect upon their 
 boxes, motionless, and looking neither to the right nor 
 the left. Through the open door of the church, at the 
 
 [162]
 
 // seemed to her thut the hated past Was <, 
 bad dream. 
 
 [From an Origin. Drawing fit/ Herman Rountree.
 
 JULES CLARE ! 
 
 nhuh united, before a village altai gana and a 
 
 he walked up the aisle, seeing nothing, but 
 ut her murmurs of adr d knelt 
 
 Andra- a velvet c hich 
 
 tall candle i^. 4 white can- 
 little chi ted save 
 
 stooo. was hush* 1 Marsa fell a ted 
 
 with deep emoti* drunk of the cup of 
 
 oblivion ; shu man, or rather a young girl, 
 
 with all a }\ and ignorance of evil. It 
 
 seemed to he one- 
 
 of those unh i the 
 
 dawn 8f *fift>* "kVoA ^ ^ ^ o\ Vm^ \\ 
 
 ..*tta^ ; W> be altar, the 
 
 priest in fii^. '^K in their, 
 
 snowy ' J like stars 
 
 chancel; and above 
 
 the nna boked down with 
 
 sad Kneeling before her. 
 
 Throug: d windows, crossed with broad 
 
 bands of rec ; >f the lindens swayed in the 
 
 wind, and the fluttering tendrils of the ivy cast strange, 
 flickering shadows of blue, violet, and almost sinister 
 scarlet upon the ed in the nave. 
 
 O'Msidc. in the square in front of the church, the 
 
 aited the end of the ceremony. Shopgirls from 
 
 the PEglise, and laundresses from the Rue de 
 
 Par; contemplated the equi] ith their 
 
 s, and the coachmen, ercrt upon their 
 
 <nd looking neither to the right nor 
 
 the open door of the church, at the 
 
 [162]
 
 PRINCE 2ILAH 
 
 end of the old oak arches, could be seen Marsa's white, 
 kneeling figure, and beside her Prince Zilah, whose 
 blond head, as he stood gazing down upon his bride, 
 towered above the rest of the party. 
 
 The music of the organ, now tremulous and low, now 
 strong and deep, caused a profound silence to fall upon 
 the square; but, as the last note died away, there was a 
 great scrambling for places to see the procession come 
 out. 
 
 Above the mass of heads, the leaves of the old lindens 
 rustled with a murmur which recalled that of the sea; 
 and now and then a blossom of a yellowish white would 
 flutter down, which the girls disputed, holding up their 
 hands and saying: 
 
 "The one who catches it will have a husband before 
 the year is out!" 
 
 A poor old blind man, cowering upon the steps of the 
 sanctuary, was murmuring a monotonous prayer, like 
 the plaint of a night bird. 
 
 Yanski Varhely regarded the scene with curiosity, as 
 he waited for the end of the ceremony. Somewhat op- 
 pressed by the heavy atmosphere of the little church, 
 and being a Huguenot besides, the old soldier had come 
 out into the open air, and bared his head to the fresh 
 breeze under the lindens. 
 
 His rugged figure had at first a little awed the crowd ; 
 but they soon began to rattle on again like a brook over 
 the stones. 
 
 Varhely cast, from time to time, a glance into the in- 
 terior of the church. Baroness Dinati was now taking 
 up the collection for the poor, holding the long pole of 
 
 [163]
 
 JULES CLARETIE 
 
 the alms-box in her little, dimpled hands, and bowing 
 with a pretty smile as the coins rattled into the recep- 
 tacle. 
 
 Varhely, after a casual examination of the ruins of an 
 old castle which formed one side of the square, was about 
 to return to the church, when a domestic in livery pushed 
 his way through the crowd, and raising himself upon his 
 toes, peered into the church as if seeking some one. 
 After a moment the man approached Yanski, and, tak- 
 ing off his hat, asked, respectfully: 
 
 "Is it to Monsieur Varhely that I have the honor to 
 speak?" 
 
 "Yes," replied Yanski, a little surprised. 
 
 "I have a package for Prince Andras Zilah: would 
 Monsieur have the kindness to take charge of it, and 
 give it to the Prince? I beg Monsieur's pardon; but it 
 is very important, and I am obliged to go away at once. 
 I should have brought it to Maisons yesterday." 
 
 As he spoke, the servant drew from an inside pocket 
 a little package carefully wrapped, and sealed with red 
 sealing-wax. 
 
 "Monsieur will excuse me," he said again, "but it is 
 very important." 
 
 "What is it?" asked Varhely, rather brusquely. 
 "Who sent it?" 
 
 "Count Michel Menko." 
 
 Varhely knew very well (as also did Andras), that 
 Michel had been seriously ill ; otherwise, he would have 
 been astonished at the young man's absence from the 
 wedding of the Prince. 
 
 He thought Michel had probably sent a wedding- 
 [164]
 
 PRINCE ZILAH 
 
 present, and he took the little package, twisting it me- 
 chanically in his hands. As he did so, he gave a slight 
 start of surprise; it seemed as if the package contained 
 letters. 
 
 He looked at the superscription. The name of Prince 
 Andras Zilah was traced in clear, firm handwriting, and, 
 in the left-hand corner, Michel Menko had written, in 
 Hungarian characters: "Very important! With the ex- 
 pression of my excuses and my sorrow" And below, the 
 signature "Menko Mihaly." 
 
 The domestic was still standing there, hat in hand. 
 "Monsieur will be good enough to pardon me," he 
 said; "but, in the midst of this crowd, I could not per- 
 haps reach his Excellency, and the Count's commands 
 were so imperative that 
 
 "Very well," interrupted Varhely. "I will myself 
 give this to the Prince immediately." 
 
 The domestic bowed, uttered his thanks, and left 
 Varhely vaguely uneasy at this mysterious package 
 which had been brought there, and which Menko had 
 addressed to the Prince. 
 
 With the expression of his excuses and his sorrow! 
 Michel doubtless meant that he was sorry not to be able 
 to join Andras' s friends he who was one of the most 
 intimate of them, and whom the Prince called "my 
 child." Yes, it was evidently that. But why this sealed 
 package? and what did it contain? Yanski turned it 
 over and over between his fingers, which itched to break 
 the wrapper, and find out what was within. 
 
 He wondered if there were really any necessity to give 
 it to the Prince. But why should he not ? What folly 
 
 [165]
 
 JULES CLARETIE 
 
 to think that any disagreeable news could come from 
 Michel Menko! The young man, unable to come him- 
 self to Maisons, had sent his congratulations to the 
 Prince, and Zilah would be glad to receive them from 
 his friend. That was all. There was no possible 
 trouble in all this, but only one pleasure the more to 
 Andras. 
 
 And Varhely could not help smiling at the nervous 
 feeling a letter received under odd circumstances or an 
 unexpected despatch sometimes causes. The envelope 
 alone, of some letters, sends a magnetic thrill through 
 one and makes one tremble. The rough soldier was not 
 accustomed to such weaknesses, and he blamed himself 
 as being childish, for having felt that instinctive fear 
 which was now dissipated. 
 
 He shrugged his shoulders, and turned toward the 
 church. 
 
 From the interior came the sound of the organ, 
 mingled with the murmur of the guests as they rose, 
 ready to depart. The wedding march from the Mid- 
 summer Night's Dream pealed forth majestically as the 
 newly-married pair walked slowly down the aisle. 
 Marsa smiled happily at this music of Mendelssohn, 
 which she had played so often, and which was now 
 singing for her the chant of happy love. She saw the 
 sunshine streaming through the open doorway, and, 
 dazzled by this light from without, her eyes fixed upon 
 the luminous portal, she no longer perceived the dim 
 shadows of the church. 
 
 Murmurs of admiration greeted her as she appeared 
 upon the threshold, beaming with happiness. The 
 
 [166]
 
 PRINCE ZILAH 
 
 crowd, which made way for her, gazed upon her with 
 fascinated eyes. The door of Andras's carriage was 
 open; Marsa entered it, and Andras, with a smile of 
 deep, profound content, seated himself beside her, 
 whispering tenderly in the Tzigana's ear as the carriage 
 drove off: 
 
 "Ah! how I love you! my beloved, my adored Marsa! 
 How I love you, and how happy I am!" 
 
 1 167]
 
 CHAPTER XXI 
 
 "THE TZIGANA is THE MOST LOVED OF ALL!" 
 
 chimes rang forth a merry peal, and 
 Mendelssohn's music still thundered 
 its triumphal accents, as the marriage 
 guests left the church. 
 
 "It is a beautiful wedding, really a 
 great success! The bride, the decora- 
 tions, the good peasants and the pretty 
 girls everything is simply perfect. If 
 I ever marry again," laughed the Baroness, "I shall be 
 married in the country." 
 
 " You have only to name the day, Baroness," said old 
 Vogotzine, inspired to a little gallantry. 
 
 And Jacquemin, with a smile, exclaimed, in Russian : 
 "What a charming speech, General, and so original! 
 I will make a note of it." 
 
 The carriages rolled away toward Marsa's house 
 through the broad avenues, turning rapidly around the 
 fountains of the park, whose jets of water laughed as 
 they fell and threw showers of spray over the masses of 
 flowers. Before the church, the children disputed for 
 the money and bonbons Prince Andras had ordered to 
 be distributed. In Marsa's large drawing-rooms, where 
 glass and silver sparkled upon the snowy cloth, servants 
 in livery awaited the return of the wedding-party. In a 
 
 [168]
 
 PRINCE ZILAH 
 
 moment there was an assault, General Vogotzine lead- 
 ing the column. All appetites were excited by the drive 
 in the fresh air, and the guests did honor to the pates, 
 salads, and cold chicken, accompanied by Leoville, which 
 Jacquemin tasted and pronounced drinkable. 
 
 The little Baroness was ubiquitous, laughing, chatter- 
 ing, enjoying herself to her heart's content, and telling 
 every one that she was to leave that very evening for 
 Trouville, with trunks, and trunks, and trunks a host 
 of them! But then, it was race- week, you know! 
 
 With her eyeglasses perched upon her little nose, she 
 stopped before a statuette, a picture, no matter what, 
 exclaiming, merrily: 
 
 "Oh, how pretty that is! How pretty it is! It is a 
 Tanagra! How queer those Tanagras are. They 
 prove that love existed in antiquity, don't they, Varhely ? 
 Oh! I forgot; what do you know about love?" 
 
 At last, with a glass of champagne in her hand, she 
 paused before a portrait of Marsa, a strange, powerful 
 picture, the work of an artist who knew how to put soul 
 into his painting. 
 
 "Ah! this is superb! Who painted it, Marsa?" 
 
 "Zichy," replied Marsa, 
 
 * ' Ah, yes, Zichy ! I am no longer astonished. By the 
 way, there is another Hungarian artist who paints very 
 well. I have heard of him. He is an old man; I don't 
 exactly remember his name, something like Barabas." 
 
 "Nicolas de Baratras," said Varhely. 
 
 "Yes, that's it. It seems he is a master. But your 
 Zichy pleases me infinitely. He has caught your eyes 
 and expression wonderfully; it is exactly like you, Prin-
 
 JULES CLARETIE 
 
 cess. I should like to have my portrait painted by him. 
 His first name is Michel, is it not?" 
 
 She examined the signature, peering through her eye- 
 glass, close to the canvas. 
 
 "Yes, I knew it was. Michel Zichy!" 
 
 This name of "Michel!" suddenly pronounced, sped 
 like an arrow through Marsa's heart. She closed her 
 eyes as if to shut out some hateful vision, and abruptly 
 quitted the Baroness, who proceeded to analyze Zichy's 
 portrait as she did the pictures in the salon on varnishing 
 day. Marsa went toward other friends, answering their 
 flatteries with smiles, and forcing herself to talk and 
 forget. 
 
 Andras, in the midst of the crowd where Vogotzine's 
 loud laugh alternated with the little cries of the Baroness, 
 felt a complex sentiment : he wished his friends to enjoy 
 themselves and yet he longed to be alone with Marsa, 
 and to take her away. They were to go first to his hotel 
 in Paris, and then to some obscure corner, probably 
 to the villa of Sainte-Adresse, until September, when 
 they were going to Venice, and from there to Rome for 
 the whiter. 
 
 It seemed to the Prince that all these people were tak- 
 ing away from him a part of his life. Marsa belonged 
 to them, as she went from one to another, replying to the 
 compliments which desperately resembled one another, 
 from those of Angelo Valla, which were spoken in Ital- 
 ian, to those of little Yamada, the Parisianized Japanese. 
 Andras now longed for the solitude of the preceding 
 days; and Baroness Dinati, shaking her finger at him, 
 " ^ly dear Prince, you are longing to see us go, I 
 
 t?7|
 
 PRINCE ZILAH 
 
 know you are. Oh! don't say you are not! I am sure 
 of it, and I can understand it. We had no lunch at my 
 marriage. The Baron simply carried me off at the door 
 of the church. Carried me off! How romantic that 
 sounds! It suggests an elopement with a coach and 
 four! Have no fear, though; leave it to me, I will dis- 
 perse your guests!" 
 
 She flew away before Zilah could answer; and, mur- 
 muring a word in the ears of her friends, tapping with 
 her little hand upon the shoulders of the obstinate, she 
 gradually cleared the rooms, and the sound of the de- 
 parting carriages was soon heard, as they rolled down 
 the avenue. 
 
 Andras and Marsa were left almost alone; Varhely 
 still remaining, and the little Baroness, who ran up, all 
 rosy and out of breath, to the Prince, and said, gayly, in 
 her laughing voice: 
 
 "Well! What do you say to that? all vanished like 
 smoke, even Jacquemin, who has gone back by train. 
 The game of descampativos , which Marie Antoinette 
 loved to play at Trianon, must have been a little like this. 
 Aren't you going to thank me? Ah! you ingrate!" 
 
 She ran and embraced Marsa, pressing her cherry lips 
 to the Tzigana's pale face, and then rapidly disappeared 
 in a mock flight, with a gay little laugh and a tremen- 
 dous rustle of petticoats. 
 
 Of all his friends, Varhe'ly was the one of whom An- 
 dras was fondest ; but they had not been able to exchange 
 a single word since the morning. Yanski had been 
 right to remain till the last: it was his hand which 
 the Prince wished to press before his departure, as if
 
 JULES CLARETIE 
 
 Varhely had been his relative, and the sole surviving 
 one. 
 
 "Now," he said to him, "you have no longer only a 
 brother, my dear Varhely; you have also a sister who 
 loves and respects you as I love and respect you 
 myself." 
 
 Yanski's stern face worked convulsively with an emo- 
 tion he tried to conceal beneath an apparent roughness. 
 
 "You are right to love me a little," he said, brusquely, 
 "because I am very fond of you of both of you," nod- 
 ding his head toward Marsa. "But no respect, please. 
 That makes me out too old." 
 
 The Tzigana, taking Vogotzine's arm, led him gently 
 toward the door, a little alarmed at the purple hue of the 
 General's cheeks and forehead. "Come, take a little 
 fresh air," she said to the old soldier, who regarded her 
 with round, expressionless eyes. 
 
 As they disappeared in the garden, Varhely drew from 
 his pocket the little package given to him by Menko's 
 valet. 
 
 "Here is something from another friend! It was 
 brought to me at the door of the church." 
 
 "Ah! I thought that Menko would send me some 
 word of congratulation," said Andras, after he had 
 read upon the envelope the young Count's signature. 
 "Thanks, my dear Varhely." 
 
 "Now," said Yanski, "may happiness attend you, 
 Andras! I hope that you will let me hear from you 
 soon." 
 
 Zilah took the hand which VarheUy extended, and 
 clasped it warmly in both his own.
 
 PRINCE ZILAH 
 
 Upon the steps Varhely found Marsa, who, in her 
 turn, shook his hand. 
 
 "Au revoir, Count." 
 
 "Au. revoir, Princess." 
 
 She smiled at Andras, who accompanied Varhe*ly, 
 and who held in his hand the package with the seals 
 unbroken. 
 
 " Princess ! " she said. " That is a title by which every 
 one has been calling me for the last hour; but it gives 
 me the greatest pleasure to .hear it spoken by you, my 
 dear Varh61y. But, Princess or not, I shall always be 
 for you the Tzigana, who will play for you, whenever 
 you wish it, the airs of her country of our country!" 
 
 There was, in the manner in which she spoke these 
 simple words, a gentle grace which evoked in the mind 
 of the old patriot memories of the past and the father- 
 land. 
 
 "The Tzigana is the most charming of all! The 
 Tzigana is the most loved of all!" he said, in Hunga- 
 rian, repeating a refrain of a Magyar song. 
 
 With a quick, almost military gesture, he saluted 
 Andras and Marsa as they stood at the top of the steps, 
 the sun casting upon them dancing reflections through 
 the leaves of the trees. 
 
 The Prince and Princess responded with a wave of the 
 hand ; and General Vogotzine, who was seated under the 
 shade of a chestnut-tree, with his coat unbuttoned and 
 his collar open, tried in vain to rise to his feet and salute 
 the departure of the last guest.
 
 CHAPTER XXII 
 
 A DREAM SHATTERED 
 
 'HEY were alone at last; free to exchange 
 those eternal vows which they had just 
 taken before the altar and sealed with a 
 long, silent pressure when their hands 
 were united ; alone with their love, the 
 devoted love they had read so long 
 in each other's eyes, and which had 
 burned, in the church, beneath Marsa's 
 lowered lids, when the Prince had placed upon her finger 
 the nuptial ring. 
 
 This moment of happiness and solitude after all the 
 noise and excitement was indeed a blessed one! 
 
 Andras had placed upon the piano of the salon Mi- 
 chel Menko's package, and, seated upon the divan, he 
 held both Marsa's hands in his, as she stood before him. 
 "My best wishes, Princess!" he said. "Princess! 
 Princess Zilah! That name never sounded so sweet in 
 my ears before! My wife! My dear and cherished 
 wife!" As she listened to the music of the voice she 
 loved, Marsa said to herself, that sweet indeed was life, 
 which, after so many trials, still had in reserve for her 
 such joys. And so deep was her happiness, that she 
 wished everything could end now in a beautiful dream 
 which should have no awakening, 
 
 [nil
 
 PRINCE ZILAH 
 
 "We will depart for Paris whenever you like," said 
 the Prince. 
 
 "Yes," she exclaimed, sinking to his feet, and throw- 
 ing her arms about his neck as he bent over her, "let us 
 leave this house ; take me away, take me away, and let 
 a new life begin for me, the life I have longed for with 
 you and your love!" 
 
 There was something like terror in her words, and in 
 the way she clung to this man who was her hero. When 
 she said "Let us leave this house," she thought, with 
 a shudder, of all her cruel suffering, of all that she hated 
 and which had weighed upon her like a nightmare. 
 She thirsted for a different air, where no phantom of 
 the past could pursue her, where she should feel free, 
 where her life should belong entirely to him. 
 
 "I will go and take off this gown," she murmured, 
 rising, "and we will run away like two eloping lovers." 
 
 "Take off that gown? Why? It would be such a 
 pity! You are so lovely as you are!" 
 
 "Well," said Marsa, glancing down upon him with 
 an almost mutinous smile, which lent a peculiar charm 
 to her beauty, "I will not change this white gown, then; 
 a mantle thrown over it will do. And you will take your 
 wife in her bridal dress to Paris, my Prince, my hero 
 my husband!" 
 
 He rose, threw his arms about her, and, holding her 
 close to his heart, pressed one long, silent kiss upon the 
 exquisite lips of his beautiful Tzigana. 
 
 She gently disengaged herself from his embrace, with 
 a shivering sigh; and, going slowly toward the door, 
 she twned, and threw him a kiss, saying;
 
 JULES CLARETIE 
 
 "I will come back soon, my Andras!" 
 
 And, although wishing to go for her mantle, never- 
 theless she still stood there, with her eyes fixed upon 
 the Prince and her mouth sweetly tremulous with a 
 passion of feeling, as if she could not tear herself 
 away. 
 
 The piano upon which Andras had cast the package 
 given him by Varhe'ly was there between them; and 
 the Prince advanced a step or two, leaning his hand 
 upon the ebony cover. As Marsa approached for a last 
 embrace before disappearing on her errand, her glance 
 fell mechanically upon the small package sealed with 
 red wax ; and, as she read, in the handwriting she knew 
 so well, the address of the Prince and the signature of 
 Michel Menko, she raised her eyes violently to the face 
 of Prince Zilah, as if to see if this were not a trap ; if, in 
 placing this envelope within her view, he were not try- 
 ing to prove her. There was in her look fright, sudden, 
 instinctive fright, a fright which turned her very lips to 
 ashes; and she recoiled, her eyes returning fascinated 
 to the package, while Andras, surprised at the unex- 
 pected expression of the Tzigana's convulsed features, 
 exclaimed, in alarm: 
 
 "What is it, Marsa ? What is the matter ? " 
 
 "I I " 
 
 She tried to smile. 
 
 "Nothing I do not know! I " 
 
 She made a desperate effort to look him in the face; 
 but she could not remove her eyes from that sealed 
 package bearing the name Menko. 
 
 Ah! that Michel! She had forgotten him! Miser- 
 [176]
 
 PRINCE ZILAH 
 
 able wretch! He returned, he threatened her, he was 
 about to avenge himself : she was sure of it ! 
 
 That paper contained something horrible. What 
 could Michel Menko have to say to Prince Andras, 
 writing him at such an hour, except to tell him that the 
 wretched woman he had married was branded with 
 infamy ? 
 
 She shuddered from head to foot, steadying herself 
 against the piano, her lips trembling nervously. 
 
 "I assure you, Marsa " began the Prince, taking 
 her hands. "Your hands are cold. Are you ill?" 
 
 His eyes followed the direction of Marsa' s, which 
 were still riveted upon the piano with a dumb look of 
 unutterable agony. 
 
 He instantly seized the sealed package, and, holding 
 it up, exclaimed: 
 
 "One would think that it was this which troubled you ! " 
 
 "O Prince! I swear to you! " 
 
 "Prince?" 
 
 He repeated in amazement this title which she sud- 
 denly gave him; she, who called him Andras, as he 
 called her Marsa. Prince ? He also, in his turn, felt a 
 singular sensation of fright, wondering what that pack- 
 age contained, and if Marsa's fate and his own were not 
 connected with some unknown thing within it. 
 
 "Let us see," he said, abruptly breaking the seals, 
 "what this is." 
 
 Rapidly, and as if impelled, despite herself, Marsa 
 caught the wrist of her husband in her icy hand, and, 
 terrified, supplicating, she cried, in a wild, broker 
 voice : 
 
 12 [177]
 
 JULES CLARETIE 
 
 "No, no, I implore you! No! Do not read it! Do 
 not read it!" 
 
 He contemplated her coldly, and, forcing himself to 
 be calm, asked: 
 
 "What does this parcel of Michel Menko's con- 
 tain?" 
 
 "I do not know," gasped Marsa. "But do not read 
 it! In the name of the Virgin" (the sacred adjuration 
 of the Hungarians occurring to her mind, in the midst 
 of her agony), "do not read it!" 
 
 "But you must be aware, Princess," returned An- 
 dras, "that you are taking the very means to force me 
 to read it." 
 
 She shivered and moaned, there was such a change 
 in the way Andras pronounced this word, which he had 
 spoken a moment before in tones so loving and caress- 
 ing Princess. 
 
 Now the word threatened her. 
 
 " Listen ! I am about to tell you : I wished Ah ! My 
 God ! My God ! Unhappy woman that I am ! Do not 
 read, do not read!" 
 
 Andras, who had turned very pale, gently removed 
 her grasp from the package, and said, very slowly and 
 gravely, but with a tenderness in which hope still ap- 
 peared : 
 
 "Come, Marsa, let us see; what do you wish me to 
 think ? Why do you wish me not to read these letters ? 
 for letters they doubtless are. What have letters sent 
 me by Count Menko to do with you ? You do not wish 
 me to read them?" 
 
 He paused a moment, and then, while Marsa's eyes 
 [178]
 
 PRINCE ZiLAH 
 
 implored him with the mute prayer of a person con- 
 demned to death by the executioner, he repeated : 
 
 "You do not wish me to read them? Well, so be it; 
 I will not read them, but upon one condition: you 
 must swear to me, understand, swear to 'me, that your 
 name is not traced in these letters, and that Michel 
 Menko has nothing in common with the Princess 
 Zilah." 
 
 She listened, she heard him; but Andras wondered 
 whether she understood, she stood so still and motion- 
 less, as if stupefied by the shock of a moral tempest. 
 
 "There is, I am certain," he continued in the same 
 calm, slow voice, "there is within this envelope some 
 lie, some plot. I will not even know what it is. I will 
 not ask you a single question, and I will throw these 
 letters, unread, into the fire; but swear to me, that, 
 whatever this Menko, or any other, may write to me, 
 whatever any one may say, is an infamy and a calumny. 
 Swear that, Marsa." 
 
 "Swear it, swear again? Swear always, then? Oath 
 upon oath? Ah! it is too much!" she cried, her torpor 
 suddenly breaking into an explosion of sobs and cries. 
 "No! not another lie, not one! Monsieur, I am a 
 wretch, a miserable w r oman! Strike me! Lash me, as 
 I lash my dogs! I have deceived you! Despise me! 
 Hate me! I am unworthy even of pity! The man 
 whose letters you hold revenges himself, and stabs me, 
 has been my lover ! ' ' 
 
 "Michel!" 
 
 "The most cowardly, the vilest being in the world! 
 If he hated me, he might have killed me ; he might have
 
 JULES CLARETIE 
 
 torn off my veil just now, and struck me across the lips. 
 But to do this, to do this! To attack you, you, you! 
 Ah! miserable dog; fit only to be stoned to death! 
 Judas! Liar and coward! Would to heaven I had 
 planted a knife in his heart!" 
 
 "Ah! My God!" murmured the Prince, as if stabbed 
 himself. 
 
 At this cry of bitter agony from Andras Zilah, 
 Marsa's imprecations ceased; and she threw herself 
 madly at his feet; while he stood erect and pale her 
 judge. 
 
 She lay there, a mass of white satin and lace, her 
 loosened hair falling upon the carpet, where the pale 
 bridal flowers withered beneath her husband's heel; 
 and Zilah, motionless, his glance wandering from the 
 prostrate woman to the package of letters which burned 
 his fingers, seemed ready to strike, with these proofs of 
 her infamy, the distracted Tzigana, a wolf to threaten, 
 a slave to supplicate. 
 
 Suddenly he leaned over, seized her by the wrists, 
 and raised her almost roughly. 
 
 "Do you know," he said, in low, quivering tones, 
 "that the lowest of women is less culpable than you? 
 Ten times, a hundred times, less culpable! Do you 
 know that I have the right to kill you?" 
 
 "Ah! that, yes! Do it! do it! do it!" she cried, 
 with the smile of a mad woman. 
 
 He pushed her slowly from him. 
 
 "Why have you committed this infamy? It was not 
 for my fortune; you are rich." 
 
 Marsa moaned, humiliated to the dust by this cold 
 [180]
 
 PRINCE ZILAS 
 
 contempt. She would have preferred brutal anger, any- 
 thing, to this. 
 
 "Ah! your fortune!" she said, finding a last excuse 
 for herself out of the depth of her humiliation, which 
 had now become eternal; "it was not that, nor your 
 name, nor your title that I wished: it was your 
 love!" 
 
 The heart of the Prince seemed wrung in a vise as 
 this word fell from those lips, once adored, nay, stOl 
 adored, soiled as they were. 
 
 "My love!" 
 
 "Yes, your love, your love alone! I would have con- 
 fessed all, been your mistress, your slave, your thing, if I 
 I had not feared to lose you, to see myself abased in the 
 eyes of you, whom I adored! I was afraid, afraid of 
 seeing you fly from me yes, that was my crime ! It is 
 infamous, ah ! I know it ; but I thought only of keeping 
 you, you alone; you, my admiration, my hero, my life, 
 rny god ! I deserve to be punished ; yes, yes, I deserve 
 it But those letters those letters which you would 
 have cast into the fire if I had not revealed the secret of 
 my life you told me so yourself I might have sworn 
 what you asked, and you would have believed me I 
 might have done so; but no, it would have been too 
 vile, too cowardly! Ah! kill me! That is what I de- 
 serve, that is what 
 
 "Where are you going?" she cried, interrupting her- 
 seif, her eyes dilated with fear, as she saw that Zilah, 
 without answering, was moving toward the door. 
 
 She forgot that she no longer had the right to ques- 
 tion ; she only felt, that, once gone, she would never see 
 
 [181]
 
 him again. Ah! a thousand times a blow with a knife 
 rather than that ! Was this the way the day, which be- 
 gan so brightly, was to end ? 
 
 "Where are you going?" 
 
 "What does that matter to you?" 
 
 "True! I beg your pardon. At least at least, 
 Monsieur, one word, I implore. What are your com- 
 mands ? What do you wish me to do ? There must be 
 laws to punish those who have done what I have done! 
 Shall I accuse myself, give myself up to justice? Ah! 
 speak to me! speak to me!" 
 
 "Live with Michel Menko, if he is still alive after I 
 have met him!" responded Andras, in hard, metallic 
 tones, waving back the unhappy woman who threw 
 herself on her knees, her arms outstretched toward him. 
 
 The door closed behind him. For a moment she 
 gazed after him with haggard eyes: and then, dragging 
 herself, her bridal robes trailing behind her, to the door, 
 she tried to call after him, to detain the man whom she 
 adored, and who was flying from her; but her voice 
 failed her, and, with one wild, inarticulate cry, she fell 
 forward on her face, with a horrible realization of the 
 immense void which filled the house, this morning gay 
 and joyous, now silent as a tomb. 
 
 And while the Prince, in the carriage which bore him 
 away, read the letters in which Marsa spoke of her love 
 for another, and that other the man whom he called 
 "my child;" while he paused in this agonizing reading 
 to ask himself if it were true, if such a sudden annihila- 
 tion of his happiness were possible, if so many misfor- 
 tunes could happen in such a few hours; while he 
 
 [182]
 
 PRINCE ZILAH 
 
 watched the houses and trees revolve slowly by him, 
 and feared that he was going mad Marsa's servants 
 ate the remnants of the lunch, and drank what was left 
 of the champagne to the health of the Prince and Prin- 
 cess Zilah.
 
 C THE WORLD HOLDS BUT ONE FAIR MAIDEN 
 
 [ARIS, whose everyday gossip has usu- 
 ally the keenness and eagerness of the 
 tattle of small villages, preserves at 
 times, upon certain serious subjects, 
 a silence which might be believed to 
 be generous. Whether it is from ignor- 
 ance or from respect, at all events it 
 has little to say. There are vague 
 suspicions of the truth, surmises are made, but nothing 
 is affirmed ; and this sort of abdication of public malig- 
 nity is the most complete homage that can be rendered 
 either to character or talent. 
 
 The circle of foreigners in Paris, that contrasted so- 
 ciety which circled and chattered in the salon of the 
 Baroness Dinati, could not, of necessity, be ignorant 
 that the Princess Zilah, since the wedding which had 
 attracted to Maisons-Lafitte a large part of the fash- 
 ionable world, had not left her house, while Prince An- 
 dras had returned to Paris alone. 
 
 There were low-spoken rumors of all sorts. It was 
 said that Marsa had been attacked by an hereditary 
 nervous malady; and in proof of this were cited the 
 visits made at Maisons-Lafitte by Dr. Fargeas, the fa- 
 mous physician of Salpetriere, who had been sum- 
 
 [184]
 
 moned in consultation with Dr. Villandry. These two 
 men, both celebrated in their profession, had been 
 called in by Vogotzine, upon the advice of Yanski 
 Varhely, who was more Parisian and better informed 
 than the General. 
 
 Vogotzine was dreadfully uneasy, and his brain 
 seemed ready to burst with the responsibility thrust 
 upon him. Since the terrible day of the marriage 
 Vogotzine shrugged his shoulders in anger and amaze- 
 ment when he uttered this word marriage Marsa had 
 not recovered from a sort of frightened stupor; and the 
 General, terrified at his niece's condition, was really 
 afraid of going insane himself. 
 
 "Oh, dear! Oh, dear!" he said, "all this is deplor- 
 ably sad." 
 
 After the terrible overthrow of all her hopes, Marsa 
 was seized with a fever, and she lay upon her bed in a 
 frightful delirium, which entirely took away the little 
 sense poor old Vogotzine had left Understanding 
 nothing of the reason of Zilah's disappearance, the Gen- 
 eral listened in childish alarm to Marsa, wildly implor- 
 ing mercy and pity of some invisible person. The un- 
 happy old man would have faced a battalion of honveds 
 or a charge of bashi-bazouks rather than remain there 
 in the solitary house, with the delirious girl whose sobs 
 and despairing appeals made the tears stream down the 
 face of this soldier, whose brain was now weakened by 
 drink, but who had once contemplated with a dry eye, 
 whole ditches full of corpses, which some priest, dressed 
 in mourning, blessed in one mass. 
 
 Vogotzine hastened to Paris, and questioned Andras;
 
 JULES CLARETIE 
 
 but the Prince answered him in a way that permitted of 
 no further conversation upon the subject. 
 
 "My personal affairs concern myself alone." 
 
 The General had not energy enough to demand an 
 explanation; and he bowed, saying that it was certainly 
 not his business to interfere; but he noticed that Zilah 
 turned very pale when he told him that it would be a 
 miracle if Marsa recovered from the fever. 
 
 " It is pitiful!" he said. 
 
 Zilah cast a strange look at him, severe and yet 
 terrified. 
 
 Vogotzine said no more ; but he went at once to Dr. 
 Fargeas, and asked him to come as soon as possible to 
 Maisons-Lafitte. 
 
 The doctor's coupe in a few hours stopped before the 
 gate through which so short a time ago the gay marriage 
 cortege had passed, and Vogotzine ushered him into the 
 little salon from which Marsa had once driven Menko. 
 
 Then the General sent for Mademoiselle or, rather, 
 Madame, as he corrected himself with a shrug of his 
 shoulders. But suddenly he became very serious as he 
 saw upon the threshold Marsa, whose fever had tempo- 
 rarily left her, and who could now manage to drag her- 
 self along, pale and wan, leaning upon the arm of her 
 maid. 
 
 Dr. Fargeas cast a keen glance at the girl, whose 
 eyes, burning with inward fire, alone seemed to be liv- 
 ing. 
 
 "Madame," said the doctor, quietly, when the Gen- 
 eral had made a sign to his niece to listen to the stran- 
 ger, "General Vogotzine has told me that you were suf- 
 
 [186]
 
 PRINCE ZILAH 
 
 fering. I am a physician. Will you do me the honor 
 and the kindness to answer my questions?" 
 
 "Yes," said the General, "do, my dear Marsa, to 
 please me." 
 
 She stood erect, not a muscle of her face moving; 
 and, without replying, she looked steadily into the doc- 
 tor's eyes. In her turn, she was studying him. It was 
 like a defiance before a duel. 
 
 Then she said suddenly, turning to Vogotzine : 
 
 "Why have you brought a physician? I am not ill." 
 
 Her voice was clear, but low and sad, and it was an 
 evident effort for her to speak. 
 
 "No, you are not ill, my dear child ; but I don't know 
 I don't understand you make me a little uneasy, a 
 very little. You know if I, your old uncle, worried you 
 even a little, you would not feel just right about it, 
 would you now?" 
 
 With which rather incoherent speech, he tried to 
 force a smile; but Marsa, taking no notice of him, 
 turned slowly to the doctor, who had not removed his 
 eyes from her face. 
 
 "Well," she said, dryly, "what do you want? What 
 do you wish to ask me ? What shall I tell you ? Who 
 requested you to come here?" 
 
 Vogotzine made a sign to the maid to leave the room. 
 
 "I told you, I have come at the General's request," 
 said Fargeas, with a wave of his hand toward Vogot- 
 zine. 
 
 Marsa only replied: "Ah!" But it seemed to the 
 doctor that there was a world of disappointment and 
 despair expressed in this one ejaculation.
 
 JULES CLARETIE 
 
 Then she suddenly became rigid, and lapsed into one 
 of those stupors which had succeeded the days of delir- 
 ium, and had frightened Vogotzine so much. 
 
 "There! There! Look at her!" exclaimed the old 
 man. 
 
 Fargeas, without listening to the General, approached 
 Marsa, and placed her in a chair near the window. He 
 looked in her eyes, and placed his hand upon her burn- 
 ing forehead ; but Marsa made no movement. 
 
 "Are you in pain?" he asked, gently. 
 
 The young girl, who a moment before had asked 
 questions and still seemed interested a little in life, 
 stirred uneasily, and murmured, in an odd, singing 
 voice : 
 
 "I do not know!" 
 
 "Did you sleep last night?" 
 
 "I do not know!" 
 
 "How old are you?" asked Fargeas, to test her men- 
 tal condition. 
 
 "I do not know!" 
 
 The physician's eyes sought those of the General. Vo- 
 gotzine, his face crimson, stood by the chair, his little, 
 round eyes blinking with emotion at each of these 
 mournful, musical responses. 
 
 "What is your name?" asked the doctor, slowly. 
 
 She raised her dark, sad eyes, and seemed to be seek- 
 ing what to reply; then, wearily letting her head fall 
 backward, she answered, as before: 
 
 "I do not know!" 
 
 Vogotzine, who had become purple, seized the doc- 
 tor's arm convulsively. 
 
 [188]
 
 PRINCE ZILAH 
 
 "She no longer knows even her own name!" 
 
 "It will be only temporary, I hope," said the doctor. 
 " But in her present state, she needs the closest care and 
 attention." 
 
 "I have never seen her like this before, never since 
 since the first day," exclaimed the General, in alarm 
 and excitement. "She tried to kill herself then; but 
 afterward she seemed more reasonable, as you saw just 
 now. When she asked you who sent you, I thought: 
 Ah ! at last she is interested in something. But now it 
 is worse than ever. Oh! this is lively for me, devilish 
 lively!" 
 
 Fargeas took between his thumb and finger the deli- 
 cate skin of the Tzigana, and pinched her on the neck, 
 below the ear. Marsa did not stir. 
 
 "There is no feeling here," said the doctor; "I could 
 prick it with a pin without causing any sensation of 
 pain." Then, again placing his hand upon Marsa's 
 forehead, he tried to rouse some memory in the dor- 
 mant brain : 
 
 " Come, Madame, some one is waiting for you. Your 
 uncle your uncle wishes you to play for him upon the 
 piano ! Your uncle ! The piano ! ' ' 
 
 " The World holds but One Fair Maiden!" hummed 
 Vogotzine, trying to give, in his husky voice, the melody 
 of the song the Tzigana was so fond of. 
 
 Mechanically, Marsa repeated, as if spelling the 
 word: "The piano! piano!" and then, in peculiar, mel- 
 odious accents, she again uttered her mournful: "I 
 do not know!" 
 
 This time old Vogotzine felt as if he were strangling; 
 [189]
 
 JULES CLARETIE 
 
 and the doctor, full of pity, gazed sadly down at the 
 exquisitely beautiful girl, with her haggard, dark eyes, 
 and her waxen skin, sitting there like a marble statue 
 of despair. 
 
 "Give her some bouillon," said Fargeas. "She will 
 probably refuse it in her present condition; but try. 
 She can be cured," he added; "but she must be taken 
 away from her present surroundings. Solitude is nec- 
 essary, not this here, but 
 
 "But?" asked Vogotzine, as the doctor paused. 
 
 "But, perhaps, that of an asylum. Poor woman!" 
 turning again to Marsa, who had not stirred. "How 
 beautiful she is!" 
 
 The doctor, greatly touched, despite his professional 
 indifference, left the villa, the General accompanying 
 him to the gate. It was decided that he should return 
 the next day with Villandry and arrange for the trans- 
 portation of the invalid to Dr. Sims's establishment 
 at Vaugirard. In a new place her stupor might disap- 
 pear, and her mind be roused from its torpor; but a 
 constant surveillance was necessary. Some pretext 
 must be found to induce Marsa to enter a carriage ; but 
 once at Vaugirard, the doctor gave the General his word 
 that she should be watched and taken care of with the 
 utmost devotion. 
 
 Vogotzine felt the blood throb in his temples as he 
 listened to the doctor's decision. The establishment at 
 Vaugirard! His niece, the daughter of Prince Tchere- 
 teff , and the wife of Prince Zilah, in an insane asylum ! 
 
 But he himself had not the right to dispose of Marsa's 
 liberty; the consent of the Prince was necessary, It
 
 was in vain for Andras to refuse to have his life dis- 
 turbed; it was absolutely necessary to find out from 
 him what should be done with Marsa, who was his wife 
 and Princess Zilah. 
 
 The General also felt that he was incapable of under- 
 standing anything, ignorant as he was of the reasons of 
 the rupture, of Zilah' s anger against the Tzigana, and 
 of the young girl's terrible stupor; and, as he drank his 
 cherry cordial or his brandy, wondered if he too were in- 
 sane, as he repeated, like his niece: 
 
 "I do not know! I do not know!" 
 
 He felt obliged, however, to go and tell the Prince of 
 the opinion of the illustrious physician of Salpetriere. 
 
 Then he asked Zilah: 
 
 "What is your decision?" 
 
 "General," replied Andras, "whatever you choose to 
 do is right. But, once for all, 'remember that I wish 
 henceforth to live alone, entirely alone, and speak to 
 me neither of the future nor of the past, which is cruel, 
 nor of the present, which is hopeless. I have deter- 
 mined 
 
 "What?" 
 
 "To live hereafter an absolutely selfish life!" 
 
 "That will change you," returned the General, in 
 amazement. 
 
 "And will console me," added Andras.
 
 CHAPTER XXIV 
 
 A LITTLE PARISIAN ROMANCE 
 
 very evening of the day when the 
 package of letters had killed in Andras 
 all happiness and all faith, the Hun- 
 garian prince presented himself in the 
 Rue d'Aumale, to seek Michel Menko. 
 Menko! That boy whom he had 
 loved almost as a brother, that man for 
 whom he had hoped a glorious future, 
 Michel, Michel Menko, had betrayed him, and struck 
 him with the perfidy of a coward. Yes, at the door 
 of the church, when it was too late, or rather, at a time 
 when the blow would be surer and the wound more 
 deadly then Menko had said to him: "My dear 
 Prince, the woman whom you love, the woman whom 
 you have married, has been my mistress. Here, read, 
 see how she loved me!" 
 
 Had Michel been before him, Andras would have 
 seized the young man by the throat, and strangled him 
 on the spot; but, when he reached the Rue d'Aumale, 
 he did not find Menko. 
 
 "The Count left town yesterday," said the servant, in 
 answer to his question. 
 
 ' ' Yesterday ! Where has he gone ? ' ' 
 "The Count must have taken the steamer to-day at 
 [192]
 
 PRINCE ZILAH 
 
 Havre for New York. The Count did not tell us ex- 
 actly where he was going, however, but to America, 
 somewhere. We only know, the coachman Pierre, and 
 myself, that the Count will not return again to Paris. 
 We are still in his service, however, and are to await 
 his orders." 
 
 Hesitating a little, the servant added : 
 
 "Have I not the honor to speak to Prince Zilah?" 
 
 "Why?" asked Andras. 
 
 The valet replied with a humble but very sincere 
 air: 
 
 "Because, if Monseigneur should hear from the 
 Count, and there is any question of the package which 
 I took to Maisons-Lafitte this morning for Monseig- 
 neur " 
 
 "Well?" said Andras. 
 
 "Monseigneur would greatly oblige me if he would 
 not let the Count know that I did not fulfil his orders 
 last evening." 
 
 ' ' Last evening ? What do you mean ? Explain your- 
 self !" said the Prince, sternly. 
 
 "When he left yesterday, the Count expressly ordered 
 me to take the package to Monseigneur that very even- 
 ing. I beg Monseigneur's pardon; but I had an invi- 
 tation to a wedding, and I did not carry out the Count's 
 instructions until this morning. But, as Monseigneur 
 was not at home, I took the train to Maisons-Lafitte. 
 I hope that I did not arrive too late. The Count was 
 very particular about it, and I should be very sorry if 
 my negligence has done any harm." 
 
 Andras listened, gazing intently upon the face of the 
 13
 
 JULES CLARETIE 
 
 servant, who was a little discountenanced by this silent 
 inquisition. 
 
 "So Count Menko wished the package to be deliv- 
 ered to me yesterday?" 
 
 "I beg Monseigneur not to tell the Count that he 
 was not obeyed." 
 
 " Yesterday ? ' ' repeated Andras. 
 
 " Yes, yesterday, Monseigneur. The Count departed, 
 thinking it would be done; and, indeed, he had a right 
 to think so. I am very careful, Monseigneur, very care- 
 ful; and if Monseigneur should some day have need 
 of a " 
 
 The Prince stopped the valet with a gesture. It was 
 repugnant to Andras to have this man mixed up in a 
 secret of his life ; and such a secret ! But the domestic 
 was evidently ignorant what a commission Menko had 
 confided to him: in his eyes, the package, containing 
 such letters, was like any other package. Andras was 
 persuaded of this by the attitude of the man, humiliated 
 at having failed in his duty. 
 
 A word more exchanged with the valet, and Andras 
 would have felt humiliated himself. But he had gained 
 from the conversation the idea that Menko had not 
 wished to insult him in his happiness, but to reveal all 
 to him before the ceremony had yet been celebrated. 
 It was as atrocious, but not so cowardly. Menko had 
 wished to attack Marsa, rather than Andras; this was 
 visible in the express commands given to his valet. 
 And upon what a trifle had it depended, whether the 
 name of Zilah should be borne by this woman! Upon 
 what? Upon a servant's feast! Life is full of strange 
 
 [i94]
 
 PRINCE ZILAH 
 
 chances. The hands of that low-born valet had held for 
 hours his happiness and his honor his honor, Andras 
 Zilah's the honor of all his race! 
 
 The Prince returned to his hotel, which he had left 
 that morning thinking that he would soon bring there 
 the woman he then adored, but whom he now despised 
 and hated. Oh! he would know where Menko had 
 gone; him he could punish; as for Marsa, she was now 
 dead to him. 
 
 But where, in the whirlpool of the New World, would 
 this Michel Menko disappear ? and how could he find 
 him? 
 
 The days passed ; and Zilah had acquired almost the 
 certainty that Menko had not embarked at Havre. 
 Perhaps he had not quitted Europe. He might, some 
 day or another, in spite of what the valet had said, re- 
 appear in Paris; and then 
 
 Meanwhile, the Prince led the life of a man wounded 
 to the heart; seeking solitude, and shutting himself in 
 his hotel, in the Rue Balzac, like a wolf in his den ; re- 
 ceiving no one but Varhely, and sometimes treating 
 even old Yanski coldly; then, suddenly emerging from 
 his retirement, and trying to take up his life again; 
 appearing at the meetings of the Hungarian aid society, 
 of which he was president; showing himself at the 
 races, at the theatre, or even at Baroness Dinati's; 
 longing to break the dull monotony of his now ruined 
 life; and, with a sort of bravado, looking society and 
 opinion full in the face, as if to surprise a smile or a 
 sneer at his expense, and punish it. 
 
 He had, however, no right to complain of the senti- 
 [i95]
 
 JULES CLARETIE 
 
 ment which was felt for him, for every one respected 
 and admired him. At first, it is true, society, and in 
 particular that society of Parisian foreigners in which 
 Prince Andras mingled, had tried to find out why he 
 had broken so suddenly with the woman he had cer- 
 tainly married for love. Public curiosity, aroused and 
 excited, had sought to divine the secret of the romance. 
 "If it does not get into the newspapers," they s.aid, "it 
 will be fortunate." And society was even astonished 
 that the journals had not already discovered the key to 
 this Parisian mystery. 
 
 But society, after all as fickle as it is curious (one of 
 its little vices chasing away the other), turned suddenly 
 to another subject; forgot the rupture of Marsa and 
 Andras, and saw in Zilah only a superior being, whose 
 lofty soul forced respect from the frivolous set accus- 
 tomed to laugh at everything. 
 
 A lofty soul, yes, but a soul in torment. Varhely 
 alone, among them all, knew anything of the suffering 
 which Andras endured. He was no longer the same 
 man. His handsome face, with its kindly eyes and grave 
 smile, was now constantly overshadowed. He spoke 
 less, and thought more. On the subject of his sadness 
 and his grief, Andras never uttered a word to any one, 
 not even to his old friend; and Yanski, silent from the 
 day when he had been an unconscious messenger of ill, 
 had not once made any allusion to the past. 
 
 Although he knew nothing, Varhe'ly had, neverthe- 
 less, guessed everything, and at once. The blow was 
 too direct and too cruelly simple for the old Hungarian 
 not to have immediately exclaimed, with rage; 
 
 [196]
 
 PRINCE ZILAH 
 
 "Those were love-letters, and I gave them to him! 
 Idiot that I was! I held those letters in my hand; I 
 might have destroyed them, or crammed them one by 
 one down Menko's throat! But who could have sus- 
 pected such an infamy? Menko! A man of honor! 
 Ah, yes; what does honor amount to when there is a 
 woman in question ? Imbecile ! And it is irreparable 
 now, irreparable!" 
 
 Varhely also was anxious to know where Menko had 
 gone. They did not know at the Austro-Hungarian 
 embassy. It was a complete disappearance, perhaps a 
 suicide. If the old Hungarian had met the young man, 
 he would at least have gotten rid of part of his bile. But 
 the angry thought that he, Varhely, had been associated 
 in a vile revenge which had touched Andras, was, for 
 the old soldier, a constant cause for ill-humor with him- 
 self, and a thing which, in a measure, poisoned his life. 
 
 Varhely had long been a misanthrope himself; but he 
 tried to struggle against his own temperament when 
 he saw Andras wrapping himself up in bitterness and 
 gloomy thoughts. 
 
 Little by little, Zilah allowed himself to sink into that 
 state where not only everything becomes indifferent to 
 us, but where we long for another suffering, further 
 pain, that we may utter more bitter cries, more irritated 
 complaints against fate. It seems then that everything 
 is dark about us, and our endless night is traversed by 
 morbid visions, and peopled with phantoms. The sick 
 man for the one who suffers such torture is sick 
 would willingly seek a new sorrow, like those wounded 
 men who, seized with frenzy, open their wounds them-
 
 JULES CLARETIE 
 
 selves, and irritate them with the point of a knife. 
 Then, misanthropy and disgust of life assume a phase 
 in which pain is not without a certain charm. There is 
 a species of voluptuousness in this appetite for suf- 
 fering, and the sufferer becomes, as it were, enamored of 
 his own agony. 
 
 With Zilah, this sad state was due to a sort of insur- 
 rection of his loyalty against the many infamies to be 
 met with in this world, which he had believed to be only 
 too full of virtues. 
 
 He now considered himself an idiot, a fool, for having 
 all his life adored chimeras, and followed, as children 
 do passing music, the fanfares of poetic chivalry. Yes, 
 faith, enthusiasm, love, were so many cheats, so many 
 lies. All beings who, like himself, were worshippers of 
 the ideal, all dreamers of better things, all lovers of love, 
 were inevitably doomed to deception, treason, and the 
 stupid ironies of fate. And, full of anger against him- 
 self, his pessimism of to-day sneering at his confidence 
 of yesterday, he abandoned himself with delight to his 
 bitterness, and he took keen joy in repeating to himself 
 that the secret of happiness in this life was to believe in 
 nothing except treachery, and to defend oneself against 
 men as against wolves. 
 
 Very rarely, his real frank, true nature would come 
 to the fore, and he would say : 
 
 "After all, are the cowardice of one man, and the lie 
 of one woman, to be considered the crime of entire 
 humanity?" 
 
 Why should he curse, he would think, other beings 
 than Marsa and Menko ? He had no right to hate any 
 
 [198]
 
 PRINCE ZILAH 
 
 one else ; he had no enemy that he knew of, and he was 
 honored in Paris, his new country. 
 
 No enemy? No, not one. And yet, one morning, 
 with his letters, his valet brought him a journal ad- 
 dressed to "Prince Zilah," and, on unfolding it, An- 
 dras's attention was attracted to two paragraphs in the 
 column headed " Echoes of Paris," which were marked 
 with a red-lead pencil. 
 
 It was a number of VActualite, sent through the post 
 by an unknown hand, and the red marks were evidently 
 intended to point out to the Prince something of interest 
 to himself. 
 
 Andras received few journals. A sudden desire seized 
 him, as if he had a presentiment of what it contained, 
 to cast this one into the fire without reading it. For a 
 moment he held it in his fingers ready to throw it into 
 the grate. Then a few words read by accident invincibly 
 prevented him. 
 
 He read, at first with poignant sorrow, and then with 
 a dull rage, the two paragraphs, one of which followed 
 the other in the paper. 
 
 "A sad piece of news has come to our ears," ran the 
 first paragraph, "a piece of news which has afflicted all 
 the foreign colony of Paris, and especially the Hun- 
 garians. The lovely and charming Princess Z., whose 
 beauty was recently crowned with a glorious coronet, 
 has been taken, after a consultation of the princes of 
 science (there are princes in all grades), to the estab- 
 lishment of Dr. Sims, at Vaugirard, the rival of the 
 celebrated asylum of Dr. Luys, at Ivry. Together 
 with the numerous friends of Prince A. Z., we hope that
 
 JULES CLARETIE 
 
 the sudden malady of the Princess Z. will be of short 
 duration." 
 
 So Marsa was now the patient, almost the prisoner, 
 of Dr. Sims! The orders of Dr. Fargeas had been 
 executed. She was in an insane asylum, and Andras, 
 despite himself, felt filled with pity as he thought 
 of it. 
 
 But the red mark surrounded both this first "Echo of 
 Paris," and the one which followed it; and Zilah, im- 
 pelled now by eager curiosity, proceeded with his 
 reading. 
 
 But he uttered a cry of rage when he saw, printed at 
 full length, given over to common curiosity, to the 
 eagerness of the public for scandal, and to the malig- 
 nity of blockheads, a direct allusion to his marriage- 
 worse than that, the very history of his marriage placed 
 in an outrageous manner next to the paragraph in 
 which his name was almost openly written. The editor 
 of the society journal passed directly from the informa- 
 tion in regard to the illness of Princess Z. to an allegori- 
 cal tale in which Andras saw the secret of his life and 
 the wounds of his heart laid bare. 
 
 A LITTLE PARISIAN ROMANCE. 
 
 Like most of the Parisian romances of to-day, the little romance 
 in question is an exotic one. Paris belongs to foreigners. When 
 the Parisians, whose names appear in the chronicles of fashion, are 
 not Americans, Russians, Roumanians, Portuguese, English, Chi- 
 nese, or Hungarians, they do not count; they are no longer Paris- 
 ians. The Parisians of the day are Parisians of the Prater, of the 
 Newski Perspective or of Fifth Avenue; they are no longer pure- 
 blooded Parisians. Within ten years from now the boulevards will 
 
 [ 200]
 
 PRINCE ZILAH 
 
 be situated in Chicago, and one will go to pass his evenings at the 
 Eden Theatre of Pekin. So, this is the latest Parisian romance: 
 Once upon a time there was in Paris a great lord, a Moldavian, or 
 a Wallachian, or a Moldo-Wallachian (in a word, a Parisian a 
 Parisian of the Danube, if you like), who fell in love with a young 
 Greek, or Turk, or Armenian (also of Paris), as dark-browed as the 
 night, as beautiful as the day. The great lord was of a certain age, 
 that is, an uncertain age. The beautiful Athenian or Georgian, or 
 Circassian, was young. The great lord was generally considered 
 to be imprudent. But what is to be done when one loves ? Marry 
 or don't marry, says Rabelais or Moliere. Perhaps they both said 
 it. Well, at all events, the great lord married. It appears, if well- 
 informed people are to be believed, that the great Wallachian lord 
 and the beautiful Georgian did not pass two hours after their mar- 
 riage beneath the same roof. The very day of their wedding, 
 quietly, and without scandal, they separated, and the reason of this 
 rupture has for a long time puzzled Parisian high-life. It was 
 remarked, however, that the separation of the newly-married pair 
 was coincident with the disappearance of a very fashionable attache* 
 who, some years ago, was often seen riding in the Bois, and who 
 was then considered to be the most graceful waltzer of the Viennese, 
 or Muscovite, or Castilian colony of Paris. We might, if we were 
 indiscreet, construct a whole drama with these three people for our 
 dramatis persona; but we wish to prove that reporters (different in 
 this from women) sometimes know how to keep a secret. For 
 those ladies who are, perhaps, still interested in the silky moustaches 
 of the fugitive ex-diplomat, we can add, however, that he was seen 
 at Brussels a short time ago. He passed through there like a 
 shooting star. Some one who saw him noticed that he was rather 
 pale, and that he seemed to be still suffering from the wounds re- 
 ceived not long ago. As for the beautiful Georgian, they say she 
 is in despair at the departure of her husband, the great Wallachian 
 lord, who, in spite of his ill-luck, is really a Prince Charming. 
 
 Andras Zilah turned rapidly to the signature of this 
 article. The " Echoes of Paris" were signed Puck. 
 
 [201]
 
 JULES CLARETIE 
 
 Puck? Who was this Puck? How could an un- 
 known, an anonymous writer, a retailer of scandals, be 
 possessed of his secret? For Andras believed that his 
 suffering was a secret; he had never had an idea that 
 any one could expose it tc the curiosity of the crowd, as 
 this editor of L'Actualite had done. He felt an increased 
 rage against the invisible Michel Menko, who had dis- 
 appeared after his infamy; and it seemed to him that 
 this Puck, this unknown journalist, was an accomplice 
 or a friend of Michel Menko, and that, behind the 
 pseudonym of the writer, he perceived the handsome 
 face, twisted moustache and haughty smile of the young 
 Count. 
 
 "After all," he said to himself, "we shall soon find 
 out. Monsieur Puck must be less difficult to unearth 
 than Michel Menko." 
 
 He rang for his valet, and was about to go out, when 
 Yanski Varhely was announced. 
 
 The old Hungarian looked troubled, and his brows 
 were contracted in a frown. He could not repress a 
 movement of anger when he perceived, upon the 
 Prince's table, the marked number of UActualite. 
 
 Varhe'ly, when he had an afternoon to get rid of, 
 usually went to the Palais-Royal. He had lived for 
 twenty years not far from there, in a little apartment 
 near Saint-Roch. Drinking in the fresh air, under the 
 striped awning of the Cafe de la Rotunde, he read the 
 journals, one after the other, or watched the sparrows 
 fly about and peck up the grains in the sand. Children 
 ran here and there, playing at ball; and, above the noise 
 of the promenacjers, arose the music of the brass band, 
 
 [202]
 
 PRINCE ZILAH 
 
 It was chiefly the political news he sought for in the 
 French or foreign journals. He ran through them all 
 with his nose in the sheets, which he held straight out 
 by the wooden file, like a flag. With a rapid glance, he 
 fell straight upon the Hungarian names which inter- 
 ested him Deak sometimes, sometimes Andrassy; 
 and from a German paper he passed to an English, 
 Spanish, or Italian one, making, as he said, a tour of 
 Europe, acquainted as he was with almost all European 
 languages. 
 
 An hour before he appeared at the Prince's house, he 
 was seated in the shade of the trees, scanning UActu- 
 alite, when he suddenly uttered an oath of anger (an 
 Hungarian teremtete ! ) as he came across the two para- 
 graphs alluding to Prince Andras. 
 
 Varhely read the lines over twice, to convince him- 
 self that he was not mistaken, and that it was Prince 
 Zilah who was designated with the skilfully veiled in- 
 nuendo of an expert journalist. There was no chance 
 for doubt; the indistinct nationality of the great lord 
 spoken of thinly veiled the Magyar characteristics of 
 Andras, and the paragraph which preceded the "Little 
 Parisian Romance" was very skilfully arranged to let 
 the public guess the name of the hero of the adventure, 
 while giving to the anecdote related the piquancy of 
 the anonymous, that velvet mask of scandal-mongers. 
 
 Then Varhely had only one idea. 
 
 "Andras must not know of this article. He scarcely 
 ever reads the journals; but some one may have sent 
 this paper to him." 
 
 And the old misanthrope hurried to the Prince's ho-
 
 JULES CLARETIE 
 
 tel, thinking this: that there always exist people ready 
 to forward paragraphs of this kind. 
 
 When he perceived UActualite upon the Prince's 
 table, he saw that his surmise was only too correct, and 
 he was furious with himself for arriving too late. 
 
 "Where are you going?" he asked Andras, who was 
 putting on his gloves. 
 
 The Prince took up the marked paper, folded it 
 slowly, and replied : 
 
 "I am going out." 
 
 "Have you read that paper?" 
 
 "The marked part of it, yes." 
 
 "You know that that sheet is never read, it has no 
 circulation whatever, it lives from its advertisements. 
 There is no use in taking any notice of it." 
 
 "If there were question only of myself, I should not 
 take any notice of it. But they have mixed up in this 
 scandal the name of the woman to whom I have given 
 my name. I wish to know who did it, and why he did 
 it." 
 
 " Oh ! for nothing, for fun ! Because this Monsieur 
 how does he sign himself? Puck had nothing else to 
 write about." 
 
 "It is certainly absurd," remarked Zilah, "to imag- 
 ine that a man can live in the ideal. At every step the 
 reality splashes you with mud." 
 
 As he spoke, he moved toward the door. 
 
 "Where are you going?" asked Varhely again. 
 
 "To the office of this journal." 
 
 "Do not commit such an imprudence. The article, 
 which has made no stir as yet, will be read and talked
 
 of by all Paris if you take any notice of it, and it will be 
 immediately commented upon by the correspondents of 
 the Austrian and Hungarian journals." 
 
 "That matters little to me!" said the Prince, reso- 
 lutely. "Those people will only do what their trade 
 obliges them to. But, before everything, I am resolved 
 to do my duty. That is my part in this matter." 
 
 "Then I will accompany you." 
 
 "No," replied Andras, "I ask you not to do that; 
 but it is probable that to-morrow I shall request you to 
 serve as my second." 
 
 "A duel?" 
 
 "Exactly." 
 
 " With Monsieur Puck ? " 
 
 "With whoever insults me. The name is perfectly 
 immaterial. But since he escapes me and she is irre- 
 sponsible and punished I regard as an accomplice 
 of their infamy any man who makes allusion to it with 
 either tongue or pen. And, my dear Varhely, I wish to 
 act alone. Don't be angry; I know that in your hands 
 my honor would be as faithfully guarded as in my 
 own." 
 
 "Without any doubt," said Varhely, in an odd tone, 
 pulling his rough moustache, " and I hope to prove it to 
 you some day." 
 
 [ 2 5]
 
 CHAPTER XXV 
 
 THE HOME OF "PUCK 
 
 RINCE ZILAH did not observe at all 
 the marked significance old Yanski gave 
 to this last speech. He shook Var- 
 (j hely's hand, entered a cab, and, casting 
 a glance at the journal in his hands, he 
 ordered the coachman to drive to the 
 office of UActualite, Rue Halevy, near 
 the Opera. 
 
 The society journal, whose aim was represented by its 
 title, had its quarters on the third floor in that semi- 
 English section where bars, excursion agencies, steam- 
 boat offices, and manufacturers of travelling-bags give to 
 the streets a sort of Britannic aspect. The office of 
 VActualite had only recently been established there. 
 Prince Zilah read the number of the room upon a brass 
 sign and went up. 
 
 In the outer office there were only two or three clerks 
 at work behind the grating. None of these had the 
 right to reveal the names hidden under pseudonyms; 
 they did not even know them. Zilah perceived, through 
 an open door, the reporters' room, furnished with a long 
 table covered with pens, ink, and pads of white paper. 
 This room was empty; the journal was made up in the 
 evening, and the reporters were absent,
 
 PRINCE ZILAH 
 
 "Is there any one who can ansv;er me?" asked the 
 Prince. 
 
 " Probably the secretary can," replied a clerk. " Have 
 you a card, Monsieur? or, if you will write your name 
 upon a bit of paper, it will do." 
 
 Andras did so ; the clerk opened a door in the corridor 
 and disappeared. After a minute or two he reappeared, 
 and said to the Prince: 
 
 " If you will follow me, Monsieur Fremin will see you." 
 
 Andras found himself in the presence of a pleasant- 
 looking middle-aged man, who was writing at a modest 
 desk when the Hungarian entered, and who bowed po- 
 litely, motioning him to be seated. 
 
 As Zilah sat down upon the sofa, there appeared upon 
 the threshold of a door, opposite the one by which he 
 had entered, a small, dark, elegantly dressed young man, 
 whom Andras vaguely remembered to have seen some- 
 where, he could not tell where. The newcomer was 
 irreproachable in his appearance, with his clothes built 
 in the latest fashion, snowy linen, pale gray gloves, sil- 
 ver-headed cane, and a single eyeglass, dangling from a 
 silken cord. 
 
 He bowed to Zilah, and, going up to the secretary, he 
 said, rapidly: 
 
 "Well! since Tourillon is away, I will report the En 
 ghien races. I am going there now. Enghien isn't 
 highly diverting, though. The swells and the pretty 
 women so rarely go there; they don't affect Enghien any 
 more. But duty before everything, eh, Fremin?" 
 
 "You will have to hurry," said Fremin, looking at his 
 watch, "or you will miss your train," 
 
 [207]
 
 JULES CLARETIE 
 
 "Oh! I have a carriage below." 
 
 He clapped his confrere on the shoulder, bowed again 
 to Zilah, and hurried away, while Fremin, turning to the 
 Prince, said: 
 
 "I am at your service, Monsieur," and waited for him 
 to open the conversation. 
 
 Zilah drew from his pocket the copy of L'Actualite, 
 and said, very quietly: 
 
 "I should like to know, Monsieur, who is meant in 
 this article here." 
 
 And, folding the paper, with the passage which con- 
 cerned him uppermost, he handed it to the secretary. 
 
 Fre'min glanced at the article. 
 
 "Yes, I have seen this paragraph," he said; "but I 
 am entirely ignorant to whom it alludes. I am not even 
 certain that it is not a fabrication, invented out of whole 
 cloth." 
 
 " Ah ! " said Zilah. " The author of the article would 
 know, I suppose?" 
 
 "It is highly probable," replied Fremin, with a smile. 
 
 "Will you tell me, then, the name of the person who 
 wrote this?" 
 
 "Isn't the article signed?" 
 
 "It is signed Puck. That is not a name." 
 
 "A pseudonym is a name in literature," said Fremin. 
 "I am of the opinion, however, that one has always the 
 right to demand to see a face which is covered by a mask. 
 But the person who makes this demand should be per- 
 sonally interested. Does this story, to which you have 
 called my attention, concern you, Monsieur?" 
 
 "Suppose, Monsieur," answered Zilah, a little dis- 
 [208]
 
 PRINCE ZILAH 
 
 concerted, for he perceived that he had to do with a 
 courteous, well-bred man, "suppose that the man who 
 is mentioned, or rather insulted, here, were my best 
 friend. I wish to demand an explanation of the person 
 who wrote this article, and to know, also, if it was really 
 a journalist who composed those lines." 
 
 "You mean? " 
 
 "I mean that there may be people interested in hav- 
 ing such an article published, and I wish to know who 
 they are." 
 
 "You are perfectly justified, Monsieur; but only one 
 person can tell you that the writer of the article." 
 
 "It is for that reason, Monsieur, that I desire to know 
 his name." 
 
 "He does not conceal it," said Fremin. "The pseu- 
 donym is only designed as a stimulant to curiosity; but 
 Puck is a corporeal being." 
 
 "I am glad to hear it," said Zilah. "Now, will you 
 be kind enough to give me his name?" 
 
 "Paul Jacquemin." 
 
 Zilah knew the name well, having seen it at the end 
 of a report of his river f$te; but he hardly thought 
 Jacquemin could be so well informed. Since he had 
 lived in France, the Hungarian exile had not been ac- 
 customed to regard Paris as a sort of gossiping village, 
 where everything is found out, talked over, and com- 
 mented upon with eager curiosity, and where every 
 one's aim is to appear to have the best and most cor- 
 rect information. 
 
 "I must ask you now, Monsieur, where Monsieur 
 Paul Jacquemin lives?" 
 
 14 [209]
 
 JULES CLARETIE 
 
 "Rue Rochechouart, at the corner of the Rue de la 
 Tour d'Auvergne." 
 
 "Thank you, Monsieur," said Andras, rising, the 
 object of his call having been accomplished. 
 
 "One moment," said Fremin, "if you intend to go at 
 once to Monsieur Jacquemin's house, you will not find 
 him at home just now." 
 
 "Why not?" 
 
 "Because you saw him here a few minutes ago, and 
 he is now on his way to Enghien." 
 
 " Indeed !" said the Prince. "Very well, I will wait." 
 
 He bade farewell to Fremin, who accompanied him to 
 the door; and, when seated in his carriage, he read again 
 the paragraph of Puck that Puck, who, in the course 
 of the same article, referred many times to the brilliancy 
 of "our colleague Jacquemin," and complacently cited 
 the witticisms of "our clever friend Jacquemin." 
 
 Zilah remembered this Jacquemin now. It was he 
 whom he had seen taking notes upon the parapet of the 
 quay, and afterward at the wedding, where he had been 
 brought by the Baroness Dinati. It was Jacquemin 
 who was such a favorite with the little Baroness ; who 
 was one of the licensed distributors of celebrity and 
 quasi-celebrity for all those who live upon gossip and 
 for gossip great ladies who love to see their names in 
 print, and actresses wild over a new role; who was one 
 of the chroniclers of fashion, received everywhere, 
 flattered, caressed, petted; whom the Prince had just 
 seen, very elegant with his stick and eyeglass, and his 
 careless, disdainful air; and who had said, like a man 
 accustomed to every magnificence, fatigued with luxury, 
 
 [210]
 
 PRINCE ZILAH 
 
 blase with pleasure, and caring only for what is truly 
 pschutt (to use the latest slang) : " Pretty women so rarely 
 go there!" 
 
 Zilah thought that, as the Baroness had a particular 
 predilection for Jacquemin, it was perhaps she, who, in 
 her gay chatter, had related the story to the reporter, 
 and who, without knowing it probably, assuredly with- 
 out wishing it, had furnished an article for UActualite. 
 In all honor, Jacquemin was really the spoiled child of 
 the Baroness, the director of the entertainments at her 
 house. With a little more conceit, Jacquemin, who was 
 by no means lacking in that quality, however, might 
 have believed that the pretty little woman was in love 
 with him. The truth is, the Baroness Dinati was only 
 in love with the reporter's articles, those society articles 
 in which he never forgot her, but paid, with a string of 
 printed compliments, for his champagne and truffles. 
 
 "And yet," thought Zilah, "no, upon reflection, I 
 am certain that the Baroness had nothing to do with this 
 outrage. Neither with intention nor through impru- 
 dence would she have given any of these details to this 
 man." 
 
 Now that the Prince knew his real name, he might 
 have sent to Monsieur Puck, Varhely, and another of his 
 friends. Jacquemin would then give an explanation; 
 for of reparation Zilah thought little. And yet, full of 
 anger, and not having Menko before him, he longed to 
 punish some one; he wished, that, having been made 
 to suffer so himself, some one should expiate his pain. 
 He would chastise this butterfly reporter, who had dared 
 to interfere with his affairs, and wreak his vengeance 
 
 [211]
 
 JULES CLARETIE 
 
 upon him as if he were the coward who had fled. And, 
 besides, who knew, after all, if this Jacquemin were not 
 the confidant of Menko? Varhely would not have 
 recognized in the Prince the generous Zilah of former 
 times, full of pity, and ready to forgive an injury. 
 
 Andras could not meet Jacquemin that day, unless he 
 waited for him at the office of UActualite until the races 
 were over, and he therefore postponed his intended inter- 
 view until the next day. 
 
 About eleven o'clock in the morning, after a sleepless 
 night, he sought the Rue Rochechouart, and the house 
 Fremin had described to him. It was there: an old 
 weather-beaten house, with a narrow entrance and a 
 corridor, in the middle of which flowed a dirty, foul- 
 smelling stream of water; the room of the concierge 
 looked like a black hole at the foot of the staircase, the 
 balusters and walls of which were wet with moisture and 
 streaked with dirt; a house of poor working-people, 
 many stories high, and built in the time when this 
 quarter of Paris was almost a suburb. 
 
 Andras hesitated at first to enter, thinking that he 
 must be mistaken. He thought of little Jacquemin, 
 dainty and neat as if he had just stepped out of a band- 
 box, and his disdainful remarks upon the races of En- 
 ghien, where the swells no longer went. It was not 
 possible that he lived here in this wretched, shabby 
 place. 
 
 The concierge replied to the Prince, however, when he 
 asked for Jacquemin: "Yes, Monsieur, on the fifth 
 floor, the door to the right;" and Zilah mounted the 
 dark stairs. 
 
 [212]
 
 PRINCE ZILAH 
 
 When he reached the fifth floor, he did not yet believe 
 it possible that the Jacquemin who lived there was the 
 one he had seen the day before, the one whom Baroness 
 Dinati petted, "our witty colleague Jacquemin." 
 
 He knocked, however, at the door on the right, as he 
 had been directed. No one came to open it; but he 
 could hear within footsteps and indistinct cries. He 
 then perceived that there was a bell-rope, and he pulled 
 it. Immediately he heard some one approaching from 
 within. 
 
 He felt a singular sensation of concentrated anger, 
 united to a fear that the Jacquemin he was in search of 
 was not there. 
 
 The door opened, and a woman appeared, young, 
 rather pale, with pretty blond hair, somewhat dis- 
 heveled, and dressed in a black skirt, with a white dress- 
 ing-sack thrown over her shoulders. 
 
 She smiled mechanically as she opened the door, and, 
 as she saw a strange face, she blushed crimson, and 
 pulled her sack together beneath her chin, fastening it 
 with a pin. 
 
 "Monsieur Jacquemin?" said Andras, taking off his 
 hat. 
 
 "Yes, Monsieur, he lives here," replied the young 
 woman, a little astonished. 
 
 "Monsieur Jacquemin, the journalist?" asked An- 
 dras. 
 
 "Yes, yes, Monsieur," she answered with a proud 
 little smile, which Zilah was not slow to notice. She 
 now opened the door wide, and said, stepping aside to 
 let the visitor pass: 
 
 [213]
 
 JULES CLARETIE 
 
 "Will you take the trouble to come in, Monsieur?" 
 
 She was not accustomed to receive calls (Jacquemin 
 always making his appointments at the office) ; but, as 
 the stranger might be some one who brought her hus- 
 band work, as she called it, she was anxious not to 
 let him go away before she knew what his errand 
 was. 
 
 "Please come in, Monsieur!" 
 
 The Prince entered, and, crossing the entry in two 
 steps, found himself in a small dining-room opening 
 directly out of the kitchen, where three tiny little chil- 
 dren were playing, the youngest, who could not have 
 been more than eighteen months, crawling about on the 
 floor. Upon the ragged oilcloth which covered the 
 table, Zilah noticed two pairs of men's gloves, one gray,, 
 the other yellow, and a heap of soiled white cravats. 
 Upon a wooden chair, by the open door of the kitchen, 
 was a tub full of shirts, which the young woman had 
 doubtless been washing when the bell rang. 
 
 The cries Zilah had heard came from the children, 
 who were now silent, staring at the tall gentleman, who 
 looked at them in surprise. 
 
 The young woman was small and very pretty, but 
 with the pallor of fatigue and overwork; her lips were 
 beautifully chiselled, but almost colorless; and she was 
 so thin that her figure had the frail appearance of an 
 unformed girl. 
 
 "Will you sit down, Monsieur?" she asked, timidly, 
 advancing a cane-bottomed chair. 
 
 Everything in these poor lodgings was of the most 
 shabby description. In a cracked mirror with a broken 
 
 [214]
 
 PRINCE ZILAH 
 
 frame were stuck cards of invitation, theatre checks, 
 and race tickets admitting to the grand stand. Upon a 
 cheap little table with broken corners was a heap of 
 New Year's cards, bonbon boxes, and novels with soiled 
 edges. Upon the floor, near the children, were some 
 remnants of toys; and the cradle in which the baby 
 slept at night was pushed into a corner with a child's 
 chair, the arms of which were gone. 
 
 Zilah was both astonished and pained. He had not 
 expected to encounter this wretched place, the poorly 
 clad children, and the woman's timid smile. 
 
 "Is Monsieur Jacquemin at home?" he asked 
 abruptly, desiring to leave at once if the man whom he 
 sought was not there. 
 
 "No, Monsieur; but he will not be long away. Sit 
 down, Monsieur, please!" 
 
 She entreated so gently, with such an uneasy air at the 
 threatened departure of this man who had doubtless 
 brought some good news for her husband, that the Prince 
 mechanically obeyed, thinking again that there was evi- 
 dently some mistake, and that it was not, it could not 
 be, here that Jacquemin lived. 
 
 "Is it really your husband, Madame, who writes 
 under the signature of Puck in UActualite?" he asked. 
 The same proud smile appeared again upon her thin, 
 wan face. 
 
 "Yes, Monsieur, yes, it is really he!" she replied. 
 She was so happy whenever any one spoke to her of her 
 Paul. She was in the habit of taking copies of UActu- 
 alite to the concierge, the grocer, and the butcher; and 
 she was so proud to show how well Paul wrote, and what 
 
 [215]
 
 JULES CLARETIE 
 
 fine connections he had her Paul, whom she loved so 
 much, and for whom she sat up late at night when it was 
 necessary to prepare his linen for some great dinner or 
 supper he was invited to. 
 
 "Oh! it is indeed he, Monsieur," she said again, while 
 Zilah watched her and listened in silence. "I don't like 
 to have him use pseudonyms, as he calls them. It gives 
 me so much pleasure to see his real name, which is mine 
 too, printed in full. Only it seems that it is better some- 
 times. Puck makes people curious, and they say, Who 
 can it be? He also signed himself Gavroche in the 
 Rabelais, you know, which did not last very long. You 
 are perhaps a journalist also, Monsieur?" 
 
 "No," said Zilah. 
 
 "Ah! I thought you were! But, after all, perhaps 
 you are right. It is a hard profession, I sometimes 
 think. You have to be out so late. If you only knew, 
 Monsieur, how poor Paul is forced to work even at 
 night! It tires him so, and then it costs so much. I 
 beg your pardon for leaving those gloves like that before 
 you. I was cleaning them. He does not like cleaned 
 gloves, though; he says it always shows. Well, I am a 
 woman, and I don't notice it. And then I take so much 
 care of all that. It is necessary, and everything costs so 
 dear. You see I Gustave, don't slap your little sister! 
 you naughty boy!" 
 
 And going to the children, her sweet, frank eyes be- 
 coming sad at a quarrel between her little ones, she 
 gently took the baby away from the oldest child, who 
 cried, and went into a corner to pout, regarding his 
 mother with the same impudent air which Zilah had per- 
 
 [216]
 
 PRINCE ZILAH 
 
 ceived in the curl of Jacquemin's lips when the reporter 
 complained of the dearth of pretty women. 
 
 " It is certainly very astonishing that he does not come 
 home," continued the young wife, excusing to Zilah the 
 absence of her Paul. " He often breakfasts, however, in 
 the city, at Brebant's. It seems that it is necessary for 
 him to do so. You see, at the restaurant he talks and 
 hears news. He couldn't learn all that he knows here 
 very well, could he ? I don't know much of things that 
 must be put in a newspaper." 
 
 And she smiled a little sad smile, making even of her 
 humility a pedestal for the husband so deeply loved and 
 admired. 
 
 Zilah was beginning to feel ill at ease. He had come 
 with anger, expecting to encounter the little fop whom he 
 had seen, and he found this humble and devoted woman, 
 who spoke of her Paul as if she were speaking of her 
 religion, and who, knowing nothing of the life of her 
 husband, only loving him, sacrificed herself to him in 
 this almost cruel poverty (a strange contrast to the life 
 of luxury Jacquemin led elsewhere), with the holy trust 
 of her unselfish love. 
 
 " Do you never accompany your husband anywhere ? " 
 asked Andras. 
 
 "I? Oh, never!" she replied, with a sort of fright. 
 "He does not wish it and he is right. You see, Mon- 
 sieur, when he married me, five years ago, he was not 
 what he is now; he was a railway clerk. I was a work- 
 ing-girl; yes, I was a seamstress. Then it was all right, 
 we used to walk together, and we went to the theatre; 
 he did not know any one. It is different now. You 
 
 [217]
 
 JULES CLARETIE 
 
 see, if the Baroness Dinati should see me on his arm, 
 she would not bow to him, perhaps." 
 
 "You are mistaken, Madame," said the Hungarian, 
 gently. "You are the one who should be bowed to 
 first." 
 
 She did not understand, but she felt that a compliment 
 was intended, and she blushed very red, not daring to 
 say any more, and wondering if she had not chatted too 
 much, as Jacquemin reproached her with doing almost 
 every day. 
 
 "Does Monsieur Jacquemin go often to the theatre?" 
 asked Andras, after a moment's pause. 
 
 "Yes; he is obliged to do so." 
 
 "And you?" 
 
 "Sometimes. Not to the first nights, of course. One 
 has to dress handsomely for them. But Paul gives me 
 tickets, oh, as many as I want! When the plays are no 
 longer drawing money, I go with the neighbors. But I 
 prefer to stay at home and see to my babies; when I am 
 sitting in the theatre, and they are left in charge of the 
 concierge, I think, Suppose anything should happen to 
 them ! And that idea takes away all my pleasure. Still, 
 if Paul stayed here but he can not ; he has his writing 
 to do in the evenings. Poor fellow, he works so hard ! 
 Well!" with a sigh, "I don't think that he will be back 
 to-day. The children will eat his beefsteak, that's all; 
 it won't do them any harm." 
 
 As she spoke, she took some pieces of meat from an 
 almost empty cupboard, and placed them on the table, 
 excusing herself for doing so before Zilah. 
 
 And he contemplated, with an emotion which every
 
 PRINCE ZILAH 
 
 word of the little woman increased, this poor, miserable 
 apartment, where the wife lived, taking care of her chil- 
 dren, while the husband, Monsieur Puck or Monsieur 
 Gavroche, paraded at the fancy fairs or at the theatres; 
 figured at the races; tasted the Baroness Dinati's wines, 
 caring only for Johannisberg with the blue and gold 
 seal of 1862; and gave to Potel and Chabot, in his arti- 
 cles, lessons in gastronomy. 
 
 Then Madame Jacquemin, feeling instinctively that 
 she had the sympathy of this sad-faced man who spoke 
 to her in such a gentle voice, related her life to him with 
 the easy confidence which poor people, who never see 
 the great world, possess. She told him, with a tender 
 smile, the entirely Parisian idyl of the love of the work- 
 ing-girl for the little clerk who loved her so much and 
 who married her; and of the excursions they used to take 
 together to Saint- Germain, going third-class, and eating 
 their dinner upon the green grass under the trees, and 
 then enjoying the funny doings of the painted clowns, 
 the illuminations, the music, and the dancing. Oh! 
 they danced and danced and danced, until she was so 
 tired that she slept all the way home with her head on 
 his shoulder, dreaming of the happy day they had had. 
 
 "That was the best time of my life, Monsieur. We 
 were no richer than we are now ; but we were more free. 
 He was with me more, too : now, he certainly makes me 
 very proud with his beautiful articles; but I don't see 
 him; I don't see him any more, and it makes me very 
 sad. Oh! if it were not for that, although we are not 
 millionaires, I should be very happy; yes, entirely, en- 
 tirely happy," 
 
 [219]
 
 JULES CLARETIE 
 
 There was, in the simple, gentle resignation of this 
 poor girl, sacrificed without knowing it, such devoted 
 love for the man who, in reality, abandoned her, that 
 Prince Andras felt deeply moved and touched. He 
 thought of the one leading a life of pleasure, and the 
 other a life of fatigue; of this household touching on one 
 side poverty, and, on the other, wealth and fashion ; and 
 he divined, from the innocent words of this young wife, 
 the hardships of this home, half deserted by the husband, 
 and the nervousness and peevishness of Jacquemin re- 
 turning to this poor place after a night at the restaur- 
 ants or a ball at Baroness Dinati's. He heard the cut- 
 ting voice of the elegant little man whom his humble 
 wife contemplated with the eyes of a Hindoo adoring 
 an idol; he was present, in imagination, at those tragi- 
 cally sorrowful scenes which the wife bore with her 
 tender smile, poor woman, knowing of the life of her 
 Paul only those duties of luxury which she herself imag- 
 ined, remaining a seamstress still to sew the buttons on 
 the shirts and gloves of her husband, and absolutely 
 ignorant of all the entertainments where, in an evening, 
 would sometimes be lost, at a game of cards, the whole 
 monthly salary of Monsieur Puck! And Zilah said to 
 himself, that this was, perhaps, the first time that this 
 woman had ever been brought in contact with anything 
 pertaining to her husband's fashionable life and in 
 what shape ? that of a man who had come to demand 
 satisfaction for an injury, and to say to Jacquemin: "I 
 shall probably kill you, Monsieur!" 
 
 And gradually, before the spectacle of this profound 
 love, of this humble and holy devotion of the unselfish 
 
 [220]
 
 PRINCE ZILAH 
 
 martyr with timid, wistful eyes, who leaned over her 
 children, and said to them, sweetly, "Yes, you are 
 hungry, I know, but you shall have papa's beefsteak," 
 while she herself breakfasted off a little coffee and a 
 crust of bread, Andras Zilah felt all his anger die away; 
 and an immense pity filled his breast, as he saw, as in 
 a vision of what the future might have brought forth, 
 a terrible scene in this poor little household: the pale 
 fair-haired wife, already wasted and worn with constant 
 labor, leaning out of the window yonder, or running to 
 the stairs and seeing, covered with blood, wounded, 
 wounded to death perhaps, her Paul, whom he, Andras, 
 had come to provoke to a duel. 
 
 Ah! poor woman! Never would he cause her such 
 anguish and sorrow. Between his sword and Jacque- 
 min's impertinent little person, were now this sad-eyed 
 creature, and those poor little children, who played 
 there, forgotten, half deserted, by their father, and who 
 would grow up, Heaven knows how! 
 
 "I see that Monsieur Jacquemin will not return," he 
 said, rising hurriedly, "and I will leave you to your 
 breakfast, Madame." 
 
 "Oh! you don't trouble me at all, Monsieur. I beg 
 your pardon again for having given my children their 
 breakfast before you.*' 
 
 "Farewell, Madame," said Andras, bowing with the 
 deepest respect. 
 
 "Then, you are really going, Monsieur? Indeed, I 
 am afraid he won't come back. But please tell me what 
 I shall say to him your errand was. If it is some good 
 news, I should be so glad, so glad, to be the first to tell it 
 
 [221]
 
 to him. You are, perhaps, although you say not, the 
 editor of some paper which is about to be started. He 
 spoke to me, the other day, of a new paper. He would 
 like to be a dramatic critic. That is his dream, he says. 
 Is it that, Monsieur?" 
 
 "No, Madame; and, to tell you the truth, there is no 
 longer any need for me to see your husband. But I do 
 not regret my visit ; on the contrary I have met a noble 
 woman, and I offer her my deepest respect." 
 
 Poor, unhappy girl ! She was not used to such words ; 
 she blushingly faltered her thanks, and seemed quite 
 grieved at the departure of this man, from whom she 
 had expected some good luck for her husband. 
 
 "The life of Paris has its secrets!" thought Zilah, as 
 he slowly descended the stairs, which he had mounted in 
 such a different frame of mind, so short a time before. 
 
 When he reached the lower landing, he looked up, 
 and saw the blond head of the young woman, leaning 
 over above, and the little hands of the children clutch- 
 ing the damp railing. 
 
 Then Prince Andras Zilah took off his hat, and again 
 bowed low. 
 
 On his way from the Rue Rochechouart to his hotel 
 he thought of the thin, pale face of the Parisian grisette, 
 who would slowly pine away, deceived and disdained 
 by the man whose name she bore. Such a fine name! 
 Puck or Gavroche ! 
 
 " And she would die rather than soil that name. This 
 Jacquemin has found this pearl of great price, and hid 
 it away under the gutters of Paris ! And I I have en- 
 counteredwhat ? A miserable woman who betrayed 
 
 [229]
 
 PRINCE ZILAH 
 
 me! Ah! men and women are decidedly the victims of 
 chance; puppets destined to bruise one another!" 
 
 On entering his hotel, he found Yanski Varhely there, 
 with an anxious look upon his rugged old face. 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 "Well nothing!" 
 
 And Zilah told his friend what he had seen. 
 
 "A droll city, this Paris!" he said, in conclusion. "I 
 see that it is necessary to go up into the garrets to know 
 it well." 
 
 He took a sheet of paper, sat down, and wrote as 
 follows : 
 
 MONSIEUR: You have published an article in regard to Prince 
 Andras Zilah, which is an outrage. A devoted friend of the Prince 
 had resolved to make you pay dearly for it ; but there is some one 
 who has disarmed him. That some one is the admirable woman 
 who bears so honorably the name which you have given her, and 
 lives so bravely the life you have doomed her to. Madame Jacque- 
 min has redeemed the infamy of Monsieur Puck. But when, in 
 the future, you have to speak of the misfortunes of others, think 
 a little of your own existence, and profit by the moral lesson 
 given you by AN UNKNOWN. 
 
 "Now," said Zilah, "be so kind, my dear Varhely, as 
 to have this note sent to Monsieur Puck, at the office of 
 L* Actualite: and ask your domestic to purchase some 
 toys, whatever he likes here is the money and take 
 them to Madame Jacquemin, No. 25 Rue Rochechouart. 
 Three toys, because there are three children. The poor 
 little things will have gained so much, at all events, from 
 this occurrence,"
 
 CHAPTER XXVI 
 
 "AM I AVENGED?" 
 
 this episode, the Prince lived 
 a more solitary existence than before, 
 and troubled himself no further about 
 the outside world. Why should he 
 care, that some penny-a-liner had 
 slipped those odious lines into a news- 
 paper ? His sorrow was not the pub- 
 lishing of the treachery, it was the 
 treachery itself; and his hourly suffering caused him to 
 long for death to end his torture. 
 
 "And yet I must live," he thought, "if to exist with a 
 dagger through one's heart is to live." 
 
 Then, to escape from the present, he plunged into the 
 memories of the war, as into a bath of oblivion, a strange 
 oblivion, where he found all his patriotic regrets of other 
 days. He read, with spasmodic eagerness, the books in 
 which Georgei and Klapka, the actors of the drama, 
 presented their excuses, or poured forth their com- 
 plaints; and it seemed to him that his country would 
 make him forget his love. 
 
 In the magnificent picture-gallery, where he spent 
 most of his time, his eyes rested upon the battle-scenes 
 of Matejks, the Polish artist, and the landscapes of 
 Munkacsy, that painter of his own country, who took 
 
 [224]
 
 PRINCE ZILAH 
 
 his name from the town of Munkacs, where tradition 
 says that the Magyars settled when they came from the 
 Orient, ages ago. Then a bitter longing took possession 
 of him to breathe a different air, to fly from Paris, and 
 place a wide distance between himself and Marsa; to 
 take a trip around the world, where new scenes might 
 soften his grief, or, better still, some accident put an end 
 to his life; and, besides, chance might bring him in 
 contact with Menko. 
 
 But, just as he was ready to depart, a sort of lassitude 
 overpowered him; he felt the inert sensation of a 
 wounded man who has not the strength to move, and 
 he remained where he was, sadly and bitterly wonder- 
 ing at times if he should not appeal to the courts, dis- 
 solve his marriage, and demand back his name from 
 the one who had stolen it. 
 
 Appeal to the courts ? The idea of doing that was re- 
 pugnant to him. What ! to hear the proud and stainless 
 name of the Zilahs resound, no longer above the clash of 
 sabres and the neighing of furious horses, but within the 
 walls of a court-room, and in presence of a gaping crowd 
 of sensation seekers ? No ! silence was better than that ; 
 anything was better than publicity and scandal. Di- 
 vorce! He could obtain that, since Marsa, her mind 
 destroyed, was like one dead. And what would a di- 
 vorce give him? His freedom? He had it already. 
 But what nothing could give back, was his ruined faith, 
 his shattered hopes, his happiness lost forever. 
 
 At times he had a wild desire to see Marsa again, 
 and vent once more upon her his anger and contempt. 
 When he happened to see the name of Maisons-Lafitte, 
 15 [ 22 5]
 
 JULES CLARETIE 
 
 his body tingled from head to foot, as by an electric 
 shock. Maisons! The sunlit garden, the shaded al- 
 leys, the glowing parterres of flowers, the old oaks, the 
 white-walled villa, all appeared before him, brutally 
 distinct, like a lost, or rather poisoned, Eden! And, 
 besides, she, Marsa, was no longer there; and the 
 thought that the woman whom he had so passionately 
 loved, with her exquisite, flower-like face, was shut up 
 among maniacs at Vaugirard, caused him the acutest 
 agony. The asylum which was Marsa' s prison was so 
 constantly in his mind that he felt the necessity of 
 flight, in order not to allow his weakness to get the bet- 
 ter of him, lest he should attempt to see Marsa again. 
 
 "What a coward I am!" he thought. 
 
 One evening he announced to Varhely that he was 
 going to the lonely villa of Sainte-Adresse, where they 
 had so many times together watched the sea and talked 
 of their country. 
 
 "I am going there to be alone, my dear Yanski," he 
 said, "but to be with you is to be with myself. I hope 
 that you will accompany me." 
 
 "Most certainly," replied Varhely. 
 
 The Prince took only one domestic, wishing to live as 
 quietly and primitively as possible ; but Varhely, really 
 alarmed at the rapid change in the Prince, and the terri- 
 ble pallor of his face, followed him, hoping at least to 
 distract him and arouse him from his morbidness by 
 talking over with him the great days of the past, and 
 even, if possible, to interest him in the humble lives of 
 the fishermen about him. 
 
 Zilah and his friend, therefore, passed long hours upon 
 [226]
 
 PRINCE ZILAH 
 
 the terrace of the villa, watching the sun set at their feet, 
 while the grayish-blue sea was enveloped in a luminous 
 mist, and the fading light was reflected upon the red 
 walls and white blinds of the houses, and tinged with 
 glowing purple the distant hills of Ingouville. 
 
 This calm, quiet spot gradually produced upon An- 
 dras the salutary effect of a bath after a night of feverish 
 excitement. His reflections became less bitter, and, 
 strange to relate, it was rough old Yanski Varhely, who, 
 by his tenderness and thoughtfulness, led his friend to 
 a more resigned frame of mind. 
 
 Very often, after nightfall, would Zilah descend with 
 him to the shore below. The sea lay at their feet a 
 plain of silver, and the moonbeams danced over the 
 waves in broken lines of luminous atoms; boats passed 
 to and fro, their red lights flashing like glowworms; and 
 it seemed to Andras and Varhely, as they approached 
 the sea, receding over the wet, gleaming sands, that they 
 were walking upon quicksilver. 
 
 As they strolled and talked together here, it seemed to 
 Andras that this grief was, for the moment, carried away 
 by the fresh, salt breeze; and these two men, in a differ- 
 ent manner buffeted by fate, resembled two wounded 
 soldiers who mutually aid one another to advance, and 
 not to fall by the way before the combat is over. Yanski 
 made special efforts to rouse in Andras the old memories 
 of his fatherland, and to inspire in him again his love for 
 Hungary. 
 
 "Ah! I used to have so many hopes and dreams for 
 her future," said Andras; "but idealists have no chance 
 in the world of to-day ; so now I am a man who expects 
 
 [227]
 
 JULES CLARETIE 
 
 nothing of life except its ending. And yet I would like 
 to see once again that old stone castle where I grew up, 
 full of hopes! Hopes? Bah! pretty bubbles, that is 
 all!" 
 
 One morning they walked along the cliffs, past the 
 low shanties of the fishermen, as far as Havre; and, as 
 they were sauntering through the streets of the city, 
 Varhely grasped the Prince's arm, and pointed to an 
 announcement of a series of concerts to be given at 
 Frascati by a band of Hungarian gipsies. 
 
 "There," he said, "you will certainly emerge from 
 your retreat to hear those airs once more." 
 
 "Yes," replied Andras, after a moment's hesitation. 
 
 That evening found him at the casino ; but his wound 
 seemed to open again, and his heart to be grasped as in 
 an iron hand, as he listened to the plaintive cries and 
 moans of the Tzigani music. Had the strings of the 
 bows played these czardas upon his own sinews, laid 
 bare, he would not have trembled more violently. Every 
 note of the well-known airs fell upon his heart like a 
 corrosive tear, and Marsa, in all her dark, tawny beauty, 
 rose before him. The Tzigani played now the waltzes 
 which Marsa used to play; then the slow, sorrowful 
 plaint of the " Song of Plevna ; ' ' and then the air of Janos 
 Ne*meth's, the heart-breaking melody, to the Prince like 
 the lament of his life : The World holds but One Fair 
 Maiden. And at every note he saw again Marsa, 
 the one love of his existence. 
 
 "Let us go!" he said suddenly to Yanski. 
 
 But, as they were about to leave the building, they 
 almost ran into a laughing, merry group, led by the 
 
 [228]
 
 PRINCE ZILAH 
 
 little Baroness Dinati, who uttered a cry of delight as 
 she perceived Andras. 
 
 "What, you, my dear Prince! Oh, how glad I am 
 to see you!" 
 
 And she took his arm, all the clan which accompanied 
 her stopping to greet Prince Zilah. 
 
 "We have come from Etretat, and we are going back 
 there immediately. There was a fair at Havre in the 
 Quartier Saint-Francois, and we have eaten up all we 
 could lay our hands on, broken all Aunt Sally's pipes, 
 and purchased all the china horrors and hideous pin- 
 cushions we could find. They are all over there in the 
 break. We are going to raffle them at Etretat for the 
 poor." 
 
 The Prince tried to excuse himself and move on, but 
 the little Baroness held him tight. 
 
 "Why don't you come to Etretat? It is charming 
 there. We don't do anything but eat and drink and 
 talk scandal Oh, yes! Yamada sometimes gives us 
 some music. Come here, Yamada!" 
 
 The Japanese approached, in obedience to her call, 
 with his eternal grin upon his queer little face. 
 
 "My dear Prince," rattled on the Baroness, "you 
 don't know, perhaps, that Yamada is the most Parisian 
 of Parisians? Upon my word, these Japanese are the 
 Parisians of Asia! Just fancy what he has been doing 
 at Etretat! He has been writing a French operetta!" 
 
 "Japanese!" corrected Yamada, with an apologetic 
 bow. 
 
 "Oh, Japanese! Parisian Japanese, then! At all 
 events, it is very funny, and the title is Little Moo- 
 
 [**]
 
 JULES CLARETIE 
 
 Moo! There is a scene on board a flower-decked boat! 
 Oh, it is so amusing, so original, so natural ! and a de- 
 lightful song for Little Moo-Moo!" 
 
 Then, as Zilah glanced at Varhely, uneasy, and anx- 
 ious to get away, the Baroness puckered up her rosy lips 
 and sang the stanzas of the Japanese maestro: 
 
 "Le beau baba 
 Le bateau beau 
 Le beau bateau 
 De Kioto! 
 
 "Cest le baba 
 C'est le bateau 
 Le beau bateau 
 De Kioto! 
 
 Why, sung by Judic or Theo, it would create a furore ! 
 All Paris would be singing 
 
 "Le beau baba 
 Le beau bateau 
 
 Oh, by the way," she cried, suddenly interrupting her- 
 self, "what have you done to Jacquemin? Yes, my 
 friend Jacquemin?" 
 
 "Jacquemin?" repeated Zilah; and he thought >f the 
 garret in the Rue Rochechouart, and the gentle, fair- 
 haired woman, who was probably at this very moment 
 leaning over the cribs of her little children the chil- 
 dren of Monsieur Puck, society reporter of UActualite. 
 
 "Yes! Why, Jacquemin has become a savage; oh, 
 indeed! a regular savage! I wanted to bring him to 
 Etretat; but no, he wouldn't come. It seems that he is 
 married. Jacquemin married! Isn't it funny? He 
 
 [230]
 
 PRINCE ZILAH 
 
 didn't seem like a married man! Poor fellow! Well, 
 when I invited him, he refused ; and the other day, when 
 I wanted to know the reason, he answered me (that is 
 why I speak to you about it), 'Ask Prince Zilah'! So, 
 tell me now, what have you done to poor Jacquemin?" 
 
 "Nothing," said the Prince. 
 
 "Oh, yes, you have; you have changed him! He, 
 who used to go everywhere and be so jolly, now hides 
 himself in his den, and is never seen at all. Just see 
 how disagreeable it is! If he had come with us, he 
 would have written an account in UActualite of Little 
 Moo-Moo, and Yamada's operetta would already be 
 celebrated : 
 
 "Le beau bateau 
 De Kioto! 
 
 So," continued the Baroness, "when I return to Paris, 
 I am going to hunt him up. A reporter has no right to 
 make a bear of himself!" 
 
 "Don't disturb him, if he cares for his home how," 
 said Zilah, gravely. "Nothing can compensate for 
 one's own fireside, if one loves and is loved." 
 
 At the first words of the Prince, the Baroness sud- 
 denly became serious. 
 
 "I beg your pardon," she said, dropping his arm and 
 holding out her tiny hand: "please forgive me for hav- 
 ing annoyed you. Oh, yes, I see it! I have annoyed 
 you. But be consoled; we are going at once, and then, 
 you know, that if there is a creature who loves you, re- 
 spects you, and is devoted to you, it is this little idiot 
 of a Baroness ! Good-night ! ' ' 
 
 [231]
 
 JULES CLARETIE 
 
 "Good -night !" said Andras, bowing to the Baron- 
 ess's friends, Yamada and the other Parisian exotics. 
 
 Glad to escape, Varhely and the Prince returned home 
 along the seashore. Fragments of the czardas from the 
 illuminated casino reached their ears above the swish of 
 the waves. Andras felt irritated and nervous. Every- 
 thing recalled to him Marsa, and she seemed to be once 
 more taking possession of his heart, as a vine puts forth 
 fresh tendrils and clings again to the oak after it has 
 been torn away. 
 
 "She also suffers!" he said aloud, after they had 
 walked some distance in silence. 
 
 " Fortunately!" growled Varhely; and then, as if he 
 wished to efface his harshness, he added, in a voice 
 which trembled a little: "And for that reason she is, 
 perhaps, not unworthy of pardon." 
 
 "Pardon!" 
 
 This cry escaped from Zilah in accents of pain which 
 struck Varhely like a knife. 
 
 "Pardon before punishing the other!" exclaimed 
 the Prince, angrily. 
 
 The other! Yanski Varhely instinctively clinched 
 his fist, thinking, with rage, of that package of letters 
 which he had held in his hands, and which he might 
 have destroyed if he had known. 
 
 It was true: how was pardon possible while Menko 
 lived ? 
 
 No word more was spoken by either until they reached 
 the villa; then Prince Zilah shook Yanski' s hand and 
 retired to his chamber. Lighting his lamp, he took out 
 and read and re-read, for the hundredth time perhaps,
 
 PRINCE ZILAH 
 
 certain letters letters not addressed to him those 
 letters which Varhely had handed him, and with which 
 Michel Menko had practically struck him the day of 
 his marriage. 
 
 Andras had kept them, reading them over at times 
 with an eager desire for further suffering, drinking in 
 this species of poison to irritate his mental pain as he 
 would have injected morphine to soothe a physical one. 
 These letters caused him a sensation analogous to that 
 which gives repose to opium-eaters, a cruel shock at first, 
 sharp as the prick of a knife, then, the pain slowly dying 
 away, a heavy stupor. 
 
 The whole story was revived in these letters of Marsa 
 to Menko : all the ignorant, credulous love of the young 
 girl for Michel, then her enthusiasm for love itself, rather 
 than for the object of her love, and then, again for 
 Menko had reserved nothing, but sent all together the 
 bitter contempt of Marsa, deceived, for the man who 
 had lied to her. 
 
 There were, in these notes, a freshness of sentiment 
 and a youthful credulity which produced the impression 
 of a clear morning in early spring, all the frankness and 
 faith of a mind ignorant of evil and destitute of guile; 
 then, in the later ones, the spontaneous outburst of a 
 heart which believes it has given itself forever, because 
 it thinks it has encountered incorruptible loyalty and 
 undying devotion. 
 
 As he read them over, Andras shook with anger 
 against the two who had deceived him; and also, and 
 involuntarily, he felt an indefined, timid pity for the 
 woman who had trusted and been deceived a pity he 
 
 [ 2 33]
 
 JULES CLARETIE 
 
 immediately drove away, as if he were afraid of himself, 
 afraid of forgiving. 
 
 "What did Varhely mean by speaking to me of par- 
 don?" he thought. "Am I yet avenged?" 
 
 It was this constant hope that the day would come 
 when justice would be meted out to Menko's treachery. 
 The letters proved conclusively that Menko had been 
 Marsa's lover; but they proved, at the same time, that 
 Michel had taken advantage of her innocence and igno- 
 rance, and lied outrageously in representing himself as 
 free, when he was already bound to another woman. 
 
 All night long Andras Zilah sat there, inflicting tor- 
 ture upon himself, and taking a bitter delight in his own 
 suffering; engraving upon his memory every word of 
 love written by Marsa to Michel, as if he felt the need of 
 fresh pain to give new strength to his hatred. 
 
 The next morning at breakfast, Varhely astonished 
 him by announcing that he was going away. 
 
 "To Paris?" 
 
 "No, to Vienna," replied Yanski, who looked some- 
 what paler than usual. 
 
 "What an idea! What are you going to do there, 
 Varhely?" 
 
 "Angelo Valla arrived yesterday at Havre. He sent 
 for me to come to his hotel this morning. I have just 
 been there. Valla has given me some information in 
 regard to a matter of interest to myself, which will re- 
 quire my presence at Vienna. So I am going there." 
 
 Prince Zilah was intimately acquainted with the Valla 
 of whom Varhely spoke; he had been one of the wit- 
 nesses of his marriage, Valla was a former minister of
 
 PRINCE ZILAH 
 
 Manin; and, since the siege of Venice, he had lived 
 partly in Paris and partly in Florence. He was a man 
 for whom Andras Zilah had the greatest regard. 
 
 "When do you go?" asked the Prince of Varhely. 
 
 " In an hour. I wish to take the fast mail from Paris 
 this evening." 
 
 "Is it so very pressing, then?" 
 
 "Very pressing," replied Varhely. "There is an- 
 other to whose ears the affair may possibly come, and 
 I wish to get the start of him." 
 
 "Farewell, then," said Andras, considerably sur- 
 prised; "come back as soon as you can." 
 
 He was astonished at the almost violent pressure of 
 the hand which Varhely gave him, as if he were depart- 
 ing for a very long journey. 
 
 "Why didn't Valla come to see me?" he asked. "He 
 is one of the few I am always glad to see." 
 
 " He had no time. He had to be away again at once, 
 and he asked me to excuse him to you." 
 
 The Prince did not make any further attempt to find 
 out what was the reason of his friend's sudden flight, 
 for Varhely was already descending the steps of the 
 villa. 
 
 Andras then felt a profound sensation of loneliness, 
 and he thought again of the woman whom his imagina- 
 tion pictured haggard and wan in the asylum of Vau- 
 girard.
 
 CHAPTER XXVII 
 
 "WHAT MATTERS IT HOW MUCH WE SUFFER?" 
 
 |WQ hours after Varhely had gone, a 
 sort of feverish attraction drew Prince 
 Andras to the spot where, the night 
 before, he had listened to the Tzigana 
 airs. 
 
 Again, but alone this time, he drank 
 in the accents of the music of his 
 country, and sought to remember the 
 impression produced upon him when Marsa had played 
 this air or that one, this sad song or that czardas. He 
 saw her again as she stood on the deck of the steamer, 
 watching the children on the barge as they threw her 
 kisses of farewell. More troubled than ever, nervous 
 and suffering, Zilah returned home late in the after- 
 noon, opened the desk where he kept Marsa's letters, 
 and one by one, impelled by some inexplicable senti- 
 ment, he burned them, the flame of the candle devour- 
 ing the paper, whose subtle perfume mounted to his 
 nostrils for the last time like a dying sigh, while the 
 wind carried off, through the window into the infinite, 
 the black dust of those fateful letters, those remnants 
 of dead passion and of love betrayed and the past 
 was swept away. 
 
 The sun was slowly descending in an atmosphere of 
 [236]
 
 PRINCE ZILAH 
 
 fire, while toward Havre a silvery mist over the hills and 
 shore heralded the approach of chaste Dian's reign. 
 The reflections of the sunset tinged with red and orange 
 the fishing boats floating over the calm sea, while a long 
 fiery streak marked the water on the horizon, growing 
 narrower and narrower, and changing to orange and 
 then to pale yellow as the disk of the sun gradually dis- 
 appeared, and the night came on, enveloping the now 
 inactive city, and the man who watched the disappear- 
 ance of the last fragments of a detested love, of the 
 love of another, of a love which had torn and bruised 
 his heart. And, strange to say, for some inexplicable 
 reason, Prince Andras Zilah now regretted the destruc- 
 tion of those odious letters. It seemed to him, with a 
 singular displacement of his personality, that it was 
 something of himself, since it was something of her, that 
 he had destroyed. He had hushed that voice which 
 said to another, "I love you," but which caused him the 
 same thrill as if she had murmured the words for him. 
 They were letters received by his rival which the wind 
 carried out, an impalpable dust, over the sea ; and he felt 
 such folly is the human heart capable of the bitter 
 regret of a man who has destroyed a little of his past. 
 
 The shadows crept over him at the same time that 
 they crept over the sea. 
 
 "What matters it how much we suffer, or how much 
 suffering we cause," he murmured, "when, of all our 
 loves, our hearts, ourselves, there remains, after a short 
 lapse of time what? That!" And he watched the 
 last atom of burned paper float away in the deepening 
 twilight, 
 
 [237]
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII 
 
 THE STRICKEN SOUL 
 
 | IS loneliness now weighed heavily upon 
 Andras. His nerves were shaken by 
 the memories which the czardas of the 
 Tzigani musicians had evoked ; and it 
 seemed to him that the place was 
 deserted now that they had departed, 
 and Varhely had gone with them. In 
 the eternal symphony of the sea, the 
 lapping of the waves upon the shingle at the foot of the 
 terrace, one note was now lacking, the resonant note of 
 the czimbalom yonder in the gardens of Frascati. The 
 vibration of the czimbalom was like a call summoning 
 up the image of Marsa, and this image took invincible 
 possession of the Prince, who, with a sort of sorrowful 
 anger which he regarded as hatred, tried in vain to drive 
 it away. 
 
 What was the use of remaining at Sainte-Adresse, 
 when the memories he sought to flee came to find him 
 there, and since Marsa's presence haunted it as if she 
 had lived there by his side ? 
 
 He quitted Havre, and returned to Paris; but the 
 very evening of his return, in the bustle and movement 
 of the Champs-Elysees, the long avenue dotted with 
 lights, the flaming gas-jets of the cafe concerts, the 
 
 [238]
 
 PRINCE ZILAH 
 
 bursts of music, he found again, as if the Tzigana were 
 continually pursuing him, the same phantom; despite 
 the noise of people and carriages upon the asphalt, the 
 echoes of the "Song of Plevna," played quite near him 
 by some Hungarian orchestra, reached him as upon the 
 seashore at Havre; and he hastened back to his hotel, 
 to shut himself up, to hear nothing, see nothing, and es- 
 cape from the fantastic, haunting pursuit of this inev- 
 itable vision. 
 
 He could not sleep; fever burned in his blood. He 
 rose, and tried to read ; but before the printed page he 
 saw continually Marsa Laszlo, like the spectre of his 
 happiness. 
 
 "How cowardly human nature is!" he exclaimed, 
 hurling away the book. "Is it possible that I love her 
 still ? Shall I love her forever?" 
 
 And he felt intense self-contempt at the temptation 
 which took possession of him to see once more Maisons- 
 Lafitte, where he had experienced the most terrible 
 grief of his life. What was the use of struggling? He 
 had not forgotten, and he never could forget. 
 
 If he had been sincere with himself, he would have 
 confessed that he was impelled by his ever-living, ever- 
 present love toward everything which would recall 
 Marsa to him, and that a violent, almost superhuman 
 effort was necessary not to yield to the temptation. 
 
 About a week after the Prince's return to Paris, his 
 valet appeared one day with the card of General Vogot- 
 zine. It was on Andras' slips to refuse to see him; but, 
 in reality, the General's visit caused him a delight which 
 he would not acknowledge to himself, He was about to 
 
 [239]
 
 JULES CLARETIE 
 
 hear of her . He told the valet to admit Vogotzine, hypo- 
 critically saying to himself that it was impossible, dis- 
 courteous, not to receive him. 
 
 The old Russian entered, timid and embarrassed, 
 and was not much reassured by Zilah's polite but cold 
 greeting. 
 
 The General, who for some extraordinary reason had 
 not had recourse to alcohol to give him courage, took 
 the chair offered him by the Prince. He was a little 
 flushed, not knowing exactly how to begin what he had 
 to say; and, being sober, he was terribly afraid of ap- 
 pearing like an idiot. 
 
 "This is what is the matter," he said, plunging at 
 once in medias res. "Doctor Fargeas, who sent me, 
 might have come himself; but he thought that I, being 
 her uncle, should " 
 
 "You have come to consult me about Marsa," said 
 Andras, unconsciously glad to pronounce her name. 
 
 "Yes," began the General, becoming suddenly in- 
 timidated, "of of Marsa. She is very ill Marsa is. 
 Very ill. Stupor, Fargeas says. She does not say a 
 word nothing. A regular automaton ! It is terrible to 
 see her terrible terrible." 
 
 He raised his round, uneasy eyes to Andras, who was 
 striving to appear calm, but whose lips twitched ner- 
 vously. 
 
 "It is impossible to rouse her," continued Vogotzine. 
 "The doctors can do nothing. There is no hope ex- 
 cept in an an an experiment." 
 
 "An experiment?" 
 
 f 'Yes, exactly, exactly an experiment You 
 [240]
 
 PRINCE ZILAH 
 
 he he wanted to know if (you must pardon me for 
 what I am about to propose; it is Doctor Fargeas's 
 idea) You see if if she should see (I suppose 
 these are not my words) if she should see you again 
 at Doctor Sims's establishment the emotion the 
 the Well, I don't know exactly what Doctor Fargeas 
 does hope; but I have repeated to you his words I 
 am simply, quite simply, his messenger." 
 
 "The doctor," said Andras, calmly, "would like 
 your niece to see me again?" 
 
 "Yes, yes; and speak to you. You see, you are the 
 only one for whom " 
 
 The Prince interrupted the General, who instantly be- 
 came as mute as if he were in the presence of the Czar. 
 
 " It is well. But what Doctor Fargeas asks of me will 
 cause me intense suffering." 
 
 Vogotzine did not open his lips. 
 
 "See her again? He wishes to revive all my sorrow, 
 then!" 
 
 Vogotzine waited, motionless as if on parade. 
 
 After a moment or two, Andras saying no more, the 
 General thought that he might speak. 
 
 "I understand. I knew very well what your answer 
 would be. I told the doctor so; but he replied, 'It is a 
 question of humanity. The Prince will not refuse." 1 
 
 Fargeas must have known Prince Zilah's character 
 well when he used the word humanity. The Prince 
 would not have refused his pity to the lowest of human 
 beings; and so, never mind what his sufferings might 
 be, if his presence could do any good, he must obey the 
 doctor. 
 
 16 [ 241 ]
 
 JULES CLARETIE 
 
 "When does Doctor Fargeas wish me to go?" 
 
 "Whenever you choose. The doctor is just now at 
 Vaugirard, on a visit to his colleague, and " 
 
 "Do not let us keep him waiting!" 
 
 Vogotzine's eyes brightened. 
 
 "Then you consent ? You will go ? " 
 
 He tried to utter some word of thanks, but Andras 
 cut him short, saying: 
 
 "I will order the carriage." 
 
 "I have a carriage," said Vogotzine, joyously. "We 
 can go at once." 
 
 Zilah was silent during the drive; and Vogotzine 
 gazed steadily out of the window, without saying a word, 
 as the Prince showed no desire to converse. 
 
 They stopped before a high house, evidently built in 
 the last century, and which was probably formerly a 
 convent. The General descended heavily from the 
 coupe, rang the bell, and stood aside to let Zilah pass 
 before him. 
 
 The Prince's emotion was betrayed in a certain stiff- 
 ness of demeanor, and in his slow walk, as if every 
 movement cost him an effort. He stroked his mous- 
 tache mechanically, and glanced about the garden they 
 were crossing, as if he expected to see Marsa at once. 
 
 Dr. Fargeas appeared very much pleased to see 
 the Prince, and he thanked him warmly for having 
 come. A thin, light-haired man, with a pensive look 
 and superb eyes, accompanied Fargeas, and the phys- 
 ician introduced him to the Prince as Dr. Sims. 
 
 Dr. Sims shared the opinion of his colleague. Having 
 taken the invalid away, and separated her from every- 
 
 * 242)
 
 PRINCE ZILAH 
 
 thing that could recall the past, the physicians thought, 
 that, by suddenly confronting her with a person so 
 dear to her as Prince Zilah, the shock and emotion 
 might rouse her from her morbid state. 
 
 Fargeas explained to the Prince why he had thought 
 it best to transport the invalid from Maisons-Lafitte to 
 Vaugirard, and he thanked him for having approved 
 of his determination. 
 
 Zilah noticed that Fargeas, in speaking of Marsa, 
 gave her no name or title. With his usual tact, the doc- 
 tor had divined the separation; and he did not call 
 Marsa the Princess, but, in tones full of pity, spoke of 
 her as the invalid. 
 
 "She is in the garden," said Dr. Sims, when 
 Fargeas had finished speaking. "Will you see her 
 now?" 
 
 "Yes," said the Prince, in a voice that trembled 
 slightly, despite his efforts to control it. 
 
 "W T e will take a look at her first; and then, if you 
 will be so kind, show yourself to her suddenly. It is only 
 an experiment we are making. If she does not recognize 
 you, her condition is graver than I think. If she does 
 recognize you, well, I hope that we shall be able to cure 
 her. Come!" 
 
 Dr. Sims motioned the Prince to precede them. 
 
 "Shall I accompany you, gentlemen?" asked Vogot- 
 zine. 
 
 " Certainly, General ! " 
 
 "You see, I don't like lunatics; they produce a singu- 
 lar effect upon me; they don't interest me at all. But 
 still, after all, she is my niece!" 
 
 [243]
 
 JULES CLARETIE 
 
 And he gave a sharp pull to his frock-coat, as he 
 would have tightened his belt before an assault. 
 
 They descended a short flight of steps, and found 
 themselves in a large garden, with trees a century old, 
 beneath which were several men and women walking 
 about or sitting in chairs. 
 
 A large, new building, one story high, appeared at 
 one end of the garden; in this were the dormitories of 
 Dr. Sims's patients. 
 
 "Are those people insane?" asked Zilah, pointing to 
 the peaceful groups. 
 
 "Yes," said Dr. Sims; "it requires a stretch of the 
 imagination to believe it, does it not ? You can speak 
 to them as we pass by. All these here are harmless." 
 
 "Shall we cross the garden?" 
 
 "Our invalid is below there, in another garden, be- 
 hind that house." 
 
 As he passed by, Zilah glanced curiously at these poor 
 beings, who bowed, or exchanged a few words with the 
 two physicians. It seemed to him that they had the 
 happy look of people who had reached the desired goal. 
 Vogotzine, coughing nervously, kept close to the Prince 
 and felt very ill at ease. Andras, on the contrary, found 
 great difficulty in realizing that he was really among 
 lunatics. 
 
 "See," said Dr. Sims, pointing out an old gentle- 
 man, dressed in the style of 1840, like an old-fashioned 
 lithograph of a beau of the time of Gavarni, "that man 
 has been more than thirty-five years in the institution. 
 He will not change the cut of his garments, and he is 
 very careful to have his tailor make his clothes in the 
 
 [244]
 
 JWtlNCE 2ILAH 
 
 Style he dressed wheii he was young. He is very 
 happy. He thinks that he is the enchanter Merlin, and 
 he listens to Vivian, who makes appointments with him 
 under the trees." 
 
 As they passed the old man, his neck imprisoned in a 
 high stock, his surtout cut long arid very tight in the 
 waist, and his trousers very full about the hips and 
 very close about the ankles, he bowed politely. 
 
 "Good -morning, Doctor Sims! Good-morning, 
 Doctor Fargeas ! ' ' 
 
 Then, as the director of the establishment approached 
 to speak, he placed a finger upotl his lips: 
 
 "Hush," he said. "She is there! Ddri't speak; or 
 she will go away." And he pointed with a sort of pas- 
 sionate veneration to an elm where Vivian was shut up, 
 and whence she would shortly emerge. 
 
 "Poor devil!" rnurmured Vogdtzirie. 
 
 This was not what Zilah thought, however. He won- 
 dered if this happy hallucination which had lasted so 
 many years, these eternal love-scenes with Vivian, love- 
 scenes which never grew stale, despite the years and the 
 wrinkles, were not the ideal form of happiness for a be- 
 ing condemned to this earth. This poetical monoma- 
 niac lived with his dreams realized, finding, iri an asylum 
 of Vaugirard, all the fascinations and chimeras of the 
 Breton land of golden blossoms arid pink heather, all 
 the intoxicating, languorous charrri of the forest of 
 Broeeliande. 
 
 "He has within his grasp what Shakespeare was cdri- 
 tent only to dream of. Insanity is, perhaps, simply the 
 ideal realized."
 
 JULES CLARETIE 
 
 "Ah!" replied Dr. Fargeas, "but the real never 
 loses its grip. Why does this monomaniac preserve 
 both the garments of his youth, which prevent him from 
 feeling his age, and the dream of his life, which consoles 
 him for his lost reason? Because he is rich. He can 
 pay the tailor who dresses him, the rent of the pavilion 
 he inhabits by himself, and the special servants who 
 serve him. If he were poor, he would suffer." 
 
 "Then," said Zilah, "the question of bread comes up 
 everywhere, even in insanity." 
 
 "And money is perhaps happiness, since it allows of 
 the purchase of happiness." 
 
 "Oh!" said the Prince, "for me, happiness would 
 
 "What?" 
 
 "Forgetfulness." 
 
 And he followed with his eyes Vivian's lover, who 
 now had his ear glued to the trunk of the tree, and was 
 listening to the voice which spoke only to him. 
 
 "That man yonder," said Dr. Sims, indicating a 
 man, still young, who was coming toward them, "is a 
 talented writer whose novels you have doubtless read, 
 and who has lost all idea of his own personality. Once 
 a great reader, he now holds all literature in intense dis- 
 gust; from having written so much, he has grown to 
 have a perfect horror of words and letters, and he never 
 opens either a book or a newspaper. He drinks in the 
 fresh air, cultivates flowers, and watches the trains pass 
 at the foot of the garden." 
 
 "Is he happy?" asked Andras. 
 
 "Very happy." 
 
 [246]
 
 PRINCE ZILAH 
 
 " Yes, he has drank of the waters of Lethe/' rejoined 
 the Prince. 
 
 "I will not tell you his name," whispered Dr. 
 Sims, as the man, a thin, dark-haired, delicate-featured 
 fellow, approached them; "but, if you should speak to 
 him and chance to mention his name, he would respond: 
 ' Ah ! yes, I knew him. He was a man of talent, much 
 talent.' There is nothing left to him of his former 
 life." 
 
 And Zilah thought again that it was a fortunate lot to 
 be attacked by one of these cerebral maladies where the 
 entire being, with its burden of sorrows, is plunged into 
 the deep, dark gulf of oblivion. 
 
 The novelist stopped before the two physicians. 
 
 "The mid -day train was three minutes and a half 
 late," he said, quietly: "I mention the fact to you, doc- 
 tor, that you may have it attended to. It is a very seri- 
 ous thing; for I am in the habit of setting my watch by 
 that train." 
 
 "I will see to it," replied Dr. Sims. "By the way, 
 do you want any books?" 
 
 In the same quiet tone the other responded : 
 
 "What for?" 
 
 "To read." 
 
 "What is the use of that?" 
 
 " Or any newspapers ? To know 
 
 "To know what?" he interrupted, speaking with ex- 
 treme volubility. "No, indeed! It is so good to know 
 nothing, nothing, nothing! Do the newspapers an- 
 nounce that there are no more wars, no more poverty, 
 illness, murders, envy, hatred or jealousy? No! The 
 
 [247]
 
 JULES CLARETIE 
 
 newspapers do not announce that. Then, why should 
 I read the newspapers? Good-day, gentlemen." 
 
 The! Prince shuddered at the bitter logic of this mad- 
 man, speaking with the shrill distinctness of the in- 
 sane. But Vogotzine smiled. 
 
 " Why> these idiots have rather good sense, after all," 
 he remarked. 
 
 When they reached the end of the garden, Dr. 
 Sims opened a gate which separated the male from the 
 female patients, and Andras perceived several women 
 walking about in the alleySj some of them alone, and 
 some accompanied by attendants. In the distance, 
 separated from the garden by a ditch and a high wall, 
 was the railway. 
 
 Zilah caught his breath as he entered the enclosure, 
 where doubtless among the female forms before him 
 was that of the one he had loved. He turned to Dr. 
 Sims with anxious eyes, and asked : 
 
 " Is she here?" 
 
 "She is here," replied the doctor. 
 
 The Prince hesitated to advance. He had not seen 
 her since the day he had felt tempted to kill her as she 
 lay in her white robes at his feet. He wondered if it 
 were not better to retrace his steps and depart hastily 
 without seeing her. 
 
 "This way," said Fargeas. "We can see through 
 the bushes without being seen, can we not, Sims?" 
 
 "Yes, doctor." 
 
 Zilah resigned himself to his fate; and followed the 
 physicians without saying a word; he could hear the 
 panting respiration of Vogotzine trudging along behind 
 
 [248]
 
 PRINCE ZILAH 
 
 him. All at once the Prince felt a sensation as of a 
 heavy hand resting upon his heart. Fargeas had ex- 
 claimed : 
 
 "There she is!" 
 
 He pointed, through the branches of the lilac -bushes, 
 to two women who were approaching with slow steps, 
 one a light-haired woman in a nurse's dress, and the 
 other in black garments, as if in mourning for her own 
 life, Marsa herself. 
 
 Marsa! She was coming toward Zilah; in a mo- 
 ment, he would be able to touch her, if he wished, 
 through the leaves! Even Vogotzine held his breath. 
 
 Zilah eagerly questioned Marsa's face, as if to read 
 thereon a secret, to decipher a name Menko's or his 
 own. Her exquisite, delicate features had the rigidity 
 of marble; her dark eyes were staring straight ahead, 
 like two spots of light, where nothing, nothing 
 was reflected. Zilah shuddered again; she alarmed 
 him. 
 
 Alarm and pity! He longed to thrust aside the 
 bushes, and hasten with extended arms toward the pale 
 vision before him. It was as if the moving spectre of 
 his love were passing by. But, with a strong effort of 
 will, he remained motionless where he was. 
 
 Old Vogotzine seemed very ill at ease. Dr. Fargeas 
 was very calm; and, after a questioning glance at his 
 colleague, he said distinctly to the Prince : 
 
 "Now you must show yourself!" 
 
 The physician's order, far from displeasing Zilah, 
 was like music in his ears. He was beginning to doubt, 
 if, after all, Fargeas intended to attempt the experj-
 
 JULES CLARETIE 
 
 ment. He longed, with keen desire, to speak to Marsa; 
 to know if his look, his breath, like a puff of wind over 
 dying ashes, would not rekindle a spark of life in those 
 dull, glassy eyes. 
 
 What was she thinking of, if she thought at all? 
 What memory vacillated to and fro in that vacant 
 brain ? The memory of himself, or of the other ? He 
 must know, he must know! 
 
 "This way," said Dr. Sims. "We will go to the 
 end of the alley, and meet her face to face." 
 
 "Courage!" whispered Fargeas. 
 
 Zilah followed; and, in a few steps, they reached the 
 end of the alley, and stood beneath a clump of leafy 
 trees. The Prince saw, coming to him, with a slow but 
 not heavy step, Marsa no, another Marsa, the spectre 
 or statue of Marsa. 
 
 Fargeas made a sign to Vogotzine, and the Russian 
 and the two doctors concealed themselves behind the 
 trees. 
 
 Zilah, trembling with emotion, remained alone in the 
 middle of the walk. 
 
 The nurse who attended Marsa, had doubtless re- 
 ceived instructions from Dr. Sims; for, as she per- 
 ceived the Prince, she fell back two or three paces, and 
 allowed Marsa to go on alone. 
 
 Lost in her stupor, the Tzigana advanced, her dark 
 hair ruffled by the wind; and, still beautiful although 
 so thin, she moved on, without seeing anything, her lips 
 closed as if sealed by death, until she was not three feet 
 from Zilah. 
 
 He stood waiting, his blue eyes devouring her with a 
 [250]
 
 PRINCE ZILAH 
 
 look, in which there were mingled love, pity, and anger. 
 When the Tzigana reached him, and nearly ran into 
 him in her slow walk, she stopped suddenly, like an 
 automaton. The instinct of an obstacle before her ar- 
 rested her, and she stood still, neither recoiling nor 
 advancing. 
 
 A few steps away, Dr. Fargeas and Dr. Sims studied 
 her stony look, in which there was as yet neither thought 
 nor vision. 
 
 Still enveloped in her stupor, she stood there, her 
 eyes riveted upon Andras. Suddenly, as if an invisible 
 knife had been plunged into her heart, she started back. 
 Her pale marble face became transfigured, and an ex- 
 pression of wild terror swept across her features; shak- 
 ing with a nervous trembling, she tried to call out, and 
 a shrill cry, which rent the air, burst from her lips, half 
 open, like those of a tragic mask. Her two arms were 
 stretched out with the hands clasped; and, falling upon 
 her knees, she whose light of reason had been extin- 
 guished, who for so many days had only murmured the 
 sad, singing refrain: "I do not know; I do not know!" 
 faltered, in a voice broken with sobs: " Forgive! 
 Forgive!" 
 
 Then her face became livid, and she would have 
 fallen back unconscious if Zilah had not stooped over 
 and caught her in his arms. 
 
 Dr. Sims hastened forward, and, aided by the nurse, 
 relieved him of his burden. 
 
 Poor Vogotzine was as purple as if he had had a 
 stroke of apoplexy. 
 
 "But, gentlemen," said the Prince, his eyes burning
 
 JULES CLARETIE 
 
 with hot tears, "it will be horrible if we have killed 
 her!" 
 
 "No, no," responded Fargeas; "we have only killed 
 her stupor. Now leave her to us. Am I not right, my 
 dear $ims ? She can and must be cured ! "
 
 CHAPTER XXIX 
 
 'LET THE DEAD PAST BURY ITS DEAD" 
 
 J RINCE ANDRAS had heard no news 
 of Varhely for a long time. He only 
 knew that the Count was in Vienna. 
 
 Yanski had told the truth when he 
 said that he had been summoned 
 away by his friend, Angelo Valla. 
 
 They were very much astonished, 
 at the Austrian ministry of foreign 
 Fairs, to see Count Yanski Varhe'ly, who, doubt- 
 less, had come from Paris to ask some favor of the 
 minister. The Austrian diplomats smiled as they heard 
 the name of the old soldier of '48 and '49. So, the fa- 
 mous fusion of parties proclaimed in 1875 continued! 
 Every day some sulker of former times rallied to the 
 standard. Here was this Varhely, who, at one time, if 
 he had set foot in Austria-Hungary, would have been 
 speedily cast into the Charles barracks, the jail of po- 
 litical prisoners, now sending in his card to the minister 
 of the Emperor; and doubtless the minister and the old 
 commander of hussars would, some evening, together 
 pledge the new star of Hungary, in a beaker of rosy 
 Crement! 
 
 "These are queer days we live in!" thought the Aus- 
 trian diplomats. 
 
 1*53]
 
 JULES CLARETIE 
 
 The minister, of whom Yanski Varhely demanded an 
 audience, his Excellency Count Josef Ladany, had for- 
 merly commanded a legion of Magyar students, great- 
 ly feared by the grenadiers of Paskiewisch, in Hungary. 
 The soldiers of Josef Ladany, after threatening to 
 march upon Vienna, had many times held in check the 
 grenadiers and Cossacks of the field-marshal. Spirited 
 and enthusiastic, his fair hair floating above his youth- 
 ful forehead like an aureole, Ladany made war like a 
 patriot and a poet, reciting the verses of Petcefi about 
 the camp-fires, and setting out for battle as for a ball. 
 He was magnificent (Varhely remembered him well) at 
 the head of his students, and his floating, yellow mous- 
 taches had caused the heart of more than one little 
 Hungarian patriot to beat more quickly. 
 
 Varhely would experience real pleasure in meeting 
 once more his old companion in arms. He remembered 
 one afternoon in the vineyards, when his hussars, de- 
 spite the obstacles of the vines and the irregular ground, 
 had extricated Ladany 's legion from the attack of two 
 regiments of Russian infantry. Joseph Ladany was 
 standing erect upon one of his cannon for which the 
 gunners had no more ammunition, and, with drawn 
 sabre, was rallying his companions, who were begin- 
 ning to give way before the enemy. Ah, brave Ladany ! 
 With what pleasure would Varhely grasp his hand ! 
 
 The former leader had doubtless aged terribly he 
 must be a man of fifty-five or fifty-six, to-day; but 
 Varhely was sure that Joseph Ladany, now become 
 minister, had preserved his generous, ardent nature of 
 other days, 
 
 [354]
 
 PRINCE ZILAH 
 
 As he crossed the antechambers and lofty halls which 
 led to the minister's office, Varhely still saw, in his 
 mind's eye, Ladany, sabre in hand, astride of the smok- 
 ing cannon. 
 
 An usher introduced him into a large, severe-looking 
 room, with a lofty chimney-piece, above which hung a 
 picture of the Emperor-King in full military uniform. 
 Varhely at first perceived only some large armchairs, 
 and an enormous desk covered with books; but, in a 
 moment, from behind the mass of volumes, a man 
 emerged, smiling, and with outstretched hand: the old 
 hussar was amazed to find himself in the presence of a 
 species of English diplomat, bald, with long, gray side- 
 whiskers and shaven lip and chin, and scrupulously 
 well dressed. 
 
 Yanski's astonishment was so evident that Josef 
 Ladany said, still smiling: 
 
 "Well, don't you recognize me, my dear Count?" 
 His voice was pleasant, and his manner charming; but 
 there was something cold and politic in his whole ap- 
 pearance which absolutely stupefied Varhely. If he 
 had seen him pass in the street, he would never have 
 recognized, in this elegant personage, the young man, 
 with yellow hair and long moustaches, who sang war- 
 songs as he sabred the enemy. 
 
 And yet it was indeed Ladany ; it was the same clear 
 eye which had once commanded his legion with a single 
 look ; but the eye was often veiled now beneath a low- 
 ered eyelid, and only now and then did a glance shoot 
 forth which seemed to penetrate a man's most secret 
 thoughts. The soldier had become the diplomat. 
 
 [255]
 
 "I had forgotten that thirty years have passed!" 
 thought Varhely, a little saddened. 
 
 Count Ladany made his old comrade sit down in one 
 of the armchairs, and questioned him smilingly as to 
 his life, his friendships, Paris, Prince Zilah, and led 
 him gradually and gracefully to confide what he, Var- 
 hely, had come to ask of the minister of the Emperor of 
 Austria. 
 
 Varhely felt more reassured. Josef Ladany seemed 
 to him to have remained morally the same. The mous- 
 tache had been cut off, the yellow hair had fallen ; but 
 the heart was still young and without doubt Hungarian. 
 
 "You can," he said, abruptly, "render me a service, 
 a great service. I have never before asked anything of 
 anybody; but I have taken this journey expressly to 
 see you, and to ask you, to beg you rather, to 
 
 "Go on, my dear Count. What you desire will be 
 realized, I hope." 
 
 But his tone had already become colder, or perhaps 
 simply more official. 
 
 "Well," continued Varhely, "what I have come to 
 ask of you is, in memory of the time when we were 
 brothers in arms" (the minister started slightly, and 
 stroked his whiskers a little nervously), "the liberty of a 
 certain man, of a man whom you know." 
 
 "Ah! indeed!" said Count Josef. 
 
 He leaned back in his chair, crossed one leg over the 
 other, and, through his half-opened eyelids, examined 
 Varhely, who looked him boldly in the face. 
 
 The contrast between these two men was striking; 
 the soldier with his hair and moustache whitened in the
 
 PRINCE ZILAH 
 
 harness, and the elegant government official with his 
 polished manners; two old-time companions who had 
 heard the whistling of the same balls. 
 
 "This is my errand," said Varhely. "I have the 
 greatest desire that one of our compatriots, now a pris- 
 oner in Warsaw, I think at all events, arrested at War- 
 saw a short time ago should be set at liberty. It is of 
 the utmost importance to me," he added, his lips turn- 
 ing almost as white as his moustache. 
 
 "Oh!" said the minister. "I fancy I know whom 
 you mean." 
 
 " Count Menko." 
 
 " Exactly ! Menko was arrested by the Russian police 
 on his arrival at the house of a certain Labanoff, or La- 
 danoff almost my name in Russian. This Labanoff, 
 who had lately arrived from Paris, is suspected of a 
 plot against the Czar. He is not a nihilist, but simply 
 a malcontent; and, besides that, his brain is not alto- 
 gether right. In short, Count Menko is connected in 
 some way, I don't know how, with this Labanoff. He 
 went to Poland to join him, and the Russian police 
 seized him. I think myself that they were quite right 
 in their action." 
 
 "Possibly," said Varhely; "but I do not care to dis- 
 cuss the right of the Russian police to defend themselves 
 or the Czar. What I have come for is to ask you to use 
 your influence with the Russian Government to obtain 
 Menko' s release." 
 
 "Are you very much interested in Menko?" 
 
 "Very much," replied Yanski, hi a tone which struck 
 the minister as rather peculiar.
 
 JULES CLARETIE 
 
 "Then," asked Count Ladany with studied slow- 
 ness, "you would like? 
 
 "A note from you to the Russian ambassador, de- 
 manding Menko's release. Angelo Valla you know 
 him Manin's former minister 
 
 "Yes, I know," said Count Josef, with his enigmat- 
 ical smile. 
 
 "Valla told me of Menko's arrest. I knew that 
 Menko had left Paris, and I was very anxious to find 
 where he had gone. Valla learned, at the Italian em- 
 bassy in Paris, of the affair of this Labanoff and of the 
 real or apparent complicity of Michel Menko; and he 
 told me about it. When we were talking over the means 
 of obtaining the release of a man held by Muscovite 
 authority, which is not an easy thing, I know, we 
 thought of you, and I have come to your Excellency as 
 I would have gone to the chief of the Legion of Students 
 to demand his aid in a case of danger!" 
 
 Yanski Varhely was no diplomat; and his manner of 
 appealing to the memories of the past was excessively 
 disagreeable to the minister, who, however, allowed no 
 signs of his annoyance to appear. 
 
 Count Ladany was perfectly well acquainted with the 
 Warsaw affair. As an Hungarian was mixed up in it, 
 and an Hungarian of the rank and standing of Count 
 Menko, the Austro-Hungarian authorities had imme- 
 diately been advised of the whole proceeding. There 
 were probably no proofs of actual complicity against 
 Menko; but, as Josef Ladany had said, it seemed evi- 
 dent that he had come to Poland to join Labanoff. An 
 address given to Menko by Labanoff had been found, 
 
 [258]
 
 PRINCE ZILAH 
 
 and both were soon to depart for St. Petersburg. La- 
 banoff had some doubtful acquaintances in the Rus- 
 sian army: several officers of artillery, who had been 
 arrested and sent to the mines, were said to be his 
 friends. 
 
 "The matter is a grave one," said the Count. "We 
 can scarcely, for one particular case, make our relations 
 more strained with a a friendly nation, relations 
 which so many others I leave you to divine who, my 
 dear Varhely strive to render difficult. And yet, I 
 would like to oblige you; I would, I assure you." 
 
 "If Count Menko is not set at liberty, what will hap- 
 pen to him?" asked Yanski. 
 
 "Hmm he might, although a foreigner, be forced to 
 take a journey to Siberia." 
 
 " Siberia! That is a long distance off, and few return 
 from that journey," said Varhely, his voice becoming 
 almost hoarse. "I would give anything in the world if 
 Menko were free!" 
 
 "It would have been so easy for him not to have been 
 seized by the Russian police." 
 
 "Yes; but he is. And, I repeat, I have come to you 
 to demand his release. Damn it! Such a demand is 
 neither a threat nor a casus belli." 
 
 The minister calmed the old hussar with a gesture. 
 
 "No," he replied, clicking his tongue against the roof 
 of his mouth; "but it is embarrassing, embarrassing! 
 Confound Menko! He always was a featherbrain! 
 The idea of his leaving diplomacy to seek adventures! 
 He must know, however, that his case is what shall I 
 say? embarrassing, very embarrassing. I don't sup- 
 
 [ 2 59]
 
 pose he had any idea of conspiring. He is a malcontent, 
 this Meriko, a malcontent! He would have made his 
 mark in our embassies. The devil take him! Ah! my 
 dear Count, it is very embarrassing, very embarrassing!" 
 
 The minister uttered these words in a calm, courte- 
 ous, polished manner, even when he said "The devil 
 take him!" He then went on to say, that he could riot 
 make Varhely an absolute promise ; he would look Over 
 the papers in the affair, telegraph to Warsaw and St. 
 Petersburg, make a rapid study of what he called again 
 the "very embarrassing" case of Michel Menko, and 
 give Varhely an answer within twenty-four hours. 
 
 "That will give you a chance to take a look at our 
 city, my dear Count. Vienna has changed very much. 
 Have you seen the opera-house? It is superb. Hans 
 Makart is just exhibiting a new picture. Be sure to 
 see it, and visit his studio, too; it is well worth examin- 
 ing. I have no need to tell you that I am at your ser- 
 vice to act as your cicerone, and show you all the 
 sights." 
 
 "Are any of our old friends settled here?" asked 
 Varhely. 
 
 ''Yes, yes," said the minister, softly. "But they are 
 deputies, university professors, or councillors of the ad- 
 ministration. All changed! all changed!" 
 
 Then Varhe*ly wished to know if certain among them 
 whom he had not forgotten had "changed," as the min- 
 ister said. 
 
 "Where is Armand Bitto?" 
 
 "Dead. He died very poor." 
 
 "And Arpad Ovody, Georgei's lieutenant, who wds 
 [ 260 ]
 
 PRINCE ZILAH 
 
 so brave at the assault of Buda ? I thought that he was 
 killed with that bullet through his cheek." 
 
 "Ovody? He is at the head of the Magyar Bank, 
 and is charged by the ministry with the conversion of 
 the six per cent. Hungarian loan. He is intimately con- 
 nected with the Rothschild group. He has I don't 
 know how many thousand florins a year, and a castle 
 in the neighborhood of Presburg. A great collector of 
 pictures, and a very amiable man!" 
 
 "And Hieronymis Janos, who wrote such eloquent 
 proclamations and calls to arms? Kossuth was very 
 fond of him." 
 
 "He is busy, with Maurice Jokai, preparing a great 
 book upon the Austro-Hungarian monarchy, a book 
 patronized by the Archduke Rudolph. He will doubt- 
 less edit the part relative to the kingdom of Saint Ste- 
 phen." 
 
 "Ha! ha! He will have a difficult task when he 
 comes to the recital of the battle at Raab against Fran- 
 cis Joseph in person! He commanded at Raab him- 
 self, as you must remember well." 
 
 "Yes, he did, I remember," said the minister. Then, 
 with a smile, he added: "Bah! History is written, not 
 made. Hieronymis Janos' s book will be very good, 
 very good!" 
 
 " I don't doubt it. What about Ferency Szilogyi ? Is 
 he also writing books under the direction of the Arch- 
 duke Rudolph?" 
 
 "No! no! Fe"rency Szilogyi is president of the court 
 of assizes, and a very good magistrate he is." 
 
 "He! an hussar?" 
 
 [261]
 
 JULES CLARETIE 
 
 "Oh! the world changes! His uniform sleeps in 
 some chest, preserved in camphor. Szilogyi has only 
 one fault: he is too strongly anti-Semitic." 
 
 "He.' a Liberal?" 
 
 "He detests the Israelites, and he allows it to be seen 
 a little too much. He embarrasses us sometimes. But 
 there is one extenuating circumstance he has married 
 a Jewess!" 
 
 This was said in a light, careless, humorously scep- 
 tical tone. 
 
 "On the whole," concluded the minister, "Armand 
 Bitto, who is no longer in this world, is perhaps the 
 most fortunate of all." 
 
 Then, turning to Yanski with his pleasant smile, and 
 holding out his delicate, well-kept hand, which had 
 once brandished the sabre, he said: 
 
 "My dear Varhely, you will dine with me to-morrow, 
 will you not? It is a great pleasure to see you again! 
 To-morrow I shall most probably give you an answer to 
 your request a request which I am happy, very happy, 
 to take into consideration. I wish also to present you to 
 the Countess. But no allusions to the past before her! 
 She is a Spaniard, and she would not understand the 
 old ideas very well. Kossuth, Bern, and Georgei would 
 astonish her, astonish her! I trust to your tact, Varhely. 
 And then it is so long ago, so very long ago, all that. 
 Let the dead past bury its dead! Is it understood ?" 
 
 Yanski Varhely departed, a little stunned by this in- 
 terview. He had never felt so old, so out of the fashion, 
 before. Prince Zilah and he now seemed to him like two 
 ancestors of the present generation Don Quixotes, ro- 
 
 [262]
 
 PRINCE ZILAH 
 
 manticists, imbeciles. The minister was, as Jacquemin 
 would have said, a sly dog, who took the times as he 
 found them, and left spectres in peace. Well, perhaps 
 he was right ! 
 
 "Ah, well," thought the old hussar, with an odd 
 smile, "there is the age of moustaches and the age of 
 whiskers, that is all. Ladany has even found a way to 
 become bald: he was born to be a minister!" 
 
 It little mattered to him, however, this souvenir of his 
 youth found with new characteristics. If Count Josef 
 Ladany rescued Menko from the police of the Czar, 
 and, by setting him free, delivered him to him, Varhely, 
 all was well. By entering the ministry, Ladany would 
 thus be at least useful for something. 
 
 [263]
 
 CHAPTER XXX 
 
 ; TO SEEK FORGETFULNESS 
 
 negotiations with Warsaw, however, 
 detained Yanski Varhe"ly at Vienna 
 longer than he wished. Count Josef 
 evidently went zealously to work to 
 obtain from the Russian Government 
 Menko's release. He had promised 
 Varhely, the evening he received his 
 old comrade at dinner, that he would 
 put all the machinery at work to obtain the fulfilment 
 of his request. "I only ask you, if I attain the desired 
 result, that you will do something to cool off that hot- 
 headed Menko. A second time he would not escape 
 Siberia." 
 
 Varhely had made no reply; but the very idea that 
 Michel Menko might be free made his head swim. 
 There was, in the Count's eagerness to obtain Menko's 
 liberty, something of the excitement of a hunter track- 
 ing his prey. He awaited Michel's departure from the 
 fortress as if he were a rabbit in its burrow. 
 
 "If he is set at liberty, I suppose that we shall know 
 where he goes," he said to the minister. 
 
 "It is more than probable that the government of the 
 Czar will trace his journey for him. You shall be in- 
 formed." 
 
 [264]
 
 PRINCE ZILAH 
 
 Count Ladany did not seek to know for what pur- 
 pose Varhely demanded, with such evident eagerness, 
 this release. It was enough for him that his old brother- 
 in-arms desired it, and that it was possible. 
 
 "You see how everything is for the best, Varhe'ly," 
 he said to him one morning. "Perhaps you blamed me 
 when you learned that I had accepted a post from Aus- 
 tria. Well, you see, if I did not serve the Emperor, I 
 could not serve you!" 
 
 During his sojourn at Vienna, Varhe'ly kept himself 
 informed, day by day, as to what was passing in Paris. 
 He did not write to Prince Zilah, wishing, above every- 
 thing, to keep his errand concealed from him ; but An- 
 gelo Valla, who had remained in France, wrote or tele- 
 graphed whatever happened to the Prince. 
 
 Marsa Laszlo was cured ; she had left Dr. Sims's in- 
 stitution, and returned to the villa of Maisons-Lafitte. 
 
 The poor girl came out of her terrible stupor with the 
 distaste to take up the thread of life which sometimes 
 comes after a night of forgetfulness in sleep. This 
 stupor, which might have destroyed her, and the fever 
 which had shaken her, seemed to her sweet and enviable 
 now compared to this punishment : To live ! To live 
 and think! 
 
 And yet yes, she wished to live to once more see An- 
 dras, whose look, fixed upon her, had rekindled the ex- 
 tinct intellectual flame of her being. She wished to live, 
 now that her reason had returned to her, to live to wrest 
 from the Prince a word of pardon. It could not be pos- 
 sible that her existence was to end with the malediction 
 of this man, It seemed to her, that, if she should ever 
 
 [265]
 
 JULES CLATIETIE 
 
 see him face to face, she would find words of desperate 
 supplication which would obtain her absolution. 
 
 Certainly she repeated it bitterly every hour, now 
 that the punishment of thinking and feeling had been 
 inflicted upon her she had acted infamously, been 
 almost as criminal as Menko, by her silence and deceit 
 her deceit! She, who hated a lie! But she longed to 
 make the Prince understand that the motive of her con- 
 duct was the love which she had for him. Yes, her love 
 alone ! There was no other reason, no other, for her un- 
 pardonable treachery. He did not think it now, with- 
 out any doubt. He must accuse her of some base calcu- 
 lation or vile intrigue. But she was certain that, if she 
 could see him again, she would prove to him that the 
 only cause of her conduct was her unquenchable love 
 for him. 
 
 "Let him only believe that, and then let him fly me 
 forever, if he likes! Forever! But I cannot endure to 
 have him despise me, as he must!" 
 
 It was this hope which now attached her to life. 
 After her return to Maisons-Lafitte from Vaugirard, 
 she would have killed herself if she had not so desired 
 another interview where she could lay bare her heart. 
 Not daring to appear before Andras, not even thinking 
 of such a thing as seeking him, she resolved to wait some 
 opportunity, some chance, she knew not what. Sud- 
 denly, she thought of Yanski Varhe*ly. Through Var- 
 hely, she might be able to say to Andras all that she 
 wished her husband her husband! the very word 
 made her shudder with shame to know of the reason 
 of her crime, She wrote to the old Hungarian ; but, as 
 
 [266]
 
 PRINCE ZILAH 
 
 she received no response, she left Maisons-Lafitte and 
 went to Varhely's house. They did not know there, 
 where the Count was; but Monsieur Angelo Valla 
 would forward any letters to him. 
 
 She then begged the Italian to send to Varhely a sort 
 of long confession, in which she asked his aid to obtain 
 from the Prince the desired interview. 
 
 The letter reached Yanski while he was at Vienna. 
 He answered it with a few icy words; but what did that 
 matter to Marsa? It was not Varhely's rancor she 
 cared for, but Zilah's contempt. She implored him 
 again, in a letter in which she poured out her whole 
 soul, to return, to be there when she should tell the 
 Prince all her remorse the remorse which was killing 
 her, and making of her detested beauty a spectre. 
 
 There was such sincerity in this letter, wherein a 
 conscience sobbed, that, little by little, in spite of his 
 rough exterior, the soldier, more accessible to emotion 
 than he cared to have it appear, was softened, and 
 growled beneath his moustache: 
 
 "So! So! She suffers. Well, that is something." 
 
 He answered Marsa that he would return when he 
 had finished a work he had vowed to accomplish; and, 
 without explaining anything to the Tzigana, he added, 
 at the end of his letter, these words, which, enigmatical 
 as they were, gave a vague, inexplicable hope to Marsa : 
 "And pray that I may return soon!" 
 
 The day after he had sent this letter to Maisons- 
 Lafitte, Varhely received from Ladany a message to 
 come at once to the ministry. 
 
 On his arrival there. Count Josef handed him a des-
 
 patch. The Russian minister of foreign affairs tele- 
 graphed to his colleague at Vienna, that his Majesty 
 the Czar consented to the release of Count Menko, im- 
 plicated in the Labanoff affair. Labanoff would prob- 
 ably be sent to Siberia the very day that Count Menko 
 would receive a passport and an escort to the frontier. 
 Count Menko had chosen Italy for his retreat, and he 
 would start for Florence the day his Excellency received 
 this despatch. 
 
 "Well, my dear minister," exclaimed Varhe'ly, "thank 
 you a thousand times. And, with my thanks, my fare- 
 well. I am also going to Florence." 
 
 "Immediately?" 
 
 "Immediately." 
 
 "You will arrive there before Menko." 
 
 "I am in a hurry," replied Varhely, with a smile. 
 
 He went to the telegraph office, after leaving the min- 
 istry, and sent a despatch to Angelo Valla, at Paris, in 
 which he asked the Venetian to join him in Florence. 
 Valla had assured him that he could rely on him for any 
 service; and Varhely left Vienna, certain that he should 
 find Manin's old minister at Florence. 
 
 "After all, he has not changed so much," he said to 
 himself, thinking of Josef Ladany. "Without his aid, 
 Menko would certainly have escaped me. Ladany has 
 taken the times as they are : Zilah and I desire to have 
 them as they should be. Which is right?" 
 
 Then, while the train was carrying him to Venice, he 
 thought: Bah! it was much better to be a dupe like 
 himself and Zilah, and to die preserving, like an un- 
 surrendered flag, one's dream intact, 
 
 [268]
 
 PRINCE ZILAH 
 
 To die? 
 
 Yes! After all, Varhely might, at this moment, be 
 close to death; but, whatever might be the fate which 
 awaited him at the end of his journey, he found the 
 road very long and the engine very slow. 
 
 At Venice he took a train which carried him through 
 Lombardy into Tuscany; and at Florence he found 
 Angelo Valla. 
 
 The Italian already knew, in regard to Michel Menko, 
 all that it was necessary for him to know. Before going 
 to London, Menko, on his return from Pau, after the 
 death of his wife, had retired to a small house he owned 
 in Pistoja ; and here he had undoubtedly gone now. 
 
 It was a house built on the side of a hill, and sur- 
 rounded with olive-trees. Varhely and Valla waited at 
 the hotel until one of Balla's friends, who lived at Pis- 
 toja, should inform him of the arrival of the Hungarian 
 count. And Menko did, in fact, come there three days 
 after Varhely reached Florence. 
 
 "To-morrow, my dear Valla," saidYanski, "you 
 will accompany me to see Menko ? " 
 
 "With pleasure," responded the Italian. 
 
 Menko's house was some distance from the station, at 
 the very end of the little city. 
 
 The bell at the gate opening into the garden, had 
 been removed, as if to show that the master of the house 
 did not wish to be disturbed. Varhely was obliged to 
 pound heavily upon the wooden barrier. The servant 
 who appeared in answer to his summons, was an Hun- 
 garian, and he wore the national cap, edged with fur. 
 
 "My master does not receive visitors," he answered 
 [269]
 
 JULES CLARETIE 
 
 when Yanski asked him, in Italian, if Count Menko 
 were at home. 
 
 " Go and say to Menko Mihaly," said Varhely, this 
 time in Hungarian, "that Count Varhely is here as the 
 representative of Prince Zilah!" 
 
 The domestic disappeared, but returned almost im- 
 mediately and opened the gate. Varhely and Valla 
 crossed the garden, entered the house, and found them- 
 selves face to face with Menko. 
 
 Varhely would scarcely have recognized him. 
 
 The former graceful, elegant young man had suddenly 
 aged : his hair was thin and gray upon the temples, and, 
 instead of the carefully trained moustache of the em- 
 bassy attache, a full beard now covered his emaciated 
 cheeks. 
 
 Michel regarded the entrance of Varhely into the 
 little salon where he awaited him, as if he were some 
 spectre, some vengeance which he had expected, and 
 which did not astonish him. He stood erect, cold and 
 still, as Yanski advanced toward him; while Angelo 
 Valla remained in the doorway, mechanically stroking 
 his smoothly shaven chin. 
 
 "Monsieur," said Varhely, " for months I have looked 
 forward impatiently to this moment. Do not doubt 
 that I have sought you." 
 
 "I did not hide myself," responded Menko. 
 
 "Indeed? Then may I ask what was your object in 
 going to Warsaw?" 
 
 "To seek forgetfulness," said the young man, 
 slowly and sadly. 
 
 This simple word so often spoken by Zilah which
 
 PRINCE ZILAH 
 
 had no more effect upon the stern old Hungarian than a 
 tear upon a coat of mail, produced a singular impression 
 upon Valla. It seemed to him to express unconquer- 
 able remorse. 
 
 "What you have done can not be forgotten," said 
 Varhely. 
 
 "No more than what I have suffered." 
 
 "You made me the accomplice of the most cowardly 
 and infamous act a man could commit. I have come 
 to you to demand an explanation." 
 
 Michel lowered his eyes at these cutting words, his 
 thin face paling, and his lower lip trembling; but he 
 said nothing. At last, after a pause, he raised his eyes 
 again to the face of the old Hungarian, and, letting the 
 words fall one by one, he replied : 
 
 "I am at your disposal for whatever you choose to 
 demand, to exact. I only desire to assure you that I 
 had no intention of involving you in an act which I re- 
 garded as a cruel necessity. I wished to avenge myself. 
 But I did not wish my vengeance to arrive too late, when 
 what I had assumed the right to prevent had become 
 irreparable." 
 
 "I do not understand exactly," said Varhely. 
 
 Menko glanced at Valla as if to ask whether he could 
 speak openly before the Italian. 
 
 "Monsieur Angelo Valla was one of the witnesses of 
 the marriage of Prince Andras Zilah," said Yanski. 
 
 "I know Monsieur," said Michel, bowing to Valla. 
 
 "Ah!" he exclaimed abruptly, his whole manner 
 changing. "There was a man whom I respected, ad- 
 mired and loved, Th^t man, without knowing it, wrested
 
 JULES CLARETIE 
 
 from me the woman who had been the folly, the 
 dream, and the sorrow of my life. I would have done 
 anything to prevent that woman from bearing the name 
 of that man." 
 
 " You sent to the Prince letters written to you by that 
 woman, and that, too, after the Tzigana had become 
 Princess Zilah." 
 
 "She had let loose her dogs upon me to tear me to 
 pieces. I was insane with rage. I wished to destroy her 
 hopes also. I gave those letters to my valet with abso- 
 lute orders to deliver them to the Prince the evening be- 
 fore the wedding. At the same hour that I left Paris, 
 the letters should have been in the hands of the man 
 who had the right to see them, and when there was yet 
 time for him to refuse his name to the woman who had 
 written them. My servant did not obey, or did not un- 
 derstand. Upon my honor, this is true. He kept the 
 letters twenty-four hours longer than I had ordered him 
 to do; and it was not she whom I punished, but I 
 struck the man for whom I would have given my life." 
 
 "Granted that there was a fatality of this sort in your 
 conduct," responded Varhely, coldly, "and that your 
 lackey did not understand your commands: the deed 
 which you committed was none the less that of a cow- 
 ard. You used as a weapon the letters of a woman, 
 and of a woman whom you had deceived by promising 
 her your name when it was no longer yours to give!" 
 
 "Are you here to defend Mademoiselle Marsa 
 Laszlo?" asked Michel, a trifle haughtily. 
 
 "I am here to defend the Princess Zilah, and to 
 avenge Prince Andras. I am here, above all, to de- 
 
 [272]
 
 PRINCE ZILAH 
 
 mand satisfaction for your atrocious action in having 
 taken me as the instrument of your villainy." 
 
 "I regret it deeply and sincerely," replied Menko; 
 "and I am at your orders." 
 
 The tone of this response admitted of no reply, and 
 Yanski and Valla took their departure. 
 
 Valla then obtained another second from the Hun- 
 garian embassy, and two officers in garrison at Flor- 
 ence consented to serve as Menko's friends. It was ar- 
 ranged that the duel should take place in a field near 
 Pistoja. 
 
 Valla, anxious and uneasy, said to Varhe*ly: 
 
 "All this is right and proper, but " 
 
 "But what?" 
 
 "But suppose he kills you? The right is the right, I 
 know; but leaden bullets are not necessarily on the side 
 of the right, and " 
 
 "Well," interrupted Yanski, "in case of the worst, 
 you must charge yourself, my dear Valla, with inform- 
 ing the Prince how his old friend Yanski Varhely de- 
 fended his honor and also tell him of the place where 
 Count Menko may be found. I am going to attempt 
 to avenge Zilah. If I do not succeed, Teremtete!" rip- 
 ping out the Hungarian oath, "he will avenge me, that 
 is all! Let us go to supper." 
 
 [273]
 
 CHAPTER XXXI 
 
 U IF MENKO. WERE DEAD!" 
 
 CRINGE ZILAH, wandering solitary in 
 the midst of crowded Paris, was pos- 
 sessed by one thought, one image im- 
 possible to drive away, one name which 
 murmured eternally in his ears Marsa; 
 Marsa, who w r as constantly before his 
 eyes, sometimes in the silvery shimmer 
 of her bridal robes, and sometimes 
 with the deathly pallor of the promenader in the garden 
 of Vaugirard ; Marsa, who had taken possession of his 
 being, rilling his whole heart, and, despite his revolt, 
 gradually overpowering all other memories, all other 
 passions ! Marsa, his last love, since nothing was before 
 him save the years when the hair whitens, and when 
 life weighs heavily upon weary humanity; and not 
 only his last love, but his only love ! 
 
 Oh! why had he loved her? Or, having loved her, 
 why had she not confessed to him that that coward of a 
 Menko had deceived her! Who knows? He might 
 have pardoned her, perhaps, and accepted the young 
 girl, the 'widow of that passion. Widow? No, not 
 while Menko lived. Oh! if he were dead! 
 
 And Zilah repeated, with a fierce longing for ven- 
 geance: "If he were dead.'" That is, if there were not 
 
 [274]
 
 between them, Zilah and Marsa, the abhorred memory 
 of the lover! 
 
 Well! if Menko were dead ? 
 
 When he feverishly asked himself this question, 
 Zilah recalled at the same time Marsa, crouching 
 at his feet, and giving no other excuse than this: "I 
 loved you! I wished to belong to you, to be your 
 wife!" 
 
 His wife! Yes, the beautiful Tzigana he had met at 
 Baroness Dinati's was now his wife! He could punish 
 or pardon. But he had punished, since he had in- 
 flicted upon her that living death insanity. And he 
 asked himself whether he should not pardon Princess 
 Zilah, punished, repentant, almost dying. 
 
 He knew that she was now at Maisons, cured of her 
 insanity, but still ill and feeble, and that she lived there 
 like a nun, doing good, dispensing charity, and praying 
 praying for him, perhaps. 
 
 For him or for Menko ? 
 
 No, for him! She was not vile enough to have lied, 
 when she asked, implored, besought death from Zilah 
 who held her life or death in his hands. 
 
 "Yes, I had the right to kill her, but I have the 
 right to pardon also," thought Zilah. 
 
 Ah, if Menko were dead ! 
 
 The Prince gradually wrought himself into a highly 
 nervous condition, missing Varhely, uneasy at his pro- 
 longed absence, and never succeeding in driving away 
 Marsa' s haunting image. He grew to hate his solitary 
 home and his books. 
 
 "I shall not want any breakfast," he said one morn- 
 [275]
 
 JULES CLARETIE 
 
 ing to his valet; and, going out, he descended the 
 Champs-Elysees on foot. 
 
 At the corner of the Place de la Madeleine, he en- 
 tered a restaurant, and sat down near a window, gazing 
 mechanically at this lively corner of Paris, at the gray 
 facade of the church, the dusty trees, the asphalt, the 
 promenaders, the yellow omnibuses, the activity of 
 Parisian life. 
 
 All at once he was startled to hear his name pro- 
 nounced and to see before him, with his hand out- 
 stretched, as if he were asking alms, old General Vo- 
 gotzine, who said to him, timidly: 
 
 "Ah, my dear Prince, how glad I am to see you! I 
 was breakfasting over there, and my accursed paper 
 must have hidden me. Ouf ! If you only knew! I am 
 Stirling!" 
 
 "Why, what is the matter?" asked Andras. 
 
 "Matter? Look at me! I must be as red as a 
 beet!" 
 
 Poor Vogotzine had entered the restaurant for break- 
 fast, regretting the cool garden of Maisons-Lafitte, 
 which, now that Marsa no longer sat there, he had en- 
 tirely to himself. After eating his usual copious break- 
 fast, he had imprudently asked the waiter for a Rus- 
 sian paper; and, as he read, and sipped his kummel, 
 which he found a little insipid and almost made him 
 regret the vodka of his native land, his eyes fell upon a 
 letter from Odessa, in which there was a detailed de- 
 scription of the execution of three nihilists, two of them 
 gentlemen. It told how they were dragged, tied to the 
 tails of horses, to the open square, each of them bearing 
 
 [276]
 
 PRINCE ZILAH 
 
 upon his breast a white placard with this inscription, in 
 black letters: "Guilty of high treason" Then the 
 wretched General shivered from head to foot. Every 
 detail of the melodramatic execution seemed burned into 
 his brain as with a red-hot iron. He fancied he could 
 see the procession and the three gibbets, painted black; 
 beside each gibbet was an open ditch and a black coffin 
 covered with a dark gray pall. He saw, in the hollow 
 square formed by a battalion of Cossack infantry, the 
 executioner, Froloff, in his red shirt and his plush trou- 
 sers tucked into his boots, and, beside him, a pale, 
 black-robed priest. 
 
 "Who the devil is such an idiot as to relate such 
 things in the newspapers?" he growled. 
 
 And in terror he imagined he could hear the sheriff 
 read the sentence, see the priest present the cross to the 
 condemned men, and Froloff, before putting on the 
 black caps, degrade the gentlemen by breaking their 
 swords over their heads. 
 
 Then, half suffocated, Vogotzine flung the paper on 
 the floor; and, with eyes distended with horror, draw- 
 ing the caraffe of kiimmel toward him, he half emptied 
 it, drinking glass after glass to recover his self-control. 
 It seemed to him that Froloff was there behind him, and 
 that the branches of the candelabra, stretching over his 
 heated head, were the arms of gibbets ready to seize 
 him. To reassure himself, and be certain that he was 
 miles and miles from Russia, he was obliged to make 
 sure of the presence of the waiters and guests in the gay 
 and gilded restaurant. 
 
 "The devil take the newspapers!" he muttered. 
 [277]
 
 JULES CLARETIE 
 
 "They are cursed stupid! I will never read another 1 
 All that stuff is absurd ! Absurd ! A fine aid to diges- 
 tion, truly!" 
 
 And, paying his bill, he rose to go, passing his hand 
 over his head as if his sword had been broken upon it 
 and left a contusion, and glancing timidly into the mir- 
 rors, as if he feared to discover the image of Froloff 
 there. 
 
 It was at this moment that he discovered Prince Zilah, 
 and rushed up to him with the joyful cry of a child dis- 
 covering a protector. 
 
 The Prince noticed that poor Vogotzine, who sat 
 heavily down by his side, was not entirely sober. The 
 enormous quantity of kiimmel he had absorbed, to- 
 gether with the terror produced by the article he had 
 read, had proved too much for the good man: his face 
 was fiery, and he constantly moistened his dry lips. 
 
 "I suppose it astonishes you to see me here?" he 
 said, as if he had forgotten all that had taken place. 
 "I I am astonished to see myself here! But I am so 
 bored down there at Maisons, and I rust, rust, as little 
 little ah ! Stephanie said to me once at Odessa. So 
 I came to breathe the air of Paris. A miserable idea! 
 Oh, if you knew! When I think that that might hap- 
 pen to me!" 
 
 "What?" asked Andras, mechanically. 
 
 "What?" gasped the General, staring at him with 
 dilated eyes. "Why, Froloff, of course! Froloff! The 
 sword broken over your head! The gallows! Ach! I 
 am not a nihilist heaven forbid ! but I have displeased 
 the Czar. And to displease the Czar Brr! Imagine 
 
 [278]
 
 PRINCE ZILAH 
 
 the open square Odessa No, no, don't let us talk 
 of it any more!" glancing suddenly about him, as if he 
 feared the platoon of Cossacks were there, in the res- 
 taurant, come to drag him away in the name of the 
 Emperor. "Oh! by the way, Prince," he exclaimed 
 abruptly. "why don't you ever come to Maisons- 
 Lafitte?" 
 
 He must, indeed, have been drunk to address such a 
 question to the Prince. 
 
 Zilah looked him full in the face; but Vogotzine's 
 eyes blinked stupidly, and his head fell partially for- 
 ward on his breast. Satisfied that he was not respon- 
 sible for what he was saying, Andras rose to leave the 
 restaurant, and the General with difficulty stumbled to 
 his feet, and instinctively grasped Andras' s arm, the 
 latter making no resistance, the mention of Maisons- 
 Lafitte interesting him, even from the lips of this in- 
 toxicated old idiot. 
 
 "Do you know," stuttered Vogotzine, "I, myself, 
 should be glad very glad if you would come there. 
 I am bored bored to death ! Closed shutters not the 
 least noise. The creaking of a door the slightest bit of 
 light makes her ill. The days drag they drag yes, 
 they do. No one speaks. Most of the time I dine 
 alone. Shall I tell you ? no yes, I will. Marsa, yes, 
 well! Marsa, she is good, very good thinks only of 
 the poor the poor, you know! But whatever Doctor 
 Fargeas may say about it, she is mad! You can't de- 
 ceive me! She is insane! still insane!" 
 
 "Insane?" said Andras, striving to control his emo- 
 tion. 
 
 [279]
 
 JULES CLARETIE 
 
 The General, who was now staggering violently, 
 clung desperately to the Prince, They had reached the 
 boulevard, and Andras, hailing a cab, made Vogotzine 
 get in, and instructed the coachman to drive to the 
 Bois. 
 
 "I assure you that she is insane," proceeded the 
 General, throwing his head back on the cushions. ' ' Yes, 
 insane. She does not eat anything; she never rests. 
 Upon my word, I don't know how she lives. Once 
 her dogs she took walks. Now, I go with them into 
 the park good beasts very gentle. Sometimes, all 
 that she says, is: 'Listen! Isn't that Duna or Bundas 
 barking?' Ah! if I wasn't afraid of Froloff yes, Fro- 
 loff how soon I should return to Russia ! The life of 
 Paris the life of Paris wearies me. You see, I come 
 here to-day, I take up a newspaper, and I see what? 
 Froloff! Besides, the life of Paris at Maisons-Lafitte 
 between four walls, it is absurd ! Now, acknowledge, 
 old man, isn't it absurd ? Do you know what I should 
 like to do ? I should like to send a petition to the Czar. 
 What did I do, after all, I should like to know? It 
 wasn't anything so horrible. I stayed, against the Em- 
 peror's orders, five days too long at Odessa that was all 
 yes, you see, a little French actress who was there, 
 who sang operettas; oh, how she did sing operettas. 
 Offenbach, you know;" and the General tried to hum a 
 bar or two of the Dites lui, with ludicrous effect. 
 "Charming! To leave her, ah ! I found that very hard. 
 I remained five days: that wasn't much, eh, Zilah? 
 five days? But the devil! There was a Grand Duke 
 well humph! younger than I, of course and and 
 
 [*]
 
 PRINCE ZILAH 
 
 the Grand Duke was jealous. Oh! there was at that 
 time a conspiracy at Odessa ! I was accused of spend- 
 ing my time at the theatre, instead of watching the 
 conspirators. They even said I was in the conspiracy! 
 Oh, Lord! Odessa! The gallows! Froloff! Well, 
 it was Stephanie Gavaud who was the cause of it. 
 Don't tell that to Marsa! Ah! that little Stephanie! 
 J'ai vu k vieux Bacchus sur sa roche fertile ! Tautin 
 no, Tautin couldn't sing like that little Stephanie! 
 Well," continued Vogotzine, hiccoughing violently, 
 "because all that happened then, I now lead here the 
 life of an oyster! Yes, the life of an oyster, of a turtle, 
 of a clam! alone with a woman sad as Mid-Lent, who 
 doesn't speak, doesn't sing, does nothing but weep, 
 weep, weep! It is crushing! I say just what I think! 
 Crushing, then, whatever my niece may be cr-r-rush- 
 ing! And ah really, my dear fellow, I should be 
 glad if you would come. Why did you go away ? Yes, 
 yes, that is your affair, and I don't ask any questions. 
 Only only you would do well to come " 
 
 "Why?" interrupted Andras, turning quickly to 
 Vogotzine. 
 
 "Ah! why? Because!" said the General, trying to 
 give to his heavy face an expression of shrewd, dignified 
 gravity. 
 
 "What has happened?" asked the Prince. "Is she 
 suffering again ? Ill ? " 
 
 "Oh, insane, I tell you! absolutely insane! mad as a 
 March hare! Two days ago, you see " 
 
 "Well, what? two days ago?" 
 
 "Because, two days ago! " 
 
 [281]
 
 JULES CLARETIE 
 
 "Well, what? What is it? Speak, Vogotzine!" 
 
 "The despatch," stammered the General. 
 
 "What despatch?" 
 
 "The des despatch from Florence." 
 
 "She has received a despatch from Florence?" 
 
 "A telegram blue paper she read it before me; 
 upon my word, I thought it was from you! She said- 
 no ; those miserable bits of paper, it is astonishing how 
 they alarm you. There are telegrams which have given 
 me a fit of indigestion, I assure you and I haven't the 
 heart of a chicken!" 
 
 "Go on! Marsa? This despatch? Whom was it 
 from? What did Marsa say ?" 
 
 "She turned white as a sheet; she began to tremble 
 an attack of the nerves and she said: 'Well, 
 in two days I shall know, at last, whether I am to 
 live!' Queer, wasn't it? I don't know what she 
 meant! But it is certain yes, certain, my dear fellow 
 that she expects, this evening, some one who is com- 
 ing or who is not coming, from Florence that de- 
 pends." 
 
 "Who is it? Who?" cried Andras. "Michel 
 Menko?" 
 
 "I don't know," faltered Vogotzine in alarm, won- 
 dering whether it were Froloff's hand that had seized 
 him by the collar of his coat. 
 
 "It is Menko, is it not?" demanded Andras; while 
 the terrified General gasped out something unintelli- 
 gible, his intoxication increasing every yard the car- 
 riage advanced in the Bois. 
 
 Andras was almost beside himself with pain and sus- 
 [282]
 
 PRINCE ZILAH 
 
 pense. What did it mean? Who had sent that des- 
 patch ? Why had it caused Marsa such emotion ? " In 
 two days I shall knou>, at last, whether I am to live!" 
 Who could make her utter such a cry? Who, if not 
 Michel Menko, was so intimately connected with her life 
 as to trouble her so, to drive her insane, as Vogotzine 
 said? 
 
 "It is Menko, is it not? it is Menko?" repeated An- 
 dras again. 
 
 And Vogotzine gasped : 
 
 ' ' Perhaps ! anything is possible ! ' ' 
 
 But he stopped suddenly, as if he comprehended, de- 
 spite his inebriety, that he was in danger of going too 
 far and doing some harm. 
 
 "Come, Vogotzine, come, you have told me too much 
 not to tell me all!" 
 
 "That is true; yes, I have said too much! Ah! The 
 devil! this is not my affair! Well, yes, Count Menko 
 is in Florence or near Florence I don't know where. 
 Marsa told me that without meaning to. She was 
 excited very excited talked to herself. I did not ask 
 her anything but she is insane, you see, mad, mad! 
 She first wrote a despatch to Italy then she tore it up 
 like this, saying: 'No, what is to happen, will happen!' 
 There! I don't know anything but that. I don't know 
 anything!" 
 
 "Ah! she is expecting him!" cried Andras. 
 "When?" 
 
 "I don't know!" 
 
 "You told me it was to be this evening. This eve- 
 ning, is it not?" 
 
 [283]
 
 JULES CLARETIE 
 
 The old General felt as ill at ease as if he had been 
 before a military commission or in the hands of Froloff. 
 
 "Yes, this evening." 
 
 "At Maisons-Lafitte?" 
 
 "At Maisons," responded Vogotzine, mechanically. 
 "And all this wearies me wearies me. Was it for this 
 I decided to come to Paris? A fine idea! At least, there 
 are no Russian days at Maisons!" 
 
 Andras made no reply. 
 
 He stopped the carriage, got out, and, saluting the 
 General with a brief "Thank you!" walked rapidly 
 away, leaving Vogotzine in blank amazement, mur- 
 muring, as he made an effort to sit up straight : 
 
 "Well, well, are you going to leave me here, old man? 
 All alone ? This isn't right ! ' ' 
 
 And, like a forsaken child, the old General, with 
 comic twitchings of his eyebrows and nostrils, felt a 
 strong desire to weep. 
 
 "Where shall I drive you, Monsieur?" asked the 
 coachman. 
 
 "Wherever you like, my friend," responded Vogot- 
 zine, modestly, with an appealing look at the man., 
 "You, at least, must not leave me!"
 
 CHAPTER XXXII 
 
 THE VALE OF VIOLETS 
 
 N the Prince's mind the whole affair 
 seemed clear as day, and he explained 
 the vague anxiety with which he had 
 been afflicted for several days as a mys- 
 terious premonition of a new sorrow. 
 Menko was at Florence! Menko, for 
 it could be no other than he, had tele- 
 graphed to Marsa, arranging a meeting 
 with her. That very evening he was to be in the house 
 of Marsa Laszlo Marsa who bore, in spite of all, the 
 title and name of the Zilahs. Was it possible ? After 
 the marriage, after this woman's vows and tears, these 
 two beings, separated for a time, were to be united again. 
 And he, Andras, had almost felt pity for her ! He had 
 listened to Varhely, an honest man, drawing a parallel be- 
 tween a vanquished soldier and this fallen girl Varhel, 
 the rough, implacable Varhely, who had also been the 
 dupe of the Tzigana, and one evening at Sainte-Adresse 
 had even counselled the deceived husband to pardon 
 her. 
 
 In a state bordering on frenzy, Zilah returned to his 
 hotel, thinking: 
 
 "He will be with her this evening!" 
 This was worse than all the rest. How could he 
 punish her? 
 
 [285]
 
 JULES CLARETIE 
 
 Punish her? 
 
 Why not? Was not Marsa Laszlo his wife? That 
 villa of Maisons-Lafitte, where she thought herself so 
 safe, was his by law. He, the husband, had a right to 
 enter there at any hour and demand of his wife an ac- 
 count of his honor. 
 
 "She wished this name of Zilah! Well! she shall 
 know at least what it costs and what it imposes upon 
 her ! " he hissed through his clenched teeth. He walked 
 nervously to and fro in the library of his hotel, his ex- 
 citement increasing at every step. 
 
 "She is Princess Zilah! She a princess! Nothing 
 can wrest from her that title which she has stolen! 
 Princess be it, then ; but the Prince has the right to deal 
 out life or death to his wife to his wife and to the 
 lover of his wife!" with a spasmodic burst of laughter. 
 "Her lover is to be there; Menko is to be there, and I 
 complain ! The man whom I have sought in vain will 
 be before me. I shall hold him at my mercy, and I do 
 not thank the kind fate which gives me that joy! 
 This evening! He will be at her house this evening! 
 Good! Justice shall be done!" 
 
 Every moment added to his fever. He would have 
 given ten years of his life if it were already evening. 
 He waited impatiently for the hour to come when he 
 could go and surprise them. He even thought of meet- 
 ing Menko at the railway station on his arrival from 
 Italy: but what would be the use ? Menko would be at 
 Maisons; and he would kill him before her face, in a 
 duel if Menko would fight, or like a thief caught in the 
 act if he attempted to fly. That would be better. Yep, 
 
 [286]
 
 PRINCE ZILAH 
 
 he would kill him like a dog, if the other but no ! The 
 Hungarian, struck in the presence of the Tzigana, would 
 certainly not recoil before a pistol. Marsa should be 
 the sole witness of the duel, and the blood of the Prince 
 or of Menko should spatter her face a crimson stain 
 upon her pale cheek should be her punishment. 
 
 Early in the evening Andras left the hotel, after slip- 
 ping into the pocket of his overcoat a pair of loaded 
 pistols: one of them he would cast at Menko's feet. It 
 was not assassination he wished, but justice. 
 
 He took the train to Maisons, and, on his arrival 
 there, crossed the railway bridge, and found himself 
 almost alone in the broad avenue which runs through 
 the park. As he walked on through the rapidly dark- 
 ening shadows, he began to feel a strange sensation, as 
 if nothing had happened, and as if he were shaking off, 
 little by little, a hideous nightmare. In a sort of vol- 
 untary hallucination, he imagined that he was going, as 
 in former days, to Marsa' s house; and that she was 
 awaiting him in one of those white frocks which be- 
 came her so well, with her silver belt clasped with the 
 agraffe of opals. As he advanced, a host of memories 
 overwhelmed him. He had walked with Marsa under 
 these great lindens forming an arch overhead like that 
 of a cathedral. He remembered conversations they 
 had had in the evening, when a slight mist silvered the 
 majestic park, and the white villa loomed vaguely be- 
 fore them like some phantom palace of fairyland. With 
 the Tzigana clinging to his arm, he had Seen those foun- 
 tains, with their singing waters, that broad lawn be- 
 tween the two long lines of trees, those winding paths 
 
 [287]
 
 JULES CLARETIE 
 
 through the shrubbery; and, in the emotion aroused by 
 these well-remembered places, there was a sensation 
 of bitter pain at the thought of the happiness that might 
 have been his had fate fulfilled her promises, which in- 
 creased, rather than appeased, the Prince's anger. 
 
 As his steps led him mechanically nearer and nearer 
 to the house where she lived, all the details of his wed- 
 ding-day rose in his memory, and he turned aside to see 
 again the little church, the threshold of which they had 
 crossed together she exquisitely lovely in her white 
 draperies, and he overflowing with happiness. 
 
 The square in front of the sanctuary was now deserted 
 and the leaves were beginning to fall from the trees. A 
 man was lying asleep upon the steps before the bolted 
 door. Zilah stood gazing at the Gothic portal, with a 
 statue of the Virgin Mother above it, and wondered 
 whether it were he who had once led there a lovely girl, 
 about to become his wife; and the sad, closed church 
 produced upon him the effect of a tomb. 
 
 He dragged himself away from the contemplation of 
 the stone threshold, where slept the tired man drunk 
 perhaps, at all events happier than the Prince and 
 proceeded on his way through the woods to the abode 
 of Marsa Laszlo. 
 
 There was, Zilah remembered well, quite near there, a 
 sort of narrow valley (where the Mayor of Maisons was 
 said to have royally entertained Louis XIV and his 
 courtiers, as they were returning from Marly), a lovely 
 spot, surrounded by grassy slopes covered with violets, 
 a little shady, Virgilian wood, where he and Marsa had 
 dreamed away many happy hours. They had chris- 
 
 [288]
 
 PRINCE ZILAH 
 
 tened it The Vale of Violets. How many memories were 
 in that sweet name, each one of which stabbed and ex- 
 asperated Zilah, rising before him like so many spectres. 
 
 He hastened his steps, repeating: 
 
 "He is there! She is waiting for him ! Her lover is 
 there!" 
 
 At the end of the road, before the villa, closed and 
 silent like the old church, he stopped. He had reached 
 his destination; but what was he about to do, he who 
 who up to this time had protected his name from the 
 poisonous breath of scandal? 
 
 He was about to kill Menko, or to be killed himself. 
 A duel! But what was the need of proposing a duel, 
 when, exercising his rights as a husband, he could pun- 
 ish both the man and the woman? 
 
 He did not hesitate long, however, but advanced to 
 the gate, saying, aloud: 
 
 "I have a right to enter my own house." 
 
 The ringing of the bell was answered by the barking 
 of Duna, Bundas, and Ortog, who tore furiously at their 
 iron chains. 
 
 A man presently appeared on the other side of the 
 gate. It was a domestic whom Andras did not know 
 and had never seen. 
 
 "Whom do you wish to see?" asked the man. 
 
 "The Princess Zilah!" 
 
 "Who are you?" demanded the man, his hand upon 
 the inner bolt of the gate. 
 
 "Prince Zilah!" 
 
 The other stood stock-still in amazement, trying to 
 see, through the darkness, the Prince's face. 
 19 [289]
 
 JULES CLARETIE 
 
 "Do you hear me?" demanded Andras. 
 
 And, as the domestic opened the gate, as if to observe 
 the appearance of the visitor, the Prince gave it a ner- 
 vous push, which threw the servant backward; and, 
 once within the garden, he came close to him, and said : 
 
 "Look well at me, in order that you may recognize 
 me again. I am master here." 
 
 Zilah's clear eye and imperious manner awed the 
 man, and he bowed humbly, not daring to speak. 
 
 Andras turned on his heel, mounted the steps, and 
 entered the house; then he stopped and listened. 
 
 She was with him. Yes, a man was there, and the 
 man was speaking, speaking to Marsa, speaking doubt- 
 less of love. 
 
 Menko, with his twisted moustache, his pretty smile 
 and his delicate profile, was there, behind that door. 
 A red streak of light from the salon where Marsa was 
 showed beneath the door, which the Prince longed to 
 burst open with his foot. With anger and bitterness 
 filling his heart, he felt capable of entering there, and 
 striking savagely, madly, at his rival. 
 
 How these two beings had played with him; the 
 woman who had lied to him, and the coward who had 
 sent him those letters. 
 
 Suddenly Marsa' s voice fell upon his ear, that rich, 
 contralto voice he knew so well, speaking in accents of 
 love or joy. 
 
 What was he waiting for? His hot, feverish hand 
 sought the handle of his pistol, and, striding forward, 
 he threw open the door of the room. 
 
 The light from an opal-tinted lamp fell full upon his 
 [290]
 
 PRINCE ZILAH 
 
 face. He stood erect upon the threshold, while two 
 other faces were turned toward him, two pale faces, 
 Marsa's and another's. 
 
 Andras paused in amazement. 
 
 He had sought Menko; he found Varhely! 
 
 [291}
 
 CHAPTER XXXIII 
 
 THE DUEL 
 >ANSKI!" 
 
 Marsa recoiled in fear at hearing this 
 cry and the sudden appearance of the 
 Prince; and, trembling like a leaf, with 
 her face still turned toward that thres- 
 hold where Andras stood, she mur- 
 mured, in a voice choked with emotion : 
 
 "Who is there? Who is it?" 
 Yanski Varhely, unable to believe his eyes, advanced, 
 as if to make sure. 
 
 "Zilah!" he exclaimed, in his turn. 
 He could not understand ; and Zilah himself wondered 
 whether he were not the victim of some illusion, and 
 where Menko could be, that Menko whom Marsa had 
 expected, and whom he, the husband, had come to 
 chastise. 
 
 But the most bewildered, in her mute amazement, was 
 Marsa, her lips trembling, her face ashen, her eyes fixed 
 upon the Prince, as she leaned against the marble of the 
 mantelpiece to prevent herself from falling, but longing 
 to throw herself on her knees before this man who had 
 suddenly appeared, and who was master of her destiny. 
 "You here?" said Varhely at last. "You followed 
 me, then?" 
 
 [292]
 
 "No," said Andras. "The one whom I expected to 
 find here was not you." 
 
 "Who was it, then?" 
 
 "Michel Menko!" 
 
 Yanski Varhely turned toward Marsa. 
 
 She did not stir; she was looking at the Prince. 
 
 " Michel Menko is dead," responded Varhely, shortly. 
 "It was to announce that to the Princess Zilah that I 
 am here." 
 
 Andras gazed alternately upon the old Hungarian, 
 and upon Marsa, who" stood there petrified, her whole 
 soul burning in her eyes. 
 
 "Dead?" repeated Zilah, coldly. 
 
 "I fought and killed him," returned Varh61y. 
 
 Andras struggled against the emotion which seized 
 hold of him. Pale as death, he turned from Varhely to 
 the Tzigana, with an instinctive desire to know what her 
 feelings might be. 
 
 The news of this death, repeated thus before the man 
 whom she regarded as the master of her existence, had, 
 apparently, made no impression upon her, her thoughts 
 being no longer there, but her whole heart being con- 
 centrated upon the being who had despised her, hated 
 her, fled from her, and who appeared there before her as 
 in one of her painful dreams in which he returned again 
 to that very house where he had cursed her. 
 
 "There was," continued Varhely, slowly, "a martyr 
 who could not raise her head, who could not live, so long 
 as that man breathed. First of all, I came to her to tell 
 her that she was delivered from a detested past. To- 
 morrow I should have informed a man whose honor is 
 
 [293]
 
 JULES CLARETIE 
 
 my own, that the one who injured and insulted him has 
 paid his debt." 
 
 With lips white as his moustache, Varhely spoke these 
 words like a judge delivering a solemn sentence. 
 
 A strange expression passed over Zilah's face. He 
 felt as if some horrible weight had been lifted from his 
 heart. 
 
 Menko dead! 
 
 Yet there was a time when he had loved this Michel 
 Menko: and, of the three beings present in the little 
 salon, the man who had been injured by him was per- 
 haps the one who gave a pitying thought to the dead, the 
 old soldier remaining as impassive as an executioner, 
 and the Tzigana remembering only the hatred she had 
 felt for the one who had been her ruin. 
 
 Menko dead! 
 
 Varhely took from the mantelpiece the despatch he 
 had sent from Florence, three days before, to the Prin- 
 cess Zilah, the one of which Vogotzine had spoken to 
 Andras. 
 
 He handed it to the Prince, and Andras read as fol- 
 lows: 
 
 "I am about to risk my life for you. Tuesday even- 
 ing either I shall be at Maisons-Lafitte, or I shall be 
 dead. I fight to-morrow with Count M. If you do not 
 see me again, pray for the soul of Varhely." 
 
 Count Varhely had sent this despatch before going to 
 keep his appointment with Michel Menko. 
 
 It had been arranged that they were to fight in a field 
 near Pistoja. 
 
 [294]
 
 PRINCE ZILAH 
 
 Some peasant women, who were braiding straw hats, 
 laughed as they saw the men pass by. 
 
 One of them called out, gayly: 
 
 "Do you wish to find your sweethearts, signori? 
 That isn't the way!" 
 
 A little farther, Varhely and his adversary encoun- 
 tered a monk with a cowl drawn over his head so that 
 only his eyes could be seen, who, holding out a zinc 
 money-box, demanded elemosina, alms for the sick in 
 hospitals. 
 
 Menko opened his pocketbook, and dropped in the 
 box a dozen pieces of gold. 
 
 "Mille grazie, signor!" 
 
 "It is of no consequence." 
 
 They arrived on the ground, and the seconds loaded 
 the pistols. 
 
 Michel asked permission of Yanski to say two words 
 to him. 
 
 "Speak!" said Varhely. 
 
 The old Hungarian stood at his post with folded arms 
 and lowered eyes, while Michel approached him, and 
 said: 
 
 "Count Varhely, I repeat to you that I wished to pre- 
 vent this marriage, but not to insult the Prince. I give 
 you my word of honor that this is true. If you survive 
 me, will you promise to repeat this to him?" 
 
 "I promise." 
 
 "I thank you." 
 
 They took their positions. 
 
 Angelo Valla was to give the signal to fire. 
 
 He stood holding a white handkerchief in his out- 
 [295]
 
 stretched hand, and with his eyes fixed upon the two 
 adversaries, who were placed opposite each other, with 
 their coats buttoned up to the chin, and their pistols 
 held rigidly by their side. 
 
 Varhely was as motionless as if made of granite. 
 Menko smiled. 
 
 " One ! Two ! ' ' counted Valla. 
 
 He paused as if to take breath: then 
 
 " Three!" he exclaimed, in the tone of a man pro- 
 nouncing a death-sentence; and the handkerchief fell. 
 
 There were two reports in quick succession. 
 
 Varhely stood erect in his position; Menko's ball had 
 cut a branch above his head, and the green leaves fell 
 fluttering to the ground. 
 
 Michel staggered back, his hand pressed to his left side. 
 
 His seconds hastened toward him, seized him under 
 the arms, and tried to raise him. 
 
 "It is useless," he said. "It was well aimed!" 
 
 And, turning to Varhely, he cried, in a voice which he 
 strove to render firm: 
 
 "Remember your promise!" 
 
 They opened his coat. The ball had entered his 
 breast just above the heart. 
 
 They seated him upon the grass, with his back against 
 a tree. 
 
 He remained there, with fixed eyes, gazing, perhaps, 
 into the infinite, which was now close at hand. 
 
 His lips murmured inarticulate names, confused 
 words : ' ' Pardon punishment Marsa 
 
 As Yanski Varhely, with his two seconds, again passed 
 the straw- workers, the girls saluted them with:
 
 PRINCE ZILAH 
 
 "Well, where are your other friends? Have they 
 found their sweethearts?" 
 
 And while their laughter rang out upon the air, the 
 gay, foolish laughter of youth and health, over yonder 
 they were bearing away the dead body of Michel 
 Menko. 
 
 Andras Zilah, with a supreme effort at self-control, 
 listened to his old friend relate this tale; and, while 
 Varhely spoke, he was thinking: 
 
 It was not a lover, it Was not Menko, whom Marsa ex- 
 pected. Between the Tzigana and himself there was 
 now nothing, nothing but a phantom. The other had 
 paid his debt with his life. The Prince's anger disap- 
 peared as suddenly in proportion as his exasperation 
 had been violent. 
 
 He contemplated Marsa, thin and pale, but beautiful 
 still. The very fixedness of her great eyes gave her a 
 strange and powerful attraction; and, in the manner 
 in which Andras regarded her, Count Varhely, with his 
 rough insight, saw that there were pity, astonishment, 
 and almost fear. 
 
 He pulled his moustache a moment in reflection, and 
 then made a step toward the door. 
 
 Marsa saw that he was about to leave the room; and, 
 moving away from the marble against which she had 
 been leaning, with a smile radiant with the joy of a re- 
 covered pride, she held out her hand to Yanski, and, in 
 a voice in which there was an accent of almost terrible 
 gratitude for the act of justice which had been accom- 
 plished, she said, firmly: 
 
 [ 2 97]
 
 JULES CLARETIE 
 
 "I thank you, Varh61y!" 
 
 Varhely made no reply, but passed out of the room, 
 closing the door behind him. 
 
 The husband and wife, after months of torture, 
 anguish, and despair, were alone, face to face with each 
 other. 
 
 Andras's first movement was one of flight. He was 
 afraid of himself. Of his own anger ? Perhaps. Per- 
 haps of his own pity. 
 
 He did not look at Marsa, and in two steps he was at 
 the door. 
 
 Then, with a start, as one drowning catches at a 
 straw, as one condemned to death makes a last appeal 
 for mercy, with a feeble, despairing cry like that of a 
 child, a strange contrast to the almost savage thanks 
 given to Varhely, she exclaimed : 
 
 "Ah! I implore you, listen to me!" 
 
 Andras stopped. 
 
 "What have you to say to me?" he asked. 
 
 "Nothing nothing but this: Forgive! ah, forgive! 
 I have seen you once more; forgive me, and let me dis- 
 appear; but, at least, carrying away with me a word 
 from you which is not a condemnation." 
 
 "I might forgive," said Andras; "but I could not 
 forget." 
 
 "I do not ask you to forget, I do not ask you that! 
 Does one ever forget? And yet yes, one does forget, 
 one does forget, I know it. You are the only thing in 
 all my existence, I know only you, I think only of you. 
 I have loved only you!" 
 
 shivered, no longer able tp fly, movecj tQ the
 
 PRINCE ZILAH 
 
 depths of his being by the tones of this adored voice, so 
 long unheard. 
 
 "There was no need of bloodshed to destroy that 
 odious past," continued Marsa. "Ah! I have atoned 
 for it ! There is no one on earth who has suffered as I 
 have. I, who came across your path only to ruin your 
 life! Your life, my God, yours!" 
 
 She looked at him with worshipping eyes, as believers 
 regard their god. 
 
 "You have not suffered so much as the one you 
 stabbed, Marsa. He had never had but one love in the 
 world, and that love was you. If you had told him of 
 your sufferings, and confessed your secret, he would 
 have been capable of pardoning you. You deceived 
 him. There was something worse than the crime it- 
 selfthe lie." 
 
 "Ah!" she cried, "if you knew how I hated that lie! 
 Would to heaven that some one would tear out my 
 tongue for having deceived you!" 
 
 There was an accent of truth in this wild outburst of 
 the Tzigana; and upon the lips of this daughter of the 
 puszta, Hungarian and Russian at once, the cry seemed 
 the very symbol of her exceptional nature. 
 
 "What is it you wish that I should do?" she said. 
 "Die? yes, I would willingly, gladly die for you, inter- 
 posing my breast between you and a bullet. Ah! I 
 swear to you, I should be thankful to die like one of 
 those who bore your name. But, there is no fighting 
 now, and I can not shed my blood for you. I will sac- 
 rifice my life in another manner, obscurely, in the 
 shadows of a cloister, I shall have had neither lover 
 
 [299]
 
 JULES CLARETIE 
 
 nor husband, I shall be nothing, a recluse, a prisoner. 
 It will be well! yes, for me, the prison, the cell, death 
 in a life slowly dragged out! Ah! I deserve that pun- 
 ishment, and I wish my sentence to come from you; I 
 wish you to tell me that I am free to disappear, and 
 that you order me to do so but, at the same time, tell 
 me, oh, tell me, that you have forgiven me!" 
 
 "I!" said Andras. 
 
 In Marsa's eyes was a sort of wild excitement, a 
 longing for sacrifice, a thirst for martyrdom. 
 
 "Do I understand that you wish to enter a con- 
 vent?" asked Andras, slowly. 
 
 "Yes, the strictest and gloomiest. And into that 
 tomb I shall carry, with your condemnation and fare- 
 well, the bitter regret of my love, the weight of my re- 
 morse!" 
 
 The convent! The thought of such a fate for the 
 woman he loved filled Andras Zilah with horror. He 
 imagined the terrible scene of Marsa's separation from 
 the world; he could hear the voice of the officiating 
 bishop casting the cruel words upon the living, like 
 earth upon the dead; he could almost see the gleam 
 of the scissors as they cut through her beautiful dark 
 hair. 
 
 Kneeling before him, her eyes wet with tears, Marsa 
 was as lovely in her sorrow as a Mater Dolorosa. All 
 his love surged up in his heart, and a wild temptation 
 assailed him to keep her beauty, and dispute with the 
 convent this penitent absolved by remorse. , 
 
 She knelt there repentant, weeping, wringing her 
 hands, asking nothing but pardon a word, a single 
 
 [3]
 
 PRINCE ZILAH 
 
 word of pity and the permission to bury herself for- 
 ever from the world. 
 
 "So," he said, abruptly, "the convent cell, the prison, 
 does not terrify you?" 
 
 "Nothing terrifies me except your contempt." 
 
 "You would live far from Paris, far from the world, 
 far from everything?" 
 
 "In a kennel of dogs, under the lash of a slave- 
 driver; breaking stones, begging my bread, if you said 
 to me : ' Do that, it is atonement ! ' ' 
 
 "Well ! " cried Andras, passionately, his lips trembling, 
 his blood surging through his veins. "Live buried in 
 our Hungary, forgetting, forgotten, hidden, unknown, 
 away from all, away from Paris, away from the noise 
 of the world, in a life with me, which will be a new life! 
 Will you?" 
 
 She looked at him with staring, terrified eyes, belief 
 ing his words to be some cruel jest. 
 
 "Will you?" he said again, raising her from the 
 floor, and straining her to his breast, his burning lips 
 seeking the icy ones of the Tzigana. "Answer me, 
 Marsa. Will you?" 
 
 Like a sigh, the word fell on the air: "Yes." 
 
 [3 01 ]
 
 CHAPTER XXXIV 
 
 A NEW LIFE 
 
 following day, with tender ardor, 
 he took her away to his old Hungarian 
 castle, with its red towers still bearing 
 marks of the ravages of the cannon 
 the castle which he never had beheld 
 since Austria had confiscated it, and 
 then, after long years, restored it to. 
 its rightful owner. He fled from Paris, 
 seeking a pure existence, and returned to his Hungary, 
 to the country of his youth, the land of the vast plains. 
 He saw again the Danube and the golden Tisza. In 
 the Magyar costume, his heart beating more proudly 
 under the national attila, he passed before the eyes 
 of the peasants who had known him when a child, 
 and had fought under his orders ; and he spoke to them 
 by name, recognizing many of his old companions in 
 these poor people with cheeks tanned by the sun, and 
 heads whitened by age. 
 
 He led Marsa, trembling and happy, to the door of 
 the castle, where they offered him the wine of honor, 
 drank from the tschouttora, the Hungarian drinking- 
 vessel, the notis and cakes made of maize cooked in 
 cream. 
 Upon the lawns about the castle, the techiko shep-
 
 PRINCE ZILAH 
 
 herds, who had come on horseback to greet the Prince, 
 drank plum brandy, and drank with their red wine 
 the kakostas and the bacon of Temesvar. They had 
 come from their farms, from their distant pusztas, 
 peasant horsemen, like soldiers, with their national 
 caps; and they joyously celebrated the return of Zilah 
 Andras, the son of those Zilahs whose glorious history 
 they all knew. The dances began, the bright copper 
 heels clinked together, the blue jackets, embroidered 
 with yellow, red, or gold, swung in the wind, and it 
 seemed that the land of Hungary blossomed with flow- 
 ers and rang with songs to do honor to the coming of 
 Prince Andras and his Princess. 
 
 Then Andras entered with Marsa the abode of his 
 ancestors. And, in the great halls hung with tapestry 
 and filled with pictures which the conquerors had re- 
 spected, before those portraits of magnates superb in 
 their robes of red or green velvet edged with fur, curved 
 sabres by their sides and aigrettes upon their heads, all 
 reproducing a common trait of rough frankness, with 
 their long moustaches, their armor and their hussar uni- 
 forms Marsa Laszlo, who knew them well, these 
 heroes of her country, these Zilah princes who had fallen 
 upon the field of battle, said to the last of them all, to 
 Andras Zilah, before Ferency Zilah, before Sandor, be- 
 fore the Princesses Zilah who had long slept in "dull, 
 cold marble," and who had been no prouder than she 
 of the great name they bore: 
 
 "Do you know the reason why, equal to these in 
 devotion and courage, you are superior to them all! 
 It is because you are good, as good as they were brave, 
 
 [303]
 
 JULES CLARETIE 
 
 To their virtues, you, who forgive, add this virtue, which 
 is your own: pity!" 
 
 She looked at him humbly, raising to his face her 
 beautiful dark eyes, as if to let him read her heart, in 
 which was only his image and his name. She pressed 
 closely to his side, with an uneasy, timid tenderness, as 
 if she were a stranger in the presence of his great an- 
 cestors, who seemed to demand whether the newcomer 
 were one of the family; and he, putting his arm about 
 her, and pressing to his beating heart the Tzigana, 
 whose eyes were dim with tears, said: "No, I am not 
 better than these. It is not pity which is my virtue, 
 Marsa: it is my love. For I love you!" 
 
 Yes, he loved her, and with all the strength of a first 
 and only love. He loved her so that he forgot every- 
 thing, so that he did not see that in Marsa's smile there 
 was a look of the other side of the great, eternal river. 
 He loved her so that he thought only of this woman, 
 of her beauty, of the delight of her caresses, of his 
 dream of love realized in the air of the adored father- 
 land. He loved her so that he left without answers 
 the charming letters which Baroness Dinati wrote him 
 from Paris, so far away now, and the more serious mis- 
 sives which he received from his compatriots, wishing 
 him to utilize for his country, now that he had returned 
 to it, his superior intelligence, as he had formerly util- 
 ized his courage. 
 
 "The hour is critical," wrote his old friends. "An 
 attempt is being made to awaken in Hungary, against 
 the Russians, whom we like, memories of combats 
 and extinct hatreds, and that to the profit of a Ger- 
 
 l34]
 
 PRINCE ZILAH 
 
 man alliance, which is repugnant to our race. Bring the 
 support of your name and your valor to our cause. 
 Enter the Diet of Hungary. Your place is marked 
 out for you there in the first rank, as it was in the old 
 days upon the battlefield." 
 
 Andras only smiled. 
 
 "If I were ambitious!" he said to Marsa. Then he 
 added: "But I am ambitious only for your happiness." 
 
 Marsa' s happiness! It was deep, calm, and clear as a 
 lake. It seemed to the Tzigana that she was dreaming 
 a dream, a beautiful dream, a dream peaceful, sweet, and 
 restful. She abandoned herself to her profound happi- 
 ness with the trustfulness of a child. She was all the 
 more happy because she had the exquisite sensation 
 that her dream would have no awakening. It would 
 end in all the charm of its poetry. 
 
 She was sure that she could not survive the immense 
 joy which destiny had accorded her; and she did not 
 rebel against this decree. It seemed to her right and 
 just. She had never desired any other ending to her 
 love than to die beloved, to die with Andras's kiss of 
 forgiveness upon her lips, with his arms about her, and 
 to sink with a smile into the eternal sleep. What more 
 beautiful thing could she, the Tzigana, have wished ? 
 
 When the Prince's people saluted her by that title of 
 "Princess" which was hers, she trembled as if she had 
 usurped it ; she wished to be Marsa to the Prince, Marsa, 
 his devoted slave, who looked at him with her great eyes 
 full of gratitude and love. And she wished to be only 
 that. It seemed to her that, in the ancient home of the 
 Zilahs, the birthplace of soldiers, the eyrie of eagles, she 
 20 [ 35 ]
 
 JULES CLARETIE 
 
 was a sort of stranger; but, at the same time, she thought, 
 with a smile: 
 
 "What matters it? It is for so short a time." 
 
 One day Prince Zilah received from Vienna a large 
 sealed envelope. Minister Ladany earnestly entreated 
 him to come to the Austrian capital and present, in the 
 salons of Vienna and at the imperial court, Princess 
 Zilah, of whose beauty the Austrian colony of Paris 
 raved. 
 
 Marsa asked the Prince what the letter contained. 
 
 "Nothing. An invitation to leave our solitude. We 
 are too happy here." 
 
 Marsa questioned him no further; but she resolved 
 that she would never allow the Prince to take her to that 
 court which claimed his presence. In her eyes, she was 
 always the Tzigana; and, although Menko was dead, 
 she would never permit Zilah to present her to people 
 who might have known Count Michel. 
 
 No, no, let them remain in the dear old castle, he 
 living only for her, she breathing only for him; and let 
 the world go, with its fascinations and its pleasures, its 
 false joys and its false friendships! Let them ask of 
 life only what truth it possesses; an hour of rest between 
 two ordeals, a smile between two sobs, and the right 
 to love each other. To love each other until that fatal 
 separation which she felt was coming, until that end 
 which was fast advancing; her poor, frail body being 
 now only the diaphanous prison of her soul. She did 
 not complain, as she felt the hour gently approach when, 
 with a last kiss, a last sigh, she must say to Andras, 
 Adieu! 
 
 [306]
 
 PRINCE ZILAH 
 
 He, seeing her each day more pale, each day more 
 feeble, was alarmed ; but he hoped, that, when the win- 
 ter, which was very severe there, was over, Marsa would 
 regain her strength. He summoned to the castle a phy- 
 sician from Vienna, who battled obstinately and skil- 
 fully against the malady from which the Tzigana was 
 suffering. Her weakness and languor kept Marsa, dur- 
 ing the cold months, for whole days before the lofty, 
 sculptured chimney-piece, in which burned enormous 
 logs of oak. As the flames gave a rosy tinge to her 
 cheeks and made her beautiful eyes sparkle, Andras 
 said to herself, as he watched her, that she would live, 
 live and be happy with him. 
 
 The spring came, with the green leaflets and the white 
 blossoms at the ends of the branches. The buds opened 
 and the odors of the rejuvenated earth mounted subtly 
 into the soft air. 
 
 At her window, regarding the young grass and the 
 masses of tender verdure in which clusters of pale gold 
 or silvery white gleamed like aigrettes, Marsa said to 
 Andras: 
 
 "It must be lovely at Maisons, in the Vale of Violets! " 
 but she added, quickly: 
 
 "We are better here, much better! And it even 
 seems to me that I have always, always lived here in this 
 beautiful castle, where you have sheltered me, like a 
 swallow beaten by the wind." 
 
 There was, beneath the window, stretching out like 
 a ribbon of silver, a road, which the mica dust caused, 
 at times, in the sunlight to resemble a river. Marsa 
 often looked out on this road, imagining that she saw 
 
 [307]
 
 JULES CLARETIE 
 
 again the massive dam upon the Seine, or wondering 
 whether a band of Tzigani would not appear there 
 with the April days. 
 
 "I should like," she said one day to Andras, "to hear 
 again the airs my people used to play." 
 
 She found that, with the returning spring, she was 
 more feeble than she had ever been. The first warmth 
 in the air entered her veins like a sweet intoxication, 
 Her head felt heavy, and in her whole body she felt 
 a pleasant languor. She had wished to sink thus to 
 rest, as nature was awakening. 
 
 The doctor seemed very uneasy at this languidnes\ 
 of which Marsa said: 
 
 "It is delicious!" 
 
 He whispered one evening to Andras: 
 
 It is grave!" 
 
 Another sorrow was to come into the life of the Prince, 
 who had known so many. 
 
 A few days after, with a sort of presentiment, he 
 wrote to Yanski Varhe*ly to come and spend a few 
 months with him. He felt the need of his old friend; 
 and the Count hastened to obey the summons. 
 
 Varhely was astonished to see the change which so 
 short a time had produced in Marsa. In seven months 
 her face, although still beautiful, had become emaciated, 
 and had a transparent look. The little hand, white as 
 snow, which she gave to Varhely, burned him; the skin 
 was dry and hot. 
 
 "Well, my dear Count," said Marsa, as she lay ex- 
 tended in a reclining-chair, "what news of General 
 Vogotzine?" 
 
 [308]
 
 PRINCE ZILAH 
 
 "The General is well. He hopes to return to Russia. 
 The Czar has been appealed to, and he does not 
 say no." 
 
 "Ah! that is good news," she said. "He must be 
 greatly bored at Maisons; poor Vogotzine!" 
 
 "He smokes, drinks, takes the dogs out " 
 
 The dogs! Marsa started. Those hounds would 
 survive Menko, herself, the love which she now tasted 
 as the one joy of her life! Mechanically her lips mur- 
 mured, too low to be heard: "Ortog! Bundas!" 
 
 Then she said, aloud: 
 
 " I shall be very glad if the poor General can return 
 to St. Petersburg or Odessa. One is best off at home, 
 in one's own country. If you only knew, Varhe*ly, how 
 happy I am, happy to be in Hungary. At home!" 
 
 She was very weak. The doctor made a sign to An- 
 dras to leave her for a moment. 
 
 "Well," asked the Prince anxiously of Varhely, "how 
 do you think she is?" 
 
 " What does the doctor say ? " replied Yanski. "Does 
 he hope to save her?" 
 
 Zilah made no response. Varhe*ly's question was the 
 most terrible of answers. 
 
 Ensconced in an armchair, the Prince then laid bare 
 his heart to old Varhely, sitting near him. She was 
 about to die, then! Solitude! Was that to be the end 
 of his life ? After so many trials, it was all to end in 
 this: an open grave, in which his hopes were to be 
 buried. What remained to him now ? At the age when 
 one has no recourse against fate, love, the one love of his 
 life, was to be taken away from him, Varhely had ad- 
 
 [39]
 
 JULES CLARETIE 
 
 ministered justice, and Zilah had pardoned for what ? 
 To watch together a silent tomb; yes, yes, what re- 
 mained to him now ? 
 
 "What remains to you if she dies?" said old Yanski, 
 slowly. "There remains to you what you had at twenty 
 years, that which never dies. There remains to you 
 what was the love and the passion of all the Zilah 
 princes who lie yonder, and who experienced the same 
 suffering, the same torture, the same despair, as you. 
 There remains to you our first love, my dear Andras, 
 the fatherland!" 
 
 The next day some Tzigana musicians, whom the 
 Prince had sent for, arrived at the castle. Marsa felt 
 invigorated when she heard the czimbalom and the 
 piercing notes of the czardas. She had been longing 
 for those harmonies and songs which lay so near her 
 heart. She listened, with her hand clasped in that of 
 Andras, and through the open window came the " March 
 of Rakoczy," the same strains which long ago had been 
 played in Paris, upon the boat which bore them down 
 the Seine that July morning. 
 
 An heroic air, a song of triumph, a battle-cry, the gal- 
 lop of horses, a chant of victory. It was the air which 
 had saluted their betrothal like a fanfare. It was the 
 chant which the Tzigani had played that sad night 
 when Andras' s father had been laid in the earth of 
 Attila. 
 
 "I would like," said Marsa, when the music had 
 ceased, "to go to the little village where my mother 
 rests. She was a Tzigana also! Like them, like me! 
 Can I do so, doctor?"
 
 PRINCE ZILAH 
 
 The doctor shook his head. 
 
 "Oh, Princess, not yet! Later, when the warm sun 
 comes." 
 
 "Is not that the sun?" said Marsa, pointing to the 
 April rays entering the old feudal hall and making the 
 bits of dust dance like sparks of gold. 
 
 "It is the April sun, and it is sometimes danger- 
 ous for ' 
 
 The doctor paused; and, as he did not finish, Marsa 
 said gently, with a smile which had something more 
 than resignation in it happiness: 
 
 "For the dying?" 
 
 Andras shuddered; but Marsa's hand, which held 
 his, did not even tremble. 
 
 Old Varhely's eyes were dim with tears. 
 
 She knew that she was about to die. She knew it, and 
 smiled at kindly death. It would take away all shame. 
 Her memory would be to Andras the sacred one of the 
 woman he adored. She would die without being held 
 to keep that oath she had made not to survive her 
 dreamed-of happiness, the union she had desired and 
 accepted. Yes, it was sweet and welcome, this death, 
 which taking her from Andras's love, washed away all 
 stain. 
 
 She whispered in his ear the oft-repeated avowal: 
 
 "I love you! I love you! I love you! And I die 
 content, for I feel that you will love me always. Think 
 a moment! Could I live? Would there not be a 
 spectre between you and your Marsa?" 
 
 She threw her arms about him as he leaned over the 
 couch upon which she lay, and he made a gesture of
 
 JULES CLARETIE 
 
 denial, unable to speak, for each word would have been 
 a sob. 
 
 "Oh, do not deny it!" she said. "Now, no. But 
 later, who knows? On the other hand, you see, there 
 will be no other phantom near you but mine, no other 
 image but mine. I feel that I shall be always near 
 you, yes, always, eternally, my beloved! Dear death! 
 blessed death ! which renders our love infinite, yes, 
 infinite. Ah, I love you! I love you!" 
 
 She wished to see once more, through the open win- 
 dow, the sunny woods and the new blossoms. Behind 
 those woods, a few leagues away, was the place where 
 Tisza was buried. 
 
 "I should like to rest by her side," said the Tzigana. 
 "I am not of your family, you see. A princess, I? 
 your wife ? I have been only your sweetheart, my An- 
 dras." 
 
 Andras, whiter than the dying girl, seemed petrified 
 by the approach of the inevitable grief. 
 
 Now, as they went slowly down the white road, the 
 Tzigani played the plaintive melancholy air of Janos 
 Ne"meth, that air impregnated with tears, that air which 
 she used so often to play herself "The World holds 
 but One Fair Maiden!" 
 
 And this time, bursting into tears, he said to her, with 
 his heart breaking in his breast: 
 
 "Yes, there is but thee, Marsa! but thee, my beloved, 
 thee, thee alone! Do not leave me! Stay with me! 
 Stay with me, Marsa, my only love!" 
 
 Then, as she listened, over the lovely face of the Tzig- 
 ana passed an expression of absolute, perfect happi-
 
 PRINCE ZILAH 
 
 ness, as if, in Zilah's tears, she read all his forgiveness, 
 all his love, all his devotion. She raised herself, her 
 little hands resting upon the window-sill, her head 
 heavy with sleep the deep, dreamless sleep and 
 held up her sweet lips to him : when she felt Andras's 
 kiss, she whispered, so that he barely heard it: 
 
 "Do not forget me! Never forget me, my darling!" 
 Then her head drooped slowly, and fell upon the 
 Prince's shoulder, like that of a tired child, with a calm 
 sweet smile upon her flower-like face. 
 
 Like the salute they had once given to Prince Sandor, 
 the Tzigani began proudly the heroic march of free 
 Hungary, their music sending a fast farewell to the dead 
 as the sun gave her its last kiss. 
 
 Then, as the hymn died slowly away in the distance, 
 soft as a sigh, with one last, low, heart-breaking note, 
 Andras Zilah laid the light form of the Tzigana upon the 
 couch; and, winding his arms about her, with his head 
 pillowed upon her breast, he murmured, in a voice 
 broken with sobs: "I will love only, now, what you 
 loved so much, my poor Tzigana. I will love only the 
 land where you lie asleep."
 
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