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diff --git a/3930-h/3930-h.htm b/3930-h/3930-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..c35631e --- /dev/null +++ b/3930-h/3930-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,11665 @@ +<?xml version="1.0" encoding="utf-8"?> + +<!DOCTYPE html + PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd" > + +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" lang="en"> + <head> + <title> + Prince Zilah, by Jules Claretie + </title> + <style type="text/css" xml:space="preserve"> + + body { margin:5%; background:#faebd7; text-align:justify} + P { text-indent: 1em; margin-top: .25em; margin-bottom: .25em; } + H1,H2,H3,H4,H5,H6 { text-align: center; margin-left: 15%; margin-right: 15%; } + hr { width: 50%; text-align: center;} + .foot { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; text-indent: -3em; font-size: 90%; } + blockquote {font-size: 97%; font-style: italic; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%;} + .mynote {background-color: #DDE; color: #000; padding: .5em; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 95%;} + .toc { margin-left: 10%; margin-bottom: .75em;} + .toc2 { margin-left: 20%;} + div.fig { display:block; margin:0 auto; text-align:center; } + .figleft {float: left; margin-left: 0%; margin-right: 1%;} + .figright {float: right; margin-right: 0%; margin-left: 1%;} + pre { font-style: italic; font-size: 90%; margin-left: 10%;} + +</style> + </head> + <body> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Prince Zilah, Complete, by Jules Claretie + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Prince Zilah, Complete + +Author: Jules Claretie + +Release Date: October 5, 2006 [EBook #3930] +Last Updated: August 23, 2016 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PRINCE ZILAH, COMPLETE *** + + + +Produced by David Widger + + + + + + +</pre> + + <h1> + PRINCE ZILAH + </h1> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h2> + By Jules Claretie + </h2> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h4> + With a Preface by Compte d’Haussonville of the French Academy + </h4> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <blockquote> + <p class="toc"> + <big><b>CONTENTS</b></big> + </p> + <p> + <br /> <a href="#link2H_4_0001"> JULES CLARETIE </a><br /><br /> <a + href="#link2H_4_0002"> <b>PRINCE ZILAH</b> </a> <br /><br /> <a + href="#link2H_4_0003"> <b>BOOK 1.</b> </a> <br /><br /> <a + href="#link2HCH0001"> CHAPTER I. </a>THE BETROTHAL FETE <br /><br /> <a + href="#link2HCH0002"> CHAPTER II. </a>THE BARONESS’S MATCHMAKING <br /><br /> + <a href="#link2HCH0003"> CHAPTER III. </a>THE STORY OF THE ZILAHS <br /><br /> + <a href="#link2HCH0004"> CHAPTER IV. </a>"WHEN HUNGARY IS FREE!” <br /><br /> + <a href="#link2HCH0005"> CHAPTER V. </a>"MY FATHER WAS A RUSSIAN!” <br /><br /> + <a href="#link2HCH0006"> CHAPTER VI. </a>A GYPSY PRINCESS <br /><br /> <a + href="#link2HCH0007"> CHAPTER VII. </a>THE STORY OF MARSA <br /><br /> <a + href="#link2HCH0008"> CHAPTER VIII. </a>"HAVE I NO RIGHT TO BE HAPPY” + <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0009"> CHAPTER IX. </a>"O LIBERTY! O LOVE! + THESE TWO I NEED!” <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0010"> CHAPTER X. </a>"IS + FATE SO JUST?” <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0011"> CHAPTER XI. </a>A + RIVER FETE <br /><br /> <a href="#link2H_4_0015"> <b>BOOK 2.</b> </a> + <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0012"> CHAPTER XII. </a>A DARK PAGE <br /><br /> + <a href="#link2HCH0013"> CHAPTER XIII. </a>"MY LETTERS OR MYSELF” <br /><br /> + <a href="#link2HCH0014"> CHAPTER XIV. </a>"HAVE I THE RIGHT TO LIE?” + <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0015"> CHAPTER XV. </a>"AS CLINGS THE LEAF + UNTO THE TREE” <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0016"> CHAPTER XVI. </a>"IT + IS A MAN THEY ARE DEVOURING!” <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0017"> + CHAPTER XVII. </a>MARSA’S GUARDIANS <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0018"> + CHAPTER XVIII. </a>"THERE IS NO NEED OF ACCUSING ANYONE.” <br /><br /> <a + href="#link2HCH0019"> CHAPTER XIX. </a>"A BEAUTIFUL DREAM” <br /><br /> <a + href="#link2HCH0020"> CHAPTER XX. </a>THE BRIDAL DAY <br /><br /> <a + href="#link2HCH0021"> CHAPTER XXI. </a>"THE TZIGANA IS THE MOST LOVED OF + ALL!” <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0022"> CHAPTER XXII. </a>A DREAM + SHATTERED <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0023"> CHAPTER XXIII. </a>"THE + WORLD HOLDS BUT ONE FAIR MAIDEN” <br /><br /> <a href="#link2H_4_0028"> <b>BOOK + 3.</b> </a> <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0024"> CHAPTER XXIV. </a>A + LITTLE PARISIAN ROMANCE <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0025"> CHAPTER XXV. + </a>THE HOME OF “PUCK” <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0026"> CHAPTER XXVI. + </a>"AM I AVENGED?” <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0027"> CHAPTER XXVII. + </a>"WHAT MATTERS IT HOW MUCH WE SUFFER?” <br /><br /> <a + href="#link2HCH0028"> CHAPTER XXVIII. </a>THE STRICKEN SOUL <br /><br /> + <a href="#link2HCH0029"> CHAPTER XXIX. </a>"LET THE DEAD PAST BURY ITS + DEAD” <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0030"> CHAPTER XXX. </a>"TO SEEK + FORGETFULNESS” <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0031"> CHAPTER XXXI. </a>"IF + MENKO WERE DEAD!” <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0032"> CHAPTER XXXII. + </a>THE VALE OF VIOLETS <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0033"> CHAPTER + XXXIII. </a>THE DUEL <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0034"> + CHAPTER XXXIV. </a>A NEW LIFE <br /><br /> + </p> + </blockquote> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> <a name="link2H_4_0001" id="link2H_4_0001"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <h2> + JULES CLARETIE + </h2> + <p> + Arsene Arnaud Claretie (commonly called Jules), was born on December 3, + 1840, at Limoges, the picturesque and smiling capital of Limousin. He has + been rightly called the “Roi de la Chronique” and the “Themistocle de la + Litterature Contemporaine.” 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. + </p> + <p> + 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-deplume in L’Illustration is + “Perdican”; he also contributes to the Figaro, ‘L’Independence Belge, + 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 today a most popular journalist and writes for the ‘Presse, + Petit Journal, Temps’, and others. He has not succeeded as a politician. + Under the second Empire he was often in collision with the Government; in + 1857 he was sentenced to pay a fine of 1,000 francs, which was a splendid + investment; more than once lectures to be given by him were prohibited + (1865-1868); in 1871 he was an unsuccessful 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! + </p> + <p> + The number of volumes and essays written by Jules Claretie surpasses + imagination, and it is, therefore, almost 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 Derniers + Montagnards (1867); Histoire de la Revolution de 1870-71 (second edition, + 1875, 5 vols.); La France Envahie (1871); Le Champ de Bataille de Sedan + (1871); Paris assiege and Les Prussiens chez eux (1872); Cinq Ans apres, + L’Alsace et la Lorraine depuis l’Annexion (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 belong: Moliere, sa Vie et ses OEuvres (1873); Peintres et + Sculpteurs Contemporains, and T. B. Carpeaux (1875); L’Art et les Artistes + Contemporains (1876)’, and others. Quite different from the above, and in + another phase of thought, are: ‘Voyages d’un Parisien (1865); Journees de + Voyage en Espagne et France (1870); Journees de Vacances (1887)’; and + others. + </p> + <p> + 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 “Impressionists,” and, although he has a liking for exceptional + situations, wherefrom humanity does not always issue without serious + blotches, he yet is free from pessimism. He has no nervous disorder, no + “brain fag,” he is no pagan, not even a nonbeliever, 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, Histoire de + Village (1863); Mademoiselle Cachemire (1867); Un Assassin, also known + under the title Robert Burat (1867); Madeleine Bertin, 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); Moeurs du Jour (1883); Le Prince Zilah (1884), crowned by + the Academy four years before he was elected; Candidat!(1887); Puyjoli + (1890); L’Americaine (1892); La Frontiere (1894); Mariage Manque (1894); + Divette (1896); L’Accusateur (1897), and others. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 Della Gattina (Ambigu, 1869); Raymond Lindey (Menus + Plaisirs, 1869, forbidden for some time by French censorship); Les + Muscadins (Theatre Historique, 1874); Un Pyre (with Adrien Decourcelle, + Gymnase, 1874); Le Regiment de Champagne (Theatre Historique, 1877); + Monsieur le Ministre, together with Dumas fils and Busnach (Gymnase, + 1883); and Prince Zilah (Gymnase, 1885). + </p> + <p> + Some of them, as will be noticed, are adapted to the stage from his + novels. In Le Regiment de Champagne, 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 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.” + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + COMPTE D’HAUSSONVILLE + de L’Academie Francaise. +</pre> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> <a name="link2H_4_0002" id="link2H_4_0002"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <h1> + PRINCE ZILAH + </h1> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0003" id="link2H_4_0003"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + BOOK 1. + </h2> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0001" id="link2HCH0001"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER I. THE BETROTHAL FETE + </h2> + <p> + “Excuse 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. + </p> + <p> + 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, L’Actualite; and + then, still continuing to write, he replied: + </p> + <p> + “Prince Andras Zilah is giving a fete on board one of the boats belonging + to the Compagnie de la Seine.” + </p> + <p> + “A fete? Why?” + </p> + <p> + “To celebrate his approaching marriage, Monsieur.” + </p> + <p> + “Prince Andras! Ah!” said the first speaker, as if he knew the name well; + “Prince Andras is to be married, is he? And who does Prince Andras Zil—” + </p> + <p> + “Zilah! He is a Hungarian, Monsieur.” + </p> + <p> + The reporter appeared to be in a hurry, and, handing another leaf to the + boy, he said: + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Very well, Monsieur Jacquemin.” + </p> + <p> + “And don’t lose any of the leaves.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Monsieur Jacquemin! I never lose anything!” + </p> + <p> + “They will have some difficulty, perhaps, in reading the names—they + are all queer; but I shall correct the proof myself.” + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + The other did not seem to understand; but he smiled, thanked the reporter, + and strolled away from the parapet, 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!” + </p> + <p> + 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 + 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 conservatory. 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 sombre 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 coquettish graces and studied raising of the skirts, allowing + 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 realism of crowded cabs, full omnibuses, and hurrying + foot-passengers. + </p> + <p> + Prince Andras Zilah had invited his friends, this July morning, to a + breakfast in the open air, before the moving panorama of the banks of the + Seine. + </p> + <p> + 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 Sandor, + who was the last, in 1849, to hold erect the tattered 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 acquaintances 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 Andras. 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. + </p> + <p> + “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, 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 eccentricities 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 English or German company the cultivation of + his wheat, corn, and oats, he would increase his revenue by about six + hundred thousand francs a year: + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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 fireworks upon + picturesque ruins. + </p> + <p> + The fortune of the Zilahs was then on a par with the almost fabulous, + incalculable wealth of the Esterhazys and Batthyanyis. Prince Paul + Esterhazy alone possessed three hundred and fifty square leagues of + territory 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 thousand acres of Hungarian soil, the nobles of Great + Britain possessing not more than five thousand in England. The Prince of + Lichtenstein entertained for a week the Emperor of Austria, his staff and + 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 conquering Turk. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + The little fete given for his friends on board the Parisian 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 + nationalities; an assemblage of exotic personages, such as are met with + only in Paris in certain peculiar places where aristocracy touches + Bohemianism, and nobles mingle 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 agglomeration 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. + </p> + <p> + This was the sort of assemblage which, powdered, perfumed, exquisitely + dressed, invaded, with gay laughter 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. + </p> + <p> + The reporter wrote on, wrote ever, tearing off and handing to the page + attached to ‘L’Actualite’ the last 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 elegant 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. + </p> + <p> + All these odd people, astonishing a little and interesting 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0002" id="link2HCH0002"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER II. THE BARONESS’S MATCHMAKING + </h2> + <p> + The 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. + </p> + <p> + “What a charming thought this was of yours, Prince, so unexpected, so + Parisian, ah, entirely Parisian!” + </p> + <p> + In almost the same words did each newcomer address the Prince, who smiled, + and repeated a phrase from Jacquemin’s chronicles: “Foreigners are more + Parisian than the Parisians themselves.” + </p> + <p> + 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 + strength and controlled passion, pleased all the more because, while + commanding respect, it attracted sympathy beneath the powerful exterior, + you felt there was a tender kindliness of heart. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 apoplectic neck, stood by her side, buttoned up in his + frock-coat as in a military uniform. + </p> + <p> + Every now and then, leaning over and brushing with his moustaches her + delicate white ear, he would ask: + </p> + <p> + “Are you happy, Marsa?” + </p> + <p> + And Marsa would answer with a smile ending in a sigh, as she vaguely + contemplated the scene before her: + </p> + <p> + “Yes, uncle, very happy.” + </p> + <p> + Not far from these two was a little woman, still very pretty, although of + a certain age—the age of embonpoint—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. + </p> + <p> + “Indeed, my dear Varhely, I am enchanted with this idea of Prince Andras. + I am enjoying myself excessively 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!” + </p> + <p> + “Do I seem sad, then, Baroness?” + </p> + <p> + 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 Tzigana—a Princess + Zilah, seemed to Count Varhely a slightly bold resolution. The brave old + soldier had never understood much of the fantastic caprices of passion, + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 Andras absolutely beaming with happiness? + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Menko! My dear Michel!” he exclaimed, stretching out both hands to the + newcomer, who advanced, excessively pale. “By what happy chance do I see + you, my dear boy?” + </p> + <p> + “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——.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Michel Menko, however, had not the air of a timid man. He was tall, thin, + of graceful figure, a man of the 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 Countess 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 decidedly a + happy one. + </p> + <p> + “How happy you make me, my dear fellow!” he said to him in a tone of + affection which was almost paternal. + </p> + <p> + Each demonstration of friendship by the Prince seemed to increase the + young Count’s embarrassment. Beneath a polished manner, the evidence of an + imperious 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 hussars, with closely + shaven chin, and moustaches brushed fiercely upward, manoeuvring his horse + on the Prater with supple grace and nerves like steel. + </p> + <p> + 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 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 attitude and expression when Prince Zilah said to + him: + </p> + <p> + “Come, Michel, let me present you to my fiancee. Varhely is there also.” + </p> + <p> + And, taking Menko’s arm, he led him toward Marsa. “See,” he said to the + young girl, “my happiness is complete.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “If it were not for that stupid superstition which forbids one to proclaim + his happiness, I should tell you how happy I am, very happy. Yes, the + happiest of men,” he added. + </p> + <p> + Meanwhile, the little Baroness Dinati, the pretty brunette, who had just + found Varhely a trifle melancholy, had turned to Paul Jacquemin, the + accredited reporter of her salon. + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + “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 article it would make: The Baroness’s Matchmaking! The romance! Quick, + the romance! The romance, or death!” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Which I am very fond of, Baroness, I confess, especially when they are + just a little—you know!” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “It will sell fifty thousand copies of our paper,” gayly exclaimed + Jacquemin, opening his ears, and taking notes mentally. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0003" id="link2HCH0003"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER III. THE STORY OF THE ZILAHS + </h2> + <p> + Andras 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 redcloaks, the terrible darkskinned 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. + </p> + <p> + 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, Zringi had defended against the Turks, + displaying lofty courage and unconquerable audacity, and forcing Soliman + 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 terrible massacres which no Hungarian has ever + forgotten. Then he told him of the great revolts, the patriotic uprisings, + the exploits of Botzkai, Bethlen Gabor, or Rakoczy, whose proud battle + hymn made the blood surge through the veins of the little prince. + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “This place is called the Field of Blood. Martinowitz was beheaded here + for his faith. Remember, that a man’s life belongs to his duty, and not to + his happiness.” + </p> + <p> + 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 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, + contemporaries 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 wandering Tzigani, the + refrain of the old patriotic ballad ‘Czaty Demeter’, the origin of which + is lost in the mist of ages— + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Remember, oh, yes! remember our ancestors! Brave, proud Magyars, + when you left the land of the Scythians, brave ancestors, great + forefathers, you did not suspect that your sons would be slaves! + Remember, oh, yes! remember our ancestors! +</pre> + <p> + Andras did remember them, and he knew by heart their history. He knew the + heroism of Prince 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!” + </p> + <p> + There was not one of those men, whose portraits followed the child with + their black eyes, who was not recorded 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 battleground. When he offered his name and his life to + Maria Theresa, one of the Zilah princes had said proudly 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. Forward!” + These terrible ancestors were, besides, like all the magnates of Hungary, + excessively proud of their nobility 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 enraptured with this + transformation in the ancient family of the Zilahs. No man, not even + Georgei, the Spartanlike soldier, nor the illustrious Kossuth, was more + popular 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. + </p> + <p> + At this youthful age, Andras Zilah had been one of those magnates, who, + the ‘kalpach’ on the head, the national ‘attila’ over the shoulder and the + hand upon the hilt of the sword, had gone to Vienna to plead before the + Emperor the cause of Hungary. They were not listened to, and one evening, + the negotiations proving futile, Count Batthyanyi said to Jellachich: + </p> + <p> + “We shall soon meet again upon the Drave!” + </p> + <p> + “No,” responded the Ban of Croatia, “I will go myself to seek you upon the + Danube!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 broadsword of + the Bohemian cuirassiers of Auersperg’s regiment, would recall to him the + past with a mournful shake of the head, and repeat, ironically, the bitter + refrain of the song of defeat: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 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! +</pre> + <p> + And then, these melancholy words calling up the memory of disaster, all + would revive before Andras Zilah’s eyes—the days of mourning and the + days of glory; the exploits of Bem; the victories of Dembiski; the + Austrian flags taken at Goedolloe; the assaults of Buda; the defence of + Comorn; Austria, dejected and defeated, imploring the aid of Russia; + Hungary, beaten by the 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 conquered people overwhelmed by numbers: + </p> + <p> + Dance, dance, daughters of Hungary! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 Hungary before the year of massacre, and + the seeds of which the Cossack horses had imported in their thick manes + and tails. + </p> + <p> + Beloved Hungary, whose sons, disdaining the universe, 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. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0004" id="link2HCH0004"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER IV. “WHEN HUNGARY IS FREE!” + </h2> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Prince Sandor was able to grasp the hand of his son, and murmur in the ear + of this hero of sixteen: + </p> + <p> + “Remember! Love and defend the fatherland!” + </p> + <p> + Then, as the Austrians were close at hand, it was necessary to bury the + Prince in a trench dug in the snow, at the foot of a clump of fir-trees. + </p> + <p> + Some Hungarian ‘honveds, bourgeois’ militia, and Varhely’s hussars held at + the edge of the black opening resinous 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 Andras 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 forehead, like a star, the round mark of the bit of lead + that had killed him. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “I will avenge you, father,” he whispered to the patriot, who could no + longer hear his words. + </p> + <p> + The hussars and honveds had advanced, ready to fire a final salvo over the + grave of the Prince, when, suddenly, gliding between the ranks of the + soldiers, appeared 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 certain mysteriously touching element to the + sad scene. A quick shudder ran through the ranks of the soldiers, ready to + become avengers. + </p> + <p> + 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 Hungarian plain. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 motionless, 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 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 Sandor, lying there in his + martial uniform. + </p> + <p> + The bronzed Tzigani, fantastically illumined by the red glare of the + torches, stood out against the white background like demons of revenge; + and the hymn, feverish, bold, ardent, echoed through the snow-covered + branches like a hurricane of victory. They were wandering musicians, 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. + </p> + <p> + When they had finished, the wintry night-wind bearing 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 shovelled in + upon the body of Sandor Zilah, and Prince Andras drew away, after marking + with a cross the place where his father reposed. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + He wondered why the girl wept so bitterly, when he, the son, could not + shed a tear. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + Andras looked at the girl. + </p> + <p> + “What talisman?” + </p> + <p> + “Some pebbles from the lakes of Tatra, sewn up in a little leather bag.” + </p> + <p> + 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 + the old legends, the most beautiful carbuncle in the world lies hidden, a + carbuncle which would sparkle like the sun, if it could be discovered, 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 + Tzigana, and at the offer which, the evening before, Prince Sandor had + refused with a smile. + </p> + <p> + “Give me what you wished to give my father,” he said. “I will keep it in + memory of him.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “At all events,” exclaimed the young girl, “there will be one Zilah whom + the balls of the Croats will spare for the safety of Hungary.” + </p> + <p> + Andras 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + Already, at a distance, could be heard a rapid fusillade about the + outposts. The Austrians had perhaps perceived the light from the torches, + and were attempting a night attack. + </p> + <p> + “Extinguish the torches!” cried Yanski Varhely. + </p> + <p> + 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—the Tzigani 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0005" id="link2HCH0005"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER V. “MY FATHER WAS A RUSSIAN!” + </h2> + <p> + When 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 years before 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. + </p> + <p> + “Hungary will spring up again, Yanski; Hungary is immortal!” Andras would + exclaim. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + The years brought happy changes to Hungary. She 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, refined life of the + French city; and this was a consolation, at times, for the exile from his + native land. + </p> + <p> + “It is not a difficult thing to become bewitched with Paris,” he would + say, as if to excuse himself. + </p> + <p> + He had no longer, it is true, the magnificent landscapes 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 horizons 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 himself somewhat as a man away on a visit, and suddenly 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 forehead and a ditch. + Then, without knowing it, he had reached and passed his fortieth year. + </p> + <p> + “Now it is too late,” he said, gayly. “The psychological 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.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + In the midst of the austere and thoughtful life he led, Andras preserved, + nevertheless, a sort of youthful buoyancy. 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 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 + careless one of a child. + </p> + <p> + 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 bottom of his heart. But he had not sought this love; for + he adored his Hungary as he would have loved a woman, and the bitter + recollection of her defeat gave him the impression of a love that had died + or been cruelly betrayed. + </p> + <p> + Yanski, on the whole, had not greatly troubled himself 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. + </p> + <p> + “Taking life as it is,” old Varhely would growl, “perhaps it isn’t + necessary to bring into the world little beings 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, Andras, it is a pity.” + </p> + <p> + The decisions of men are more often dependent upon chance than upon their + own will. Prince Andras received an invitation to dinner one day from the + little Baroness Dinati, whom he liked very much, and whose 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 circles of society; oddities liked her, and she did + not dislike oddities. Very honest, very spirituelle, an excellent 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 digested. + </p> + <p> + 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?” + </p> + <p> + “I am sure of it; but there would not be any great merit in your doing + so.” + </p> + <p> + “And why not, please?” + </p> + <p> + “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 reputation the slightest little scorch.” + </p> + <p> + “Then you think that my guests are”—— + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “I suppose you will not come any more to the Rue Murillo, then?” + </p> + <p> + “Certainly I shall—to see you.” + </p> + <p> + 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 choosing 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 + billionaires 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, Baroness + 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 + cosmopolitan. 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. + </p> + <p> + On a certain evening the Baroness was very anxious that the Prince should + not refuse her latest invitation. + </p> + <p> + “I am arranging a surprise for you,” she said. “I am going to have to + dinner”— + </p> + <p> + “Whom? The Mikado? The Shah of Persia?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “The Tzigana?” + </p> + <p> + This simple word, resembling the clank of cymbals, brought up to Prince + Andras a whole world of recollections. ‘Hussad czigany’! The rallying cry + of the wandering musicians of the puszta had some element in it like the + cherished tones of the distant bells of his fatherland. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + The Prince had no notion how prophetic his words were. The Tzigana, whom + the Baroness requested him to take in 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 incarnation, in a prouder and more refined type, + of the warm, supple, nervous beauty of the girls of his country. + </p> + <p> + He was surprised and strangely fascinated, attracted 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. + </p> + <p> + 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, + midnight beauty. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + He smiled, and mentioned more illustrious names. + </p> + <p> + “No, no,” she answered; “those are not the names I care for, but yours. I + will tell you why.” + </p> + <p> + 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 enthusiasm. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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, Andras, voluntarily isolated, saw again, present + and living, his whole heroic past rise up before him, as beneath the wave + of a fairy’s wand. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “My father was a Russian,” responded Marsa, abruptly, her voice suddenly + becoming harsh and cutting. + </p> + <p> + “A Russian?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, a Russian,” she repeated, emphasizing the word with 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?” + </p> + <p> + 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 + implored her to speak, stopping just at the limit where sympathy might + change into indiscretion. + </p> + <p> + “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 acquainted with mine.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh! you!” she said, with a sad smile; “your life is history; mine is + drama, melodrama even. There is a great difference.” + </p> + <p> + “Pardon my presumption!” + </p> + <p> + “Oh! I will willingly tell you of my life, if the existence 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!” + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “Yes, a Russian! My father was a Russian!” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0006" id="link2HCH0006"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER VI. A GYPSY PRINCESS + </h2> + <p> + The 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 deliciously disquieting sentiment, as if + the secret of this girl’s existence were now grafted upon his own life. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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; 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 Tchereteff s, 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 immense 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. + </p> + <p> + She never saw Prince Tchereteff, handsome, generous, charming, loving her + and trembling before her glance although he had ruthlessly kidnapped her + from her country, that she did not think of him, sword in hand, entering + 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 drooping 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 defended 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 resembling 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 velvety eyes, and her long, + waving black hair, with its bronze reflections, which the mother loved to + wind about her thin fingers. + </p> + <p> + Her beauty, faded by long, slow sorrow, Tisza found again in her child, a + true daughter of Hungary like herself; and, as Marsa grew up, she told her + the legends, the songs, the heroism, the martyrdom, of Hungary, picturing + 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. + </p> + <p> + Marsa grew up in the Muscovite castle, loving nothing in the world except + her mother, and regarding with frightened eyes the blond stranger who + sometimes took her upon his knees and gazed sadly into her face. Before + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 Servian proverb which says, that when a Wallachian has crossed + the threshold the whole house becomes Wallachian. 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + And the years passed without the Tzigana pardoning the Russian, and + without Marsa ever having called him father. + </p> + <p> + In the name of their child, the Prince one day solemnly asked Tisza Laszlo + to consent to become his wife, and the mother refused. + </p> + <p> + “But our daughter?” said the Prince. + </p> + <p> + “My daughter? She will bear the name of her mother, which at least is not + a Russian name.” + </p> + <p> + The Prince was silenced. + </p> + <p> + 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 everything, loving knowledge for its own sake, but, + nevertheless, always deeply moved by the history of that unknown 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; Bem, the conqueror of Buda; Kossuth, the dreamer of a + sort of feudal liberty; and those chivalrous Zilah princes, father and + son, the fallen martyr and the living hero. + </p> + <p> + 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 Tzigana, 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 + fatherland. + </p> + <p> + 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 life. The Prince purchased, at Maisons-Lafitte, not far from the + forest of Saint-Germain, a house surrounded by an immense garden. Here, as + formerly at Moscow, Tisza and the Prince lived together, and yet apart—the + Tzigana, 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. + </p> + <p> + 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, before + the mother, to forgive him for her birth. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “And you,” murmured the dying Prince, “will you forgive me, Tisza?” + </p> + <p> + 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!” + </p> + <p> + Then she saw herself dragged almost beneath a horse’s hoofs, cast into a + wagon with wrists bound together, carried 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. + </p> + <p> + She made a step toward the dying man as if to force herself to whisper, “I + forgive you;” but all the resentment 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. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0007" id="link2HCH0007"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER VII. THE STORY OF MARSA + </h2> + <p> + Prince 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. + </p> + <p> + It had been necessary to obtain the sovereign intervention 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 inherited. + </p> + <p> + 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-civilized + Tzigana, was not the one to guide and protect a young girl in Paris. The + Prince believed Vogotzine to be less old and more acquainted with Parisian + life than he really was, and it was a consolation to the father to feel + that his daughter would have a guardian. + </p> + <p> + 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, in 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. + </p> + <p> + 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, separated in life, should pardon + each other in the unknown, obscure place of departed souls. + </p> + <p> + So Marsa Laszlo was left alone in the world. She returned to France, which + she had become attached to, and shut herself up in the villa of + Maisons-Lafitte, letting 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 Circassians 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 kummel 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 compatriots 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 village 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 did she cling to that cognomen of which she was so proud. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + Prince Andras listened with passionate attention to the beautiful girl, + thus evoking for him the past, confident and even happy to speak and make + herself known to the man whose life of heroic devotion she knew so well. + </p> + <p> + 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 Tzigana, 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. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “Me, Mademoiselle? You have been seeking me?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, you. Tisza, of whom I spoke to you, my Tzigana 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.” + </p> + <p> + “Your mother?” said Andras, waiting anxiously for the young girl to + continue. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, my mother.” + </p> + <p> + She pointed to the buckle which clasped the belt of her dress. + </p> + <p> + “See,” she said. + </p> + <p> + Andras felt a sudden pang, which yet was not altogether pain, dart through + his heart, and his eyes wandered 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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, fascinating creature, whose every word, + since he had first met her a few hours before, had exercised such a + powerful effect upon him. + </p> + <p> + “So,” he said, slowly, with a sad smile, “your mother’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?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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 delicate 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 musicians, suddenly breaking off to exclaim: + </p> + <p> + “Really, you are a hundred times prettier than ever this evening, my dear + Marsa. What have you been doing to yourself?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh! it is because I am very happy, I suppose,” replied Marsa. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Instinctively Andras Zilah followed her look. Michel Menko was advancing + to salute Marsa Laszlo, and take with affectionate respect the hand which + Andras extended to him. + </p> + <p> + Marsa coldly returned the low bow of the young man, and took no part in + the conversation which followed. 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. + </p> + <p> + “Very well,” she said, in a peculiar tone. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “None.” + </p> + <p> + “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 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 + understand why he gave up diplomacy. He makes me uneasy: he seems to me, + like all young men of his generation, 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 diplomatist.” + </p> + <p> + “Too good, perhaps,” interrupted Marsa, dryly. + </p> + <p> + “Ah, decidedly,” retorted the Prince, with a smile, “you don’t like my + poor Menko.” + </p> + <p> + “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 + himself 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—” + </p> + <p> + She paused abruptly, as if unwilling to say more. + </p> + <p> + “And what?” asked the Prince. + </p> + <p> + “Nothing. ‘Examples’ is enough; I don’t know what I was going to say.” + </p> + <p> + 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 frankness, 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. + </p> + <p> + “But, indeed,” she added, with a laugh which displayed two rows of pearly + teeth, “it is not for me to invite you. That is a terrible breach of the + proprieties. General!” + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “Prince Andras Zilah, uncle, will do us the honor of coming to see us at + Maisons-Lafitte.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah! Ah! Very happy! Delighted! Very flattering 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!” + </p> + <p> + He held out to Andras his big, fat hand, and repeated, as he shook that of + the Prince: + </p> + <p> + “Delighted! Enchanted! Prince Zilah! Yes! Yes!” + </p> + <p> + In another moment they were gone, and the evening seemed to Andras like a + vision, a beautiful, feverish dream. + </p> + <p> + He sent away his coupe, and returned home on foot, feeling the need of the + night air; and, as he walked up the Champs-Elysees beneath the starry sky, + he was surprised to find a new, youthful feeling at his heart, stirring + his pulses like the first, soft touch of spring. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0008" id="link2HCH0008"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER VIII. “HAVE I NO RIGHT TO BE HAPPY” + </h2> + <p> + There was a certain womanly coquetry, mingled with a profound love of the + soil where her martyred mother reposed, 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, resonant and expressive as the czimbaloms 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 Hungarian + names for the Danube and the Velu. + </p> + <p> + These hounds, and an enormous dog of the Himalayas, 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 submission to + their young mistress, whom they could have knocked down with one pat of + their paws, gave the Tzigana reputation for eccentricity; which, however, + neither pleased nor displeased her, as she was perfectly indifferent to + the opinion of the public at large. + </p> + <p> + 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 regarded her respectfully with his + round eyes, always moist with ‘kwass’ or brandy. + </p> + <p> + 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 deserted avenues, toward the bit of pale blue horizon + discernible 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, + spurring 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 peppered + with blue cornflowers and scarlet poppies. + </p> + <p> + 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 + herself plunged in solitude as in a bath of verdure, shade and oblivion. + The sweet silence surrounding her calmed her, and she would walk on and on + though 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 shoes, her + whole being refreshed by the atmosphere of peace which fell from the + trees. + </p> + <p> + 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 Budapest,” and that bitter; + melancholy romance, “The 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 particular state of her own + heart. + </p> + <p> + The girl was evidently concealing some secret suffering. 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Who knows?” she murmured. “Perhaps forgetfulness, deep, profound + forgetfulness, lies within these walls.” Forgetfulness! Marsa, then, + wished to forget? What secret torture gave to her beautiful face that + expression so bitter, so terrible in its agony? + </p> + <p> + 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 vesper service. + </p> + <p> + Does prayer drive away anguish and heartrending memories? + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + But, suddenly, the Tzigana started, removed her gaze from the light + streaming through the blue and crimson glass, and hurried away, crying + aloud in the darkness: + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + 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, 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. + </p> + <p> + And was not this existence sweet and pleasant, compared with the life led + by Tisza in the castle of the suburbs of Moscow? + </p> + <p> + In this solitude, in the villa of Maisons-Lafitte, Andras 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 + Vogotzine had seen in his niece’s house, and Marsa was always strangely + happy when Andras came to see her. + </p> + <p> + “Mademoiselle is very particular when Prince Zilah is coming to Maisons,” + said her maid to her. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “So I have heard Count Menko say to Mademoiselle.” + </p> + <p> + If it were the maid’s wish to remove all happiness from her mistress’s + face, she had met with complete success. + </p> + <p> + 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 speaking to her at Baroness Dinati’s. + </p> + <p> + The Prince had forgotten no detail of that first fascinating 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 independent; 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 despair in 1849, said: “The + overweening haughtiness of my people will be their ruin.” + </p> + <p> + The last of the Zilahs did not consider his pride humiliated by loving and + wedding a Tzigana. Frankly, in accents of the deepest love and the most + sincere devotion, Andras asked Marsa Laszlo if she would consent to become + his wife. But he was terrified at the expression of anguish which passed + over the pale face of the young girl. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + She regarded with wild eyes the Prince, who stood 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. + </p> + <p> + “What is it?” he cried; for Marsa’s fingers were icy. + </p> + <p> + It cost the young girl a terrible effort to prevent herself from losing + consciousness. + </p> + <p> + “But speak to me, Marsa,” exclaimed Andras, “do not keep me in suspense.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + He had, doubtless, believed that he had perceived in her a tender feeling + toward himself which had emboldened him to ask her to be his wife. But had + he been deceived? Was it only the soldier in him that had pleased Marsa? + Was he about to suffer a terrible disappointment? Ah, what folly to love, + and to love at forty years, a young and beautiful girl like Marsa! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “Never!” + </p> + <p> + 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!” + </p> + <p> + She loved him? Yes, madly-better than that, with a deep, eternal passion, + a passion solidly anchored in admiration, respect and esteem; with an + unconquerable attraction toward what represented, to her harassed soul, + honor without a blemish, perfect goodness in perfect courage, the + immolation of a life to duty, all incarnate in one man, radiant in one + illustrious name—Zilah. + </p> + <p> + And Andras himself divined something of this feeling; 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 gesture, escaped, + like the appeal of a drowning man, from his lips: + </p> + <p> + “Do you love some one else, Marsa?” + </p> + <p> + She uttered a cry. + </p> + <p> + “No! I swear to you—no!” + </p> + <p> + 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 country, 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. + </p> + <p> + “Well, now? Now?” demanded Andras, awaiting the word which, in her + overstrung condition, Marsa had almost spoken. “Now?” + </p> + <p> + But she did not speak these words which Zilah begged for with newly + 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. + </p> + <p> + “But if you are suffering, I can not, I will not leave you.” + </p> + <p> + “I implore you. I need to be alone.” + </p> + <p> + “At least you will permit me to come to-morrow, Marsa, and ask for your + answer?” + </p> + <p> + “My answer? I have given it to you.” + </p> + <p> + “No! No! I do not accept that refusal. No! you did not know what 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. + Tomorrow, Marsa. What you have said to-day does not count. Tomorrow, + to-morrow; and remember that I adore you.” + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “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 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. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0009" id="link2HCH0009"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER IX. “O LIBERTY! O LOVE! THESE TWO I NEED!” + </h2> + <p> + When Zilah came the next day he found Marsa perfectly calm. At first he + only questioned her anxiously as to her health. + </p> + <p> + “Oh! I am well,” she replied, smiling a little sadly; and, turning to the + piano at which she was seated, she began to play the exquisitely sad + romance which was her favorite air. + </p> + <p> + “That is by Janos Nemeth, is it not?” asked the Prince. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, by Janos Nemeth. I am very fond of his music; it is so truly + Hungarian in its spirit.” + </p> + <p> + The music fell upon the air like sighs—like the distant 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. + </p> + <p> + “What is that called, Marsa?” said Andras. + </p> + <p> + She made no reply. + </p> + <p> + Rising, he looked at the title, printed in Hungarian; then, leaning over + the Tzigana till his breath fanned her cheek, he murmured: + </p> + <p> + “Janos Nemeth was right. The world holds but one fair maiden.” + </p> + <p> + She turned very pale, rose from the piano, and giving him her hand, said: + </p> + <p> + “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 reflect? A whole month?” + </p> + <p> + “My entire life belongs to you now,” said the Prince. “Do with it what you + will.” + </p> + <p> + “Well! Then in a month I will give you your answer,” she said firmly. + </p> + <p> + “But,” said Andras, smiling beneath his blond moustache, “remember that I + once, took for my motto the verses of Petoefi. You know well those + beautiful verses of our country: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + O Liberty! O Love! + These two I need. + My chosen meed, + To give my love for Liberty, + My life for Love. +</pre> + <p> + “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 incarnation + of my country.” + </p> + <p> + Marsa was moved to the depths of her heart at hearing 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 of the war of + independence, a Zilah Andras, supplicate her to bear his name? + </p> + <p> + 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 + secret thoughts, and she was certain that Andras had confided all his + hopes and his fears to his old friend. + </p> + <p> + “What do you think would become of the Prince if I should not marry him?” + she asked him one day without warning. + </p> + <p> + “That is a point-blank question which I hardly expected,” said Yanski, + gazing at her in astonishment. “Don’t you wish to become a Zilah?” + </p> + <p> + Any hesitation even seemed to him insulting, almost sacrilegious. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t say that,” replied the Tzigana, “but I ask you what would become + of the Prince if, for one reason or another—” + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “Ah!” ejaculated Marsa, with an icy chill in her veins. + </p> + <p> + “That is my opinion,” continued Yanski, harshly. “He is wounded. It + remains with you to decide whether the bullet be mortal or not.” + </p> + <p> + Varhely’s response must have had great weight in Marsa Laszlo’s + reflections, full of anguish, fever, revolt and despair as they were, + during the few weeks preceding 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. + </p> + <p> + “Ah!” he exclaimed, “I have suffered so much during these weeks of doubt; + but this happiness makes amends for all.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you know what Varhely said to me?” asked Marsa. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I know.” + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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, without + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 foreign, of which he formed a part; and this marriage of the + Magyar with the Tzigana was an event in aristocratic circles. There was an + aroma of chivalrous romance 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. + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + 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 + beautiful diamonds in the world, those famous Zilah diamonds, which Prince + Joseph had once placed disdainfully 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. + </p> + <p> + “You know them, don’t you, Jacquemin? The famous opals of the Tzigana? Put + that all in, every word of it.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, it is chic enough.” answered the reporter. “It 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + 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 toilettes, the genealogy of General Vogotzine, a sketch of the + bridegroom’s best friend, Varhely, and a thousand other details. + </p> + <p> + “Where will the wedding take place?” he asked the Baroness. + </p> + <p> + “At Maisons-Lafitte. Oh! everything is perfect, my dear Jacquemin, + perfect! An idyl! All the arrangements are exquisite, exquisite! I only + wish that you had charge of the supper.” + </p> + <p> + Jacquemin, general overseer of the Baroness’s parties in the Rue Murillo, + did not confess himself inferior 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. + </p> + <p> + “Pomard!” would slowly fall from his lips, or “Acceptable Musigny!” “This + Chambertin is really very fair!” “The Chateau Yquem is not half bad!” + etc., etc. And the next morning would appear in the reports, which he + wrote himself under various pseudonyms: “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 accomplished. 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.’” + </p> + <p> + Jacquemin had already cast an eye over the menu of the Prince’s fete, and + declared it excellent, very correct, very pure. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + .................... +</pre> + <p> + 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 vibrating notes of the March of Rakoczy, that triumphant air + celebrating the betrothal of Zilah, as it had long ago saluted the burial + of his father. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0010" id="link2HCH0010"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER X. “IS FATE SO JUST?” + </h2> + <p> + “We are moving! We are off!” cried the lively little Baroness. “I hope we + shan’t be shipwrecked,” retorted Jacquemin; and he then proceeded to draw + a comical picture of possible adventures wherein figured white bears, + icebergs, and death by starvation. “A subject for a novel,—‘The + Shipwreck of the Betrothed.’” + </p> + <p> + 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 joyously 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 Suresnes, 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. + </p> + <p> + “Ah! how pretty it is! How charming!” + </p> + <p> + “Isn’t it queer that we have never known anything about all this? It is a + veritable voyage of discovery.” + </p> + <p> + “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 + invitation, “we are now entering savage countries. It is Kamtschatka, or + some such place, and there must be cannibals here.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 General 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 increase 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. + </p> + <p> + “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 will give you the receipt also, Jacquemin. Oh! it is such + an odd-tasting dish! It gives you a sensation of having been poisoned.” + </p> + <p> + “Like the guests in Lucrezia Borgia,” laughed the Parisian Japanese. + </p> + <p> + “Do you know Lucrezia Borgia?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + The little Japanese was proud of appearing so profoundly learned in + European affairs, and his gimlet eyes sought an approving glance from Paul + Jacquemin or Michel Menko; but the Hungarian was neither listening to nor + thinking of Yamada. He was entirely absorbed in the contemplation of + Marsa; and, with lips a little compressed, he fixed a strange look upon + the beautiful young girl to whom Andras was speaking, and who, very calm, + almost grave, but evidently happy, answered the Prince with a sweet smile. + </p> + <p> + There was a sort of Oriental grace about Marsa, with her willowy figure, + flexible as a Hindoo convolvulus, 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 + beautiful eyes met those of Menko, she turned them away, evidently + avoiding his look with as much care as he sought hers. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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, thinking it was the Prince; but it was Yanski Varhely, who said to + the young man: + </p> + <p> + “Well, my dear Count, you did right to come from London to this fete. 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?” + </p> + <p> + “No,” said Michel. “This hybrid collection is representative of modern + society. I have met almost all these faces at Nice; they are to be seen + everywhere.” + </p> + <p> + “To me,” retorted Yanski, in his guttural voice, “these people are + phenomena.” + </p> + <p> + “Phenomena? Not at all. Life of to-day is so complicated 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 anything; although, to tell the truth”—and + the young man’s voice became bitter, trenchant, and almost threatening—“we + have only to grow old to meet with terrible surprises, very hard to bear.” + </p> + <p> + As he spoke, he glanced, involuntarily perhaps, at Marsa Laszlo, leaning + on the railing just below him. + </p> + <p> + “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”— + </p> + <p> + Michel frowned. + </p> + <p> + “That is, it is true, the sorrow of your life,” continued Varhely. “It + seems to me only yesterday that you lost the poor child.” + </p> + <p> + “It is over two years, however,” said Michel, gravely. “Two years! How + time flies!” + </p> + <p> + “She was so charming,” said old Yanski, not perceiving the expression of + annoyance mingled with sadness which passed over the young man’s face. “I + knew your dear wife when she was quite small, in 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.” + </p> + <p> + “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 encumberers + 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!” + </p> + <p> + But even while he spoke, his thin face became more melancholy, and his + eyes again sought the direction of Prince Andras’s fiancee. + </p> + <p> + 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 lowered, seemed absorbed in contemplation of the ceaseless flow of + the water. + </p> + <p> + 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 + perceived his approach, and who was evidently far away in some day-dream. + </p> + <p> + Gently, hesitatingly, and in a low voice, he at last spoke her name: + </p> + <p> + “Marsa!” + </p> + <p> + The Tzigana started as if moved by an electric shock, and, turning + quickly, met the supplicating eyes of the young man. + </p> + <p> + “Marsa!” repeated Michel, in a humble tone of entreaty. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “It is that which has wounded me to the quick. You are driving me mad. If + you only knew what I am suffering!” + </p> + <p> + He spoke almost in a whisper, and very rapidly, as if he felt that seconds + were worth centuries. + </p> + <p> + 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?” + </p> + <p> + Her tone and expression made Michel Menko tremble as if each syllable of + these few words was a blow in the face. + </p> + <p> + “Marsa!” he exclaimed, imploringly. “Marsa!” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + She uttered these words so resolutely, haughtily, almost disdainfully, and + accompanied them with such a flash from her beautiful eyes that Menko + instinctively bowed his head, murmuring: + </p> + <p> + “Forgive me!” + </p> + <p> + 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 resume its former + posture of dreamy absorption. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0011" id="link2HCH0011"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XI. A RIVER FETE + </h2> + <p> + Close 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 surroundings; and the boats travel slowly + along the river, impelled by enormous oars, which throw long shadows upon + the water. + </p> + <p> + It was this motionless barge that Marsa was now regarding. + </p> + <p> + The hot sun, falling upon the boat, made its brown, wet sides sparkle like + the brilliant wings of some gigantic 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 prematurely old and wasted, who was nursing a + little baby. + </p> + <p> + 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 + beyond—were eating bread and cheese, and drinking, turn by turn, out + of a bottle of wine, which they swallowed in gulps. The halt was a rest to + these poor people. + </p> + <p> + 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 unknown 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 cherished + dead, Tisza. + </p> + <p> + 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 appointed by the Palatine—a king, + who commanding 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 + prisoners of the solitary barge recall to her the great proscribed family + of her ancestors. + </p> + <p> + She called to the children playing upon the sunbeaten deck: “Come here, + and hold up your aprons!” + </p> + <p> + They obeyed, spreading out their little tattered garments. “Catch these!” + she cried. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 + pleasure of her children, murmured, faltering and confused: + </p> + <p> + “Ah! Madame! Madame! how good you are! You are too good, Madame!” + </p> + <p> + “We must share what we have!” said Marsa, with a smile. “See how happy the + children are!” + </p> + <p> + “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.’” + </p> + <p> + “Thank-you-Ma-dame” faltered the boy, raising 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.” + </p> + <p> + The two men, in astonishment, came and stood behind the children, and + gazed silently at Marsa. + </p> + <p> + “And your baby, Madame?” said the Tzigana, looking 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?” + </p> + <p> + “Its baptismal dress?” repeated the mother. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Madame!” ejaculated the father, twisting his cap between his fingers. + </p> + <p> + “Or a cloak, just as you please,” added Marsa. + </p> + <p> + The poor people on the barge made no reply, but looked at one another in + bewilderment. + </p> + <p> + “Is it a little girl?” asked the Tzigana. + </p> + <p> + “No, Madame, no,” responded the mother. “A boy.” + </p> + <p> + “Come here, jean,” said Marsa to the oldest child. “Yes, come here, my + little man.” + </p> + <p> + Jean came forward, glancing askance at his mother, as if to know whether + he should obey. + </p> + <p> + “Here, jean,” said the young girl, “this is for your baby brother.” + </p> + <p> + And into the little joined hands of the boy, Marsa let fall a purse, + through whose meshes shone yellow pieces of gold. + </p> + <p> + The people of the barge thought they were dreaming, and stood open-mouthed + in amazement, while Jean cried out: + </p> + <p> + “Mamma, see, mamma! Mamma! Mamma!” + </p> + <p> + Then the younger bargeman said to Marsa: + </p> + <p> + “Madame, no, no! we can not accept. It is too much. You are too good. Give + it back, Jean.” + </p> + <p> + “It is true, Madame,” faltered his wife. “It is impossible. It is too + much.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + The lock was now opened. + </p> + <p> + “All aboard!” shouted the captain of the steamer. + </p> + <p> + The poor woman upon the barge tried to reach the hand of Marsa to kiss it. + </p> + <p> + “May you be happy, Madame, and thank you with all our hearts for your + goodness to both big and little.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “At least tell us your name, Madame,” cried the father. “Your name, that + we may never forget you.” + </p> + <p> + A lovely smile appeared on Marsa’s lips, and, in almost melancholy + accents, she said: + </p> + <p> + “My name!” Then, after a pause, proudly: “The Tzigana!” + </p> + <p> + 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 farther away, a long plume of smoke waving behind it. + </p> + <p> + Jacquemin, hearing one of those odd airs, which in Hungary start all feet + moving and keeping time to the music, exclaimed: + </p> + <p> + “A quadrille! Let us dance a quadrille! An Hungarian quadrille!” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + And Marsa also gazed after them, her ears caressed by the czardas of the + musicians. The big barge disappeared in the distance in a luminous haze; + but the Tzigana 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 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: + </p> + <p> + “Ah! how I love you! And do you love me, Marsa?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 + fete 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. + </p> + <p> + “The dream is over,” murmured Marsa. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + Marsa turned to the Prince with a look full of passionate admiration and + devotion, which told him how thoroughly his love was returned. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “How well you dance,” she said. + </p> + <p> + “If we only had some favors,” replied the Japanese, showing his teeth in a + grin, “I would lead the cotillon.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Willingly,” responded the Japanese, with a low bow. “To collaborate with + Monsieur Jacquemin will be very amusing.” + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “At your house this evening. I must see you.” + </p> + <p> + She gave him an icy glance. Michel Menko’s eyes were at once full of tears + and flames. + </p> + <p> + “I demand it!” he said, firmly. + </p> + <p> + The Tzigana made no reply; but, going to Andras Zilah, she took his arm; + while Michel, as if nothing had happened, raised his hat. + </p> + <p> + General Vogotzine, with flaming face, followed his niece, muttering, as he + wiped the perspiration unsteadily from his face: + </p> + <p> + “Fine day! Fine day! By Jove! But the sun was hot, though! Ah, and the + wines were good!” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0015" id="link2H_4_0015"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + BOOK 2. + </h2> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0012" id="link2HCH0012"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XII. A DARK PAGE + </h2> + <p> + As 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, sadness, 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: + </p> + <p> + “Ah, when I think—when I think that I am envied!” + </p> + <p> + She regretted having allowed Andras to depart without 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 + believe it. “I demand it!” He had said: “I demand it!” Perhaps some one + standing near had heard it. “I demand it!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Marsa, her heart full of a melancholy which the twilight increased, + repeated over and over again, with shudders 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. + </p> + <p> + “The wretch!” she exclaimed between her clenched teeth. It was Menko. + </p> + <p> + He must have debarked before reaching Paris, and have come to + Maisons-Lafitte in haste. + </p> + <p> + 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 answered the bell: “Show + Count Menko into the little salon.” + </p> + <p> + “We shall see what he will dare,” muttered the Tzigana, glancing at the + mirror as if to see whether she appeared to tremble before danger and an + enemy. + </p> + <p> + The little salon into which the young Count was introduced 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + The General had shaken hands with Michel, as he passed through the large + salon, saying, in his thick voice: + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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 entered the little salon, where the + Count, who had heard her approach, was standing erect as if expecting some + attack. + </p> + <p> + Marsa closed the door behind her; and, before speaking a word, the two + faced each other, as if measuring the degree of hardihood each possessed. + The Tzigana, opening fire first, said, bravely and without preamble: + </p> + <p> + “Well, you wished to see me. Here I am! What do you want of me?” + </p> + <p> + “To ask you frankly whether it is true, Marsa, that you are about to marry + Prince Zilah.” + </p> + <p> + She tried to laugh; but her laugh broke nervously off. She said, however, + ironically: + </p> + <p> + “Oh! is it for that that you are here?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “That is true,” said Michel, coldly; “but I only learned it by chance. I + wished to hear it from your own lips.” + </p> + <p> + “Do I owe you any account of my conduct?” asked Marsa, with crushing + hauteur. + </p> + <p> + He was silent a moment, strode across the room, laid his hat down upon the + little table, and suddenly becoming humble, not in attitude, but in voice, + said: + </p> + <p> + “Listen, Marsa: you are a hundred times right to hate me. I have deceived + you, lied to you. I have conducted myself in a manner unworthy of you, + unworthy of myself. But to atone for 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.” + </p> + <p> + The Tzigana frowned. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “So! I see that you do not understand me,” said Michel, with sudden + brusqueness. + </p> + <p> + “No, I acknowledge it, not in the least.” + </p> + <p> + “When I asked you whether you were to marry Prince Andras, didn’t you + understand that I asked you also another thing: Will you marry me, me—Michel + Menko?” + </p> + <p> + “You!” cried the Tzigana. + </p> + <p> + And there was in this cry, in this “You!” ejaculated with a rapid movement + of recoil-amazement, fright, scorn, and anger. + </p> + <p> + “You!” she said again. And Michel Menko felt in this word a mass of bitter + rancor and stifled hatred which suddenly burst its bonds. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, me!” he said, braving the insult of Marsa’s cry and look. “Me, who + love you, and whom you have loved!” + </p> + <p> + “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 disgust! 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!” + </p> + <p> + “Do so, Marsa!” he cried with wild, mad passion. “I should die by your + hand, and you would not marry that man!” + </p> + <p> + Afraid of herself, wresting her eyes from the glittering 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 possible drives me insane. + I feel myself capable of any deed of madness to prevent it. Marsa! Marsa! + You did love me once!” + </p> + <p> + “I love honor, truth, justice,” said Marsa, sternly and implacably. “I + thought I loved you; but I never did.” + </p> + <p> + “You did not love me?” he said. + </p> + <p> + This cruel recalling of the past, which was the remorse of her life, was + like touching her flesh with a red-hot iron. + </p> + <p> + “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 became 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 myself 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 detested contact. + </p> + <p> + Michel, his face pale and convulsed, had listened to her with bowed head. + </p> + <p> + “All that you say is the truth, Marsa; but I will give my life, my whole + life, to expiate that lie!” + </p> + <p> + “There are infamies which are never effaced. There is no pardon for him + who has no excuse.” + </p> + <p> + “No excuse? Yes, Marsa; I have one! I have one: I loved you!” + </p> + <p> + “And because you loved me, was it necessary for you to betray me, lie to + me, ruin me?” + </p> + <p> + “What could I do? I did not love the woman 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 because 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!” + </p> + <p> + He then recalled to her, while she sat rigid and motionless 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 ineffaceable 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, 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 because, 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 questioned 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 + unintelligent girl, not understanding at all the character of her husband; + detesting Vienna and Paris, and gradually exacting from Menko that he + should live at Prague, near her family, whose ancient ideas and prejudices + 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 insolently, + 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 + stupidity. 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 gentleman would have imposed upon him, + and departed, brusquely breaking a union in which both husband and wife so + terribly perceived their error. + </p> + <p> + 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 Michel 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 inhabited with Vogotzine in the neighborhood of the + castle. + </p> + <p> + Poor Marsa, enthusiastic, inexperienced, her heart enamored with + chivalrous audacity, intrepid courage, all the many virtues which were + those of Hungary herself; 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 contour 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; + suffering 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 divining 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 intoxication, 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 the same time wondering, with a sarcastic + smile upon his lips, ‘Cui bono’? + </p> + <p> + 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, without 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. + </p> + <p> + “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 approaches + folly as my misanthropy approaches injustice; and because, in my opinion, + the supreme virtue in a man is firmness.” + </p> + <p> + 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 capable 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 met Marsa, he + had, to tell the truth, only experienced the most trivial love-affairs. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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 existence seemed to her only + a breath which any moment might cease. Why had she not died before she + knew that Menko had lied? + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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?” + </p> + <p> + Married! + </p> + <p> + 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 apartments in + the hotel where she was living; she ordered him out of her presence, not + allowing him to offer any excuse or explanation. + </p> + <p> + “You are married, and you are a coward!” + </p> + <p> + He threw himself at her knees, and implored her to listen to him. + </p> + <p> + “Go! Go!” + </p> + <p> + “But our love, Marsa? For I love you, and you love me.” + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + He felt his own cowardice and shame, and he disappeared, 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 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 betrayal. 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, while her heart became more sad, and her + despair more poignant. + </p> + <p> + 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 unmingled with remorse. Poor + woman! She had worthily 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. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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 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 invincibly and eternally haunted by the image of Marsa, an image + sad as a lost love, and grave as remorse. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0013" id="link2HCH0013"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XIII. “MY LETTERS OR MYSELF” + </h2> + <p> + It 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 opposite sentiment, as she listened + to him recalling those days, she felt an impression of deadly pain as if + an old wound had been reopened. Was it true that all this had ever + existed? Was it possible, even? + </p> + <p> + The man who had been her lover was speaking to her; he was speaking to her + of his love; and, if the terrible 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. + </p> + <p> + 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!” + </p> + <p> + 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 amazement, what aberration had possession of this man + that he should even pretend to excuse his infamy thus. + </p> + <p> + “And is that,” she said at last, “all that you have to 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!” + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + “Really?” she retorted. “Do I understand that it is you who now threaten + to kill me?” + </p> + <p> + “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 another—” + </p> + <p> + “Ah!” she said, interrupting him with a haughty gesture, “you speak to me + as if you had a right to dictate my actions. I have given you my + forgetfulness after giving you my love. That is enough, I think. Leave + me!” + </p> + <p> + “Marsa!” + </p> + <p> + “I have hoped for a long time that I was forever delivered from your + presence. I commanded you to disappear. Why have you returned?” + </p> + <p> + “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 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—” + </p> + <p> + “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 forgotten 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.” + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + Marsa became livid, and her eyes, hollow as those of a person sick to + death, flamed in the black circles which surrounded them. + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + “Then,” cried Menko, “you wish to push me to extremities! And yet I have + told you there are certain hours of feverish insanity in which I am + capable of committing a crime.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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, passionately! Do you understand, Marsa? Do you + understand?” and he approached with outstretched hands the Tzigana, whose + frame was shaken with indignant anger. “Do you understand? I love you + still. I was your lover, and I will, I will be so again.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, miserable coward!” cried the Tzigana, with a rapid glance toward the + daggers, before which stood Menko, preventing her from advancing, and + regarding her with eyes which burned with reckless passion, wounded + self-love, and torturing jealousy. “Yes, coward!” she repeated, “coward, + coward to dare to taunt me with an infamous past and speak of a still more + infamous future!” + </p> + <p> + “I love you!” exclaimed Menko again. + </p> + <p> + “Go!” she cried, crushing him with look and gesture. “Go! I order you out + of my presence, lackey! Go!” + </p> + <p> + All the spirit of the daughters of the puszta, the violent pride of her + Hungarian blood, flashed from her eyes; and Menko, fascinated, gazed at + her as if turned to stone, as she stood there magnificent in her anger, + superb in her contempt. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I will go to-day,” he said at last, “but tomorrow 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Listen, Marsa,” continued Menko, suddenly recovering, 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?” + </p> + <p> + Her great eyes fixed, and her lips trembling horribly, Marsa made no + reply. + </p> + <p> + “Do you understand me, Marsa?” he repeated, imploring and threatening at + once. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” she murmured at last. + </p> + <p> + She paused a moment; then a broken, feverish laugh burst from her lips, + and she continued, with stinging irony: + </p> + <p> + “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 + otherwise, believe me!” + </p> + <p> + There was in her icy tones a threat, which gave pleasure to Michel Menko. + He vaguely divined a danger. “You mean?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “Certainly,” said Michel. “But you are too imprudent, Marsa. I am not a + man to make recoil by speaking 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.” + </p> + <p> + The lip of the Tzigana curled disdainfully. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Still, I am sure that it would be you, blarsa, 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.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you think so?” + </p> + <p> + “I am certain of it.” + </p> + <p> + “Certain? Why?” + </p> + <p> + “Because you will reflect.” + </p> + <p> + “I have had time to reflect. Give me another reason.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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 leave you the + right of doing with those letters what you please!” + </p> + <p> + Then, surveying him from head to foot, as if to measure the degree of + audacity to which he could attain, “Adieu!” she said. + </p> + <p> + “Au revoir!” he rejoined coldly, giving to the salutation an emphasis full + of hidden meaning. + </p> + <p> + The Tzigana stretched out her hand, and pulled a silken bellcord. + </p> + <p> + A servant appeared. + </p> + <p> + “Show this gentleman out,” she said, very quietly. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0014" id="link2HCH0014"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XIV. “HAVE I THE RIGHT TO LIE?” + </h2> + <p> + Then 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!” + </p> + <p> + What remained to her? Expiation? Forgetfulness? + </p> + <p> + 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, occasionally thought the little Baroness Dinati + right when she said, in her laughing voice: “What are you thinking 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 aged mentally ten; but her beautiful oval face had remained unchanged, + with the purity of outline of a Byzantine Madonna. + </p> + <p> + Then—life has its awakenings—she met Prince Andras: all her + admirations as a girl, her worship of patriotism 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 + silently, 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 thunder 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. + </p> + <p> + And then this man, this hero, her hero, asked her hand, and said to her, + “I love you.” + </p> + <p> + Andras loved her! With what a terrible contraction of the heart did she + put to herself the formidable question: “Have I the right to lie? Shall I + have the courage to confess?” + </p> + <p> + 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 remembered + only to curse, effaced hours, hours which appeared to her now never to + have existed, was she obliged to ruin her life, to break her heart, and, + herself the victim, 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? + </p> + <p> + 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 + evidently 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 recalled 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 bestialities 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 remembered that his countrymen, the Hungarians, were the + only people, perhaps, who, in the abasement of all Europe before the + brutality of triumph and omnipotent pessimism, had preserved their + traditions of idealism, chivalry, and faith in the old honor; the + Hungarian 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. + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + 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 follow 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 + delight 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. + </p> + <p> + But, if she should reject Andras, he would die, 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 another? 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!” + </p> + <p> + Lost! And how? + </p> + <p> + With cold resolution, Marsa Laszlo asked herself this question, terrible + as a question of life or death: + </p> + <p> + “What would the Prince do, if, after I became his wife, he should learn + the truth?” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “To be his wife, and with my life to pay for that moment of happiness! If + I should speak now, he would fly from me, I should never see him again—and + I love 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 unworthy of + you, but I loved you; here, strike!” Or rather to say nothing, to be + loved, to take opium or digitalis, 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 + without hesitation, with joy, for the honor of her husband. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, my life against his love. I shall be his wife and die!” + </p> + <p> + 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 ourselves, 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 contemptuous curl of her lip + seemed silently to brave Michel Menko. + </p> + <p> + In all this there was a different manifestation of her 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. + </p> + <p> + She lay down to rest, still feverish from the struggle, and worn out, + slept till morning, to awaken calm, languid, but almost happy. + </p> + <p> + She passed the whole of the following day in the garden, wondering at + times if the appearance of Menko and his tomorrow were not a dream, a + nightmare. Tomorrow? That was to-day. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, yes, he will come! He is quite capable of coming,” she murmured. + </p> + <p> + She despised him enough to believe that he would dare, this time, to keep + his word. + </p> + <p> + 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 + happy! be happy!” and the little children throwing smiling kisses to her. + </p> + <p> + 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, Marsa 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 entire world in that + corner of verdure, and abandoned herself to childish hopes and dreams, in + profound enjoyment of the beautiful day. + </p> + <p> + 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 monogram 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 fete had + created a furore. That little Jacquemin was a charming fellow; Marsa knew + him. No! Really? What! she didn’t know Jacquemin of ‘L’Actualite’? 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. + </p> + <p> + “Look! It was he who told me that these sabots were to be worn. The + miserable things nearly madame 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. + </p> + <p> + She rattled on, moistening her pretty red lips with a lemonade, and + nibbling a cake, and then hastily departed just as Prince Andras’s + carriage stopped before the gate. The Baroness waved her hand to him with + a gay smile, crying out: + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + Marsa experienced the greatest delight in seeing Andras, 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 + before her, perhaps, only a few days of life. She felt perfectly happy + near Andras; and it seemed to her that to-day his manner was tenderer, the + tones of his voice more caressing, than usual. + </p> + <p> + “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 instinctively that + there existed an exquisite woman, born for me, my wife—my wife! and + I waited for you.” + </p> + <p> + He took her hands, and gazed upon her face with a look of infinite + tenderness. + </p> + <p> + “And suppose that you had not found me?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + “I should have continued to drag out a weary existence. Ask Varhely what I + have told him of my life.” + </p> + <p> + Marsa felt her heart sink within her; but she forced herself to smile. All + that Varhely had said to her returned 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 silence of suicide, which would be at once a deliverance and a + punishment, to disappear, leaving to Zilah only a memory. + </p> + <p> + 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 condemned + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “They already know the master,” laughed Vogotzine. “I have rarely seen + such gentle animals,” remarked the Prince. + </p> + <p> + “Gentle? That depends!” said Marsa. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + It was already growing dark when they reached home. Marsa ate but little + at dinner, and left Vogotzine alone to finish his wine. + </p> + <p> + Later, the General came, as usual, to bid his niece goodnight. He found + Marsa lying upon the divan in the little salon. + </p> + <p> + “Don’t you feel well? What is the matter?” + </p> + <p> + “Nothing.” + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + Sometimes he was affectionate to her, and sometimes he addressed her with + timid respect; but Marsa never appeared to notice the difference. + </p> + <p> + “I prefer to remain alone,” she answered. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Left alone, Marsa lay there motionless for more than an hour. Then she + started suddenly, hearing the clock strike eleven, and rose at once. + </p> + <p> + The domestics had closed the house. She went out by a back door which was + used by the servants, the key of which was in the lock. + </p> + <p> + 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 + Himalayas were baying, and rattling their chains. + </p> + <p> + “Peace, Ortog! Silence, Duna!” + </p> + <p> + At the sound of her voice, the noise ceased as by enchantment. + </p> + <p> + She pushed open the door of the kennel, entered, and caressed the heads of + the dogs, as they placed their paws upon her shoulders. Then she + unfastened their chains, and in a clear, vibrating voice, said to them: + </p> + <p> + “Go!” + </p> + <p> + 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 which 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, murmuring, with cold irony, in a sort of impersonal affirmation, + as if she were thinking not of herself, but of another: + </p> + <p> + “Now, I hope that Prince Zilah’s fiancee is well guarded!” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0015" id="link2HCH0015"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XV. “AS CLINGS THE LEAF UNTO THE TREE” + </h2> + <p> + Michel 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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 and rage, + he threw the package into the drawer from which he had taken it, and + mechanically picked up a volume of De Musset, opening to some page which + recalled his own suffering. Casting this aside, he took up another book, + and his eyes fell upon the passionate verses of the soldier-poet, Petoefi, + addressed to his Etelka: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 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 fliest? 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. +</pre> + <p> + “My soul is linked to thine, as clings the leaf unto the tree!” Michel + repeated the lines with a sort of defiance in his look, and longed + impatiently and nervously for the day to end. + </p> + <p> + A rapid flush of anger mounted to his face as his valet entered with a + card upon a salver, and he exclaimed, harshly: + </p> + <p> + “Did not Pierre give you my orders that I would receive no one?” + </p> + <p> + “I beg your pardon, Monsieur; but Monsieur Labanoff insisted so strongly—” + </p> + <p> + “Labanoff?” repeated Michel. + </p> + <p> + “Monsieur Labanoff, who leaves Paris this evening, and desires to see + Monsieur before his departure.” + </p> + <p> + 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 Labanoff 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. + </p> + <p> + He looked at the clock. Labanoff’s visit might make the time pass until + dinner. + </p> + <p> + “Admit Monsieur Labanoff!” + </p> + <p> + 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 forehead. He + had the air of a soldier in his long, closely buttoned frock-coat. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Labanoff, to-day, appeared to him more enigmatical and gloomy than ever. + From the lips of the Russian fell only words of almost tragical mystery. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Why?” + </p> + <p> + “I am going to St. Petersburg on pressing business.” + </p> + <p> + “Have you finished your studies in Paris?” + </p> + <p> + “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 interests me.” + </p> + <p> + “A project?” + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “I have nothing to say on that subject, even to the man for whom I have + the most regard.” + </p> + <p> + His brilliant eyes seemed to see strange visions before them. He remained + silent for a moment, and then rose with an abrupt movement. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “And why, pray?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh! I don’t know; it is an idea of mine. And then, my beloved Russia is + such a strange country. Death comes quickly there.” + </p> + <p> + He had still upon his lips that inexplicable smile, jesting and sad at + once. + </p> + <p> + Menko grasped the long, white hand extended to him. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + Labanoff’s blue eyes flashed. + </p> + <p> + “No,” he said, “no, I am not a nihilist. Annihilation is absurd; but + liberty is a fine thing!” + </p> + <p> + He stopped short, as if he feared that he had already said too much. + </p> + <p> + “Adieu, my dear Menko.” + </p> + <p> + The Hungarian detained him with a gesture, saying, with a tremble in his + voice: + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “No,” calmly replied the Russian, very pale, but still smiling, “it is not + a folly.” + </p> + <p> + “But it is a danger?” queried Menko. + </p> + <p> + Labanoff made no reply. + </p> + <p> + “I do not know either,” said Michel, “how my affair will end. But, since + chance has brought us together today, face to face—” + </p> + <p> + “It was not chance, but my own firm resolution to see you again before my + departure.” + </p> + <p> + “I know what your friendship for me is, and it is for that reason that I + ask you to tell me frankly where you will be in a month.” + </p> + <p> + “In a month?” repeated Labanoff. + </p> + <p> + “Give me the route you are going to take? Shall you be a fixture at St. + Petersburg?” + </p> + <p> + “Not immediately,” responded the Russian, slowly, his gaze riveted upon + Menko. “In a month I shall still be at Warsaw. At St. Petersburg the month + after.” + </p> + <p> + “Thanks. I only ask you to let me know, in some way, where you are.” + </p> + <p> + “Why?” + </p> + <p> + “Because, I should like to join you.” + </p> + <p> + “You!” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Why?” said Labanoff, coldly. “You are not a Russian.” + </p> + <p> + Menko smiled, and, placing his hands upon the thin shoulders of his + friend, he said: + </p> + <p> + “Those words reveal many things. It is well that they were not said before + an agent of police.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “And Count Menko will be delighted, my dear Labanoff, 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!” + </p> + <p> + “The fact is, it is stupid, egotistical and cowardly,” responded Labanoff. + </p> + <p> + He again held out to Menko his nervous hand, burning, like his blue eyes, + with fever. + </p> + <p> + “Farewell!” he said. + </p> + <p> + “No, no, ‘au revoir’!” + </p> + <p> + “‘Au revoir’ be it then. I will let you know what has become of me.” + </p> + <p> + “And where you are?” + </p> + <p> + “And where I am.” + </p> + <p> + “And do not be astonished if I join you some fine morning.” + </p> + <p> + “Nothing ever astonishes me,” said the Russian. “Nothing!” + </p> + <p> + And in that word nothing were expressed profound disgust with life and + fierce contempt of death. + </p> + <p> + Menko warmly grasped his friend’s thin and emaciated 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 apparition. He returned to his longing + to see the end of the most anxious day of his life. + </p> + <p> + 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 villages nestling at their base, all plunged + in a mysterious shadow. + </p> + <p> + 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 overwhelming desire to annihilate time and space took possession + of him, and he longed to be standing, key in hand, before the little gate + in the garden wall. + </p> + <p> + He was well acquainted with the great park of Maisons-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 + racecourse had been mapped out; and on the other extended with the stables + and servants’ quarters to the forest, the wall of the Avenue Lafitte + bounding the garden. In 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “You will wait here, Pierre,” he said, “and don’t stir till I return.” + </p> + <p> + He walked past the sleeping houses, under the mysterious 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 overgrown 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. + </p> + <p> + Was Marsa awaiting him? Would she not call for help, drive him forth, + treat him like a thief? + </p> + <p> + Suppose the gate was barred from within? He looked at the wall, and saw + that by clinging to the ivy he could reach the top. He had not come here + to hesitate. No, a hundred times no! + </p> + <p> + Besides, Marsa was certainly there, trembling, fearful, cursing him + perhaps, but still there. + </p> + <p> + “No,” he murmured aloud in the silence, “were even death behind that gate, + I would not recoil.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0016" id="link2HCH0016"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XVI. “IT IS A MAN THEY ARE DEVOURING!” + </h2> + <h3> + Michel Menko was right. The beautiful Tzigana was awaiting him. + </h3> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 + constellations. She listened with distended ears, and a shudder shook her + whole body as she heard suddenly the distant barking of a dog. + </p> + <p> + The dog perceived some one. Was it Menko? + </p> + <p> + No: the sound, a howling rather than a barking, came from a long distance, + from Sartrouville, beyond the Seine. + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + And she sighed a happy sigh as if relieved of a terrible weight. + </p> + <p> + Suddenly, with a quick movement, she started violently back, as if some + frightful apparition had risen up before her. + </p> + <p> + Hoarse bayings, quite different from the distant barking 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 precipitating themselves + upon some prey. + </p> + <p> + “Great God! He is there, then! He is there!” whispered Marsa, paralyzed + with horror. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “It was his own wish,” she thought. + </p> + <p> + Did she not know, then, what she was doing when, wishing to place a living + guard between herself and 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 herself 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. + </p> + <p> + Why should she pity him? + </p> + <p> + 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— + </p> + <p> + 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 shuddered; 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. + </p> + <p> + “My God! My God! It is a man they are devouring;” and her voice died away + in a smothered call for help. + </p> + <p> + Then she suddenly raised her head, as if moved by an electric shock. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Ah! the unhappy man!” she faltered. + </p> + <p> + Then, again, the voices of the dogs broke forth, rapid, angry, still + frightfully threatening. The animals appeared now to be running, and their + bayings became more and more distant. + </p> + <p> + What had happened? + </p> + <p> + One would have said that they were dragging away their prey, tearing it + with hideous crimson fangs. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0017" id="link2HCH0017"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XVII. MARSA’S GUARDIANS. + </h2> + <p> + Was 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. + </p> + <p> + He would glide under the window and call. Then, hearing him and frightened + at so much audacity, she would descend. + </p> + <p> + 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 + abound and a low, deep growl, made a dash toward him with outspread limbs—a + dash terrible as the leap of a tiger. + </p> + <p> + A quick thought illumined Michel’s brain like a flash of electricity: “Ah! + this is Marsa’s answer!” He had just time to mutter, with raging irony: + </p> + <p> + “I was right, she was waiting for me!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Michel Menko had no weapon. + </p> + <p> + With a knife he could have defended himself, and slit the bellies of the + maddened animals; but he had nothing! Was he to be forced, then, to fly, + pursued like a fox or a deer? + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 staggered 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. + </p> + <p> + The steel-like muscles and sinewy strength of the Hungarian now stood him + in good stead. He must either free himself, or perish there in the hideous + carnage of a quarry. He seized with both hands, in a viselike 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 fingers 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 + gradually 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 renew 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Michel gathered together all the strength that remained to him, and ran + rapidly backward, carrying with him the furious beast, which was crushing + the very bones of his arm. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 fingers 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Michel never knew how long he remained there, listening to the hideous + growling of his bloodthirsty enemies. 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? + </p> + <p> + His left leg was frightfully painful; but he thought he could manage to + walk with it. His left shoulder and arm, however, at the least movement, + caused him atrocious agony, as if the bones had been crushed by the wheel + of some machine. He sought for his handkerchief, and enveloped his + bleeding arm in it, tying the ends of it with his teeth. Then he tottered + to a woodpile near by, and, taking one of the long sticks, he managed with + its aid to drag himself along the alley, while through the branches the + moon looked calmly down upon him. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Courage!” he murmured. “On! On!” + </p> + <p> + Two clear red lights appeared-the lanterns of the coup. “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 proceed farther; and + his voice, weaker and weaker, gradually failed him. + </p> + <p> + 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 carried 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. + </p> + <p> + “Great heavens! Where have you been?” he exclaimed. “You have been + attacked?” + </p> + <p> + “The coup—place me in the coup.” + </p> + <p> + “But there are doctors here. I will go—” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + Pierre, with some brandy he luckily had with him, bathed his master’s + temples, and forced a few drops between his lips; and, when the Count had + recovered, he whipped up his horse and galloped to Paris, growling, with a + shrug of the shoulders: + </p> + <p> + “There must have been a woman in this. Curse the women! They make all the + trouble in the world.” + </p> + <p> + It was daybreak when the coup reached Paris. + </p> + <p> + Pierre heard, as they passed the barrier, a laborer say to his mate + </p> + <p> + “That’s a fine turnout. I wish I was in the place of the one who is riding + inside!” + </p> + <p> + “So do I!” returned the other. + </p> + <p> + And Pierre thought, philosophically: “Poor fools! If they only knew!” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0018" id="link2HCH0018"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XVIII. “THERE IS NO NEED OF ACCUSING ANYONE.” + </h2> + <p> + At the first streak of daylight, Marsa descended, trembling, to the + garden, and approached the little gate, wondering what horror would meet + her eyes. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Ah, Mademoiselle, something terrible has happened! 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.” + </p> + <p> + “Well—well?” gasped Marsa, her hand involuntarily seeking her heart. + </p> + <p> + “Well, there was a thief here last night, or several of 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.” + </p> + <p> + “Then,” asked Marsa, quickly, “he escaped? He is not dead?” + </p> + <p> + “No, certainly not. He got away.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah! Thank heaven for that!” cried the Tzigana, her mind relieved of a + heavy weight. + </p> + <p> + “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 mention that Duna’s + teeth are broken. But the scoundrel got his share, too; for he left big + splashes of blood upon the gravel.” + </p> + <p> + “Blood!” + </p> + <p> + “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, + Mademoiselle—were not dead, I should say that he was at the bottom + of all this.” + </p> + <p> + “There is no need of accusing anyone,” said Marsa, turning away. + </p> + <p> + 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!” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0019" id="link2HCH0019"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XIX. “A BEAUTIFUL DREAM” + </h2> + <p> + It 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. + </p> + <p> + The fiery Tzigana, who felt in her heart, implacable as it was to evil and + falsehood, all capabilities 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 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 + supplicating smile of those who beg. A muscular young fellow, 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 involuntarily + 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? perhaps 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 + herself 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 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 inquiry begun by the police had ended in no definite result. + At Maisons-Lafitte, people thought that the Russian 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 well-nigh broken. Against such an + attack all weapons were allowable, even Ortog’s teeth. The dogs of the + Tzigana had known how to defend her; and it was what she had expected from + her comrades. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “It is a beautiful dream.” + </p> + <p> + 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 + infuriated dogs at that shadow which did not exist. + </p> + <p> + General Vogotzine, in a handsome uniform, half suffocated 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 red ribbon; all possible crosses—was the first to knock at his + niece’s door, his sabre trailing upon the floor. + </p> + <p> + “Who is it?” said Marsa. + </p> + <p> + “I, Vogotzine.” + </p> + <p> + And, permission being given him, he entered the room. + </p> + <p> + 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 bouquet 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. + </p> + <p> + “How gallant you are this morning, General,” she said, her heart bursting + with emotion. + </p> + <p> + She waved away, with a brusque gesture, the orange-flowers which her maid + was about to attach to her corsage. + </p> + <p> + “No,” she said. “Not that! Roses.” + </p> + <p> + “But, Mademoiselle—” + </p> + <p> + “Roses,” repeated Marsa. “And for my hair white rosebuds also.” + </p> + <p> + At this, the old General risked another speech. + </p> + <p> + “Do you think orange-blossoms are too vulgar, Marsa? By Jove! They don’t + grow in the ditches, though!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “I will leave you to finish dressing, my dear,” he said, after a moment. + </p> + <p> + He already felt stifled in the uniform, which he was no longer accustomed + to wear, and he went out in the garden to breathe freer. While waiting + there for Zilah, he ordered some cherry cordial, muttering, as he drank + it: + </p> + <p> + “It is beautiful August weather. They will have a fine day; but I shall + suffocate!” + </p> + <p> + The avenue was already filled with people. The marriage had been much + discussed, both in the fashionable 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. + </p> + <p> + “What is all that noise?” demanded Vogotzine of the liveried footman. + </p> + <p> + “That noise, General? The inhabitants of Maisons who have come to see the + wedding procession.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Ah!” cried the General, “It is Zilah!” + </p> + <p> + And, rapidly swallowing a last glass of the cordial, he wiped his + moustache, and advanced to meet Prince Andras, who was descending from his + carriage. + </p> + <p> + Accompanying the Prince were Yanski Varhely, and an Italian friend of + Zilah’s, Angelo Valla, a former minister 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 animated 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Look at me, my dear Prince! I am in full battle array!” + </p> + <p> + Andras was in haste to see Marsa. He smiled politely at the General’s + remark, and asked him where his niece was. + </p> + <p> + “She is putting on her uniform,” replied Vogotzine, with a loud laugh + which made his sabre rattle. + </p> + <p> + 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, accompanied 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. + </p> + <p> + Very pretty, in her Louis Seize gown of pink brocade, and a Rembrandt hat + with a long white feather (Jacquemin, who remained below, had already + written down 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. + </p> + <p> + “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 shopgirls. Turn + around! You are simply exquisite.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + It seemed to her that it was not she who was to be married, or that + suddenly the awakening would come. + </p> + <p> + “The Prince is below,” said the Baroness Dinati. + </p> + <p> + “Ah!” said Marsa. + </p> + <p> + 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 draperies, 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 Andras was waiting, she felt herself enveloped in an + atmosphere 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 her cheek, saying, as he contemplated the white + vision of beauty before him: + </p> + <p> + “How lovely you are, my Marsa! And how I love you!” + </p> + <p> + The Prince spoke these words in a tone, and with a look, which touched the + deepest depths of Marsa’s heart. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + He told her how ardently he loved her, and how grateful 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. + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “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 tempest. I have repeated it very often with bitter + sadness. But now, that wicked proverb is effaced by the refrain of our old + song, Life is a chalet of pearls.” + </p> + <p> + 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, remained encircled in his arms, while he smiled and + whispered, again and again, “I love you!” + </p> + <p> + All the rest of the world had ceased to exist for these two beings, + absorbed in each other. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0020" id="link2HCH0020"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XX. THE BRIDAL DAY + </h2> + <p> + The 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 crackling 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Outside, in the square in front of the church, the crowd waited the end of + the ceremony. Shopgirls from the Rue de l’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 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “The one who catches it will have a husband before the year is out!” + </p> + <p> + A poor old blind man, cowering upon the steps of the sanctuary, was + murmuring a monotonous prayer, like the plaint of a night bird. + </p> + <p> + Yanski Varhely regarded the scene with curiosity, as he waited for the end + of the ceremony. Somewhat oppressed 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Varhely cast, from time to time, a glance into the interior of the church. + Baroness Dinati was now taking up the collection for the poor, holding the + long pole of the alms-box in her little, dimpled hands, and bowing with a + pretty smile as the coins rattled into the receptacle. + </p> + <p> + 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, taking off his hat, asked, + respectfully: + </p> + <p> + “Is it to Monsieur Varhely that I have the honor to speak?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” replied Yanski, a little surprised. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + As he spoke, the servant drew from an inside pocket a little package + carefully wrapped, and sealed with red sealing-wax. + </p> + <p> + “Monsieur will excuse me,” he said again, “but it is very important.” + </p> + <p> + “What is it?” asked Varhely, rather brusquely. “Who sent it?” + </p> + <p> + “Count Michel Menko.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + He thought Michel had probably sent a wedding present, and he took the + little package, twisting it mechanically in his hands. As he did so, he + gave a slight start of surprise; it seemed as if the package contained + letters. + </p> + <p> + 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 + expression of my excuses and my sorrow.” And below, the signature “Menko + Mihaly.” + </p> + <p> + 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 perhaps reach his Excellency, and the Count’s commands were so + imperative that—” + </p> + <p> + “Very well,” interrupted Varhely. “I will myself give this to the Prince + immediately.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + He wondered if there were really any necessity to give it to the Prince. + But why should he not? What folly to think that any disagreeable news + could come from Michel Menko! The young man, unable to come himself 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + He shrugged his shoulders, and turned toward the church. + </p> + <p> + 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 + Midsummer 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. + </p> + <p> + Murmurs of admiration greeted her as she appeared upon the threshold, + beaming with happiness. The 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: + </p> + <p> + “Ah! how I love you! my beloved, my adored Marsa! How I love you, and how + happy I am!” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0021" id="link2HCH0021"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXI. “THE TZIGANA IS THE MOST LOVED OF ALL!” + </h2> + <p> + The chimes rang forth a merry peal, and Mendelssohn’s music still + thundered its triumphal accents, as the marriage guests left the church. + </p> + <p> + “It is a beautiful wedding, really a great success! The bride, the + decorations, 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.” + </p> + <p> + “You have only to name the day, Baroness,” said old Vogotzine, inspired to + a little gallantry. + </p> + <p> + And Jacquemin, with a smile, exclaimed, in Russian: + </p> + <p> + “What a charming speech, General, and so original! I will make a note of + it.” + </p> + <p> + 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 moment + there was an assault, General Vogotzine leading 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. + </p> + <p> + The little Baroness was ubiquitous, laughing, chattering, enjoying herself + to her heart’s content, and telling every one that she was to leave that + very evening for Trouviile, with trunks, and trunks, and trunks—a + host of them! But then, it was race-week, you know! + </p> + <p> + With her eyeglasses perched upon her little nose, she stopped before a + statuette, a picture, no matter what, exclaiming, merrily: + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Ah! this is superb! Who painted it, Marsa?” + </p> + <p> + “Zichy,” replied Marsa. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Nicolas de Baratras,” said Varhely. + </p> + <p> + “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, Princess. I should like to have my portrait painted by + him. His first name is Michel, is it not?” + </p> + <p> + She examined the signature, peering through her eyeglass, close to the + canvas. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I knew it was. Michel Zichy!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 winter. + </p> + <p> + It seemed to the Prince that all these people were taking 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 Italian, 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, said: + “My dear Prince, you are longing to see us go, I 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 disperse your + guests!” + </p> + <p> + She flew away before Zilah could answer; and, murmuring 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 departing + carriages was soon heard, as they rolled down the avenue. + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + 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 tremendous rustle of petticoats. + </p> + <p> + Of all his friends, Varhely was the one of whom Andras 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 Varhely had been his relative, + and the sole surviving one. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + Yanski’s stern face worked convulsively with an emotion he tried to + conceal beneath an apparent roughness. + </p> + <p> + “You are right to love me a little,” he said, brusquely, “because I am + very fond of you—of both of you,” nodding his head toward Marsa. + “But no respect, please. That makes me out too old.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + As they disappeared in the garden, Varhely drew from his pocket the little + package given to him by Menko’s valet. + </p> + <p> + “Here is something from another friend! It was brought to me at the door + of the church.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Now,” said Yanski, “may happiness attend you, Andras! I hope that you + will let me hear from you soon.” + </p> + <p> + Zilah took the hand which Varhely extended, and clasped it warmly in both + his own. + </p> + <p> + Upon the steps Varhely found Marsa, who, in her turn, shook his hand. + </p> + <p> + “Au revoir, Count.” + </p> + <p> + “Au revoir, Princess.” + </p> + <p> + She smiled at Andras, who accompanied Varhely, and who held in his hand + the package with the seals unbroken. + </p> + <p> + “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 Varhely. 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—!” + </p> + <p> + 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 fatherland. + </p> + <p> + “The Tzigana is the most charming of all! The Tzigana is the most loved of + all!” he said, in Hungarian, repeating a refrain of a Magyar song. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0022" id="link2HCH0022"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXII. A DREAM SHATTERED + </h2> + <p> + They 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. + </p> + <p> + This moment of happiness and solitude after all the noise and excitement + was indeed a blessed one! + </p> + <p> + Andras had placed upon the piano of the salon Michel Menko’s package, and, + seated upon the divan, he held both Marsa’s hands in his, as she stood + before him. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “We will depart for Paris whenever you like,” said the Prince. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” she exclaimed, sinking to his feet, and throwing 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!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “I will go and take off this gown,” she murmured, rising, “and we will run + away like two eloping lovers.” + </p> + <p> + “Take off that gown? Why? It would be such a pity! You are so lovely as + you are!” + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + She gently disengaged herself from his embrace, with a shivering sigh; + and, going slowly toward the door, she turned, and threw him a kiss, + saying: + </p> + <p> + “I will come back soon, my Andras!” + </p> + <p> + And, although wishing to go for her mantle, nevertheless 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. + </p> + <p> + The piano upon which Andras had cast the package given him by Varhely 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 trying 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 unexpected expression of the Tzigana’s convulsed + features, exclaimed, in alarm: + </p> + <p> + “What is it, Marsa? What is the matter?” “I—I” + </p> + <p> + She tried to smile. + </p> + <p> + “Nothing—I do not know! I—” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Ah! that Michel! She had forgotten him! Miserable wretch! He returned, he + threatened her, he was about to avenge himself: she was sure of it! + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + She shuddered from head to foot, steadying herself against the piano, her + lips trembling nervously. + </p> + <p> + “I assure you, Marsa—” began the Prince, taking her hands. “Your + hands are cold. Are you ill?” + </p> + <p> + His eyes followed the direction of Marsa’s, which were still riveted upon + the piano with a dumb look of unutterable agony. + </p> + <p> + He instantly seized the sealed package, and, holding it up, exclaimed: + </p> + <p> + “One would think that it was this which troubled you!” + </p> + <p> + “O Prince! I swear to you!—” + </p> + <p> + “Prince?” + </p> + <p> + He repeated in amazement this title which she suddenly 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 package + contained, and if Marsa’s fate and his own were not connected with some + unknown thing within it. + </p> + <p> + “Let us see,” he said, abruptly breaking the seals, “what this is.” + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “No, no, I implore you! No! Do not read it! Do not read it!” + </p> + <p> + He contemplated her coldly, and, forcing himself to be calm, asked: + </p> + <p> + “What does this parcel of Michel Menko’s contain?” + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + “But you must be aware, Princess,” returned Andras, “that you are taking + the very means to force me to read it.” + </p> + <p> + 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 caressing—Princess. + </p> + <p> + Now the word threatened her. + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + 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 appeared: + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + He paused a moment, and then, while Marsa’s eyes implored him with the + mute prayer of a person condemned to death by the executioner, he + repeated: + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + She listened, she heard him; but Andras wondered whether she understood, + she stood so still and motionless, as if stupefied by the shock of a moral + tempest. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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 woman! 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!” + </p> + <p> + “Michel!” + </p> + <p> + “The most cowardly, the vilest being in the world! If he hated me, he + might have killed me; he might have 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!” + </p> + <p> + “Ah! My God!” murmured the Prince, as if stabbed himself. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Suddenly he leaned over, seized her by the wrists, and raised her almost + roughly. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “Ah! that, yes! Do it! do it! do it!” she cried, with the smile of a mad + woman. + </p> + <p> + He pushed her slowly from him. + </p> + <p> + “Why have you committed this infamy? It was not for my fortune; you are + rich.” + </p> + <p> + Marsa moaned, humiliated to the dust by this cold contempt. She would have + preferred brutal anger; anything, to this. + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + The heart of the Prince seemed wrung in a vise as this word fell from + those lips, once adored, nay, still adored, soiled as they were. + </p> + <p> + “My love!” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, your love, your love alone! I would have confessed 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, my 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 + deserve, that is what—” + </p> + <p> + “Where are you going?” she cried, interrupting herself, her eyes dilated + with fear, as she saw that Zilah, without answering, was moving toward the + door. + </p> + <p> + She forgot that she no longer had the right to question; she only felt, + that, once gone, she would never see him again. Ah! a thousand times a + blow with a knife rather than that! Was this the way the day, which began + so brightly, was to end? + </p> + <p> + “Where are you going?” + </p> + <p> + “What does that matter to you?” + </p> + <p> + “True! I beg your pardon. At least—at least, Monsieur, one word, I + implore. What are your commands? 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!” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 annihilation of his + happiness were possible, if so many misfortunes could happen in such a few + hours; while he 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 Princess Zilah. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0023" id="link2HCH0023"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXIII. “THE WORLD HOLDS BUT ONE FAIR MAIDEN” + </h2> + <p> + Paris, whose everyday gossip has usually 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 ignorance 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 malignity is the most + complete homage that can be rendered either to character or talent. + </p> + <p> + The circle of foreigners in Paris, that contrasted society 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 fashionable world, + had not left her house, while Prince Andras had returned to Paris alone. + </p> + <p> + 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 famous physician of + Salpetriere, who had been summoned 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 amazement 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. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, dear! Oh, dear!” he said, “all this is deplorably sad.” + </p> + <p> + 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 General listened in + childish alarm to Marsa, wildly imploring mercy and pity of some invisible + person. The unhappy 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. + </p> + <p> + Vogotzine hastened to Paris, and questioned Andras; but the Prince + answered him in a way that permitted of no further conversation upon the + subject. + </p> + <p> + “My personal affairs concern myself alone.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “It is pitiful!” he said. + </p> + <p> + Zilah cast a strange look at him, severe and yet terrified. + </p> + <p> + Vogotzine said no more; but he went at once to Dr. Fargeas, and asked him + to come as soon as possible to Maisons-Lafitte. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 + temporarily left her, and who could now manage to drag herself along, pale + and wan, leaning upon the arm of her maid. + </p> + <p> + Dr. Fargeas cast a keen glance at the girl, whose eyes, burning with + inward fire, alone seemed to be living. + </p> + <p> + “Madame,” said the doctor, quietly, when the General had made a sign to + his niece to listen to the stranger, “General Vogotzine has told me that + you were suffering. I am a physician. Will you do me the honor and the + kindness to answer my questions?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said the General, “do, my dear Marsa, to please me.” + </p> + <p> + She stood erect, not a muscle of her face moving; and, without replying, + she looked steadily into the doctor’s eyes. In her turn, she was studying + him. It was like a defiance before a duel. + </p> + <p> + Then she said suddenly, turning to Vogotzine: + </p> + <p> + “Why have you brought a physician? I am not ill.” + </p> + <p> + Her voice was clear, but low and sad, and it was an evident effort for her + to speak. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + Vogotzine made a sign to the maid to leave the room. + </p> + <p> + “I told you, I have come at the General’s request,” said Fargeas, with a + wave of his hand toward Vogotzine. + </p> + <p> + Marsa only replied: “Ah!” But it seemed to the doctor that there was a + world of disappointment and despair expressed in this one ejaculation. + </p> + <p> + Then she suddenly became rigid, and lapsed into one of those stupors which + had succeeded the days of delirium, and had frightened Vogotzine so much. + </p> + <p> + “There! There! Look at her!” exclaimed the old man. + </p> + <p> + 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 burning forehead; but Marsa made no movement. + </p> + <p> + “Are you in pain?” he asked, gently. + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “I do not know!” + </p> + <p> + “Did you sleep last night?” + </p> + <p> + “I do not know!” + </p> + <p> + “How old are you?” asked Fargeas, to test her mental condition. + </p> + <p> + “I do not know!” + </p> + <p> + The physician’s eyes sought those of the General. Vogotzine, his face + crimson, stood by the chair, his little, round eyes blinking with emotion + at each of these mournful, musical responses. + </p> + <p> + “What is your name?” asked the doctor, slowly. + </p> + <p> + She raised her dark, sad eyes, and seemed to be seeking what to reply; + then, wearily letting her head fall backward, she answered, as before: + </p> + <p> + “I do not know!” + </p> + <p> + Vogotzine, who had become purple, seized the doctor’s arm convulsively. + </p> + <p> + “She no longer knows even her own name!” + </p> + <p> + “It will be only temporary, I hope,” said the doctor. “But in her present + state, she needs the closest care and attention.” + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + Fargeas took between his thumb and finger the delicate skin of the + Tzigana, and pinched her on the neck, below the ear. Marsa did not stir. + </p> + <p> + “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 dormant brain: + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + Mechanically, Marsa repeated, as if spelling the word: “The piano! piano!” + and then, in peculiar, melodious accents, she again uttered her mournful: + “I do not know!” + </p> + <p> + This time old Vogotzine felt as if he were strangling; 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. + </p> + <p> + “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 necessary, not + this here, but—” + </p> + <p> + “But?” asked Vogotzine, as the doctor paused. + </p> + <p> + “But, perhaps, that of an asylum. Poor woman!” turning again to Marsa, who + had not stirred. “How beautiful she is!” + </p> + <p> + 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 + transportation of the invalid to Dr. Sims’s establishment at Vaugirard. In + a new place her stupor might disappear, 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 Tchereteff, and the wife of Prince Zilah, in an insane asylum! + </p> + <p> + 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 disturbed; it was absolutely necessary to find out from + him what should be done with Marsa, who was his wife and Princess Zilah. + </p> + <p> + The General also felt that he was incapable of understanding 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 insane, as he + repeated, like his niece: + </p> + <p> + “I do not know! I do not know!” + </p> + <p> + He felt obliged, however, to go and tell the Prince of the opinion of the + illustrious physician of Salpetriere. + </p> + <p> + Then he asked Zilah: + </p> + <p> + “What is your decision?” + </p> + <p> + “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 determined—-” + </p> + <p> + “What?” + </p> + <p> + “To live hereafter an absolutely selfish life!” + </p> + <p> + “That will change you,” returned the General, in amazement. + </p> + <p> + “And will console me,” added Andras. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0028" id="link2H_4_0028"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + BOOK 3. + </h2> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0024" id="link2HCH0024"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXIV. A LITTLE PARISIAN ROMANCE + </h2> + <p> + The very evening of the day when the package of letters had killed in + Andras all happiness and all faith, the Hungarian prince presented himself + in the Rue d’Aumale, to seek Michel Menko. + </p> + <p> + 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!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “The Count left town yesterday,” said the servant, in answer to his + question. + </p> + <p> + “Yesterday! Where has he gone?” + </p> + <p> + “The Count must have taken the steamer to-day at Havre for New York. The + Count did not tell us exactly 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.” + </p> + <p> + Hesitating a little, the servant added: + </p> + <p> + “Have I not the honor to speak to Prince Zilah?” + </p> + <p> + “Why?” asked Andras. + </p> + <p> + The valet replied with a humble but very sincere air: + </p> + <p> + “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 + Monseigneur—” + </p> + <p> + “Well?” said Andras. + </p> + <p> + “Monseigneur would greatly oblige me if he would not let the Count know + that I did not fulfil his orders last evening.” + </p> + <p> + “Last evening? What do you mean? Explain yourself!” said the Prince, + sternly. + </p> + <p> + “When he left yesterday, the Count expressly ordered me to take the + package to Monseigneur that very evening. I beg Monseigneur’s pardon; but + I had an invitation 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.” + </p> + <p> + Andras listened, gazing intently upon the face of the servant, who was a + little discountenanced by this silent inquisition. + </p> + <p> + “So Count Menko wished the package to be delivered to me yesterday?” + </p> + <p> + “I beg Monseigneur not to tell the Count that he was not obeyed.” + </p> + <p> + “Yesterday?” repeated Andras. + </p> + <p> + “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 careful; and if Monseigneur should some day have need of + a—” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + But where, in the whirlpool of the New World, would this Michel Menko + disappear? and how could he find him? + </p> + <p> + 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, reappear in + Paris; and then— + </p> + <p> + 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; receiving 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. + </p> + <p> + He had, however, no right to complain of the sentiment 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 certainly 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 said, “it will be fortunate.” + And society was even astonished that the journals had not already + discovered the key to this Parisian mystery. + </p> + <p> + 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 accustomed to laugh at + everything. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Although he knew nothing, Varhely had, nevertheless, 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: + </p> + <p> + “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 suspected 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!” + </p> + <p> + 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 himself, and + a thing which, in a measure, poisoned his life. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 themselves, 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 suffering, and the + sufferer becomes, as it were, enamored of his own agony. + </p> + <p> + With Zilah, this sad state was due to a sort of insurrection 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 himself, 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. + </p> + <p> + Very rarely, his real frank, true nature would come to the fore, and he + would say: + </p> + <p> + “After all, are the cowardice of one man, and the lie of one woman, to be + considered the crime of entire humanity?” + </p> + <p> + Why should he curse, he would think, other beings than Marsa and Menko? He + had no right to hate any one else; he had no enemy that he knew of, and he + was honored in Paris, his new country. + </p> + <p> + No enemy? No, not one. And yet, one morning, with his letters, his valet + brought him a journal addressed to “Prince Zilah,” and, on unfolding it, + Andras’s attention was attracted to two paragraphs in the column headed + “Echoes of Paris,” which were marked with a red-lead pencil. + </p> + <p> + It was a number of ‘L’Actualite’, 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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 Hungarians. 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 establishment 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 the sudden malady of the Princess Z. will be + of short duration.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + But the red mark surrounded both this first “Echo of Paris,” and the one + which followed it; and Zilah, impelled now by eager curiosity, proceeded + with his reading. + </p> + <p> + 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 malignity 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 information in + regard to the illness of Princess Z. to an allegorical tale in which + Andras saw the secret of his life and the wounds of his heart laid bare. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 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, Chinese, or + Hungarians, they do not count; they are no longer Parisians. The + Parisians of the day are Parisians of the Prater, of the Newski + Perspective or of Fifth Avenue; they are no longer pureblooded + Parisians. Within ten years from now the boulevards will 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 + marriage 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 personae; 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 received 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. +</pre> + <p> + Andras Zilah turned rapidly to the signature of this article. The “Echoes + of Paris” were signed Puck. Puck? Who was this Puck? How could an unknown, + 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 to 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 disappeared 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. + </p> + <p> + “After all,” he said to himself, “we shall soon find out. Monsieur Puck + must be less difficult to unearth than Michel Menko.” + </p> + <p> + He rang for his valet, and was about to go out, when Yanski Varhely was + announced. + </p> + <p> + 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 L’Actualite. + </p> + <p> + Varhely, 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 promenaders, arose the music of the brass band. + </p> + <p> + 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 interested 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. + </p> + <p> + An hour before he appeared at the Prince’s house, he was seated in the + shade of the trees, scanning ‘L’Actualite’, when he suddenly uttered an + oath of anger (an Hungarian ‘teremtete!’) as he came across the two + paragraphs alluding to Prince Andras. + </p> + <p> + Varhely read the lines over twice, to convince himself that he was not + mistaken, and that it was Prince Zilah who was designated with the + skilfully veiled innuendo 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. + </p> + <p> + Then Varhely had only one idea. + </p> + <p> + “Andras must not know of this article. He scarcely ever reads the + journals; but some one may have sent this paper to him.” + </p> + <p> + And the old misanthrope hurried to the Prince’s hotel, thinking this: that + there always exist people ready to forward paragraphs of this kind. + </p> + <p> + When he perceived ‘L’Actualite’ upon the Prince’s table, he saw that his + surmise was only too correct, and he was furious with himself for arriving + too late. + </p> + <p> + “Where are you going?” he asked Andras, who was putting on his gloves. + </p> + <p> + The Prince took up the marked paper, folded it slowly, and replied: + </p> + <p> + “I am going out.” + </p> + <p> + “Have you read that paper?” + </p> + <p> + “The marked part of it, yes.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh! for nothing, for fun! Because this Monsieur—how does he sign + himself?—Puck had nothing else to write about.” + </p> + <p> + “It is certainly absurd,” remarked Zilah, “to imagine that a man can live + in the ideal. At every step the reality splashes you with mud.” + </p> + <p> + As he spoke, he moved toward the door. + </p> + <p> + “Where are you going?” asked Varhely again. + </p> + <p> + “To the office of this journal.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “That matters little to me!” said the Prince, resolutely. “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Then I will accompany you.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “A duel?” + </p> + <p> + “Exactly.” + </p> + <p> + “With Monsieur—Puck?” + </p> + <p> + “With whoever insults me. The name is perfectly immaterial. But since he + escapes me and she is irresponsible—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.” + </p> + <p> + “Without any doubt,” said Varhely, in an odd tone, pulling his rough + moustache, “and I hope to prove it to you some day.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0025" id="link2HCH0025"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXV. THE HOME OF “PUCK” + </h2> + <p> + Prince Zilah did not observe at all the marked significance old Yanski + gave to this last speech. He shook Varhely’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 ‘L’Actualite’, Rue Halevy, near the Opera. + </p> + <p> + 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, steamboat offices, and manufacturers of + travelling-bags give to the streets a sort of Britannic aspect. The office + of ‘L’Actualite’ had only recently been established there. Prince Zilch + read the number of the room upon a brass sign and went up. + </p> + <p> + 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. Zilch 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. + </p> + <p> + “Is there any one who can answer me?” asked the Prince. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “If you will follow me, Monsieur Freminwill see you.” + </p> + <p> + 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 politely, motioning him to be seated. + </p> + <p> + As Zilch 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 somewhere, + 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, silver-headed cane, and a single eyeglass, dangling from + a silken cord. + </p> + <p> + He bowed to Zilch, and, going up to the secretary, he said, rapidly: + </p> + <p> + “Well! since Tourillon is away, I will report the Enghien 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?” + </p> + <p> + “You will have to hurry,” said Fremin, looking at his watch, “or you will + miss your train.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh! I have a carriage below.” + </p> + <p> + He clapped his confrere on the shoulder, bowed again to Zilah, and hurried + away, while Fremin, turning to the Prince, said: + </p> + <p> + “I am at your service, Monsieur,” and waited for him to open the + conversation. + </p> + <p> + Zilah drew from his pocket the copy of L’Actualite, and said, very + quietly: + </p> + <p> + “I should like to know, Monsieur, who is meant in this article here.” + </p> + <p> + And, folding the paper, with the passage which concerned him uppermost, he + handed it to the secretary. + </p> + <p> + Fremin glanced at the article. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah!” said Zilah. “The author of the article would know, I suppose?” + </p> + <p> + “It is highly probable,” replied Fremin, with a smile. + </p> + <p> + “Will you tell me, then, the name of the person who wrote this?” + </p> + <p> + “Isn’t the article signed?” + </p> + <p> + “It is signed Puck. That is not a name.” + </p> + <p> + “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 + personally interested. Does this story, to which you have called my + attention, concern you, Monsieur?” + </p> + <p> + “Suppose, Monsieur,” answered Zilah, a little disconcerted, 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.” + </p> + <p> + “You mean?—” + </p> + <p> + “I mean that there may be people interested in having such an article + published, and I wish to know who they are.” + </p> + <p> + “You are perfectly justified, Monsieur; but only one person can tell you + that—the writer of the article.” + </p> + <p> + “It is for that reason, Monsieur, that I desire to know his name.” + </p> + <p> + “He does not conceal it,” said Fremin. “The pseudonym is only designed as + a stimulant to curiosity; but Puck is a corporeal being.” + </p> + <p> + “I am glad to hear it,” said Zilah. “Now, will you be kind enough to give + me his name?” + </p> + <p> + “Paul Jacquemin.” + </p> + <p> + Zilah knew the name well, having seen it at the end of a report of his + river fete; but he hardly thought Jacquemin could be so well informed. + Since he had lived in France, the Hungarian exile had not been accustomed + to regard Paris as a sort of gossiping village, where everything is found + out, talked over, and commented upon with eager curiosity, and where every + one’s aim is to appear to have the best and most correct information. + </p> + <p> + “I must ask you now, Monsieur, where Monsieur Paul Jacquemin lives?” + </p> + <p> + “Rue Rochechouart, at the corner of the Rue de la Tour d’Auvergne.” + </p> + <p> + “Thank you, Monsieur,” said Andras, rising, the object of his call having + been accomplished. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Why not?” + </p> + <p> + “Because you saw him here a few minutes ago, and he is now on his way to + Enghien.” + </p> + <p> + “Indeed!” said the Prince. “Very well, I will wait.” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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, blase with pleasure, and caring only + for what is truly pschutt (to use the latest slang): “Pretty women so + rarely go there!” + </p> + <p> + 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 + without wishing it, had furnished an article for ‘L’Actualite’. 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. + </p> + <p> + “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 imprudence would she have given any of these details to this man.” + </p> + <p> + 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 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. + </p> + <p> + Andras could not meet Jacquemin that day, unless he waited for him at the + office of ‘L’Actualite’ until the races were over, and he therefore + postponed his intended interview until the next day. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 bandbox, and his disdainful remarks upon the races of Enghien, where + the swells no longer went. It was not possible that he lived here in this + wretched, shabby place. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + He felt a singular sensation of concentrated anger, united to a fear that + the Jacquemin he was in search of was not there. + </p> + <p> + The door opened, and a woman appeared, young, rather pale, with pretty + blond hair, somewhat disheveled, and dressed in a black skirt, with a + white dressing-sack thrown over her shoulders. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Monsieur Jacquemin?” said Andras, taking off his hat. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, Monsieur, he lives here,” replied the young woman, a little + astonished. + </p> + <p> + “Monsieur Jacquemin, the journalist?” asked Andras. + </p> + <p> + “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: + </p> + <p> + “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 husband work, as + she called it, she was anxious not to let him go away before she knew what + his errand was. + </p> + <p> + “Please come in, Monsieur!” + </p> + <p> + 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 children 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. + </p> + <p> + The cries Zilah had heard came from the children, who were now silent, + staring at the tall gentleman, who looked at them in surprise. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Will you sit down, Monsieur?” she asked, timidly, advancing a + cane-bottomed chair. + </p> + <p> + Everything in these poor lodgings was of the most shabby description. In a + cracked mirror with a broken 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Is Monsieur Jacquemin at home?” he asked abruptly, desiring to leave at + once if the man whom he sought was not there. + </p> + <p> + “No, Monsieur; but he will not be long away. Sit down, Monsieur, please!” + </p> + <p> + 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 evidently some mistake, and that it was not, it could not be, here + that Jacquemin lived. + </p> + <p> + “Is it really your husband, Madame, who writes under the signature of Puck + in ‘L’Actualite’?” he asked. The same proud smile appeared again upon her + thin, wan face. + </p> + <p> + “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 L’Actualite to the concierge, the grocer, and the butcher; and + she was so proud to show how well Paul wrote, and what 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. + </p> + <p> + “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 sometimes. 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?” + </p> + <p> + “No,” said Zilah. + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + And going to the children, her sweet, frank eyes becoming 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 perceived in the curl of + Jacquemin’s lips when the reporter complained of the dearth of pretty + women. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + And she smiled a little sad smile, making even of her humility a pedestal + for the husband so deeply loved and admired. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Do you never accompany your husband anywhere?” asked Andras. + </p> + <p> + “I? Oh, never!” she replied, with a sort of fright. “He does not wish it—and + he is right. You see, Monsieur, when he married me, five years ago, he was + not what he is now; he was a railway clerk. I was a working-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 + see, if the Baroness Dinati should see me on his arm, she would not bow to + him, perhaps.” + </p> + <p> + “You are mistaken, Madame,” said the Hungarian, gently. “You are the one + who should be bowed to first.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Does Monsieur Jacquemin go often to the theatre?” asked Andras, after a + moment’s pause. + </p> + <p> + “Yes; he is obliged to do so.” + </p> + <p> + “And you?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + And he contemplated, with an emotion which every word of the little woman + increased, this poor, miserable apartment, where the wife lived, taking + care of her children, 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 + articles, lessons in gastronomy. + </p> + <p> + 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 working-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. + </p> + <p> + “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, entirely happy.” + </p> + <p> + 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 returning to this poor place + after a night at the restaurants or a ball at Baroness Dinati’s. He heard + the cutting 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 tragically 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 imagined, 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!” + </p> + <p> + And gradually, before the spectacle of this profound love, of this humble + and holy devotion of the unselfish 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. + </p> + <p> + Ah! poor woman! Never would he cause her such anguish and sorrow. Between + his sword and Jacquemin’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! + </p> + <p> + “I see that Monsieur Jacquemin will not return,” he said, rising + hurriedly, “and I will leave you to your breakfast, Madame.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh! you don’t trouble me at all, Monsieur. I beg your pardon again for + having given my children their breakfast before you.” + </p> + <p> + “Farewell, Madame,” said Andras, bowing with the deepest respect. + </p> + <p> + “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 + 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?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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 + clutching the damp railing. + </p> + <p> + Then Prince Andras Zilah took off his hat, and again bowed low. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + “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 encountered—what? A miserable woman who betrayed me! + Ah! men and women are decidedly the victims of chance; puppets destined to + bruise one another!” + </p> + <p> + On entering his hotel, he found Yanski Varhely there, with an anxious look + upon his rugged old face. + </p> + <p> + “Well?” + </p> + <p> + “Well-nothing!” + </p> + <p> + And Zilah told his friend what he had seen. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + He took a sheet of paper, sat down, and wrote as follows: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 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 Jacquemin 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. +</pre> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0026" id="link2HCH0026"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXVI. “AM I AVENGED?” + </h2> + <p> + After 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-aliner had slipped those odious lines into + a newspaper? His sorrow was not the publishing of the treachery, it was + the treachery itself; and his hourly suffering caused him to long for + death to end his torture. + </p> + <p> + “And yet I must live,” he thought, “if to exist with a dagger through + one’s heart is to live.” + </p> + <p> + 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 complaints; and it seemed to him that + his country would make him forget his love. + </p> + <p> + 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 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 wondering at times + if he should not appeal to the courts, dissolve his marriage, and demand + back his name from the one who had stolen it. + </p> + <p> + Appeal to the courts? The idea of doing that was repugnant 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 courtroom, and in presence of a gaping crowd of sensation + seekers? No! silence was better than that; anything was better than + publicity and scandal. Divorce! He could obtain that, since Marsa, her + mind destroyed, was like one dead. And what would a divorce 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. + </p> + <p> + 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, his body tingled from head to foot, as by an electric + shock. Maisons! The sunlit garden, the shaded alleys, 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 + bettor of him, lest he should attempt to see Marsa again. + </p> + <p> + “What a coward I am!” he thought. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Most certainly,” replied Varhely. + </p> + <p> + 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 terrible 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. + </p> + <p> + Zilah and his friend, therefore, passed long hours upon 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. + </p> + <p> + This calm, quiet spot gradually produced upon Andras 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 different 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. + </p> + <p> + “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 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!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “There,” he said, “you will certainly emerge from your retreat to hear + those airs once more.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” replied Andras, after a moment’s hesitation. + </p> + <p> + 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 Nemeth’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. + </p> + <p> + “Let us go!” he said suddenly to Yanski. + </p> + <p> + But, as they were about to leave the building, they almost ran into a + laughing, merry group, led by the little Baroness Dinati, who uttered a + cry of delight as she perceived Andras. + </p> + <p> + “What, you, my dear Prince! Oh, how glad I am to see you!” + </p> + <p> + And she took his arm, all the clan which accompanied her stopping to greet + Prince Zilah. + </p> + <p> + “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 pincushions we could find. + They are all over there in the break. We are going to raffle them at + Etretat for the poor.” + </p> + <p> + The Prince tried to excuse himself and move on, but the little Baroness + held him tight. + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + The Japanese approached, in obedience to her call, with his eternal grin + upon his queer little face. + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + “Japanese!” corrected Yamada, with an apologetic bow. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Japanese! Parisian Japanese, then! At all events, it is very funny, + and the title is Little Moo-Moo! There is a scene on board a flower-decked + boat! Oh, it is so amusing, so original, so natural! and a delightful song + for Little Moo-Moo!” + </p> + <p> + Then, as Zilah glanced at Varhely, uneasy, and anxious to get away, the + Baroness puckered up her rosy lips and sang the stanzas of the Japanese + maestro. + </p> + <p> + Why, sung by Judic or Theo, it would create a furore! All Paris would be + singing. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, by the way,” she cried, suddenly interrupting herself, “what have you + done to Jacquemin? Yes, my friend Jacquemin?” + </p> + <p> + “Jacquemin?” repeated Zilah; and he thought of the garret in the Rue + Rochechouart, and the gentle, fairhaired woman, who was probably at this + very moment leaning over the cribs of her little children—the + children of Monsieur Puck, society reporter of ‘L’Actualite’ + </p> + <p> + “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 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?” + </p> + <p> + “Nothing,” said the Prince. + </p> + <p> + “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 ‘L’Actualite’ of Little Moo-Moo, and Yamada’s + operetta would already be celebrated.” + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t disturb him, if he cares for his home now,” said Zilah, gravely. + “Nothing can compensate for one’s own fireside, if one loves and is + loved.” + </p> + <p> + At the first words of the Prince, the Baroness suddenly became serious. + </p> + <p> + “I beg your pardon,” she said, dropping his arm and holding out her tiny + hand: “please forgive me for having 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, respects you, and is devoted to + you, it is this little idiot of a Baroness! Goodnight!” + </p> + <p> + “Good-night’.” said Andras, bowing to the Baroness’s friends, Yamada and + the other Parisian exotics. + </p> + <p> + 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. + Everything 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. + </p> + <p> + “She also suffers!” he said aloud, after they had walked some distance in + silence. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Pardon!” + </p> + <p> + This cry escaped from Zilah in accents of pain which struck Varhely like a + knife. + </p> + <p> + “Pardon before punishing—the other!” exclaimed the Prince, angrily. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + It was true: how was pardon possible while Menko lived? + </p> + <p> + 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 reread, for the hundredth time perhaps, + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 + immediately drove away, as if he were afraid of himself, afraid of + forgiving. + </p> + <p> + “What did Varhely mean by speaking to me of pardon?” he thought. “Am I yet + avenged?” + </p> + <p> + 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 ignorance, and lied outrageously in + representing himself as free, when he was already bound to another woman. + </p> + <p> + All night long Andras Zilah sat there, inflicting torture 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. + </p> + <p> + The next morning at breakfast, Varhely astonished him by announcing that + he was going away. + </p> + <p> + “To Paris?” + </p> + <p> + “No, to Vienna,” replied Yanski, who looked somewhat paler than usual. + </p> + <p> + “What an idea! What are you going to do there, Varhely?” + </p> + <p> + “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 + require my presence at Vienna. So I am going there.” + </p> + <p> + Prince Zilah was intimately acquainted with the Valla of whom Varhely + spoke; he had been one of the witnesses of his marriage. Valla was a + former minister of 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. + </p> + <p> + “When do you go?” asked the Prince of Varhely. + </p> + <p> + “In an hour. I wish to take the fast mail from Paris this evening.” + </p> + <p> + “Is it so very pressing, then?” + </p> + <p> + “Very pressing,” replied Varhely. “There is another to whose ears the + affair may possibly come, and I wish to get the start of him.” + </p> + <p> + “Farewell, then,” said Andras, considerably surprised; “come back as soon + as you can.” + </p> + <p> + He was astonished at the almost violent pressure of the hand which Varhely + gave him, as if he were departing for a very long journey. + </p> + <p> + “Why didn’t Valla come to see me?” he asked. “He is one of the few I am + always glad to see.” + </p> + <p> + “He had no time. He had to be away again at once, and he asked me to + excuse him to you.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Andras then felt a profound sensation of loneliness, and he thought again + of the woman whom his imagination pictured haggard and wan in the asylum + of Vaugirard. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0027" id="link2HCH0027"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXVII. “WHAT MATTERS IT HOW MUCH WE SUFFER?” + </h2> + <p> + Two 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 + afternoon, opened the desk where he kept Marsa’s letters, and one by one, + impelled by some inexplicable sentiment, he burned them, the flame of the + candle devouring 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. + </p> + <p> + The sun was slowly descending in an atmosphere of 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 + disappeared, and the night came on, enveloping the now inactive city, and + the man who watched the disappearance 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 destruction 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. + </p> + <p> + The shadows crept over him at the same time that they crept over the sea. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0028" id="link2HCH0028"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXVIII. THE STRICKEN SOUL + </h2> + <p> + His 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. + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + 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 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 escape from the fantastic, haunting pursuit of this + inevitable vision. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “How cowardly human nature is!” he exclaimed, hurling away the book. “Is + it possible that I love her still? Shall I love her forever?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + About a week after the Prince’s return to Paris, his valet appeared one + day with the card of General Vogotzine. It was on Andras’s lips 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 hear of hey. He + told the valet to admit Vogotzine, hypocritically saying to himself that + it was impossible, discourteous, not to receive him. + </p> + <p> + The old Russian entered, timid and embarrassed, and was not much reassured + by Zilah’s polite but cold greeting. + </p> + <p> + 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 appearing, like an idiot. + </p> + <p> + “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—” + </p> + <p> + “You have come to consult me about Marsa,” said Andras, unconsciously glad + to pronounce her name. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” began the General, becoming suddenly intimidated, “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.” + </p> + <p> + He raised his round, uneasy eyes to Andras, who was striving to appear + calm, but whose lips twitched nervously. + </p> + <p> + “It is impossible to rouse her,” continued Vogotzine. “The doctors can do + nothing. There is no hope except in an—an—an experiment.” + </p> + <p> + “An experiment?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, exactly, exactly—an experiment. You see 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.” + </p> + <p> + “The doctor,” said Andras, calmly, “would like—your niece to see me + again?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, yes; and speak to you. You see, you are the only one for whom—” + </p> + <p> + The Prince interrupted the General, who instantly became as mute as if he + were in the presence of the Czar. + </p> + <p> + “It is well. But what Doctor Fargeas asks of me will cause me intense + suffering.” + </p> + <p> + Vogotzine did not open his lips. + </p> + <p> + “See her again? He wishes to revive all my sorrow, then!” + </p> + <p> + Vogotzine waited, motionless as if on parade. + </p> + <p> + After a moment or two, Andras saying no more, the General thought that he + might speak. + </p> + <p> + “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.’” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “When does Doctor Fargeas wish me to go?” + </p> + <p> + “Whenever you choose. The doctor is just now at Vaugirard, on a visit to + his colleague, and—” + </p> + <p> + “Do not let us keep him waiting!” + </p> + <p> + Vogotzine’s eyes brightened. + </p> + <p> + “Then you consent? You will go?” + </p> + <p> + He tried to utter some word of thanks, but Andras cut him short, saying: + </p> + <p> + “I will order the carriage.” + </p> + <p> + “I have a carriage,” said Vogotzine, joyously. “We can go at once.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + The Prince’s emotion was betrayed in a certain stiffness of demeanor, and + in his slow walk, as if every movement cost him an effort. He stroked his + moustache mechanically, and glanced about the garden they were crossing, + as if he expected to see Marsa at once. + </p> + <p> + 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 physician introduced him to + the Prince as Dr. Sims. + </p> + <p> + Dr. Sims shared the opinion of his colleague. Having taken the invalid + away, and separated her from every 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Zilah noticed that Fargeas, in speaking of Marsa, gave her no name or + title. With his usual tact, the doctor had divined the separation; and he + did not call Marsa the Princess, but, in tones full of pity, spoke of her + as the invalid. + </p> + <p> + “She is in the garden,” said Dr. Sims, when Fargeas had finished speaking. + “Will you see her now?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said the Prince, in a voice that trembled slightly, despite his + efforts to control it. + </p> + <p> + “We 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!” + </p> + <p> + Dr. Sims motioned the Prince to precede them. + </p> + <p> + “Shall I accompany you, gentlemen?” asked Vogotzine. + </p> + <p> + “Certainly, General!” + </p> + <p> + “You see, I don’t like lunatics; they produce a singular effect upon me; + they don’t interest me at all. But still, after all, she is my niece!” + </p> + <p> + And he gave a sharp pull to his frock-coat, as he would have tightened his + belt before an assault. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + A large, new building, one story high, appeared at one end of the garden; + in this were the dormitories of Dr. Sims’s patients. + </p> + <p> + “Are those people insane?” asked Zilah, pointing to the peaceful groups. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Shall we cross the garden?” + </p> + <p> + “Our invalid is below there, in another garden, behind that house.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “See,” said Dr. Sims, pointing out an old gentleman, 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 same style he dressed + when 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.” + </p> + <p> + As they passed the old man, his neck imprisoned in a high stock, his + surtout cut long and very tight in the waist, and his trousers very full + about the hips and very close about the ankles, he bowed politely. + </p> + <p> + “Good-morning, Doctor Sims! Good-morning, Doctor Fargeas!” + </p> + <p> + Then, as the director of the establishment approached to speak, he placed + a finger upon his lips: + </p> + <p> + “Hush,” he said. “She is there! Don’t speak, or she will go away.” And he + pointed with a sort of passionate veneration to an elm where Vivian was + shut up, and whence she would shortly emerge. + </p> + <p> + “Poor devil!” murmured Vogotzine. + </p> + <p> + This was not what Zilah thought, however. He wondered 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 being condemned to + this earth. This poetical monomaniac lived with his dreams realized, + finding, in an asylum of Vaugirard, all the fascinations and chimeras of + the Breton land of golden blossoms and pink heather, all the intoxicating, + languorous charm of the forest of Broceliande. + </p> + <p> + “He has within his grasp what Shakespeare was content only to dream of. + Insanity is, perhaps, simply the ideal realized:” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Then,” said Zilah, “the question of bread comes up everywhere, even in + insanity.” + </p> + <p> + “And money is perhaps happiness, since it allows of the purchase of + happiness.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh!” said the Prince, “for me, happiness would be—” + </p> + <p> + “What?” + </p> + <p> + “Forgetfulness.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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 disgust; 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.” + </p> + <p> + “Is he happy?” asked Andras. + </p> + <p> + “Very happy.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, he has drunk of the waters of Lethe,” rejoined the Prince. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + The novelist stopped before the two physicians. + </p> + <p> + “The mid-day train was three minutes and a half late,” he said, quietly: + “I mention the fact to you, doctor, that you may have it attended to. It + is a very serious thing; for I am in the habit of setting my watch by that + train.” + </p> + <p> + “I will see to it,” replied Dr. Sims. “By the way, do you want any books?” + </p> + <p> + In the same quiet tone the other responded: + </p> + <p> + “What for?” + </p> + <p> + “To read.” + </p> + <p> + “What is the use of that?” + </p> + <p> + “Or any newspapers? To know—” + </p> + <p> + “To know what?” he interrupted, speaking with extreme volubility. “No, + indeed! It is so good to know nothing, nothing, nothing! Do the newspapers + announce that there are no more wars, no more poverty, illness, murders, + envy, hatred or jealousy? No! The newspapers do not announce that. Then, + why should I read the newspapers? Good-day, gentlemen.” + </p> + <p> + The Prince shuddered at the bitter logic of this madman, speaking with the + shrill distinctness of the insane. But Vogotzine smiled. + </p> + <p> + “Why, these idiots have rather good sense, after all,” he remarked. + </p> + <p> + 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 alleys, 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. + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “Is she here?” + </p> + <p> + “She is here,” replied the doctor. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “This way,” said Fargeas. “We can see through the bushes without being + seen, can we not, Sims?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, doctor.” + </p> + <p> + 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 him. All at once the Prince felt a sensation as of a heavy + hand resting upon his heart. Fargeas had exclaimed: + </p> + <p> + “There she is!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Marsa! She was coming toward Zilah; in a moment, he would be able to touch + her, if he wished, through the leaves! Even Vogotzine held his breath. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “Now you must show yourself!” + </p> + <p> + 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 experiment. 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. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + “This way,” said Dr. Sims. “We will go to the end of the alley, and meet + her face to face.” + </p> + <p> + “Courage!” whispered Fargeas. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Fargeas made a sign to Vogotzine, and the Russian and the two doctors + concealed themselves behind the trees. + </p> + <p> + Zilah, trembling with emotion, remained alone in the middle of the walk. + </p> + <p> + The nurse who attended Marsa, had doubtless received instructions from Dr. + Sims; for, as she perceived the Prince, she fell back two or three paces, + and allowed Marsa to go on alone. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + He stood waiting, his blue eyes devouring her with a 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 arrested her, and she + stood still, neither recoiling nor advancing. + </p> + <p> + A few steps away, Dr. Fargeas and Dr. Sims studied her stony look, in + which there was as yet neither thought nor vision. + </p> + <p> + 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 + expression of wild terror swept across her features; shaking 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 extinguished, 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!” + </p> + <p> + Then her face became livid, and she would have fallen back unconscious if + Zilah had not stooped over and caught her in his arms. + </p> + <p> + Dr. Sims hastened forward, and, aided by the nurse, relieved him of his + burden. + </p> + <p> + Poor Vogotzine was as purple as if he had had a stroke of apoplexy. + </p> + <p> + “But, gentlemen,” said the Prince, his eyes burning with hot tears, “it + will be horrible if we have killed her!” + </p> + <p> + “No, no,” responded Fargeas; “we have only killed her stupor. Now leave + her to us. Am I not right, my dear Sims? She can and must be cured!” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0029" id="link2HCH0029"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXIX. “LET THE DEAD PAST BURY ITS DEAD” + </h2> + <p> + Prince Andras had heard no news of Varhely for a long time. He only knew + that the Count was in Vienna. + </p> + <p> + Yanski had told the truth when he said that he had been summoned away by + his friend, Angelo Valla. + </p> + <p> + They were very much astonished, at the Austrian ministry of foreign + affairs, to see Count Yanski Varhely, who, doubtless, 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 famous 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 political 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! + </p> + <p> + “These are queer days we live in!” thought the Austrian diplomats. + </p> + <p> + The minister, of whom Yanski Varhely demanded an audience, his Excellency + Count Josef Ladany, had formerly commanded a legion of Magyar students, + greatly 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 youthful forehead like + an aureole, Ladany made war like a patriot and a poet, reciting the verses + of Petoefi 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 moustaches had caused the heart of more + than one little Hungarian patriot to beat more quickly. + </p> + <p> + Varhely would experience real pleasure in meeting once more his old + companion in arms. He remembered one afternoon in the vineyards, when his + hussars, despite 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 beginning to give way before the enemy. + Ah, brave Ladany! With what pleasure would Varhely grasp his hand! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 smoking cannon. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Yanski’s astonishment was so evident that Josef Ladany said, still + smiling: + </p> + <p> + “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 + appearance 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 lowered 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. + </p> + <p> + “I had forgotten that thirty years have passed!” thought Varhely, a little + saddened. + </p> + <p> + 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, Varhely, + had come to ask of the minister of the Emperor of Austria. + </p> + <p> + Varhely felt more reassured. Josef Ladany seemed to him to have remained + morally the same. The moustache had been cut off, the yellow hair had + fallen; but the heart was still young and without doubt Hungarian. + </p> + <p> + “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—” + </p> + <p> + “Go on, my dear Count. What you desire will be realized, I hope.” + </p> + <p> + But his tone had already become colder, or perhaps simply more official. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah! indeed!” said Count Josef. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + The contrast between these two men was striking; the soldier with his hair + and moustache whitened in the harness, and the elegant government official + with his polished manners; two old-time companions who had heard the + whistling of the same balls. + </p> + <p> + “This is my errand,” said Varhely. “I have the greatest desire that one of + our compatriots, now a prisoner in Warsaw, I think—at all events, + arrested at Warsaw a short time ago—should be set at liberty. It is + of the utmost importance to me,” he added, his lips turning almost as + white as his moustache. + </p> + <p> + “Oh!” said the minister. “I fancy I know whom you mean.” + </p> + <p> + “Count Menko.” + </p> + <p> + “Exactly! Menko was arrested by the Russian police on his arrival at the + house of a certain Labanoff, or Ladanoff—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 altogether 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.” + </p> + <p> + “Possibly,” said Varhely; “but I do not care to discuss 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.” + </p> + <p> + “Are you very much interested in Menko?” + </p> + <p> + “Very much,” replied Yanski, in a tone which struck the minister as rather + peculiar. + </p> + <p> + “Then,” asked Count Ladany with studied slowness, “you would like?—” + </p> + <p> + “A note from you to the Russian ambassador, demanding Menko’s release. + Angelo Valla—you know him—Manin’s former minister—” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I know,” said Count Josef, with his enigmatical smile. + </p> + <p> + “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 + embassy 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!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 immediately been advised + of the whole proceeding. There were probably no proofs of actual + complicity against Menko; but, as Josef Ladany had said, it seemed evident + that he had come to Poland to join Labanoff. An address given to Menko by + Labanoff had been found, and both were soon to depart for St. Petersburg. + Labanoff had some doubtful acquaintances in the Russian army: several + officers of artillery, who had been arrested and sent to the mines, were + said to be his friends. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “If Count Menko is not set at liberty, what will happen to him?” asked + Yanski. + </p> + <p> + “Hmm—he might, although a foreigner, be forced to take a journey to + Siberia.” + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + “It would have been so easy for him not to have been seized by the Russian + police.” + </p> + <p> + “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 cases belli.” + </p> + <p> + The minister calmed the old hussar with a gesture. + </p> + <p> + “No,” he replied, clicking his tongue against the roof of his mouth; “but + it is embarrassing, embarrassing! Confound Menko! He always was a + feather-brain! 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 suppose he had any idea of conspiring. He is a + malcontent, this Menko, 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!” + </p> + <p> + The minister uttered these words in a calm, courteous, polished manner, + even when he said “The devil take him!” He then went on to say, that he + could not 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. + </p> + <p> + “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 examining. I have no need to tell you + that I am at your service to act as your cicerone, and show you all the + sights.” + </p> + <p> + “Are any of our old friends settled here?” asked Varhely. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, yes,” said the minister, softly. “But they are deputies, university + professors, or councillors of the administration. All changed! all + changed!” + </p> + <p> + Then Varhely wished to know if certain among them whom he had not + forgotten had “changed,” as the minister said. + </p> + <p> + “Where is Armand Bitto?” + </p> + <p> + “Dead. He died very poor.” + </p> + <p> + “And Arpad Ovody, Georgei’s lieutenant, who was so brave at the assault of + Buda? I thought that he was killed with that bullet through his cheek.” + </p> + <p> + “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 connected 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!” + </p> + <p> + “And Hieronymis Janos, who wrote such eloquent proclamations and calls to + arms? Kossuth was very fond of him.” + </p> + <p> + “He is busy, with Maurice Jokai, preparing a great book upon the + Austro-Hungarian monarchy, a book patronized by the Archduke Rudolph. He + will doubtless edit the part relative to the kingdom of Saint Stephen.” + </p> + <p> + “Ha! ha! He will have a difficult task when he comes to the recital of the + battle at Raab against Francis Joseph in person! He commanded at Raab + himself, as you must remember well.” + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t doubt it. What about Ferency Szilogyi? Is he also writing books + under the direction of the Archduke Rudolph?” + </p> + <p> + “No! no! Ferency Szilogyi is president of the court of assizes, and a very + good magistrate he is.” + </p> + <p> + “He! an hussar?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh! the world changes! His uniform sleeps in some chest, preserved in + camphor. Szilogyi has only one fault: he is too strongly anti-Semitic.” + </p> + <p> + “He! a Liberal?” + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + This was said in a light, careless, humorously sceptical tone. + </p> + <p> + “On the whole,” concluded the minister, “Armand Bitto, who is no longer in + this world, is perhaps the most fortunate of all.” + </p> + <p> + Then, turning to Yanski with his pleasant smile, and holding out his + delicate, well-kept hand, which had once brandished the sabre, he said: + </p> + <p> + “My dear Varhely, you will dine with me to-morrow, will you not? It is a + great pleasure to see you again! Tomorrow 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, Bem, 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?” + </p> + <p> + Yanski Varhely departed, a little stunned by this interview. 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, + romanticists, 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! + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0030" id="link2HCH0030"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXX. “TO SEEK FORGETFULNESS” + </h2> + <p> + The negotiations with Warsaw, however, detained Yanski Varhely 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 hotheaded Menko. A second time he would not escape + Siberia.” + </p> + <p> + 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 tracking his + prey. He awaited Michel’s departure from the fortress as if he were a + rabbit in its burrow. + </p> + <p> + “If he is set at liberty, I suppose that we shall know where he goes,” he + said to the minister. + </p> + <p> + “It is more than probable that the government of the Czar will trace his + journey for him. You shall be informed.” + </p> + <p> + Count Ladany did not seek to know for what purpose 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. + </p> + <p> + “You see how everything is for the best, Varhely,” he said to him one + morning. “Perhaps you blamed me when you learned that I had accepted a + post from Austria. Well, you see, if I did not serve the Emperor, I could + not serve you!” + </p> + <p> + During his sojourn at Vienna, Varhely kept himself informed, day by day, + as to what was passing in Paris. He did not write to Prince Zilah, + wishing, above everything, to keep his errand concealed from him; but + Angelo Valla, who had remained in France, wrote or telegraphed whatever + happened to the Prince. + </p> + <p> + Marsa Laszlo was cured; she had left Dr. Sims’s institution, and returned + to the villa of Maisons-Lafitte. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + And yet—yes, she wished to live to once more see Andras, whose look, + fixed upon her, had rekindled the extinct 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 possible that her + existence was to end with the malediction of this man. It seemed to her, + that, if she should ever see him face to face, she would find words of + desperate supplication which would obtain her absolution. + </p> + <p> + Certainly—she repented 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 conduct was the love which she + had for him. Yes, her love alone! There was no other reason, no other, for + her unpardonable treachery. He did not think it now, without any doubt. He + must accuse her of some base calculation 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. + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + 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. Suddenly, she thought of Yanski Varhely. Through Varhely, 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 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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— + </p> + <p> + “So! So! She suffers. Well, that is something.” + </p> + <p> + 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!” + </p> + <p> + The day after he had sent this letter to Maisons-Lafitte, Varhely received + from Ladany a message to come at once to the ministry. + </p> + <p> + On his arrival there, Count Josef handed him a despatch. The Russian + minister of foreign affairs telegraphed to his colleague at Vienna, that + his Majesty the Czar consented to the release of Count Menko, implicated + in the Labanoff affair. Labanoff would probably 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. + </p> + <p> + “Well, my dear minister,” exclaimed Varhely, “thank you a thousand times. + And, with my thanks, my farewell. I am also going to Florence.” + </p> + <p> + “Immediately?” + </p> + <p> + “Immediately.” + </p> + <p> + “You will arrive there before Menko.” + </p> + <p> + “I am in a hurry,” replied Varhely, with a smile. + </p> + <p> + He went to the telegraph office, after leaving the ministry, 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. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + 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 unsurrendered flag, one’s dream intact. + </p> + <p> + To die? + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + At Venice he took a train which carried him through Lombardy into Tuscany; + and at Florence he found Angelo Valla. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + It was a house built on the side of a hill, and surrounded with + olive-trees. Varhely and Valla waited at the hotel until one of Balla’s + friends, who lived at Pistoja, should inform him of the arrival of the + Hungarian count. And Menko did, in fact, come there three days after + Varhely reached Florence. + </p> + <p> + “To-morrow, my dear Valla,” said Yanski, “you will accompany me to see + Menko?” + </p> + <p> + “With pleasure,” responded the Italian. + </p> + <p> + Menko’s house was some distance from the station, at the very end of the + little city. + </p> + <p> + 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 Hungarian, and he wore the + national cap, edged with fur. + </p> + <p> + “My master does not receive visitors,” he answered when Yanski asked him, + in Italian, if Count Menko were at home. + </p> + <p> + “Go and say to Menko Mihaly,” said Varhely, this time in Hungarian, “that + Count Varhely is here as the representative of Prince Zilah!” + </p> + <p> + The domestic disappeared, but returned almost immediately and opened the + gate. Varhely and Valla crossed the garden, entered the house, and found + themselves face to face with Menko. + </p> + <p> + Varhely would scarcely have recognized him. + </p> + <p> + 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 embassy attache, a full beard now covered his emaciated + cheeks. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Monsieur,” said Varhely, “for months I have looked forward impatiently to + this moment. Do not doubt that I have sought you.” + </p> + <p> + “I did not hide myself,” responded Menko. + </p> + <p> + “Indeed? Then may I ask what was your object in going to Warsaw?” + </p> + <p> + “To seek-forgetfulness,” said the young man, slowly and sadly. + </p> + <p> + This simple word—so often spoken by Zilah—which 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 + unconquerable remorse. + </p> + <p> + “What you have done can not be forgotten,” said Varhely. + </p> + <p> + “No more than what I have suffered.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “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 regarded 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.” + </p> + <p> + “I do not understand exactly,” said Varhely. + </p> + <p> + Menko glanced at Valla as if to ask whether he could speak openly before + the Italian. + </p> + <p> + “Monsieur Angelo Valla was one of the witnesses of the marriage of Prince + Andras Zilah,” said Yanski. + </p> + <p> + “I know Monsieur,” said Michel, bowing to Valla. + </p> + <p> + “Ah!” he exclaimed abruptly, his whole manner changing. “There was a man + whom I respected, admired and loved. That man, without knowing it, wrested + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “You sent to the Prince letters written to you by that woman, and that, + too, after the Tzigana had become Princess Zilah.” + </p> + <p> + “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 absolute orders to deliver them to the Prince the evening + before 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 understand. 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.” + </p> + <p> + “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 coward. + 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!” + </p> + <p> + “Are you here to defend Mademoiselle Marsa Laszlo?” asked Michel, a trifle + haughtily. + </p> + <p> + “I am here to defend the Princess Zilah, and to avenge Prince Andras. I am + here, above all, to demand satisfaction for your atrocious action in + having taken me as the instrument of your villainy.” + </p> + <p> + “I regret it deeply and sincerely,” replied Menko; “and I am at your + orders.” + </p> + <p> + The tone of this response admitted of no reply, and Yanski and Valla took + their departure. + </p> + <p> + Valla then obtained another second from the Hungarian embassy, and two + officers in garrison at Florence consented to serve as Menko’s friends. It + was arranged that the duel should take place in a field near Pistoja. + </p> + <p> + Valla, anxious and uneasy, said to Varhely: + </p> + <p> + “All this is right and proper, but—” + </p> + <p> + “But what?” + </p> + <p> + “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—” + </p> + <p> + “Well,” interrupted Yanski, “in case of the worst, you must charge + yourself, my dear Valla, with informing the Prince how his old friend + Yanski Varhely defended 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’!” ripping out the Hungarian oath, “he will + avenge me, that is all! Let us go to supper.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0031" id="link2HCH0031"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXXI. “IF MENKO WERE DEAD!” + </h2> + <p> + Prince Zilah, wandering solitary in the midst of crowded Paris, was + possessed by one thought, one image impossible to drive away, one name + which murmured eternally in his ears—Marsa; Marsa, who was + 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, filling + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + And Zilah repeated, with a fierce longing for vengeance: “If he were + dead!” That is, if there were not between them, Zilah and Marsa, the + abhorred memory of the lover! + </p> + <p> + Well! if Menko were dead? + </p> + <p> + 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!” + </p> + <p> + 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 + inflicted upon her that living death—insanity. And he asked himself + whether he should not pardon Princess Zilah, punished, repentant, almost + dying. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + For him or for Menko? + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I had the right to kill her, but—I have the right to pardon + also,” thought Zilah. + </p> + <p> + Ah, if Menko were dead! + </p> + <p> + The Prince gradually wrought himself into a highly nervous condition, + missing Varhely, uneasy at his prolonged absence, and never succeeding in + driving away Marsa’s haunting image. He grew to hate his solitary home and + his books. + </p> + <p> + “I shall not want any breakfast,” he said one morning to his valet; and, + going out, he descended the Champs-Elysees on foot. + </p> + <p> + At the corner of the Place de la Madeleine, he entered 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. + </p> + <p> + All at once he was startled to hear his name pronounced and to see before + him, with his hand outstretched, as if he were asking alms, old General + Vogotzine, who said to him, timidly: + </p> + <p> + “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 stifling!” + </p> + <p> + “Why, what is the matter?” asked Andras. + </p> + <p> + “Matter? Look at me! I must be as red as a beet!” + </p> + <p> + Poor Vogotzine had entered the restaurant for breakfast, regretting the + cool garden of Maisons-Lafitte, which, now that Marsa no longer sat there, + he had entirely to himself. After eating his usual copious breakfast, he + had imprudently asked the waiter for a Russian 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 description 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 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 trousers tucked into his boots, and, beside + him, a pale, black-robed priest. + </p> + <p> + “Who the devil is such an idiot as to relate such things in the + newspapers?” he growled. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Then, half suffocated, Vogotzine flung the paper on the floor; and, with + eyes distended with horror, drawing the caraffe of kummel 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. + </p> + <p> + “The devil take the newspapers!” he muttered. + </p> + <p> + “They are cursed stupid! I will never read another! All that stuff is + absurd! Absurd! A fine aid to digestion, truly!” + </p> + <p> + 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 mirrors, as if he feared to discover the image of Froloff + there. + </p> + <p> + It was at this moment that he discovered Prince Zilah, and rushed up to + him with the joyful cry of a child discovering a protector. + </p> + <p> + The Prince noticed that poor Vogotzine, who sat heavily down by his side, + was not entirely sober. The enormous quantity of kummel he had absorbed, + together 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. + </p> + <p> + “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 + happen to me!” + </p> + <p> + “What?” asked Andras, mechanically. + </p> + <p> + “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 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 + restaurant, 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?” + </p> + <p> + He must, indeed, have been drunk to address such a question to the Prince. + </p> + <p> + Zilah looked him full in the face; but Vogotzine’s eyes blinked stupidly, + and his head fell partially forward on his breast. Satisfied that he was + not responsible 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 + intoxicated old idiot. + </p> + <p> + “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 deceive me! She is insane!—still insane!” + </p> + <p> + “Insane?” said Andras, striving to control his emotion. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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 Froloffyes, Froloff—how + soon I should return to Russia! The life of Paris—the life of Paris + wearies me. You see, I come here today, 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 Emperor’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—the Grand Duke was jealous. Oh! there + was at that time a conspiracy at Odessa! I was accused of spending 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 le 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-rushing! + 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—” + </p> + <p> + “Why?” interrupted Andras, turning quickly to Vogotzine. + </p> + <p> + “Ah! why? Because!” said the General, trying to give to his heavy face an + expression of shrewd, dignified gravity. + </p> + <p> + “What has happened?” asked the Prince. “Is she suffering again? Ill?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, insane, I tell you! absolutely insane! mad as a March hare! Two days + ago, you see—” + </p> + <p> + “Well, what? two days ago?” + </p> + <p> + “Because, two days ago!—” + </p> + <p> + “Well, what? What is it? Speak, Vogotzine!” + </p> + <p> + “The despatch,” stammered the General. + </p> + <p> + “What despatch?” + </p> + <p> + “The des—despatch from Florence.” + </p> + <p> + “She has received a despatch from Florence?” + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + “Go on! Marsa? This despatch? Whom was it from? What did Marsa say?” + </p> + <p> + “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 coming—or who is not coming, from + Florence—that depends.” + </p> + <p> + “Who is it? Who?” cried Andras. “Michel Menko?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know,” faltered Vogotzine in alarm, wondering whether it were + Froloff’s hand that had seized him by the collar of his coat. + </p> + <p> + “It is Menko, is it not?” demanded Andras; while the terrified General + gasped out something unintelligible, his intoxication increasing every + yard the carriage advanced in the Bois. + </p> + <p> + Andras was almost beside himself with pain and suspense. What did it mean? + Who had sent that despatch? Why had it caused Marsa such emotion? “In two + days I shall know, 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? + </p> + <p> + “It is Menko, is it not? it is Menko?” repeated Andras again. + </p> + <p> + And Vogotzine gasped: + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps! anything is possible!” + </p> + <p> + But he stopped suddenly, as if he comprehended, despite his inebriety, + that he was in danger of going too far and doing some harm. + </p> + <p> + “Come, Vogotzine, come, you have told me too much not to tell me all!” + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + “Ah! she is expecting him!” cried Andras. “When?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know!” + </p> + <p> + “You told me it was to be this evening. This evening, is it not?” + </p> + <p> + The old General felt as ill at ease as if he had been before a military + commission or in the hands of Froloff. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, this evening.” + </p> + <p> + “At Maisons-Lafitte?” + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + Andras made no reply. + </p> + <p> + He stopped the carriage, got out, and, saluting the General with a brief + “Thank you!” walked rapidly away, leaving Vogotzine in blank amazement, + murmuring, as he made an effort to sit up straight: + </p> + <p> + “Well, well, are you going to leave me here, old man? All alone? This + isn’t right!” + </p> + <p> + And, like a forsaken child, the old General, with comic twitchings of his + eyebrows and nostrils, felt a strong desire to weep. + </p> + <p> + “Where shall I drive you, Monsieur?” asked the coachman. + </p> + <p> + “Wherever you like, my friend,” responded Vogotzine, modestly, with an + appealing look at the man. “You, at least, must not leave me!” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0032" id="link2HCH0032"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXXII. THE VALE OF VIOLETS + </h2> + <p> + In 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 mysterious premonition of a new sorrow. Menko was at Florence! + Menko, for it could be no other than he, had telegraphed 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 between a vanquished soldier + and this fallen girl—Varhely, 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. + </p> + <p> + In a state bordering on frenzy, Zilah returned to his hotel, thinking: + </p> + <p> + “He will be with her this evening!” + </p> + <p> + This was worse than all the rest. How could he punish her? + </p> + <p> + Punish her? + </p> + <p> + 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 account of his + honor. + </p> + <p> + “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 excitement + increasing at every step. + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + 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 meeting 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. Yes, 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. + </p> + <p> + Early in the evening Andras left the hotel, after slipping 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 darkening + 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 voluntary 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 became 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 before them like some phantom palace of + fairyland. With the Tzigana clinging to his arm, he had seen those + fountains, with their singing waters, that broad lawn between the two long + lines of trees, those winding paths 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 increased, rather than appeased, the + Prince’s anger. + </p> + <p> + As his steps led him mechanically nearer and nearer to the house where she + lived, all the details of his wedding-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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 christened it The Vale o f Violets. How many memories were in that + sweet name, each one of which stabbed and exasperated Zilah, rising before + him like so many spectres. + </p> + <p> + He hastened his steps, repeating: + </p> + <p> + “He is there! She is waiting for him! Her lover is there!” + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + 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 punish both the man and the woman? + </p> + <p> + He did not hesitate long, however, but advanced to the gate, saying, + aloud: + </p> + <p> + “I have a right to enter my own house.” + </p> + <p> + The ringing of the bell was answered by the barking of Duna, Bundas, and + Ortog, who tore furiously at their iron chains. + </p> + <p> + A man presently appeared on the other side of the gate. It was a domestic + whom Andras did not know and had never seen. + </p> + <p> + “Whom do you wish to see?” asked the man. + </p> + <p> + “The Princess Zilah!” + </p> + <p> + “Who are you?” demanded the man, his hand upon the inner bolt of the gate. + </p> + <p> + “Prince Zilah!” + </p> + <p> + The other stood stock-still in amazement, trying to see, through the + darkness, the Prince’s face. + </p> + <p> + “Do you hear me?” demanded Andras. + </p> + <p> + And, as the domestic opened the gate, as if to observe the appearance of + the visitor, the Prince gave it a nervous push, which threw the servant + backward; and, once within the garden, he came close to him, and said: + </p> + <p> + “Look well at me, in order that you may recognize me again. I am master + here.” + </p> + <p> + Zilah’s clear eye and imperious manner awed the man, and he bowed humbly, + not daring to speak. + </p> + <p> + Andras turned on his heel, mounted the steps, and entered the house; then + he stopped and listened. + </p> + <p> + She was with him. Yes, a man was there, and the man was speaking, speaking + to Marsa, speaking doubtless of love. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + How these two beings had played with him; the woman who had lied to him, + and the coward who had sent him those letters. + </p> + <p> + Suddenly Marsa’s voice fell upon his ear, that rich, contralto voice he + knew so well, speaking in accents of love or joy. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + The light from an opal-tinted lamp fell full upon his face. He stood erect + upon the threshold, while two other faces were turned toward him, two pale + faces, Marsa’s and another’s. + </p> + <p> + Andras paused in amazement. + </p> + <p> + He had sought Menko; he found—Varhely! + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0033" id="link2HCH0033"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXXIII. THE DUEL + </h2> + <h3> + “Yanski!” + </h3> + <p> + 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 threshold where Andras stood, she murmured, in a voice choked with + emotion: + </p> + <p> + “Who is there? Who is it?” + </p> + <p> + Yanski Varhely, unable to believe his eyes, advanced, as if to make sure. + </p> + <p> + “Zilah!” he exclaimed, in his turn. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “You here?” said Varhely at last. “You followed me, then?” + </p> + <p> + “No,” said Andras. “The one whom I expected to find here was not you.” + </p> + <p> + “Who was it, then?” + </p> + <p> + “Michel Menko!” + </p> + <p> + Yanski Varhely turned toward Marsa. + </p> + <p> + She did not stir; she was looking at the Prince. + </p> + <p> + “Michel Menko is dead,” responded Varhely, shortly. “It was to announce + that to the Princess Zilah that I am here.” + </p> + <p> + Andras gazed alternately upon the old Hungarian, and upon Marsa, who stood + there petrified, her whole soul burning in her eyes. + </p> + <p> + “Dead?” repeated Zilah, coldly. + </p> + <p> + “I fought and killed him,” returned Varhely. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 concentrated + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + Tomorrow I should have informed a man whose honor is my own, that the one + who injured and insulted him has paid his debt.” + </p> + <p> + With lips white as his moustache, Varhely spoke these words like a judge + delivering a solemn sentence. + </p> + <p> + A strange expression passed over Zilah’s face. He felt as if some horrible + weight had been lifted from his heart. + </p> + <p> + Menko dead! + </p> + <p> + 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 perhaps 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. + </p> + <p> + Menko dead! + </p> + <p> + Varhely took from the mantelpiece the despatch he had sent from Florence, + three days before, to the Princess Zilah, the one of which Vogotzine had + spoken to Andras. + </p> + <p> + He handed it to the Prince, and Andras read as follows: + </p> + <p> + “I am about to risk my life for you. Tuesday evening either I shall be at + Maisons-Lafitte, or I shall be dead. I fight tomorrow with Count M. If you + do not see me again, pray for the soul of Varhely.” + </p> + <p> + Count Varhely had sent this despatch before going to keep his appointment + with Michel Menko. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + ................... +</pre> + <p> + It had been arranged that they were to fight in a field near Pistoja. + </p> + <p> + Some peasant women, who were braiding straw hats, laughed as they saw the + men pass by. + </p> + <p> + One of them called out, gayly: + </p> + <p> + “Do you wish to find your sweethearts, signori? That isn’t the way!” + </p> + <p> + A little farther, Varhely and his adversary encountered 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. + </p> + <p> + Menko opened his pocketbook, and dropped in the box a dozen pieces of + gold. + </p> + <p> + “Mille grazie, signor!” + </p> + <p> + “It is of no consequence.” + </p> + <p> + They arrived on the ground, and the seconds loaded the pistols. + </p> + <p> + Michel asked permission of Yanski to say two words to him. + </p> + <p> + “Speak!” said Varhely. + </p> + <p> + The old Hungarian stood at his post with folded arms and lowered eyes, + while Michel approached him, and said: + </p> + <p> + “Count Varhely, I repeat to you that I wished to prevent 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?” + </p> + <p> + “I promise.” + </p> + <p> + “I thank you.” + </p> + <p> + They took their positions. + </p> + <p> + Angelo Valla was to give the signal to fire. + </p> + <p> + He stood holding a white handkerchief in his outstretched 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. + </p> + <p> + Varhely was as motionless as if made of granite. Menko smiled. + </p> + <p> + “One! Two!” counted Valla. + </p> + <p> + He paused as if to take breath: then— + </p> + <p> + “Three!” he exclaimed, in the tone of a man pronouncing a death-sentence; + and the handkerchief fell. + </p> + <p> + There were two reports in quick succession. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Michel staggered back, his hand pressed to his left side. + </p> + <p> + His seconds hastened toward him, seized him under the arms, and tried to + raise him. + </p> + <p> + “It is useless,” he said. “It was well aimed!” + </p> + <p> + And, turning to Varhely, he cried, in a voice which he strove to render + firm: + </p> + <p> + “Remember your promise!” + </p> + <p> + They opened his coat. The ball had entered his breast just above the + heart. + </p> + <p> + They seated him upon the grass, with his back against a tree. + </p> + <p> + He remained there, with fixed eyes, gazing, perhaps, into the infinite, + which was now close at hand. + </p> + <p> + His lips murmured inarticulate names, confused words: “Pardon—punishment—Marsa—” + </p> + <p> + As Yanski Varhely, with his two seconds, again passed the straw-workers, + the girls saluted them with: + </p> + <p> + “Well, where are your other friends? Have they found their sweethearts?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + .................... +</pre> + <p> + Andras Zilah, with a supreme effort at self-control, listened to his old + friend relate this tale; and, while Varhely spoke, he was thinking: + </p> + <p> + It was not a lover, it was not Menko, whom Marsa expected. 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 disappeared as + suddenly in proportion as his exasperation had been violent. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + He pulled his moustache a moment in reflection, and then made a step + toward the door. + </p> + <p> + 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 recovered 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 accomplished, she said, firmly: + </p> + <p> + “I thank you, Varhely!” + </p> + <p> + Varhely made no reply, but passed out of the room, closing the door behind + him. + </p> + <p> + The husband and wife, after months of torture, anguish, and despair, were + alone, face to face with each other. + </p> + <p> + Andras’s first movement was one of flight. He was afraid of himself. Of + his own anger? Perhaps. Perhaps of his own pity. + </p> + <p> + He did not look at Marsa, and in two steps he was at the door. + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “Ah! I implore you, listen to me!” + </p> + <p> + Andras stopped. + </p> + <p> + “What have you to say to me?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “Nothing—nothing but this: Forgive! ah, forgive! I have seen you + once more; forgive me, and let me disappear; but, at least, carrying away + with me a word from you which is not a condemnation.” + </p> + <p> + “I might forgive,” said Andras; “but I could not forget.” + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + Andras shivered, no longer able to fly, moved to the depths of his being + by the tones of this adored voice, so long unheard. + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + She looked at him with worshipping eyes, as believers regard their god. + </p> + <p> + “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 itself—the lie.” + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “What is it you wish that I should do?” she said. “Die? yes, I would + willingly, gladly die for you, interposing 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 sacrifice my life in another manner, obscurely, in + the shadows of a cloister. I shall have had neither lover 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 + punishment, 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!” + </p> + <p> + “I!” said Andras. + </p> + <p> + In Marsa’s eyes was a sort of wild excitement, a longing for sacrifice, a + thirst for martyrdom. + </p> + <p> + “Do I understand that you wish to enter a convent?” asked Andras, slowly. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, the strictest and gloomiest. And into that tomb I shall carry, with + your condemnation and farewell, the bitter regret of my love, the weight + of my remorse!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + She knelt there repentant, weeping, wringing her hands, asking nothing but + pardon—a word, a single word of pity—and the permission to + bury herself forever from the world. + </p> + <p> + “So,” he said, abruptly, “the convent cell, the prison, does not terrify + you?” + </p> + <p> + “Nothing terrifies me except your contempt.” + </p> + <p> + “You would live far from Paris, far from the world, far from everything?” + </p> + <p> + “In a kennel of dogs, under the lash of a slavedriver; breaking stones, + begging my bread, if you said to me: ‘Do that, it is atonement!’” + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + She looked at him with staring, terrified eyes, believing his words to be + some cruel jest. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + Like a sigh, the word fell on the air: “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0034" id="link2HCH0034"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXXIV. A NEW LIFE + </h2> + <p> + The 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Upon the lawns about the castle, the ‘tschiko’ shepherds, who had come on + horseback to greet the Prince, drank plum brandy, and drank with their red + wine the ‘kadostas’ 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 flowers and rang with songs to do + honor to the coming of Prince Andras and his Princess. + </p> + <p> + 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 respected, 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 + uniforms—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, before 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: + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “To their virtues, you, who forgive, add this virtue, which is your own: + pity!” + </p> + <p> + 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 ancestors, 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!” + </p> + <p> + Yes, he loved her, and with all the strength of a first and only love. He + loved her so that he forgot everything, 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 fatherland. 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 missives 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 utilized his courage. + </p> + <p> + “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 German 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.” + </p> + <p> + Andras only smiled. + </p> + <p> + “If I were ambitious!” he said to Marsa. Then he added: “But I am + ambitious only for your happiness.” + </p> + <p> + 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 + happiness 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. + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + 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 was a sort of stranger; but, at the same time, + she thought, with a smile: + </p> + <p> + “What matters it? It is for so short a time.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Marsa asked the Prince what the letter contained. + </p> + <p> + “Nothing. An invitation to leave our solitude. We are too happy here.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + He, seeing her each day more pale, each day more feeble, was alarmed; but + he hoped, that, when the winter, which was very severe there, was over, + Marsa would regain her strength. He summoned to the castle a physician + from Vienna, who battled obstinately and skilfully against the malady from + which the Tzigana was suffering. Her weakness and languor kept Marsa, + during 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “It must be lovely at Maisons, in the Vale of Violets!” but she added, + quickly: + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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 again + the massive dam upon the Seine, or wondering whether a band of Tzigani + would not appear there with the April days. + </p> + <p> + “I should like,” she said one day to Andras, “to hear again the airs my + people used to play.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + The doctor seemed very uneasy at this languidness, of which Marsa said: + </p> + <p> + “It is delicious!” + </p> + <p> + He whispered one evening to Andras: + </p> + <p> + “It is grave!” + </p> + <p> + Another sorrow was to come into the life of the Prince, who had known so + many. + </p> + <p> + A few days after, with a sort of presentiment, he wrote to Yanski Varhely + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Well, my dear Count,” said Marsa, as she lay extended in a + reclining-chair, “what news of General Vogotzine?” + </p> + <p> + “The General is well. He hopes to return to Russia. The Czar has been + appealed to, and he does not say no.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah! that is good news,” she said. “He must be greatly bored at Maisons; + poor Vogotzine!” + </p> + <p> + “He smokes, drinks, takes the dogs out—” + </p> + <p> + 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 murmured, too low to be heard: “Ortog! Bundas!” + </p> + <p> + Then she said, aloud: + </p> + <p> + “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, + Varhely, how happy I am, happy to be in Hungary. At home!” + </p> + <p> + She was very weak. The doctor made a sign to Andras to leave her for a + moment. + </p> + <p> + “Well,” asked the Prince anxiously of Varhely, “how do you think she is?” + </p> + <p> + “What does the doctor say?” replied Yanski. “Does he hope to save her?” + </p> + <p> + Zilah made no response. Varhely’s question was the most terrible of + answers. + </p> + <p> + 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 + administered justice, and Zilah had pardoned—for what? To watch + together a silent tomb; yes, yes, what remained to him now? + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + An heroic air, a song of triumph, a battle-cry, the gallop 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. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + The doctor shook his head. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Princess, not yet! Later, when the warm sun comes.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “It is the April sun, and it is sometimes dangerous for—” + </p> + <p> + The doctor paused; and, as he did not finish, Marsa said gently, with a + smile which had something more than resignation in it—happiness: + </p> + <p> + “For the dying?” + </p> + <p> + Andras shuddered; but Marsa’s hand, which held his, did not even tremble. + </p> + <p> + Old Varhely’s eyes were dim with tears. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + She whispered in his ear the oft-repeated avowal: + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + She threw her arms about him as he leaned over the couch upon which she + lay, and he made a gesture of denial, unable to speak, for each word would + have been a sob. + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + She wished to see once more, through the open window, the sunny woods and + the new blossoms. Behind those woods, a few leagues away, was the place + where Tisza was buried. + </p> + <p> + “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 Andras.” + </p> + <p> + Andras, whiter than the dying girl, seemed petrified by the approach of + the inevitable grief. + </p> + <p> + Now, as they went slowly down the white road, the Tzigani played the + plaintive melancholy air of Janos Nemeth, that air impregnated with tears, + that air which she used so often to play herself—“The World holds + but One Fair Maiden!” + </p> + <p> + And this time, bursting into tears, he said to her, with his heart + breaking in his breast: + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + Then, as she listened, over the lovely face of the Tzigana passed an + expression of absolute, perfect happiness, 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: + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + ETEXT EDITOR’S BOOKMARKS: + + A man’s life belongs to his duty, and not to his happiness + All defeats have their geneses + An hour of rest between two ordeals, a smile between two sobs + Anonymous, that velvet mask of scandal-mongers + At every step the reality splashes you with mud + Bullets are not necessarily on the side of the right + Does one ever forget? + Foreigners are more Parisian than the Parisians themselves + History is written, not made. + “I might forgive,” said Andras; “but I could not forget” + If well-informed people are to be believe + Insanity is, perhaps, simply the ideal realized + It is so good to know nothing, nothing, nothing + Let the dead past bury its dead! + Life is a tempest + Man who expects nothing of life except its ending + Nervous natures, as prompt to hope as to despair + No answer to make to one who has no right to question me + Not only his last love, but his only love + Nothing ever astonishes me + One of those beings who die, as they have lived, children + Pessimism of to-day sneering at his confidence of yesterday + Playing checkers, that mimic warfare of old men + Poverty brings wrinkles + Sufferer becomes, as it were, enamored of his own agony + Superstition which forbids one to proclaim his happiness + Taken the times as they are + The Hungarian was created on horseback + There were too many discussions, and not enough action + Unable to speak, for each word would have been a sob + What matters it how much we suffer + Why should I read the newspapers? + Willingly seek a new sorrow + Would not be astonished at anything + You suffer? Is fate so just as that +</pre> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + + + +End of Project Gutenberg’s Prince Zilah, Complete, by Jules Claretie + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PRINCE ZILAH, COMPLETE *** + +***** This file should be named 3930-h.htm or 3930-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/3/9/3/3930/ + +Produced by David Widger + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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