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The domestic bowed, uttered his thanks, and left Varhely vaguely uneasy at this mysterious package which had been brought there, and which Menko had addressed to the Prince. With the expression of his excuses and his sorrow! Michel doubtless meant that he was sorry not to be able to join Andras's friends he who was one of the most intimate of them, and whom the Prince called "my child."
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.
Austria, loosening her clutch, has permitted you to love and serve our cause at your ease. You were born rich, you married the most charming of women" Michel frowned. "That is, it is true, the sorrow of your life," continued Varhely. "It seems to me only yesterday that you lost the poor child." "It is over two years, however," said Michel, gravely. "Two years! How time flies!"
One evening he announced to Varhely that he was going to the lonely villa of Sainte-Adresse, where they had so many times together watched the sea and talked of their country. "I am going there to be alone, my dear Yanski," he said, "but to be with you is to be with myself. I hope that you will accompany me." "Most certainly," replied Varhely.
The 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.
Yanski's astonishment was so evident that Josef Ladany said, still smiling: "Well, don't you recognize me, my dear Count?" His voice was pleasant, and his manner charming; but there was something cold and politic in his whole appearance which absolutely stupefied Varhely.
He paused as if to take breath: then "Three!" he exclaimed, in the tone of a man pronouncing a death- sentence; and the handkerchief fell. There were two reports in quick succession. Varhely stood erect in his position; Menko's ball had cut a branch above his head, and the green leaves fell fluttering to the ground. Michel staggered back, his hand pressed to his left side.
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? 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.
"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.
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. 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.
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