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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.
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?
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.
She would die without being held to keep that oath she had made not to survive her dreamed-of happiness, the union she had desired and accepted. Yes, it was sweet and welcome, this death, which taking her from Andras's love, washed away all stain. She whispered in his ear the oft-repeated avowal: "I love you! I love you! I love you! And I die content, for I feel that you will love me always.
Varhely made no reply, but passed out of the room, closing the door behind him. The husband and wife, after months of torture, anguish, and despair, were alone, face to face with each other. Andras's first movement was one of flight. He was afraid of himself. Of his own anger? Perhaps. Perhaps of his own pity. He did not look at Marsa, and in two steps he was at the door.
The door of Andras's carriage was open; Marsa entered it, and Andras, with a smile of deep, profound content, seated himself beside her, whispering tenderly in the Tzigana's ear as the carriage drove off: "Ah! how I love you! my beloved, my adored Marsa! How I love you, and how happy I am!"
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."
She would die without being held to keep that oath she had made not to survive her dreamed-of happiness, the union she had desired and accepted. Yes, it was sweet and welcome, this death, which taking her from Andras's love, washed away all stain. She whispered in his ear the oft-repeated avowal: "I love you! I love you! I love you! And I die content, for I feel that you will love me always.
She raised herself, her little hands resting upon the window-sill, her head heavy with sleep the deep, dreamless sleep-and held up her sweet lips to him: when she felt Andras's kiss, she whispered, so that he barely heard it: "Do not forget me! Never forget me, my darling!"
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: "But shall I make these six hundred thousand francs from the nourishment of our laborers, farmers, sowers, and gleaners?
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