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Updated: June 15, 2025
"I suppose," he said at last, making a great effort to recover his outward self-control, "I suppose that you object to my asking Klara Goldstein to come to your farewell feast?" Thus directly appealed to by her lover, Elsa gave a direct reply. "Yes, I do," she said. "May I ask why?"
Klara had not seen this manoeuvre of his, although she had cast more than one rapid and furtive glance upon him while she attended to her customers. She was thankful that he was going away for a few days; in his present mood he was positively dangerous.
Let him have her, by all means!" "I beg both your pardons," I said, "but it seems to me as if the misunderstanding between us is becoming chronic. I very much admire, but have no intention of marrying Miss Klara." "Ah!" Like Semiramis she stood before me. "Who has told you that there was such a person a Miss Klara existing in this house?" Retreat was impossible.
"Well, you know," she replied listlessly, "since Klara Goldstein told you that everyone here believed that you were dead. I did not believe it myself for a long time, though I did think that if you had lived you would have written to me. Then, as I had no news from you .
"Is that true, Andor?" It was Elsa's voice that spoke, but the voice sounded muffled and dull, as if it came from far away or from out the depths of the earth. Then, as Andor made no reply, but gazed on Elsa in mute and passionate appeal, like a man who is drowning would gaze on the shore which he cannot reach, Klara said slowly: "Oh! it's true enough. You cannot deny it, can you, Andor? You wanted your revenge on me, and you wanted to be rid of Béla you wanted Elsa for yourself, but you didn't care one brass fillér what would become of me after that. You left me without a thought, lonely and unprotected, knowing that a madman was prowling outside, ready to kill me or any man who came along. You gave Béla that key, didn't you? .
"Oh! did she?" cried Béla, whose savage temper, held in check for awhile, had at last risen to its habitual stage of unbridled fury. All the hot blood had rushed to his head, making his face crimson and his eye glowing and unsteady, and his hand shook visibly as he leaned against the table so that the mugs and bottles rattled, as did the key upon the metal tray. He, too, felt that hideous red mist enveloping him and blurring his sight. He hated Andor with all his might, and would have strangled him if he had felt that he had the physical power to do it as well as the moral strength. His voice came hoarse and hissing through his throat as he murmured through tightly clenched teeth: "She did, did she? And you made her give you that promise which is not going to bind her, let me tell you that. But let me also tell you in the meanwhile, my fine gentleman from America, that your d d interference will do no good to your former sweetheart, who is already as good as my wife and will be my wife to-morrow. Klara Goldstein is my friend, let me tell you that, and .
It seemed to Klara that the old lady’s mouth was cruel and her eyes hard. “‘Are you the little girl who’s run away?’ the old lady asked. “‘Yes,’ Klara faltered. “‘And you want to live in the Kingdom of the Moon?’ “‘Yes.’ “‘Enter then.’ “The old lady stepped aside and Klara marched across the threshold. She felt the door swinging to behind her.
On one was printed in letters of gold, ‘I’M SORRY,’ on the other, ‘I’LL NEVER DO SO AGAIN.’ “Klara seized the keys joyfully and ran all the long way back to the great door. It had two locks. She put one key in the upper lock, turned it—a great bolt jarred. She put the other key into the second lock, turned it—a great bolt jarred. The door swung open.
Andor had acquitted himself of the same duty, and Elsa's cool little hand had rested for a few seconds longer than was necessary in his own brown one. She had murmured the necessary words of invitation for the ceremonies on the morrow, and he was still standing in the doorway when Klara Goldstein was about to take her leave.
'Tis not so long ago we were young too, and that wild Hungarian csárdás fires the blood until it glows afresh. Everyone moves, every body sways, it is impossible to keep quite still while that intoxicating rhythm fills the air. Only Klara the Jewess stands by, stolid and immovable; the Magyar blood is not in her, hers is the languorous Oriental blood, the supple, sinuous movements of the Levant.
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