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So may God bless you! The man who has Áronffy's word, as far as I know, is a very gracious man, it will be easy for you to persuade him his name is Sárvölgyi." ... At these words Topándy rose from his seat and went to the window, opening both sides of it: so heavy was the air within the room. The cold light of the moon shone on Lorand's brow.
On Lorand's left sat Topándy, on his right, beside me, Pepi Gyáli. "Well, old fellow, you too will drink with us to-day?" said Lorand to me playfully, putting his arms familiarly round my neck. "No, you know I never drink wine." "Never? Not to-day either? Not even to my health?" I looked at him. Why did he wish to make me drink to-day especially? "No, Lorand.
"At breakfast, at dinner, at supper." This had a different sound from what the gentleman of the house had said. Rather different from garlic and black bread. "This will be your room here on the right," continued the lady. "The butler's name is George; he will be your servant. And John is the coachman, who will stand at your orders." Lorand's wonder only increased.
"Melanie wrote that." By way of reply Lorand in bitter inexpressible pain turned his gaze towards the letter. And the gypsy girl knew what that gaze said, knew what was written in that letter: with a wild beast's passion she tore it from Lorand's hand and passionately shred it into fragments and cast it on the ground, then trampled upon its pieces, as one tramples upon running spiders.
Not a single trace of surprise showed itself on her face, not a single searching glance betrayed the fact that she thought of the original of a well-known countenance when she saw this man who had met her by chance far away from home. Lorand's face, his gait, his voice, all were strange to her.
The minister opened the letter, while Czipra, holding Lorand's hand, listened with rapt attention to the words that were read: "MY DEAR MOTHER: "After the many sorrows and pains I have continuously caused throughout my life to the tenderest of mothers' hearts, to-day I can send you news of joy. "I am about to marry.
Desiderius could relate so much that was pleasant of the gypsy girl: Lorand's letters during the past ten years of silence always spoke of the poor despised diamond, whose faithful attachment had been the sunny side of Lorand's life. They read the bundles of letters again and again: it was a study for the two mothers.
Then listen to my ultimatum. I refuse to give my consent to your marrying before me." Desiderius threw himself on Lorand's neck; he understood now. "There is somebody you love?" Lorand assented with a smile. "Of course there is. I could not make her understand about that of which the continuation begins only to-day. Still, all the more reason for hastening.
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