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Updated: May 10, 2025
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.
In my mother's country there is no name more popular than his." "So I have heard Count Menko say to Mademoiselle." If it were the maid's wish to remove all happiness from her mistress's face, she had met with complete success. At the name of Menko, Marsa's expression became dark and threatening.
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.
"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: "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!"
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.
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. "Marsa," he said, slowly, "your birth, which should make the joy of my existence, is the remorse of my whole life.
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.
"What is it?" he cried; for Marsa's fingers were icy. It cost the young girl a terrible effort to prevent herself from losing consciousness. "But speak to me, Marsa," exclaimed Andras, "do not keep me in suspense."
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.
Andras shuddered; but Marsa's hand, which held his, did not even tremble. Old Varhely's eyes were dim with tears. 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.
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