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Do not leave me! Stay with me! Stay with me, Marsa, my only love!" Then, as she listened, over the lovely face of the Tzigana passed an expression of absolute, perfect happiness, as if, in Zilah's tears, she read all his forgiveness, all his love, all his devotion.
He, seeing her each day more pale, each day more feeble, was alarmed; but he hoped, that, when the winter, which was very severe there, was over, Marsa would regain her strength. He summoned to the castle a physician from Vienna, who battled obstinately and skilfully against the malady from which the Tzigana was suffering.
I love you madly, passionately! Do you understand, Marsa? Do you understand?" and he approached with outstretched hands the Tzigana, whose frame was shaken with indignant anger. "Do you understand? I love you still. I was your lover, and I will, I will be so again."
Andras only smiled. "If I were ambitious!" he said to Marsa. Then he added: "But I am ambitious only for your happiness." Marsa's happiness! It was deep, calm, and clear as a lake. It seemed to the Tzigana that she was dreaming a dream, a beautiful dream, a dream peaceful, sweet, and restful. She abandoned herself to her profound happiness with the trustfulness of a child.
Finally the Tzigana would slowly wend her way home, enter the villa, sit down before the piano, and play, with ineffable sweetness, like souvenirs of another life, the free and wandering life of her mother, the Hungarian airs of Janos Nemeth, the sad "Song of Plevna," the sparkling air of "The Little Brown Maid of Budapest," and that bitter; melancholy romance, "The World holds but One Fair Maiden," a mournful and despairing melody, which she preferred to all others, because it responded, with its tearful accents, to a particular state of her own heart.
'Hussad czigany'! The rallying cry of the wandering musicians of the puszta had some element in it like the cherished tones of the distant bells of his fatherland. "Ah! yes, indeed, my dear Baroness," he said; "that is a charming surprise. I need not ask if your Tzigana is pretty; all the Tzigani of my country are adorable, and I am sure I shall fall in love with her."
"Its baptismal dress?" repeated the mother. "Oh, Madame!" ejaculated the father, twisting his cap between his fingers. "Or a cloak, just as you please," added Marsa. The poor people on the barge made no reply, but looked at one another in bewilderment. "Is it a little girl?" asked the Tzigana. "No, Madame, no," responded the mother. "A boy." "Come here, jean," said Marsa to the oldest child.
The Tzigana started as if moved by an electric shock, and, turning quickly, met the supplicating eyes of the young man. "Marsa!" repeated Michel, in a humble tone of entreaty. "What do you wish of me?" she said. "Why do you speak to me? You must have seen what care I have taken to avoid you." "It is that which has wounded me to the quick. You are driving me mad.
The girl was evidently concealing some secret suffering. The bitter memory of her early years? Perhaps. Physical pain? Possibly. She had been ill some years before, and had been obliged to pass a winter at Pau. But it seemed rather some mental anxiety or torture which impelled the Tzigana to seek solitude and silence in her voluntary retreat.
But to atone for my fault my crime, if you will I am ready to do anything you order, to be your miserable slave, in order to obtain the pardon which I have come to ask of you, and which I will ask on my knees, if you command me to do so." The Tzigana frowned. "I have nothing to pardon you, nothing to command you," she said with an air more wearied than stern, humiliating, and disdainful.
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