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Updated: June 26, 2025
Two hours after Varhely had gone, a sort of feverish attraction drew Prince Andras to the spot where, the night before, he had listened to the Tzigana airs. Again, but alone this time, he drank in the accents of the music of his country, and sought to remember the impression produced upon him when Marsa had played this air or that one, this sad song or that czardas.
Marsa was an exact reproduction, feature by feature, of her mother, and, strange to say, daughters generally resembling the father, had nothing of Tchereteff, nothing Russian about her: on the contrary, she was all Tzigana Tzigana in the clear darkness of her skin, in her velvety eyes, and her long, waving black hair, with its bronze reflections, which the mother loved to wind about her thin fingers.
Marsa was an exact reproduction, feature by feature, of her mother, and, strange to say, daughters generally resembling the father, had nothing of Tchereteff, nothing Russian about her: on the contrary, she was all Tzigana Tzigana in the clear darkness of her skin, in her velvety eyes, and her long, waving black hair, with its bronze reflections, which the mother loved to wind about her thin fingers.
"I only ask you to leave me in peace, and never appear again in my life." "So! I see that you do not understand me," said Michel, with sudden brusqueness. "No, I acknowledge it, not in the least." "When I asked you whether you were to marry Prince Andras, didn't you understand that I asked you also another thing: Will you marry me, me Michel Menko?" "You!" cried the Tzigana.
Prince Andras had noticed this same change in the Tzigana's face, when he was speaking to her at Baroness Dinati's. The Prince had forgotten no detail of that first fascinating interview, at which his love for the Tzigana was born. This man, who had hardly any other desire than to end in peace a life long saddened by defeat and exile, suddenly awoke to a happy hope of a home and family joys.
And the years passed without the Tzigana pardoning the Russian, and without Marsa ever having called him father. In the name of their child, the Prince one day solemnly asked Tisza Laszlo to consent to become his wife, and the mother refused. "But our daughter?" said the Prince. "My daughter? She will bear the name of her mother, which at least is not a Russian name." The Prince was silenced.
Her dream of happiness ended in this reality Menko saying: "You have been mine; you shall be mine again, or you are lost!" Lost! And how? With cold resolution, Marsa Laszlo asked herself this question, terrible as a question of life or death: "What would the Prince do, if, after I became his wife, he should learn the truth?" "What would he do? He would kill me," thought the Tzigana.
There was an accent of truth in this wild outburst of the Tzigana; and upon the lips of this daughter of the puszta, Hungarian and Russian at once, the cry seemed the very symbol of her exceptional nature. "What is it you wish that I should do?" she said. "Die? yes, I would willingly, gladly die for you, interposing my breast between you and a bullet. Ah!
But, as if she had been too hasty in proclaiming aloud her happiness, the Tzigana suddenly frowned, a harsh, troubled look crept into her dark eyes, and her cheeks became pale as marble, while her gaze was fixed upon a tall young man who was crossing the salon and coming toward her. Instinctively Andras Zilah followed her look.
Varhely's response must have had great weight in Marsa Laszlo's reflections, full of anguish, fever, revolt and despair as they were, during the few weeks preceding the day upon which she had promised to tell Prince Andras if she would consent to become his wife or not. It was a yes, almost as curt as another refusal, which fell at last from the lips of the Tzigana.
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