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Updated: June 8, 2025
During his sojourn at Vienna, Varhely kept himself informed, day by day, as to what was passing in Paris. He did not write to Prince Zilah, wishing, above everything, to keep his errand concealed from him; but Angelo Valla, who had remained in France, wrote or telegraphed whatever happened to the Prince. Marsa Laszlo was cured; she had left Dr.
And while their laughter rang out upon the air, the gay, foolish laughter of youth and health, over yonder they were bearing away the dead body of Michel Menko. Andras Zilah, with a supreme effort at self-control, listened to his old friend relate this tale; and, while Varhely spoke, he was thinking: It was not a lover, it was not Menko, whom Marsa expected.
"Monsieur will be good enough to pardon me," he said; "but, in the midst of this crowd, I could not perhaps reach his Excellency, and the Count's commands were so imperative that " "Very well," interrupted Varhely. "I will myself give this to the Prince immediately."
Then Varhely wished to know if certain among them whom he had not forgotten had "changed," as the minister said. "Where is Armand Bitto?" "Dead. He died very poor." "And Arpad Ovody, Georgei's lieutenant, who was so brave at the assault of Buda? I thought that he was killed with that bullet through his cheek." "Ovody?
After her return to Maisons-Lafitte from Vaugirard, she would have killed herself if she had not so desired another interview where she could lay bare her heart. Not daring to appear before Andras, not even thinking of such a thing as seeking him, she resolved to wait some opportunity, some chance, she knew not what. Suddenly, she thought of Yanski Varhely.
"After all," he said to himself, "we shall soon find out. Monsieur Puck must be less difficult to unearth than Michel Menko." He rang for his valet, and was about to go out, when Yanski Varhely was announced. The old Hungarian looked troubled, and his brows were contracted in a frown.
"Yes," said Menko, rapidly, "she often spoke of you, my dear Varhely. They taught her to love you, too. But," evidently seeking to turn the conversation to avoid a subject which was painful to him, "you spoke of Georgei. Ah! our generation has never known your brave hopes; and your grief, believe me, was better than our boredom. We are useless encumberers of the earth.
The brave old soldier had never understood much of the fantastic caprices of passion, and Andras seemed to him in this, as in all other things, just a little romantic. But, after all, the Prince was his own master, and whatever a Zilah did was well done. So, after reflection, Zilah's marriage became a joy to Varhely, as he had just been declaring to the fiancee's uncle, General Vogotzine.
Varhely made no reply, but passed out of the room, closing the door behind him. The husband and wife, after months of torture, anguish, and despair, were alone, face to face with each other. Andras's first movement was one of flight. He was afraid of himself. Of his own anger? Perhaps. Perhaps of his own pity. He did not look at Marsa, and in two steps he was at the door.
Varhely is there also." And, taking Menko's arm, he led him toward Marsa. "See," he said to the young girl, "my happiness is complete." She, as Michel Menko bowed low before her, coldly and almost imperceptibly inclined her dark head, while her large eyes, under the shadow of their heavy lashes, seemed vainly trying to meet the gray eyes of the young man.
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