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Updated: May 29, 2025
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.
Then, turning to Yanski with his pleasant smile, and holding out his delicate, well-kept hand, which had once brandished the sabre, he said: "My dear Varhely, you will dine with me to-morrow, will you not? It is a great pleasure to see you again! Tomorrow I shall most probably give you an answer to your request a request which I am happy, very happy, to take into consideration.
"Do I seem sad, then, Baroness?" Yanski Varhely, the friend of Prince Andras, was very happy, however, despite his rather sombre air. He glanced alternately at the little woman who addressed him, and at Marsa, two very different types of beauty: Andras's fiancee, slender and pale as a beautiful lily, and the little Baroness Dinati, round and rosy as a ripe peach.
"Pardon before punishing the other!" exclaimed the Prince, angrily. The other! Yanski Varhely instinctively clinched his fist, thinking, with rage, of that package of letters which he had held in his hands, and which he might have destroyed if he had known. It was true: how was pardon possible while Menko lived?
After a moment the man approached Yanski, and, taking off his hat, asked, respectfully: "Is it to Monsieur Varhely that I have the honor to speak?" "Yes," replied Yanski, a little surprised. "I have a package for Prince Andras Zilah: would Monsieur have the kindness to take charge of it, and give it to the Prince?
I will give you a life of peace in memory of this night of mourning." Already, at a distance, could be heard a rapid fusillade about the outposts. The Austrians had perhaps perceived the light from the torches, and were attempting a night attack. "Extinguish the torches!" cried Yanski Varhely.
These two men, both celebrated in their profession, had been called in by Vogotzine, upon the advice of Yanski Varhely, who was more Parisian and better informed than the General. Vogotzine was dreadfully uneasy, and his brain seemed ready to burst with the responsibility thrust upon him.
"No," said Andras. "The one whom I expected to find here was not you." "Who was it, then?" "Michel Menko!" Yanski Varhely turned toward Marsa. She did not stir; she was looking at the Prince. "Michel Menko is dead," responded Varhely, shortly. "It was to announce that to the Princess Zilah that I am here."
He remained there, with fixed eyes, gazing, perhaps, into the infinite, which was now close at hand. His lips murmured inarticulate names, confused words: "Pardon punishment Marsa " As Yanski Varhely, with his two seconds, again passed the straw-workers, the girls saluted them with: "Well, where are your other friends? Have they found their sweethearts?"
All these years of blood and battle were now half forgotten by Prince Andras; but often Yanski Varhely, his companion of those days of hardship, the bold soldier who in former times had so often braved the broadsword of the Bohemian cuirassiers of Auersperg's regiment, would recall to him the past with a mournful shake of the head, and repeat, ironically, the bitter refrain of the song of defeat: Dance, dance, daughters of Hungary!
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