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Updated: May 29, 2025
The Tzigani played now the waltzes which Marsa used to play; then the slow, sorrowful plaint of the "Song of Plevna;" and then the air of Janos Nemeth's, the heart-breaking melody, to the Prince like the lament of his life: 'The World holds but One Fair Maiden'. And at every note he saw again Marsa, the one love of his existence. "Let us go!" he said suddenly to Yanski.
"My master does not receive visitors," he answered when Yanski asked him, in Italian, if Count Menko were at home. "Go and say to Menko Mihaly," said Varhely, this time in Hungarian, "that Count Varhely is here as the representative of Prince Zilah!" The domestic disappeared, but returned almost immediately and opened the gate.
Michel regarded the entrance of Varhely into the little salon where he awaited him, as if he were some spectre, some vengeance which he had expected, and which did not astonish him. He stood erect, cold and still, as Yanski advanced toward him; while Angelo Valla remained in the doorway, mechanically stroking his smoothly shaven chin.
"My master does not receive visitors," he answered when Yanski asked him, in Italian, if Count Menko were at home. "Go and say to Menko Mihaly," said Varhely, this time in Hungarian, "that Count Varhely is here as the representative of Prince Zilah!" The domestic disappeared, but returned almost immediately and opened the gate.
He was no longer the same man. His handsome face, with its kindly eyes and grave smile, was now constantly overshadowed. He spoke less, and thought more. On the subject of his sadness and his grief, Andras never uttered a word to any one, not even to his old friend; and Yanski, silent from the day when he had been an unconscious messenger of ill, had not once made any allusion to the past.
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.
Varhely and Valla waited at the hotel until one of Balla's friends, who lived at Pistoja, should inform him of the arrival of the Hungarian count. And Menko did, in fact, come there three days after Varhely reached Florence. "To-morrow, my dear Valla," said Yanski, "you will accompany me to see Menko?" "With pleasure," responded the Italian.
One evening he announced to Varhely that he was going to the lonely villa of Sainte-Adresse, where they had so many times together watched the sea and talked of their country. "I am going there to be alone, my dear Yanski," he said, "but to be with you is to be with myself. I hope that you will accompany me." "Most certainly," replied Varhely.
A poor old blind man, cowering upon the steps of the sanctuary, was murmuring a monotonous prayer, like the plaint of a night bird. Yanski Varhely regarded the scene with curiosity, as he waited for the end of the ceremony.
"Without any doubt," said Varhely, in an odd tone, pulling his rough moustache, "and I hope to prove it to you some day." Prince Zilah did not observe at all the marked significance old Yanski gave to this last speech.
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