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Updated: June 18, 2025
Ah! what an impossible dream it seemed, and yet it was realized now. At all events, a man's death did not lie between her and Zilah. Michel Menko, after lying at death's door, was cured of his wounds. She knew this from Baroness Dinati, who attributed Michel's illness to a sword wound secretly received for some woman. This was the rumor in Paris.
"Monsieur Jacquemin?" said Andras, taking off his hat. "Yes, Monsieur, he lives here," replied the young woman, a little astonished. "Monsieur Jacquemin, the journalist?" asked Andras. "Yes, yes, Monsieur," she answered with a proud little smile, which Zilah was not slow to notice.
The young man, unable to come himself to Maisons, had sent his congratulations to the Prince, and Zilah would be glad to receive them from his friend. That was all. There was no possible trouble in all this, but only one pleasure the more to Andras. And Varhely could not help smiling at the nervous feeling a letter received under odd circumstances or an unexpected despatch sometimes causes.
This was worse than all the rest. How could he punish her? Punish her? Why not? Was not Marsa Laszlo his wife? That villa of Maisons-Lafitte, where she thought herself so safe, was his by law. He, the husband, had a right to enter there at any hour and demand of his wife an account of his honor. "She wished this name of Zilah!
"Oh, by the way," she cried, suddenly interrupting herself, "what have you done to Jacquemin? Yes, my friend Jacquemin?" "Jacquemin?" repeated Zilah; and he thought of the garret in the Rue Rochechouart, and the gentle, fairhaired woman, who was probably at this very moment leaning over the cribs of her little children the children of Monsieur Puck, society reporter of 'L'Actualite' "Yes!
And was not this existence sweet and pleasant, compared with the life led by Tisza in the castle of the suburbs of Moscow? In this solitude, in the villa of Maisons-Lafitte, Andras Zilah was again to see Marsa Laszlo. He came not once, but again and again.
He felt obliged, however, to go and tell the Prince of the opinion of the illustrious physician of Salpetriere. Then he asked Zilah: "What is your decision?" "General," replied Andras, "whatever you choose to do is right.
"But, indeed," she added, with a laugh which displayed two rows of pearly teeth, "it is not for me to invite you. That is a terrible breach of the proprieties. General!" At her call, from a group near by, advanced old General Vogotzine, whom Zilah had not noticed since the beginning of the evening.
Then, as the hymn died slowly away in the distance, soft as a sigh, with one last, low, heart-breaking note, Andras Zilah laid the light form of the Tzigana upon the couch; and, winding his arms about her, with his head pillowed upon her breast, he murmured, in a voice broken with sobs: "I will love only, now, what you loved so much, my poor Tzigana.
Zilah took the hand which Varhely extended, and clasped it warmly in both his own. Upon the steps Varhely found Marsa, who, in her turn, shook his hand. "Au revoir, Count." "Au revoir, Princess." She smiled at Andras, who accompanied Varhely, and who held in his hand the package with the seals unbroken. "Princess!" she said.
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