“It is Menko, is it not? it is Menko?” repeated Andras again.

And Vogotzine gasped: 

“Perhaps! anything is possible!”

But he stopped suddenly, as if he comprehended, despite his inebriety, that he was in danger of going too far and doing some harm.

“Come, Vogotzine, come, you have told me too much not to tell me all!”

“That is true; yes, I have said too much!  Ah!  The devil! this is not my affair!—­Well, yes, Count Menko is in Florence or near Florence—­I don’t know where.  Marsa told me that—­without meaning to.  She was excited—­very excited—­talked to herself.  I did not ask her anything—­but—­she is insane, you see, mad, mad!  She first wrote a despatch to Italy—­then she tore it up like this, saying:  ‘No, what is to happen, will happen!’ There!  I don’t know anything but that.  I don’t know anything!”

“Ah! she is expecting him!” cried Andras.  “When?”

“I don’t know!”

“You told me it was to be this evening.  This evening, is it not?”

The old General felt as ill at ease as if he had been before a military commission or in the hands of Froloff.

“Yes, this evening.”

“At Maisons-Lafitte?”

“At Maisons,” responded Vogotzine, mechanically.  “And all this wearies me—­wearies me.  Was it for this I decided to come to Paris?  A fine idea!  At least, there are no Russian days at Maisons!”

Andras made no reply.

He stopped the carriage, got out, and, saluting the General with a brief “Thank you!” walked rapidly away, leaving Vogotzine in blank amazement, murmuring, as he made an effort to sit up straight: 

“Well, well, are you going to leave me here, old man?  All alone?  This isn’t right!”

And, like a forsaken child, the old General, with comic twitchings of his eyebrows and nostrils, felt a strong desire to weep.

“Where shall I drive you, Monsieur?” asked the coachman.

“Wherever you like, my friend,” responded Vogotzine, modestly, with an appealing look at the man.  “You, at least, must not leave me!”

CHAPTER XXXII

THE VALE OF VIOLETS

In the Prince’s mind the whole affair seemed clear as day, and he explained the vague anxiety with which he had been afflicted for several days as a mysterious premonition of a new sorrow.  Menko was at Florence!  Menko, for it could be no other than he, had telegraphed to Marsa, arranging a meeting with her.  That very evening he was to be in the house of Marsa Laszlo—­Marsa who bore, in spite of all, the title and name of the Zilahs.  Was it possible?  After the marriage, after this woman’s vows and tears, these two beings, separated for a time, were to be united again.  And he, Andras, had almost felt pity for her!  He had listened to Varhely, an honest man; drawing a parallel between a vanquished soldier and this fallen girl—­Varhely, the rough, implacable Varhely, who had also been the dupe of the Tzigana, and one evening at Sainte-Adresse had even counselled the deceived husband to pardon her.