Or, at other times, with Duna and Bundas bounding before her, disappearing, returning, disappearing again with yelps of joy, it was Marsa’s delight to wander alone under the great limes of the Albine avenue—­shade over her head, silence about her—­and then slowly, by way of a little alley bordered with lofty poplars trembling at every breath of wind, to reach the borders of the forest.  In ten steps she would suddenly find herself plunged in solitude as in a bath of verdure, shade and oblivion.  The sweet silence surrounding her calmed her, and she would walk on and on though the thick grass under the great trees.  The trunks of the giant oaks were clothed in robes of emerald moss, and wild flowers of all descriptions raised their heads amid the grass.  There was no footstep, no sound; a bee lazily humming, a brilliant butterfly darting across the path, something quick and red flashing up a tree—­a squirrel frightened by the Danish hounds; that was all.  And Marsa was happy with the languorous happiness which nature gives, her forehead cooled by the fresh breeze, her eyes rested by the deep green which hid the shoes, her whole being refreshed by the atmosphere of peace which fell from the trees.

Then, calling her dogs, she would proceed to a little farmhouse, and, sitting down under the mulberry trees, wait until the farmer’s wife brought her some newly baked bread and a cup of milk, warm from the cows.  Then she would remain idly there, surrounded by chickens, ducks, and great, greedy geese, which she fed, breaking the bread between her white fingers, while Duna and Bundas crouched at her feet, pricking up their ears, and watching these winged denizens of the farmyard, which Marsa forbade them to touch.  Finally the Tzigana would slowly wend her way home, enter the villa, sit down before the piano, and play, with ineffable sweetness, like souvenirs of another life, the free and wandering life of her mother, the Hungarian airs of Janos Nemeth, the sad “Song of Plevna,” the sparkling air of “The Little Brown Maid of Budapest,” and that bitter; melancholy romance, “The World holds but One Fair Maiden,” a mournful and despairing melody, which she preferred to all others, because it responded, with its tearful accents, to a particular state of her own heart.

The girl was evidently concealing some secret suffering.  The bitter memory of her early years?  Perhaps.  Physical pain?  Possibly.  She had been ill some years before, and had been obliged to pass a winter at Pau.  But it seemed rather some mental anxiety or torture which impelled the Tzigana to seek solitude and silence in her voluntary retreat.

The days passed thus in that villa of Maisons-Lafitte, where Tisza died.  Very often, in the evening, Marsa would shut herself up in the solitude of that death-chamber, which remained just as her mother had left it.  Below, General Vogotzine smoked his pipe, with a bottle of brandy for company:  above, Marsa prayed.