Michel frowned.

“That is, it is true, the sorrow of your life,” continued Varhely.  “It seems to me only yesterday that you lost the poor child.”

“It is over two years, however,” said Michel, gravely.  “Two years!  How time flies!”

“She was so charming,” said old Yanski, not perceiving the expression of annoyance mingled with sadness which passed over the young man’s face.  “I knew your dear wife when she was quite small, in her father’s house.  He gave me an asylum at Prague, after the capitulation signed by Georgei.  Although I was an Hungarian, and he a Bohemian, her father and I were great friends.”

“Yes,” said Menko, rapidly, “she often spoke of you, my dear Varhely.  They taught her to love you, too.  But,” evidently seeking to turn the conversation to avoid a subject which was painful to him, “you spoke of Georgei.  Ah! our generation has never known your brave hopes; and your grief, believe me, was better than our boredom.  We are useless encumberers of the earth.  Upon my word, it seems to me that we are unsettled, enfeebled, loving nothing and loving everything, ready to commit all sorts of follies.  I envy you those days of battle, those magnificent deeds of ’forty-eight and ’forty-nine.  To fight thus was to live!”

But even while he spoke, his thin face became more melancholy, and his eyes again sought the direction of Prince Andras’s fiancee.

After a little more desultory conversation, he strolled away from Varhely, and gradually approached Marsa, who, her chin resting on her hand, and her eyes lowered, seemed absorbed in contemplation of the ceaseless flow of the water.

Greatly moved, pulling his moustache, and glancing with a sort of uneasiness at Prince Andras, who was promenading on the bank with the Baroness, Michel Menko paused before addressing Marsa, who had not perceived his approach, and who was evidently far away in some day-dream.

Gently, hesitatingly, and in a low voice, he at last spoke her name: 

“Marsa!”

The Tzigana started as if moved by an electric shock, and, turning quickly, met the supplicating eyes of the young man.

“Marsa!” repeated Michel, in a humble tone of entreaty.

“What do you wish of me?” she said.  “Why do you speak to me?  You must have seen what care I have taken to avoid you.”

“It is that which has wounded me to the quick.  You are driving me mad.  If you only knew what I am suffering!”

He spoke almost in a whisper, and very rapidly, as if he felt that seconds were worth centuries.

She answered him in a cutting, pitiless tone, harsher even than the implacable look in her dark eyes.  “You suffer?  Is fate so just as that?  You suffer?”

Her tone and expression made Michel Menko tremble as if each syllable of these few words was a blow in the face.

“Marsa!” he exclaimed, imploringly.  “Marsa!”