Tisza!  To the gipsy had doubtless been given the name of the river on the banks of which she had been born.  They called the mother Tisza, in Hungary, as in Paris they called the daughter the Tzigana.  And Marsa was proud of her nickname; she loved these Tzigani, whose blood flowed in her veins; sons of India, perhaps, who had descended to the valley of the Danube, and who for centuries had lived free in the open air, electing their chiefs, and having a king appointed by the Palatine—­a king, who commanding beggars, bore, nevertheless, the name of Magnificent; indestructible tribes, itinerant republics, musicians playing the old airs of their nation, despite the Turkish sabre and the Austrian police; agents of patriotism and liberty, guardians of the old Hungarian honor.

These poor people, passing their lives upon the river as the Tzigani lived in the fields and hedges, seemed to Marsa like the very spectres of her race.  More than the musicians with embroidered vests did the poor prisoners of the solitary barge recall to her the great proscribed family of her ancestors.

She called to the children playing upon the sunbeaten deck:  “Come here, and hold up your aprons!”

They obeyed, spreading out their little tattered garments.  “Catch these!” she cried.

They could not believe their eyes.  From the steamer she threw down to them mandarins, grapes, ripe figs, yellow apricots, and great velvety peaches; a rain of dainties which would have surprised a gourmand:  the poor little things, delighted and afraid at the same time, wondered if the lady, who gave them such beautiful fruit, was a fairy.

The mother then rose; and, coming toward Marsa to thank her, her sunburnt skin glowing a deeper red, the poor woman, with tears in her tired eyes, and a wan smile upon her pale lips, touched, surprised, happy in the pleasure of her children, murmured, faltering and confused: 

“Ah!  Madame!  Madame! how good you are!  You are too good, Madame!”

“We must share what we have!” said Marsa, with a smile.  “See how happy the children are!”

“Very happy, Madame.  They are not accustomed to such things.  Say ’Thank you,’ to the beautiful lady.  Say ‘Thank you,’ Jean; you are the oldest.  Say like this:  ‘Thank-you-Ma-dame.’”

“Thank-you-Ma-dame” faltered the boy, raising to Marsa big, timid eyes, which did not understand why anybody should either wish him ill or do him a kindness.  And other low, sweet little voices repeated, like a refrain:  “Thank-you-Ma-dame.”

The two men, in astonishment, came and stood behind the children, and gazed silently at Marsa.

“And your baby, Madame?” said the Tzigana, looking at the sleeping infant, that still pressed its rosy lips to the mother’s breast.  “How pretty it is!  Will you permit me to offer it its baptismal dress?”

“Its baptismal dress?” repeated the mother.

“Oh, Madame!” ejaculated the father, twisting his cap between his fingers.