“Who is it?” said Marsa.

“I, Vogotzine.”

And, permission being given him, he entered the room.

The old soldier walked about his niece, pulling his moustache, as if he were conducting an inspection.  He found Marsa charming.  Pale as her white robe, with Tizsa’s opal agraffe at her side, ready to clasp the bouquet of flowers held by one of her maids, she had never been so exquisitely beautiful; and Vogotzine, who was rather a poor hand at turning a compliment, compared her to a marble statue.

“How gallant you are this morning, General,” she said, her heart bursting with emotion.

She waved away, with a brusque gesture, the orange-flowers which her maid was about to attach to her corsage.

“No,” she said.  “Not that!  Roses.”

“But, Mademoiselle—­”

“Roses,” repeated Marsa.  “And for my hair white rosebuds also.”

At this, the old General risked another speech.

“Do you think orange-blossoms are too vulgar, Marsa?  By Jove!  They don’t grow in the ditches, though!”

And he laughed loudly at what he considered wit.  But a frowning glance from the Tzigana cut short his hilarity; and, with a mechanical movement, he drew himself up in a military manner, as if the Czar were passing by.

“I will leave you to finish dressing, my dear,” he said, after a moment.

He already felt stifled in the uniform, which he was no longer accustomed to wear, and he went out in the garden to breathe freer.  While waiting there for Zilah, he ordered some cherry cordial, muttering, as he drank it: 

“It is beautiful August weather.  They will have a fine day; but I shall suffocate!”

The avenue was already filled with people.  The marriage had been much discussed, both in the fashionable colony which inhabited the park and in the village forming the democratic part of the place; even from Sartrouville and Mesnil, people had come to see the Tzigana pass in her bridal robes.

“What is all that noise?” demanded Vogotzine of the liveried footman.

“That noise, General?  The inhabitants of Maisons who have come to see the wedding procession.”

“Really?  Ah! really?  Well, they haven’t bad taste.  They will see a pretty woman and a handsome uniform.”  And the General swelled out his breast as he used to do in the great parades of the time of Nicholas, and the reviews in the camp of Tsarskoe-Selo.

Outside the garden, behind the chestnut-trees which hid the avenue, there was a sudden sound of the rolling of wheels, and the gay cracking of whips.

“Ah!” cried the General, “It is Zilah!”

And, rapidly swallowing a last glass of the cordial, he wiped his moustache, and advanced to meet Prince Andras, who was descending from his carriage.