She flew away before Zilah could answer; and, murmuring a word in the ears of her friends, tapping with her little hand upon the shoulders of the obstinate, she gradually cleared the rooms, and the sound of the departing carriages was soon heard, as they rolled down the avenue.

Andras and Marsa were left almost alone; Varhely still remaining, and the little Baroness, who ran up, all rosy and out of breath, to the Prince, and said, gayly, in her laughing voice: 

“Well!  What do you say to that? all vanished like smoke, even Jacquemin, who has gone back by train.  The game of descampativos, which Marie Antoinette loved to play at Trianon, must have been a little like this.  Aren’t you going to thank me?  Ah! you ingrate!”

She ran and embraced Marsa, pressing her cherry lips to the Tzigana’s pale face, and then rapidly disappeared in a mock flight, with a gay little laugh and a tremendous rustle of petticoats.

Of all his friends, Varhely was the one of whom Andras was fondest; but they had not been able to exchange a single word since the morning.  Yanski had been right to remain till the last:  it was his hand which the Prince wished to press before his departure, as if Varhely had been his relative, and the sole surviving one.

“Now,” he said to him, “you have no longer only a brother, my dear Varhely; you have also a sister who loves and respects you as I love and respect you myself.”

Yanski’s stern face worked convulsively with an emotion he tried to conceal beneath an apparent roughness.

“You are right to love me a little,” he said, brusquely, “because I am very fond of you—­of both of you,” nodding his head toward Marsa.  “But no respect, please.  That makes me out too old.”

The Tzigana, taking Vogotzine’s arm, led him gently toward the door, a little alarmed at the purple hue of the General’s cheeks and forehead.  “Come, take a little fresh air,” she said to the old soldier, who regarded her with round, expressionless eyes.

As they disappeared in the garden, Varhely drew from his pocket the little package given to him by Menko’s valet.

“Here is something from another friend!  It was brought to me at the door of the church.”

“Ah!  I thought that Menko would send me some word of congratulation,” said Andras, after he had read upon the envelope the young Count’s signature.  “Thanks, my dear Varhely.”

“Now,” said Yanski, “may happiness attend you, Andras!  I hope that you will let me hear from you soon.”

Zilah took the hand which Varhely extended, and clasped it warmly in both his own.

Upon the steps Varhely found Marsa, who, in her turn, shook his hand.

“Au revoir, Count.”

“Au revoir, Princess.”

She smiled at Andras, who accompanied Varhely, and who held in his hand the package with the seals unbroken.

“Princess!” she said.  “That is a title by which every one has been calling me for the last hour; but it gives me the greatest pleasure to hear it spoken by you, my dear Varhely.  But, Princess or not, I shall always be for you the Tzigana, who will play for you, whenever you wish it, the airs of her country—­of our country—!”