Once upon a time there was in Paris a great lord, a Moldavian, or a
   Wallachian, or a Moldo-Wallachian (in a word, a Parisian—­a Parisian
   of the Danube, if you like), who fell in love with a young Greek,
   or Turk, or Armenian (also of Paris), as dark-browed as the night,
   as beautiful as the day.  The great lord was of a certain age, that
   is, an uncertain age.  The beautiful Athenian or Georgian, or
   Circassian, was young.  The great lord was generally considered to
   be imprudent.  But what is to be done when one loves?  Marry or
   don’t marry, says Rabelais or Moliere.  Perhaps they both said it. 
   Well, at all events, the great lord married.  It appears, if well-
   informed people are to be believed, that the great Wallachian lord
   and the beautiful Georgian did not pass two hours after their
   marriage beneath the same roof.  The very day of their wedding,
   quietly, and without scandal, they separated, and the reason of this
   rupture has for a long time puzzled Parisian high-life.  It was
   remarked, however, that the separation of the newly-married pair was
   coincident with the disappearance of a very fashionable attache who,
   some years ago, was often seen riding in the Bois, and who was then
   considered to be the most graceful waltzer of the Viennese, or
   Muscovite, or Castilian colony of Paris.  We might, if we were
   indiscreet, construct a whole drama with these three people for our
   dramatis personae; but we wish to prove that reporters (different
   in this from women) sometimes know how to keep a secret.  For those
   ladies who are, perhaps, still interested in the silky moustaches of
   the fugitive ex-diplomat, we can add, however, that he was seen at
   Brussels a short time ago.  He passed through there like a shooting
   star.  Some one who saw him noticed that he was rather pale, and
   that he seemed to be still suffering from the wounds received not
   long ago.  As for the beautiful Georgian, they say she is in despair
   at the departure of her husband, the great Wallachian lord, who, in
   spite of his ill-luck, is really a Prince Charming.

Andras Zilah turned rapidly to the signature of this article.  The “Echoes of Paris” were signed Puck.  Puck?  Who was this Puck?  How could an unknown, an anonymous writer, a retailer of scandals, be possessed of his secret?  For Andras believed that his suffering was a secret; he had never had an idea that any one could expose it to the curiosity of the crowd, as this editor of L’Actualite had done.  He felt an increased rage against the invisible Michel Menko, who had disappeared after his infamy; and it seemed to him that this Puck, this unknown journalist, was an accomplice or a friend of Michel Menko, and that, behind the pseudonym of the writer, he perceived the handsome face, twisted moustache and haughty smile of the young Count.