Every now and then, leaning over and brushing with his moustaches her delicate white ear, he would ask: 

“Are you happy, Marsa?”

And Marsa would answer with a smile ending in a sigh, as she vaguely contemplated the scene before her: 

“Yes, uncle, very happy.”

Not far from these two was a little woman, still very pretty, although of a certain age—­the age of embonpoint—­a brunette, with very delicate features, a little sensual mouth, and pretty rosy ears peeping forth from skilfully arranged masses of black hair.  With a plump, dimpled hand, she held before her myopic eyes a pair of gold-mounted glasses; and she was speaking to a man of rather stern aspect, with a Slav physiognomy, a large head, crowned with a mass of crinkly hair as white as lamb’s wool, a long, white moustache, and shoulders as broad as an ox; a man already old, but with the robust strength of an oak.  He was dressed neither well nor ill, lacking distinction, but without vulgarity.

“Indeed, my dear Varhely, I am enchanted with this idea of Prince Andras.  I am enjoying myself excessively already, and I intend to enjoy myself still more.  Do you know, this scheme of a breakfast on the water is simply delightful!  Don’t you find it so?  Oh! do be a little jolly, Varhely!”

“Do I seem sad, then, Baroness?”

Yanski Varhely, the friend of Prince Andras, was very happy, however, despite his rather sombre air.  He glanced alternately at the little woman who addressed him, and at Marsa, two very different types of beauty:  Andras’s fiancee, slender and pale as a beautiful lily, and the little Baroness Dinati, round and rosy as a ripe peach.  And he was decidedly pleased with this Marsa Laszlo, against whom he had instinctively felt some prejudice when Zilah spoke to him for the first time of marrying her.  To make of a Tzigana—­for Marsa was half Tzigana—­a Princess Zilah, seemed to Count Varhely a slightly bold resolution.  The brave old soldier had never understood much of the fantastic caprices of passion, and Andras seemed to him in this, as in all other things, just a little romantic.  But, after all, the Prince was his own master, and whatever a Zilah did was well done.  So, after reflection, Zilah’s marriage became a joy to Varhely, as he had just been declaring to the fiancee’s uncle, General Vogotzine.

Baroness Dinati was therefore wrong to suspect old Yanski Varhely of any ‘arriere-pensee’.  How was it possible for him not to be enchanted, when he saw Andras absolutely beaming with happiness?

They were now about to depart, to raise the anchor and glide down the river along the quays.  Already Paul Jacquemin, casting his last leaves to the page of L’Actualite, was quickly descending the gangplank.  Zilah scarcely noticed him, for he uttered a veritable cry of delight as he perceived behind the reporter a young man whom he had not expected.

“Menko!  My dear Michel!” he exclaimed, stretching out both hands to the newcomer, who advanced, excessively pale.  “By what happy chance do I see you, my dear boy?”