When the war was over, the Prince roamed sadly for years about Europe—­Europe, which, unmindful of the martyrs, had permitted the massacre of the vanquished.  It was many years before he could accustom himself to the idea that he had no longer a country.  He counted always upon the future; it was impossible that fate would forever be implacable to a nation.  He often repeated this to Yanski Varhely, who had never forsaken him—­Yanski Varhely, the impoverished old hussar, the ruined gentleman, now professor of Latin and mathematics at Paris, and living near the Prince off the product of his lessons and a small remnant he had managed to save from the wreck of his property.

“Hungary will spring up again, Yanski; Hungary is immortal!” Andras would exclaim.

“Yes, on one condition,” was Varhely’s response.  “She must arrive at a comprehension that if she has succumbed, it is because she has committed faults.  All defeats have their geneses.  Before the enemy we were not a unit.  There were too many discussions, and not enough action; such a state of affairs is always fatal.”

The years brought happy changes to Hungary.  She practically regained her freedom; by her firmness she made the conquest of her own autonomy by the side of Austria.  Deak’s spirit, in the person of Andrassy, recovered the possession of power.  But neither Andras nor Varhely returned to their country.  The Prince had become, as he himself said with a smile, “a Magyar of Paris.”  He grew accustomed to the intellectual, refined life of the French city; and this was a consolation, at times, for the exile from his native land.

“It is not a difficult thing to become bewitched with Paris,” he would say, as if to excuse himself.

He had no longer, it is true, the magnificent landscapes of his youth; the fields of maize, the steppes, dotted here and there with clumps of wild roses; the Carpathian pines, with their sombre murmur; and all the evening sounds which had been his infancy’s lullaby; the cowbells, melancholy and indistinct; the snapping of the great whips of the czikos; the mounted shepherds, with their hussar jackets, crossing the plains where grew the plants peculiar to the country; and the broad horizons with the enormous arms of the windmills outlined against the golden sunset.  But Paris, with its ever-varying seductions, its activity in art and science, its perpetual movement, had ended by becoming a real need to him, like a new existence as precious and as loved as the first.  The soldier had become a man of letters, jotting down for himself, not for the public, all that struck him in his observation and his reading; mingling in all societies, knowing them all, but esteeming only one, that of honest people; and thus letting the years pass by, without suspecting that they were flying, regarding himself somewhat as a man away on a visit, and suddenly awaking one fine morning almost old, wondering how he had lived all this time of exile which, despite many mental troubles, seemed to him to have lasted only a few months.