Andras Zilah had not yet loved deeply, as it was in his nature to love.  More or less passing caprices had not dried up the spring of real passion which was at the bottom of his heart.  But he had not sought this love; for he adored his Hungary as he would have loved a woman, and the bitter recollection of her defeat gave him the impression of a love that had died or been cruelly betrayed.

Yanski, on the whole, had not greatly troubled himself to demonstrate mathematically or philosophically that a “hussar pupil” was an absolute necessity to him.  People can not be forced, against their will, to marry; and the Prince, after all, was free, if he chose, to let the name of Zilah die with him.

“Taking life as it is,” old Varhely would growl, “perhaps it isn’t necessary to bring into the world little beings who never asked to come here.”  And yet breaking off in his pessimism, and with a vision before his eyes of another Andras, young, handsome, leading his hussars to the charge “and yet, it is a pity, Andras, it is a pity.”

The decisions of men are more often dependent upon chance than upon their own will.  Prince Andras received an invitation to dinner one day from the little Baroness Dinati, whom he liked very much, and whose husband, Orso Dinati, one of the defenders of Venice in the time of Manin, had been his intimate friend.  The house of the Baroness was a very curious place; the reporter Jacquemin, who was there at all times, testing the wines and correcting the menus, would have called it “bizarre.”  The Baroness received people in all circles of society; oddities liked her, and she did not dislike oddities.  Very honest, very spirituelle, an excellent woman at heart, she gave evening parties, readings from unheard-of books, and performances of the works of unappreciated musicians; and the reporters, who came to absorb her salads and drink her punch, laughed at her in their journals before their supper was digested.

The Prince, as we have said, was very fond of the Baroness, with an affection which was almost fraternal.  He pardoned her childishness and her little absurdities for the sake of her great good qualities.  “My dear Prince,” she said to him one day, “do you know that I would throw myself into the fire for you?”

“I am sure of it; but there would not be any great merit in your doing so.”

“And why not, please?”

“Because you would not run any risk of being burned.  This must be so, because you receive in your house a crowd of highly suspicious people, and no one has ever suspected you yourself.  You are a little salamander, the prettiest salamander I ever met.  You live in fire, and you have neither upon your face nor your reputation the slightest little scorch.”

“Then you think that my guests are”——­

“Charming.  Only, they are of two kinds:  those whom I esteem, and who do not amuse me—­often; and those who amuse me, and whom I esteem—­never.”