“I like him very much.  He is a charming boy, and his father was one of my companions in arms.  I have been almost a guardian to his son.  We are kinsmen, and when the young count entered diplomacy he asked my advice, as he hesitated to serve Austria.  I told him that, after having fought Austria with the sword, it was our duty to absorb it by our talents and devotion.  Was I not right?  Austria is to-day subservient to Hungary, and, when Vienna acts, Vienna glances toward Pesth to see if the Magyars are satisfied.  Michel Menko has therefore served his country well; and I don’t understand why he gave up diplomacy.  He makes me uneasy:  he seems to me, like all young men of his generation, a little too undecided what object to pursue, what duty to fulfil.  He is nervous, irresolute.  We were more unfortunate but more determined; we marched straight on without that burden of pessimism with which our successors are loaded down.  I am sorry that Michel has resigned his position:  he had a fine future before him, and he would have made a good diplomatist.”

“Too good, perhaps,” interrupted Marsa, dryly.

“Ah, decidedly,” retorted the Prince, with a smile, “you don’t like my poor Menko.”

“He is indifferent to me;” and the way in which she pronounced the words was a terrible condemnation of Michel Menko.  “But,” added the Tzigana, “he himself has told me all that you have said of him.  He, on his side, has a great affection and a deep veneration for you; and it is not astonishing that it should be so, for men like you are examples for men like him, and—­”

She paused abruptly, as if unwilling to say more.

“And what?” asked the Prince.

“Nothing.  ‘Examples’ is enough; I don’t know what I was going to say.”

She made a little gesture with her pretty hand as if to dismiss the subject; and, after wondering a moment at the girl’s singular reticence after her previous frankness, Andras thought only of enjoying her grace and charm, until the Tzigana gave him her hand and bade him good-night, begging him to remember that she would be very happy and proud to receive him in her own house.

“But, indeed,” she added, with a laugh which displayed two rows of pearly teeth, “it is not for me to invite you.  That is a terrible breach of the proprieties.  General!”

At her call, from a group near by, advanced old General Vogotzine, whom Zilah had not noticed since the beginning of the evening.  Marsa laid her hand on his arm, and said, distinctly, Vogotzine being a little deaf: 

“Prince Andras Zilah, uncle, will do us the honor of coming to see us at Maisons-Lafitte.”

“Ah!  Ah!  Very happy!  Delighted!  Very flattering of you, Prince,” stammered the General, pulling his white moustache, and blinking his little round eyes.  “Andras Zilah!  Ah! 1848!  Hard days, those!  All over now, though!  All over now!  Ah!  Ah!  We no longer cut one another’s throats!  No!  No!  No longer cut one another’s throats!”