Evening came.  Below the window the great masses of the chestnut-trees and the lofty crests of the poplars waved in the breeze like forest plumes, their peaks touched by the sun setting in a sky of tender blue, while the shadowy twilight crept over the park where, through the branches, patches of yellow light, like golden and copper vapors, still gave evidence of the god of day.

Marsa, her heart full of a melancholy which the twilight increased, repeated over and over again, with shudders of rage and disgust, those three words which Michel Menko had hurled at her like a threat:  “I demand it!” Suddenly she heard in the garden the baying of dogs, and she saw, held in check by a domestic, Duna and Bundas, bounding through the masses of flowers toward the gate, where a man appeared, whom Marsa, leaning over the balcony, recognized at once.

“The wretch!” she exclaimed between her clenched teeth.  It was Menko.

He must have debarked before reaching Paris, and have come to Maisons-Lafitte in haste.

Marsa’s only thought, in the first moment of anger, was to refuse to see him.  “I can not,” she thought, “I will not!” Then suddenly her mind changed.  It was braver and more worthy of her to meet the danger face to face.  She rang, and said to the domestic who answered the bell:  “Show Count Menko into the little salon.”

“We shall see what he will dare,” muttered the Tzigana, glancing at the mirror as if to see whether she appeared to tremble before danger and an enemy.

The little salon into which the young Count was introduced was in the left wing of the villa; and it was Marsa’s favorite room, because it was so quiet there.  She had furnished it with rare taste, in half Byzantine and half Hindoo fashion—­a long divan running along the wall, covered with gray silk striped with garnet; Persian rugs cast here and there at random; paintings by Petenkofen—­Hungarian farms and battle-scenes, sentinels lost in the snow; two consoles loaded with books, reviews, and bric-a-brac; and a round table with Egyptian incrustations, covered with an India shawl, upon which were fine bronzes of Lanceray, and little jewelled daggers.

This salon communicated with a much larger one, where General Vogotzine usually took his siesta, and which Marsa abandoned to him, preferring the little room, the windows of which, framed in ivy, looked out upon the garden, with the forest in the distance.

Michel Menko was well acquainted with this little salon, where he had more than once seen Marsa seated at the piano playing her favorite airs.  He remembered it all so well, and, nervously twisting his moustache, he longed for her to make her appearance.  He listened for the frou-frou of Marsa’s skirts on the other side of the lowered portiere which hung between the two rooms; but he heard no sound.

The General had shaken hands with Michel, as he passed through the large salon, saying, in his thick voice: