Marsa experienced the greatest delight in seeing Andras, and listening to the low, tender accents of his voice; she felt herself to be loved and protected.  She gave herself up to boundless hopes—­she, who had before her, perhaps, only a few days of life.  She felt perfectly happy near Andras; and it seemed to her that to-day his manner was tenderer, the tones of his voice more caressing, than usual.

“I was right to believe in chimeras,” he said, “since all that I longed for at twenty years is realized to-day.  Very often, dear Marsa, when I used to feel sad and discouraged, I wondered whether my life lay behind me.  But I was longing for you, that was all.  I knew instinctively that there existed an exquisite woman, born for me, my wife—­my wife! and I waited for you.”

He took her hands, and gazed upon her face with a look of infinite tenderness.

“And suppose that you had not found me?” she asked.

“I should have continued to drag out a weary existence.  Ask Varhely what I have told him of my life.”

Marsa felt her heart sink within her; but she forced herself to smile.  All that Varhely had said to her returned to her mind.  Yes, Zilah had staked his very existence upon her love.  To drag aside the veil from his illusion would be like tearing away the bandages from a wound.  Decidedly, the resolution she had taken was the best one—­to say nothing, but, in the black silence of suicide, which would be at once a deliverance and a punishment, to disappear, leaving to Zilah only a memory.

But why not die now?  Ah! why? why?  To this eternal question Marsa made reply, that, for deceiving him by becoming his wife, she would pay with her life.  A kiss, then death.  In deciding to act a lie, she condemned herself.  She only sought to give to her death the appearance of an accident, not wishing to leave to Andras the double memory of a treachery and a crime.

She listened to the Prince as he spoke of the future, of all the happiness of their common existence.  She listened as if her resolution to die had not been taken, and as if Zilah was promising her, not a minute, but an eternity, of joy.

General Vogotzine and Marsa accompanied the Prince to the station, he having come to Maisons by the railway.  The Tzigana’s Danish hounds went with them, bounding about Andras, and licking his hands as he caressed them.

“They already know the master,” laughed Vogotzine.  “I have rarely seen such gentle animals,” remarked the Prince.

“Gentle?  That depends!” said Marsa.

After separating from the Prince, she returned, silent and abstracted, with Vogotzine.  She saw Andras depart with a mournful sadness, and a sudden longing to have him stay—­to protect her, to defend her, to be there if Michel should come.

It was already growing dark when they reached home.  Marsa ate but little at dinner, and left Vogotzine alone to finish his wine.