“Well,” said Marsa, glancing down upon him with an almost mutinous smile, which lent a peculiar charm to her beauty, “I will not change this white gown, then; a mantle thrown over it will do.  And you will take your wife in her bridal dress to Paris, my Prince, my hero—­my husband!”

He rose, threw his arms about her, and, holding her close to his heart, pressed one long, silent kiss upon the exquisite lips of his beautiful Tzigana.

She gently disengaged herself from his embrace, with a shivering sigh; and, going slowly toward the door, she turned, and threw him a kiss, saying: 

“I will come back soon, my Andras!”

And, although wishing to go for her mantle, nevertheless she still stood there, with her eyes fixed upon the Prince and her mouth sweetly tremulous with a passion of feeling, as if she could not tear herself away.

The piano upon which Andras had cast the package given him by Varhely was there between them; and the Prince advanced a step or two, leaning his hand upon the ebony cover.  As Marsa approached for a last embrace before disappearing on her errand, her glance fell mechanically upon the small package sealed with red wax; and, as she read, in the handwriting she knew so well, the address of the Prince and the signature of Michel Menko, she raised her eyes violently to the face of Prince Zilah, as if to see if this were not a trap; if, in placing this envelope within her view, he were not trying to prove her.  There was in her look fright, sudden, instinctive fright, a fright which turned her very lips to ashes; and she recoiled, her eyes returning fascinated to the package, while Andras, surprised at the unexpected expression of the Tzigana’s convulsed features, exclaimed, in alarm: 

“What is it, Marsa?  What is the matter?”
“I—­I”

She tried to smile.

“Nothing—­I do not know!  I—­”

She made a desperate effort to look him in the face; but she could not remove her eyes from that sealed package bearing the name Menko.

Ah! that Michel!  She had forgotten him!  Miserable wretch!  He returned, he threatened her, he was about to avenge himself:  she was sure of it!

That paper contained something horrible.  What could Michel Menko have to say to Prince Andras, writing him at such an hour, except to tell him that the wretched woman he had married was branded with infamy?

She shuddered from head to foot, steadying herself against the piano, her lips trembling nervously.

“I assure you, Marsa—­” began the Prince, taking her hands.  “Your hands are cold.  Are you ill?”

His eyes followed the direction of Marsa’s, which were still riveted upon the piano with a dumb look of unutterable agony.

He instantly seized the sealed package, and, holding it up, exclaimed: 

“One would think that it was this which troubled you!”

“O Prince!  I swear to you!—­”