All night long Andras Zilah sat there, inflicting torture upon himself, and taking a bitter delight in his own suffering; engraving upon his memory every word of love written by Marsa to Michel, as if he felt the need of fresh pain to give new strength to his hatred.

The next morning at breakfast, Varhely astonished him by announcing that he was going away.

“To Paris?”

“No, to Vienna,” replied Yanski, who looked somewhat paler than usual.

“What an idea!  What are you going to do there, Varhely?”

“Angelo Valla arrived yesterday at Havre.  He sent for me to come to his hotel this morning.  I have just been there.  Valla has given me some information in regard to a matter of interest to myself, which will require my presence at Vienna.  So I am going there.”

Prince Zilah was intimately acquainted with the Valla of whom Varhely spoke; he had been one of the witnesses of his marriage.  Valla was a former minister of Manin; and, since the siege of Venice, he had lived partly in Paris and partly in Florence.  He was a man for whom Andras Zilah had the greatest regard.

“When do you go?” asked the Prince of Varhely.

“In an hour.  I wish to take the fast mail from Paris this evening.”

“Is it so very pressing, then?”

“Very pressing,” replied Varhely.  “There is another to whose ears the affair may possibly come, and I wish to get the start of him.”

“Farewell, then,” said Andras, considerably surprised; “come back as soon as you can.”

He was astonished at the almost violent pressure of the hand which Varhely gave him, as if he were departing for a very long journey.

“Why didn’t Valla come to see me?” he asked.  “He is one of the few I am always glad to see.”

“He had no time.  He had to be away again at once, and he asked me to excuse him to you.”

The Prince did not make any further attempt to find out what was the reason of his friend’s sudden flight, for Varhely was already descending the steps of the villa.

Andras then felt a profound sensation of loneliness, and he thought again of the woman whom his imagination pictured haggard and wan in the asylum of Vaugirard.

CHAPTER XXVII

“What matters it how much we suffer?”

Two hours after Varhely had gone, a sort of feverish attraction drew Prince Andras to the spot where, the night before, he had listened to the Tzigana airs.