A few steps away, Dr. Fargeas and Dr. Sims studied her stony look, in which there was as yet neither thought nor vision.

Still enveloped in her stupor, she stood there, her eyes riveted upon Andras.  Suddenly, as if an invisible knife had been plunged into her heart, she started back.  Her pale marble face became transfigured, and an expression of wild terror swept across her features; shaking with a nervous trembling, she tried to call out, and a shrill cry, which rent the air, burst from her lips, half open, like those of a tragic mask.  Her two arms were stretched out with the hands clasped; and, falling upon her knees, she—­whose light of reason had been extinguished, who for so many days had only murmured the sad, singing refrain:  “I do not know; I do not know!”—­faltered, in a voice broken with sobs:  “Forgive!  Forgive!”

Then her face became livid, and she would have fallen back unconscious if Zilah had not stooped over and caught her in his arms.

Dr. Sims hastened forward, and, aided by the nurse, relieved him of his burden.

Poor Vogotzine was as purple as if he had had a stroke of apoplexy.

“But, gentlemen,” said the Prince, his eyes burning with hot tears, “it will be horrible if we have killed her!”

“No, no,” responded Fargeas; “we have only killed her stupor.  Now leave her to us.  Am I not right, my dear Sims?  She can and must be cured!”

CHAPTER XXIX

“Let the dead past bury its dead”

Prince Andras had heard no news of Varhely for a long time.  He only knew that the Count was in Vienna.

Yanski had told the truth when he said that he had been summoned away by his friend, Angelo Valla.

They were very much astonished, at the Austrian ministry of foreign affairs, to see Count Yanski Varhely, who, doubtless, had come from Paris to ask some favor of the minister.  The Austrian diplomats smiled as they heard the name of the old soldier of ’48 and ’49.  So, the famous fusion of parties proclaimed in 1875 continued!  Every day some sulker of former times rallied to the standard.  Here was this Varhely, who, at one time, if he had set foot in Austria-Hungary, would have been speedily cast into the Charles barracks, the jail of political prisoners, now sending in his card to the minister of the Emperor; and doubtless the minister and the old commander of hussars would, some evening, together pledge the new star of Hungary, in a beaker of rosy Crement!

“These are queer days we live in!” thought the Austrian diplomats.