Michel regarded the entrance of Varhely into the little salon where he awaited him, as if he were some spectre, some vengeance which he had expected, and which did not astonish him.  He stood erect, cold and still, as Yanski advanced toward him; while Angelo Valla remained in the doorway, mechanically stroking his smoothly shaven chin.

“Monsieur,” said Varhely, “for months I have looked forward impatiently to this moment.  Do not doubt that I have sought you.”

“I did not hide myself,” responded Menko.

“Indeed?  Then may I ask what was your object in going to Warsaw?”

“To seek-forgetfulness,” said the young man, slowly and sadly.

This simple word—­so often spoken by Zilah—­which had no more effect upon the stern old Hungarian than a tear upon a coat of mail, produced a singular impression upon Valla.  It seemed to him to express unconquerable remorse.

“What you have done can not be forgotten,” said Varhely.

“No more than what I have suffered.”

“You made me the accomplice of the most cowardly and infamous act a man could commit.  I have come to you to demand an explanation.”

Michel lowered his eyes at these cutting words, his thin face paling, and his lower lip trembling; but he said nothing.  At last, after a pause, he raised his eyes again to the face of the old Hungarian, and, letting the words fall one by one, he replied: 

“I am at your disposal for whatever you choose to demand, to exact.  I only desire to assure you that I had no intention of involving you in an act which I regarded as a cruel necessity.  I wished to avenge myself.  But I did not wish my vengeance to arrive too late, when what I had assumed the right to prevent had become irreparable.”

“I do not understand exactly,” said Varhely.

Menko glanced at Valla as if to ask whether he could speak openly before the Italian.

“Monsieur Angelo Valla was one of the witnesses of the marriage of Prince Andras Zilah,” said Yanski.

“I know Monsieur,” said Michel, bowing to Valla.

“Ah!” he exclaimed abruptly, his whole manner changing.  “There was a man whom I respected, admired and loved.  That man, without knowing it, wrested from me the woman who had been the folly, the dream, and the sorrow of my life.  I would have done anything to prevent that woman from bearing the name of that man.”

“You sent to the Prince letters written to you by that woman, and that, too, after the Tzigana had become Princess Zilah.”

“She had let loose her dogs upon me to tear me to pieces.  I was insane with rage.  I wished to destroy her hopes also.  I gave those letters to my valet with absolute orders to deliver them to the Prince the evening before the wedding.  At the same hour that I left Paris, the letters should have been in the hands of the man who had the right to see them, and when there was yet time for him to refuse his name to the woman who had written them.  My servant did not obey, or did not understand.  Upon my honor, this is true.  He kept the letters twenty-four hours longer than I had ordered him to do; and it was not she whom I punished, but I struck the man for whom I would have given my life.”