She was sure that she could not survive the immense joy which destiny had accorded her; and she did not rebel against this decree.  It seemed to her right and just.  She had never desired any other ending to her love than to die beloved, to die with Andras’s kiss of forgiveness upon her lips, with his arms about her, and to sink with a smile into the eternal sleep.  What more beautiful thing could she, the Tzigana, have wished?

When the Prince’s people saluted her by that title of “Princess” which was hers, she trembled as if she had usurped it; she wished to be Marsa to the Prince, Marsa, his devoted slave, who looked at him with her great eyes full of gratitude and love.  And she wished to be only that.  It seemed to her that, in the ancient home of the Zilahs, the birthplace of soldiers, the eyrie of eagles, she was a sort of stranger; but, at the same time, she thought, with a smile: 

“What matters it?  It is for so short a time.”

One day Prince Zilah received from Vienna a large sealed envelope.  Minister Ladany earnestly entreated him to come to the Austrian capital and present, in the salons of Vienna and at the imperial court, Princess Zilah, of whose beauty the Austrian colony of Paris raved.

Marsa asked the Prince what the letter contained.

“Nothing.  An invitation to leave our solitude.  We are too happy here.”

Marsa questioned him no further; but she resolved that she would never allow the Prince to take her to that court which claimed his presence.  In her eyes, she was always the Tzigana; and, although Menko was dead, she would never permit Zilah to present her to people who might have known Count Michel.

No, no, let them remain in the dear old castle, he living only for her, she breathing only for him; and let the world go, with its fascinations and its pleasures, its false joys and its false friendships!  Let them ask of life only what truth it possesses; an hour of rest between two ordeals, a smile between two sobs, and—­the right to love each other.  To love each other until that fatal separation which she felt was coming, until that end which was fast advancing; her poor, frail body being now only the diaphanous prison of her soul.  She did not complain, as she felt the hour gently approach when, with a last kiss, a last sigh, she must say to Andras, Adieu!

He, seeing her each day more pale, each day more feeble, was alarmed; but he hoped, that, when the winter, which was very severe there, was over, Marsa would regain her strength.  He summoned to the castle a physician from Vienna, who battled obstinately and skilfully against the malady from which the Tzigana was suffering.  Her weakness and languor kept Marsa, during the cold months, for whole days before the lofty, sculptured chimney-piece, in which burned enormous logs of oak.  As the flames gave a rosy tinge to her cheeks and made her beautiful eyes sparkle, Andras said to herself, as he watched her, that she would live, live and be happy with him.