The spring came, with the green leaflets and the white blossoms at the ends of the branches.  The buds opened and the odors of the rejuvenated earth mounted subtly into the soft air.

At her window, regarding the young grass and the masses of tender verdure in which clusters of pale gold or silvery white gleamed like aigrettes, Marsa said to Andras: 

“It must be lovely at Maisons, in the Vale of Violets!” but she added, quickly: 

“We are better here, much better!  And it even seems to me that I have always, always lived here in this beautiful castle, where you have sheltered me, like a swallow beaten by the wind.”

There was, beneath the window, stretching out like a ribbon of silver, a road, which the mica dust caused, at times, in the sunlight to resemble a river.  Marsa often looked out on this road, imagining that she saw again the massive dam upon the Seine, or wondering whether a band of Tzigani would not appear there with the April days.

“I should like,” she said one day to Andras, “to hear again the airs my people used to play.”

She found that, with the returning spring, she was more feeble than she had ever been.  The first warmth in the air entered her veins like a sweet intoxication.  Her head felt heavy, and in her whole body she felt a pleasant languor.  She had wished to sink thus to rest, as nature was awakening.

The doctor seemed very uneasy at this languidness, of which Marsa said: 

“It is delicious!”

He whispered one evening to Andras: 

“It is grave!”

Another sorrow was to come into the life of the Prince, who had known so many.

A few days after, with a sort of presentiment, he wrote to Yanski Varhely to come and spend a few months with him.  He felt the need of his old friend; and the Count hastened to obey the summons.

Varhely was astonished to see the change which so short a time had produced in Marsa.  In seven months her face, although still beautiful, had become emaciated, and had a transparent look.  The little hand, white as snow, which she gave to Varhely, burned him; the skin was dry and hot.

“Well, my dear Count,” said Marsa, as she lay extended in a reclining-chair, “what news of General Vogotzine?”

“The General is well.  He hopes to return to Russia.  The Czar has been appealed to, and he does not say no.”

“Ah! that is good news,” she said.  “He must be greatly bored at Maisons; poor Vogotzine!”

“He smokes, drinks, takes the dogs out—­”

The dogs!  Marsa started.  Those hounds would survive Menko, herself, the love which she now tasted as the one joy of her life!  Mechanically her lips murmured, too low to be heard:  “Ortog!  Bundas!”

Then she said, aloud: 

“I shall be very, glad if the poor General can return to St. Petersburg or Odessa.  One is best off at home, in one’s own country.  If you only knew, Varhely, how happy I am, happy to be in Hungary.  At home!”