THE VALE OF VIOLETS
In the Prince's mind the whole affair seemed clear as day, and he
explained the vague anxiety with which he had been afflicted for several
days as a mysterious premonition of a new sorrow. Menko was at Florence!
Menko, for it could be no other than he, had telegraphed to Marsa,
arranging a meeting with her. That very evening he was to be in the
house of Marsa Laszlo--Marsa who bore, in spite of all, the title and
name of the Zilahs. Was it possible? After the marriage, after this
woman's vows and tears, these two beings, separated for a time, were to
be united again. And he, Andras, had almost felt pity for her! He had
listened to Varhely, an honest man; drawing a parallel between a
vanquished soldier and this fallen girl--Varhely, the rough, implacable
Varhely, who had also been the dupe of the Tzigana, and one evening at
Sainte-Adresse had even counselled the deceived husband to pardon her.
In a state bordering on frenzy, Zilah returned to his hotel, thinking:
"He will be with her this evening!"
This was worse than all the rest. How could he punish her?
Punish her?
Why not? Was not Marsa Laszlo his wife? That villa of Maisons-Lafitte,
where she thought herself so safe, was his by law. He, the husband, had
a right to enter there at any hour and demand of his wife an account of
his honor.
"She wished this name of Zilah! Well! she shall know at least what it
costs and what it imposes upon her!" he hissed through his clenched
teeth. He walked nervously to and fro in the library of his hotel, his
excitement increasing at every step.
"She is Princess Zilah! She--a princess! Nothing can wrest from her
that title which she has stolen! Princess be it, then; but the Prince
has the right to deal out life or death to his wife--to his wife and to
the lover of his wife!" with a spasmodic burst of laughter. "Her lover
is to be there; Menko is to be there, and I complain! The man whom I
have sought in vain will be before me. I shall hold him at my mercy,
and I do not thank the kind fate which gives me that joy! This evening!
He will be at her house this evening! Good! Justice shall be done!"
Every moment added to his fever. He would have given ten years of his
life if it were already evening. He waited impatiently for the hour to
come when he could go and surprise them. He even thought of meeting
Menko at the railway station on his arrival from Italy: but what would be
the use? Menko would be at Maisons; and he would kill him before her
face, in a duel if Menko would fight, or like a thief caught in the act
if he attempted to fly. That would be better. Yes, he would kill him
like a dog, if the other--but no! The Hungarian, struck in the presence
of the Tzigana, would certainly not recoil before a pistol. Marsa should
be the sole witness of the duel, and the blood of the Prince or of Menko
should spatter her face--a crimson stain upon her pale cheek should be
her punishment.
Early in the evening Andras left the hotel, after slipping into the
pocket of his overcoat a pair of loaded pistols: one of them he would
cast at Menko's feet. It was not assassination he wished, but justice.
He took the train to Maisons, and, on his arrival there, crossed the
railway bridge, and found himself almost alone in the broad avenue which
runs through the park. As he walked on through the rapidly darkening
shadows, he began to feel a strange sensation, as if nothing had
happened, and as if he were shaking off, little by little, a hideous
nightmare. In a sort of voluntary hallucination, he imagined that he was
going, as in former days, to Marsa's house; and that she was awaiting him
in one of those white frocks which became her so well, with her silver
belt clasped with the agraffe of opals. As he advanced, a host of
memories overwhelmed him. He had walked with Marsa under these great
lindens forming an arch overhead like that of a cathedral. He remembered
conversations they had had in the evening, when a slight mist silvered
the majestic park, and the white villa loomed vaguely before them like
some phantom palace of fairyland. With the Tzigana clinging to his arm,
he had seen those fountains, with their singing waters, that broad lawn
between the two long lines of trees, those winding paths through the
shrubbery; and, in the emotion aroused by these well-remembered places,
there was a sensation of bitter pain at the thought of the happiness that
might have been his had fate fulfilled her promises, which increased,
rather than appeased, the Prince's anger.
As his steps led him mechanically nearer and nearer to the house where
she lived, all the details of his wedding-day rose in his memory, and he
turned aside to see again the little church, the threshold of which they
had crossed together--she exquisitely lovely in her white draperies, and
he overflowing with happiness.
The square in front of the sanctuary was now deserted and the leaves were
beginning to fall from the trees. A man was lying asleep upon the steps
before the bolted door. Zilah stood gazing at the Gothic portal, with a
statue of the Virgin Mother above it, and wondered whether it were he who
had once led there a lovely girl, about to become his wife; and the sad,
closed church produced upon him the effect of a tomb.
He dragged himself away from the contemplation of the stone threshold,
where slept the tired man--drunk perhaps, at all events happier than the
Prince--and proceeded on his way through the woods to the abode of Marsa
Laszlo.
There was, Zilah remembered well, quite near there, a sort of narrow
valley (where the Mayor of Maisons was said to have royally entertained
Louis XIV and his courtiers, as they were returning from Marly), a lovely
spot, surrounded by grassy slopes covered with violets, a little shady,
Virgilian wood, where he and Marsa had dreamed away many happy hours.
They had christened it The Vale o f Violets. How many memories were in
that sweet name, each one of which stabbed and exasperated Zilah, rising
before him like so many spectres.
He hastened his steps, repeating:
"He is there! She is waiting for him! Her lover is there!"
At the end of the road, before the villa, closed and silent like the old
church, he stopped. He had reached his destination; but what was he
about to do, he who--who up to this time had protected his name from the
poisonous breath of scandal?
He was about to kill Menko, or to be killed himself. A duel! But what
was the need of proposing a duel, when, exercising his rights as a
husband, he could punish both the man and the woman?
He did not hesitate long, however, but advanced to the gate, saying,
aloud:
"I have a right to enter my own house."
The ringing of the bell was answered by the barking of Duna, Bundas, and
Ortog, who tore furiously at their iron chains.
A man presently appeared on the other side of the gate. It was a
domestic whom Andras did not know and had never seen.
"Whom do you wish to see?" asked the man.
"The Princess Zilah!"
"Who are you?" demanded the man, his hand upon the inner bolt of the
gate.
"Prince Zilah!"
The other stood stock-still in amazement, trying to see, through the
darkness, the Prince's face.
"Do you hear me?" demanded Andras.
And, as the domestic opened the gate, as if to observe the appearance of
the visitor, the Prince gave it a nervous push, which threw the servant
backward; and, once within the garden, he came close to him, and said:
"Look well at me, in order that you may recognize me again. I am master
here."
Zilah's clear eye and imperious manner awed the man, and he bowed humbly,
not daring to speak.
Andras turned on his heel, mounted the steps, and entered the house; then
he stopped and listened.
She was with him. Yes, a man was there, and the man was speaking,
speaking to Marsa, speaking doubtless of love.
Menko, with his twisted moustache, his pretty smile and his delicate
profile, was there, behind that door. A red streak of light from the
salon where Marsa was showed beneath the door, which the Prince longed to
burst open with his foot. With anger and bitterness filling his heart,
he felt capable of entering there, and striking savagely, madly, at his
rival.
How these two beings had played with him; the woman who had lied to him,
and the coward who had sent him those letters.
Suddenly Marsa's voice fell upon his ear, that rich, contralto voice he
knew so well, speaking in accents of love or joy.
What was he waiting for? His hot, feverish hand sought the handle of his
pistol, and, striding forward, he threw open the door of the room.
The light from an opal-tinted lamp fell full upon his face. He stood
erect upon the threshold, while two other faces were turned toward him,
two pale faces, Marsa's and another's.
Andras paused in amazement.
He had sought Menko; he found--Varhely!