The little Baroness ran into the room, laughing, and telling them how
late it was; and Andras and Marsa, awakened to reality, followed her
to the hall, where Varhely, Vogotzine, Angelo Valla, Paul Jacquemin and
other guests were assembled as a sort of guard of honor to the bride and
groom.
Andras and the Baroness, with Varhely, immediately entered the Prince’s
carriage; Vogotzine taking his place in the coupe with Marsa. Then there
was a gay crackling of the gravel, a flash of wheels in the sunlight, a
rapid, joyous departure. Clustered beneath the trees in the ordinarily
quiet avenues of Maisons, the crowd watched the cortege; and old
Vogotzine good-humoredly displayed his epaulettes and crosses for the
admiration of the people who love uniforms.
As she descended from the carriage, Marsa cast a superstitious glance at
the facade of the church, a humble facade, with a Gothic porch and cheap
stained-glass windows, some of which were broken; and above a plaster
tower covered with ivy and surmounted with a roughly carved cross. She
entered the church almost trembling, thinking again how strange was this
fate which united, before a village altar, a Tzigana and a Magyar. She
walked up the aisle, seeing nothing, but hearing about her murmurs of
admiration, and knelt down beside Andras, upon a velvet cushion, near
which burned a tall candle, in a white candlestick.
The little church, dimly lighted save where the priest stood, was hushed
to silence, and Marsa felt penetrated with deep emotion. She had really
drunk of the cup of oblivion; she was another woman, or rather a young
girl, with all a young girl’s purity and ignorance of evil. It seemed
to her that the hated past was a bad dream; one of those unhealthy
hallucinations which fly away at the dawn of day.
She saw, in the luminous enclosure of the altar, the priest in his white
stole, and the choir boys in their snowy surplices. The waxen candles
looked like stars against the white hangings of the chancel; and above
the altar, a sweet-faced Madonna looked down with sad eyes upon the
man and woman kneeling before her. Through the parti-colored windows,
crossed with broad bands of red, the branches of the lindens swayed
in the wind, and the fluttering tendrils of the ivy cast strange,
flickering shadows of blue, violet, and almost sinister scarlet upon the
guests seated in the nave.
Outside, in the square in front of the church, the crowd waited the end
of the ceremony. Shopgirls from the Rue de l’Eglise, and laundresses
from the Rue de Paris, curiously contemplated the equipages, with their
stamping horses, and the coachmen, erect upon their boxes, motionless,
and looking neither to the right nor the left. Through the open door
of the church, at the end of the old oak arches, could be seen Marsa’s
white, kneeling figure, and beside her Prince Zilah, whose blond head,
as he stood gazing down upon his bride, towered above the rest of the
party.
The music of the organ, now tremulous and low, now strong and deep,
caused a profound silence to fall upon the square; but, as the last note
died away, there was a great scrambling for places to see the procession
come out.
Above the mass of heads, the leaves of the old lindens rustled with a
murmur which recalled that of the sea; and now and then a blossom of a
yellowish white would flutter down, which the girls disputed, holding up
their hands and saying:
“The one who catches it will have a husband before the year is out!”
A poor old blind man, cowering upon the steps of the sanctuary, was
murmuring a monotonous prayer, like the plaint of a night bird.
Yanski Varhely regarded the scene with curiosity, as he waited for the
end of the ceremony. Somewhat oppressed by the heavy atmosphere of the
little church, and being a Huguenot besides, the old soldier had come
out into the open air, and bared his head to the fresh breeze under the
lindens.
His rugged figure had at first a little awed the crowd; but they soon
began to rattle on again like a brook over the stones.
Varhely cast, from time to time, a glance into the interior of the
church. Baroness Dinati was now taking up the collection for the poor,
holding the long pole of the alms-box in her little, dimpled hands, and
bowing with a pretty smile as the coins rattled into the receptacle.
Varhely, after a casual examination of the ruins of an old castle which
formed one side of the square, was about to return to the church, when a
domestic in livery pushed his way through the crowd, and raising himself
upon his toes, peered into the church as if seeking some one. After
a moment the man approached Yanski, and, taking off his hat, asked,
respectfully:
“Is it to Monsieur Varhely that I have the honor to speak?”
“Yes,” replied Yanski, a little surprised.
“I have a package for Prince Andras Zilah: would Monsieur have the
kindness to take charge of it, and give it to the Prince? I beg
Monsieur’s pardon; but it is very important, and I am obliged to go away
at once. I should have brought it to Maisons yesterday.”
As he spoke, the servant drew from an inside pocket a little package
carefully wrapped, and sealed with red sealing-wax.
“Monsieur will excuse me,” he said again, “but it is very important.”
“What is it?” asked Varhely, rather brusquely. “Who sent it?”
“Count Michel Menko.”
Varhely knew very well (as also did Andras), that Michel had been
seriously ill; otherwise, he would have been astonished at the young
man’s absence from the wedding of the Prince.
He thought Michel had probably sent a wedding present, and he took the
little package, twisting it mechanically in his hands. As he did so, he
gave a slight start of surprise; it seemed as if the package contained
letters.
He looked at the superscription. The name of Prince Andras Zilah was
traced in clear, firm handwriting, and, in the left-hand corner, Michel
Menko had written, in Hungarian characters: “Very important! With the
expression of my excuses and my sorrow.” And below, the signature “Menko
Mihaly.”
The domestic was still standing there, hat in hand. “Monsieur will be
good enough to pardon me,” he said; “but, in the midst of this crowd, I
could not perhaps reach his Excellency, and the Count’s commands were so
imperative that--”
“Very well,” interrupted Varhely. “I will myself give this to the Prince
immediately.”
The domestic bowed, uttered his thanks, and left Varhely vaguely uneasy
at this mysterious package which had been brought there, and which Menko
had addressed to the Prince.
With the expression of his excuses and his sorrow! Michel doubtless
meant that he was sorry not to be able to join Andras’s friends--he who
was one of the most intimate of them, and whom the Prince called “my
child.” Yes, it was evidently that. But why this sealed package? and
what did it contain? Yanski turned it over and over between his fingers,
which itched to break the wrapper, and find out what was within.
He wondered if there were really any necessity to give it to the Prince.
But why should he not? What folly to think that any disagreeable news
could come from Michel Menko! The young man, unable to come himself to
Maisons, had sent his congratulations to the Prince, and Zilah would
be glad to receive them from his friend. That was all. There was no
possible trouble in all this, but only one pleasure the more to Andras.
And Varhely could not help smiling at the nervous feeling a letter
received under odd circumstances or an unexpected despatch sometimes
causes. The envelope alone, of some letters, sends a magnetic thrill
through one and makes one tremble. The rough soldier was not accustomed
to such weaknesses, and he blamed himself as being childish, for having
felt that instinctive fear which was now dissipated.
He shrugged his shoulders, and turned toward the church.
From the interior came the sound of the organ, mingled with the murmur
of the guests as they rose, ready to depart. The wedding march from the
Midsummer Night’s Dream pealed forth majestically as the newly-married
pair walked slowly down the aisle. Marsa smiled happily at this music
of Mendelssohn, which she had played so often, and which was now singing
for her the chant of happy love. She saw the sunshine streaming through
the open doorway, and, dazzled by this light from without, her eyes
fixed upon the luminous portal, she no longer perceived the dim shadows
of the church.
Murmurs of admiration greeted her as she appeared upon the threshold,
beaming with happiness. The crowd, which made way for her, gazed upon
her with fascinated eyes. The door of Andras’s carriage was open; Marsa
entered it, and Andras, with a smile of deep, profound content, seated
himself beside her, whispering tenderly in the Tzigana’s ear as the
carriage drove off:
“Ah! how I love you! my beloved, my adored Marsa! How I love you, and
how happy I am!”