The chimes rang forth a merry peal, and Mendelssohn’s music still
thundered its triumphal accents, as the marriage guests left the church.
“It is a beautiful wedding, really a great success! The bride, the
decorations, the good peasants and the pretty girls--everything is
simply perfect. If I ever marry again,” laughed the Baroness, “I shall
be married in the country.”
“You have only to name the day, Baroness,” said old Vogotzine, inspired
to a little gallantry.
And Jacquemin, with a smile, exclaimed, in Russian:
“What a charming speech, General, and so original! I will make a note of
it.”
The carriages rolled away toward Marsa’s house through the broad
avenues, turning rapidly around the fountains of the park, whose jets of
water laughed as they fell and threw showers of spray over the masses
of flowers. Before the church, the children disputed for the money and
bonbons Prince Andras had ordered to be distributed. In Marsa’s large
drawing-rooms, where glass and silver sparkled upon the snowy cloth,
servants in livery awaited the return of the wedding-party. In a
moment there was an assault, General Vogotzine leading the column. All
appetites were excited by the drive in the fresh air, and the guests did
honor to the pates, salads, and cold chicken, accompanied by Leoville,
which Jacquemin tasted and pronounced drinkable.
The little Baroness was ubiquitous, laughing, chattering, enjoying
herself to her heart’s content, and telling every one that she was to
leave that very evening for Trouviile, with trunks, and trunks, and
trunks--a host of them! But then, it was race-week, you know!
With her eyeglasses perched upon her little nose, she stopped before a
statuette, a picture, no matter what, exclaiming, merrily:
“Oh, how pretty that is! How pretty it is! It is a Tanagra! How queer
those Tanagras are. They prove that love existed in antiquity, don’t
they, Varhely? Oh! I forgot; what do you know about love?”
At last, with a glass of champagne in her hand, she paused before a
portrait of Marsa, a strange, powerful picture, the work of an artist
who knew how to put soul into his painting.
“Ah! this is superb! Who painted it, Marsa?”
“Zichy,” replied Marsa.
“Ah, yes, Zichy! I am no longer astonished. By the way, there is another
Hungarian artist who paints very well. I have heard of him. He is an old
man; I don’t exactly remember his name, something like Barabas.”
“Nicolas de Baratras,” said Varhely.
“Yes, that’s it. It seems he is a master. But your Zichy pleases me
infinitely. He has caught your eyes and expression wonderfully; it is
exactly like you, Princess. I should like to have my portrait painted by
him. His first name is Michel, is it not?”
She examined the signature, peering through her eyeglass, close to the
canvas.
“Yes, I knew it was. Michel Zichy!”
This name of “Michel!” suddenly pronounced, sped like an arrow through
Marsa’s heart. She closed her eyes as if to shut out some hateful
vision, and abruptly quitted the Baroness, who proceeded to analyze
Zichy’s portrait as she did the pictures in the salon on varnishing day.
Marsa went toward other friends, answering their flatteries with smiles,
and forcing herself to talk and forget.
Andras, in the midst of the crowd where Vogotzine’s loud laugh
alternated with the little cries of the Baroness, felt a complex
sentiment: he wished his friends to enjoy themselves and yet he longed
to be alone with Marsa, and to take her away. They were to go first to
his hotel in Paris; and then to some obscure corner, probably to the
villa of Sainte-Adresse, until September, when they were going to
Venice, and from there to Rome for the winter.
It seemed to the Prince that all these people were taking away from
him a part of his life. Marsa belonged to them, as she went from one
to another, replying to the compliments which desperately resembled one
another, from those of Angelo Valla, which were spoken in Italian, to
those of little Yamada, the Parisianized Japanese. Andras now longed
for the solitude of the preceding days; and Baroness Dinati, shaking her
finger at him, said: “My dear Prince, you are longing to see us go,
I know you are. Oh! don’t say you are not! I am sure of it, and I can
understand it. We had no lunch at my marriage. The Baron simply carried
me off at the door of the church. Carried me off! How romantic that
sounds! It suggests an elopement with a coach and four! Have no fear,
though; leave it to me, I will disperse your guests!”
She flew away before Zilah could answer; and, murmuring a word in the
ears of her friends, tapping with her little hand upon the shoulders
of the obstinate, she gradually cleared the rooms, and the sound of the
departing carriages was soon heard, as they rolled down the avenue.
Andras and Marsa were left almost alone; Varhely still remaining, and
the little Baroness, who ran up, all rosy and out of breath, to the
Prince, and said, gayly, in her laughing voice:
“Well! What do you say to that? all vanished like smoke, even Jacquemin,
who has gone back by train. The game of descampativos, which Marie
Antoinette loved to play at Trianon, must have been a little like this.
Aren’t you going to thank me? Ah! you ingrate!”
She ran and embraced Marsa, pressing her cherry lips to the Tzigana’s
pale face, and then rapidly disappeared in a mock flight, with a gay
little laugh and a tremendous rustle of petticoats.
Of all his friends, Varhely was the one of whom Andras was fondest;
but they had not been able to exchange a single word since the morning.
Yanski had been right to remain till the last: it was his hand which the
Prince wished to press before his departure, as if Varhely had been his
relative, and the sole surviving one.
“Now,” he said to him, “you have no longer only a brother, my dear
Varhely; you have also a sister who loves and respects you as I love and
respect you myself.”
Yanski’s stern face worked convulsively with an emotion he tried to
conceal beneath an apparent roughness.
“You are right to love me a little,” he said, brusquely, “because I am
very fond of you--of both of you,” nodding his head toward Marsa. “But
no respect, please. That makes me out too old.”
The Tzigana, taking Vogotzine’s arm, led him gently toward the door, a
little alarmed at the purple hue of the General’s cheeks and forehead.
“Come, take a little fresh air,” she said to the old soldier, who
regarded her with round, expressionless eyes.
As they disappeared in the garden, Varhely drew from his pocket the
little package given to him by Menko’s valet.
“Here is something from another friend! It was brought to me at the door
of the church.”
“Ah! I thought that Menko would send me some word of congratulation,”
said Andras, after he had read upon the envelope the young Count’s
signature. “Thanks, my dear Varhely.”
“Now,” said Yanski, “may happiness attend you, Andras! I hope that you
will let me hear from you soon.”
Zilah took the hand which Varhely extended, and clasped it warmly in
both his own.
Upon the steps Varhely found Marsa, who, in her turn, shook his hand.
“Au revoir, Count.”
“Au revoir, Princess.”
She smiled at Andras, who accompanied Varhely, and who held in his hand
the package with the seals unbroken.
“Princess!” she said. “That is a title by which every one has been
calling me for the last hour; but it gives me the greatest pleasure to
hear it spoken by you, my dear Varhely. But, Princess or not, I shall
always be for you the Tzigana, who will play for you, whenever you wish
it, the airs of her country--of our country--!”
There was, in the manner in which she spoke these simple words, a gentle
grace which evoked in the mind of the old patriot memories of the past
and the fatherland.
“The Tzigana is the most charming of all! The Tzigana is the most loved
of all!” he said, in Hungarian, repeating a refrain of a Magyar song.
With a quick, almost military gesture, he saluted Andras and Marsa as
they stood at the top of the steps, the sun casting upon them dancing
reflections through the leaves of the trees.
The Prince and Princess responded with a wave of the hand; and General
Vogotzine, who was seated under the shade of a chestnut-tree, with his
coat unbuttoned and his collar open, tried in vain to rise to his feet
and salute the departure of the last guest.