THE BARONESS'S MATCHMAKING
The Prince Zilah met his guests with easy grace, on the deck in front of
the foot-bridge. He had a pleasant word for each one as they came on
board, happy and smiling at the idea of a breakfast on the deck of a
steamer, a novel amusement which made these insatiable pleasure-seekers
forget the fashionable restaurants and the conventional receptions of
every day.
"What a charming thought this was of yours, Prince, so unexpected, so
Parisian, ah, entirely Parisian!"
In almost the same words did each newcomer address the Prince, who
smiled, and repeated a phrase from Jacquemin's chronicles: "Foreigners
are more Parisian than the Parisians themselves."
A smile lent an unexpected charm to the almost severe features of the
host. His usual expression was rather sad, and a trifle haughty. His
forehead was broad and high, the forehead of a thinker and a student
rather than that of a soldier; his eyes were of a deep, clear blue,
looking directly at everything; his nose was straight and regular, and
his beard and moustache were blond, slightly gray at the corners of the
mouth and the chin. His whole appearance, suggesting, as it did, reserved
strength and controlled passion, pleased all the more because, while
commanding respect, it attracted sympathy beneath the powerful exterior,
you felt there was a tender kindliness of heart.
There was no need for the name of Prince Andras Zilah--or, as they say in
Hungary, Zilah Andras--to have been written in characters of blood in the
history of his country, for one to divine the hero in him: his erect
figure, the carriage of his head, braving life as it had defied the
bullets of the enemy, the strange brilliance of his gaze, the sweet
inflections of his voice accustomed to command, and the almost caressing
gestures of his hand used to the sword--all showed the good man under the
brave, and, beneath the indomitable soldier, the true gentleman.
When they had shaken the hand of their host, the guests advanced to the
bow of the boat to salute a young girl, an exquisite, pale brunette, with
great, sad eyes, and a smile of infinite charm, who was half-extended in
a low armchair beneath masses of brilliant parti-colored flowers. A
stout man, of the Russian type, with heavy reddish moustaches streaked
with gray, and an apoplectic neck, stood by her side, buttoned up in his
frock-coat as in a military uniform.
Every now and then, leaning over and brushing with his moustaches her
delicate white ear, he would ask:
"Are you happy, Marsa?"
And Marsa would answer with a smile ending in a sigh, as she vaguely
contemplated the scene before her:
"Yes, uncle, very happy."
Not far from these two was a little woman, still very pretty, although of
a certain age--the age of embonpoint--a brunette, with very delicate
features, a little sensual mouth, and pretty rosy ears peeping forth from
skilfully arranged masses of black hair. With a plump, dimpled hand, she
held before her myopic eyes a pair of gold-mounted glasses; and she was
speaking to a man of rather stern aspect, with a Slav physiognomy, a
large head, crowned with a mass of crinkly hair as white as lamb's wool,
a long, white moustache, and shoulders as broad as an ox; a man already
old, but with the robust strength of an oak. He was dressed neither well
nor ill, lacking distinction, but without vulgarity.
"Indeed, my dear Varhely, I am enchanted with this idea of Prince Andras.
I am enjoying myself excessively already, and I intend to enjoy myself
still more. Do you know, this scheme of a breakfast on the water is
simply delightful! Don't you find it so? Oh! do be a little jolly,
Varhely!"
"Do I seem sad, then, Baroness?"
Yanski Varhely, the friend of Prince Andras, was very happy, however,
despite his rather sombre air. He glanced alternately at the little
woman who addressed him, and at Marsa, two very different types of
beauty: Andras's fiancee, slender and pale as a beautiful lily, and the
little Baroness Dinati, round and rosy as a ripe peach. And he was
decidedly pleased with this Marsa Laszlo, against whom he had
instinctively felt some prejudice when Zilah spoke to him for the first
time of marrying her. To make of a Tzigana--for Marsa was half Tzigana--
a Princess Zilah, seemed to Count Varhely a slightly bold resolution.
The brave old soldier had never understood much of the fantastic caprices
of passion, and Andras seemed to him in this, as in all other things,
just a little romantic. But, after all, the Prince was his own master,
and whatever a Zilah did was well done. So, after reflection, Zilah's
marriage became a joy to Varhely, as he had just been declaring to the
fiancee's uncle, General Vogotzine.
Baroness Dinati was therefore wrong to suspect old Yanski Varhely of any
'arriere-pensee'. How was it possible for him not to be enchanted, when
he saw Andras absolutely beaming with happiness?
They were now about to depart, to raise the anchor and glide down the
river along the quays. Already Paul Jacquemin, casting his last leaves
to the page of L'Actualite, was quickly descending the gangplank. Zilah
scarcely noticed him, for he uttered a veritable cry of delight as he
perceived behind the reporter a young man whom he had not expected.
"Menko! My dear Michel!" he exclaimed, stretching out both hands to the
newcomer, who advanced, excessively pale. "By what happy chance do I see
you, my dear boy?"
"I heard in London that you were to give this fete. The English
newspapers had announced your marriage, and I did not wish to wait
longer--I----."
He hesitated a little as he spoke, as if dissatisfied, troubled, and a
moment before (Zilah had not noticed it) he had made a movement as if to
go back to the quay and leave the boat.
Michel Menko, however, had not the air of a timid man. He was tall,
thin, of graceful figure, a man of the world, a military diplomat. For
some reason or other, at this moment, he exhibited a certain uneasiness
in his face, which ordinarily bore a rather brilliant color, but which
was now almost sallow. He was instinctively seeking some one among the
Prince's guests, and his glance wandered about the deck with a sort of
dull anger.
Prince Andras saw only one thing in Menko's sudden appearance; the young
man, to whom he was deeply attached, and who was the only relative he had
in the world (his maternal grandmother having been a Countess Menko), his
dear Michel, would be present at his marriage. He had thought Menko ill
in London; but the latter appeared before him, and the day was decidedly
a happy one.
"How happy you make me, my dear fellow!" he said to him in a tone of
affection which was almost paternal.
Each demonstration of friendship by the Prince seemed to increase the
young Count's embarrassment. Beneath a polished manner, the evidence of
an imperious temperament appeared in the slightest glance, the least
gesture, of this handsome fellow of twenty-seven or twenty-eight years.
Seeing him pass by, one could easily imagine him with his fashionable
clothes cast aside, and, clad in the uniform of the Hungarian hussars,
with closely shaven chin, and moustaches brushed fiercely upward,
manoeuvring his horse on the Prater with supple grace and nerves like
steel.
Menko's gray eyes, with blue reflections in them, which made one think of
the reflection of a storm in a placid lake, became sad when calm, but
were full of a threatening light when animated. The gaze of the young
man had precisely this aggressive look when he discovered, half hidden
among the flowers, Marsa seated in the bow of the boat; then, almost
instantaneously a singular expression of sorrow or anguish succeeded,
only in its turn to fade away with the rapidity of the light of a falling
star; and there was perfect calm in Menko's attitude and expression when
Prince Zilah said to him:
"Come, Michel, let me present you to my fiancee. Varhely is there also."
And, taking Menko's arm, he led him toward Marsa. "See," he said to the
young girl, "my happiness is complete."
She, as Michel Menko bowed low before her, coldly and almost
imperceptibly inclined her dark head, while her large eyes, under the
shadow of their heavy lashes, seemed vainly trying to meet the gray eyes
of the young man.
Andras beckoned Varhely to come to Marsa, who was white as marble, and
said softly, with a hand on the shoulder of each of the two friends, who
represented to him his whole life--Varhely, the past; Michel Menko, his
recovered youth and the future.
"If it were not for that stupid superstition which forbids one to
proclaim his happiness, I should tell you how happy I am, very happy.
Yes, the happiest of men," he added.
Meanwhile, the little Baroness Dinati, the pretty brunette, who had just
found Varhely a trifle melancholy, had turned to Paul Jacquemin, the
accredited reporter of her salon.
"That happiness, Jacquemin," she said, with a proud wave of the hand, "is
my work. Without me, those two charming savages, so well suited to each
other, Marsa and Andras Zilah, would never have met. On what does
happiness depend!"
"On an invitation card engraved by Stern," laughed Jacquemin. "But you
have said too much, Baroness. You must tell me the whole story. Think
what an article it would make: The Baroness's Matchmaking! The romance!
Quick, the romance! The romance, or death!"
"You have no idea how near you are to the truth, my dear Jacquemin: it is
indeed a romance; and, what is more, a romantic romance. A romance which
has no resemblance to--you have invented the word--those brutalistic
stories which you are so fond of."
"Which I am very fond of, Baroness, I confess, especially when they are
just a little--you know!"
"But this romance of Prince Andras is by no means just a little--you
know! It is--how shall I express it? It is epic, heroic, romantic--what
you will. I will relate it to you."
"It will sell fifty thousand copies of our paper," gayly exclaimed
Jacquemin, opening his ears, and taking notes mentally.