Prince Zilah | Page 8

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,