angplank. 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, Mar