ng himself at the races, at the theatre, or even at Baroness
Dinati's; longing to break the dull monotony of his now ruined life;
and, with a sort of bravado, looking society and opinion full in the
face, as if to surprise a smile or a sneer at his expense, and punish
it.

He had, however, no right to complain of the sentiment which was felt
for him, for every one respected and admired him. At first, it is true,
society, and in particular that society of Parisian foreigners in
which Prince Andras mingled, had tried to find out why he had broken
so suddenly with the woman he had certainly married for love. Public
curiosity, aroused and excited, had sought to divine the secret of the
romance. "If it does not get into the newspapers," they said, "it will
be fortunate." And society was even astonished that the journals had not
already discovered the key to this Parisian mystery.

But society, after all as fickle as it is curious (one of its little
vices chasing away the other), turned suddenly to another subject;
forgot the rupture of Marsa and Andras, and saw in Zilah only a superior
being, whose lofty soul forced respect from the frivolous set accustomed
to laugh at everything.

A lofty soul, yes, but a soul in torment. Varhely alone, among them all,
knew anything of the suffering which Andras endured. He was no longer
the same man. His handsome face, with its kindly eyes and grave smile,
was now constantly overshadowed. He spoke less, and thought more. On the
subject of his sadness and his grief, Andras never uttered a word to any
one, not even to his old friend; and Yanski, silent from the day when he
had been an unconscious messenger of ill, had not once made any allusion
to the past.

Although he knew nothing, Varhely had, nevertheless, guessed everything,
and at once. The blow was too direct and too cruelly simple for the old
Hungarian not to have immediately exclaimed, with rage:

"Those were love-letters, and I gave them to him! Idiot that I was! I
held those letters in my hand; I might have destroyed them, or crammed
them one by one down Menko's throat! But who could have suspected such
an infamy? Menko! A man of honor! Ah, yes; what does honor amount to
when there is a woman in question? Imbecile! And it is irreparable now,
irreparable!"

Varhely also was anxious to know where Menko had gone. They did not
know at the Austro-Hungarian embassy. It was a complete disappearance,
perhaps a suicide. If the old H