ely 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