ry itself; and his hourly suffering caused him to long for
death to end his torture.

"And yet I must live," he thought, "if to exist with a dagger through
one's heart is to live."

Then, to escape from the present, he plunged into the memories of the
war, as into a bath of oblivion, a strange oblivion, where he found all
his patriotic regrets of other days. He read, with spasmodic eagerness,
the books in which Georgei and Klapka, the actors of the drama, presented
their excuses, or poured forth their complaints; and it seemed to him
that his country would make him forget his love.

In the magnificent picture-gallery, where he spent most of his time, his
eyes rested upon the battle-scenes of Matejks, the Polish artist, and the
landscapes of Munkacsy, that painter of his own country, who took his
name from the town of Munkacs, where tradition says that the Magyars
settled when they came from the Orient, ages ago. Then a bitter longing
took possession of him to breathe a different air, to fly from Paris, and
place a wide distance between himself and Marsa; to take a trip around
the world, where new scenes might soften his grief, or, better still,
some accident put an end to his life; and, besides, chance might bring
him in contact with Menko.

But, just as he was ready to depart, a sort of lassitude overpowered him;
he felt the inert sensation of a wounded man who has not the strength to
move, and he remained where he was, sadly and bitterly wondering at times
if he should not appeal to the courts, dissolve his marriage, and demand
back his name from the one who had stolen it.

Appeal to the courts? The idea of doing that was repugnant to him. What!
to hear the proud and stainless name of the Zilahs resound, no longer
above the clash of sabres and the neighing of furious horses, but within
the walls of a courtroom, and in presence of a gaping crowd of sensation
seekers? No! silence was better than that; anything was better than
publicity and scandal. Divorce! He could obtain that, since Marsa, her
mind destroyed, was like one dead. And what would a divorce give him? His
freedom? He had it already. But what nothing could give back, was his
ruined faith, his shattered hopes, his happiness lost forever.

At times he had a wild desire to see Marsa again, and vent once more upon
her his anger and contempt. When he happened to see the name of
Maisons-Lafitte, his body tingled from head to foot, as by an electric
shock. Ma