rkle, Andras said to herself, as he watched her, that she would live,
live and be happy with him.

The spring came, with the green leaflets and the white blossoms at the
ends of the branches. The buds opened and the odors of the rejuvenated
earth mounted subtly into the soft air.

At her window, regarding the young grass and the masses of tender verdure
in which clusters of pale gold or silvery white gleamed like aigrettes,
Marsa said to Andras:

"It must be lovely at Maisons, in the Vale of Violets!" but she added,
quickly:

"We are better here, much better! And it even seems to me that I have
always, always lived here in this beautiful castle, where you have
sheltered me, like a swallow beaten by the wind."

There was, beneath the window, stretching out like a ribbon of silver, a
road, which the mica dust caused, at times, in the sunlight to resemble a
river. Marsa often looked out on this road, imagining that she saw again
the massive dam upon the Seine, or wondering whether a band of Tzigani
would not appear there with the April days.

"I should like," she said one day to Andras, "to hear again the airs my
people used to play."

She found that, with the returning spring, she was more feeble than she
had ever been. The first warmth in the air entered her veins like a sweet
intoxication. Her head felt heavy, and in her whole body she felt a
pleasant languor. She had wished to sink thus to rest, as nature was
awakening.

The doctor seemed very uneasy at this languidness, of which Marsa said:

"It is delicious!"

He whispered one evening to Andras:

"It is grave!"

Another sorrow was to come into the life of the Prince, who had known so
many.

A few days after, with a sort of presentiment, he wrote to Yanski Varhely
to come and spend a few months with him. He felt the need of his old
friend; and the Count hastened to obey the summons.

Varhely was astonished to see the change which so short a time had
produced in Marsa. In seven months her face, although still beautiful,
had become emaciated, and had a transparent look. The little hand, white
as snow, which she gave to Varhely, burned him; the skin was dry and hot.

"Well, my dear Count," said Marsa, as she lay extended in a
reclining-chair, "what news of General Vogotzine?"

"The General is well. He hopes to return to Russia. The Czar has been
appealed to, and he does not say no."

"Ah! that is good news," she said. "He must be greatly bored at Ma