ll you dance," she said.

"If we only had some favors," replied the Japanese, showing his teeth in
a grin, "I would lead the cotillon."

The boat stopped at last at Maisons-Lafitte. The great trees of the
park formed a heavy mass, amid which the roof of the villa was just
discernible.

"What a pity it is all over," cried the Baroness, who was ruddy as
a cherry with the exercise of dancing. "Let us have another; but
Maisons-Lafitte is too near. We will go to Rouen the next time; or
rather, I invite you all to a day fete in Paris, a game of polo, a
lunch, a garden party, whatever you like. I will arrange the programme
with Yamada and Jacquemin."

"Willingly," responded the Japanese, with a low bow. "To collaborate
with Monsieur Jacquemin will be very amusing."

As Marsa Laszlo was leaving the boat, Michel Menko stood close to the
gangway, doubtless on purpose to speak to her; and, in the confusion of
landing, without any one hearing him, he breathed in her ear these brief
words:

"At your house this evening. I must see you."

She gave him an icy glance. Michel Menko's eyes were at once full of
tears and flames.

"I demand it!" he said, firmly.

The Tzigana made no reply; but, going to Andras Zilah, she took his arm;
while Michel, as if nothing had happened, raised his hat.

General Vogotzine, with flaming face, followed his niece, muttering, as
he wiped the perspiration unsteadily from his face:

"Fine day! Fine day! By Jove! But the sun was hot, though! Ah, and the
wines were good!"

BOOK 2.

CHAPTER XII. A DARK PAGE

As Marsa departed with Vogotzine in the carriage which had been waiting
for them on the bank, she waved her hand to Zilah with a passionate
gesture, implying an infinity of trouble, sadness, and love. The Prince
then returned to his guests, and the boat, which Marsa watched through
the window of the carriage, departed, bearing away the dream, as she
had said to Andras. During the drive home she did not say a word. By her
side the General grumbled sleepily of the sun, which, the Tokay aiding,
had affected his head. But, when Marsa was alone in her chamber, the
cry which was wrung from her breast was a cry of sorrow, of despairing
anger:

"Ah, when I think--when I think that I am envied!"

She regretted having allowed Andras to depart without having told him on
the spot, the secret of her life. She would not see him again until the
next day, and she felt as if she could never