at the idea of a breakfast on the deck of a
steamer, a novel amusement which made these insatiable pleasure-seekers
forget the fashionable restaurants and the conventional receptions of
every day.

"What a charming thought this was of yours, Prince, so unexpected, so
Parisian, ah, entirely Parisian!"

In almost the same words did each newcomer address the Prince, who
smiled, and repeated a phrase from Jacquemin's chronicles: "Foreigners
are more Parisian than the Parisians themselves."

A smile lent an unexpected charm to the almost severe features of the
host. His usual expression was rather sad, and a trifle haughty. His
forehead was broad and high, the forehead of a thinker and a student
rather than that of a soldier; his eyes were of a deep, clear blue,
looking directly at everything; his nose was straight and regular, and
his beard and moustache were blond, slightly gray at the corners of
the mouth and the chin. His whole appearance, suggesting, as it did,
reserved strength and controlled passion, pleased all the more because,
while commanding respect, it attracted sympathy beneath the powerful
exterior, you felt there was a tender kindliness of heart.

There was no need for the name of Prince Andras Zilah--or, as they say
in Hungary, Zilah Andras--to have been written in characters of blood in
the history of his country, for one to divine the hero in him: his erect
figure, the carriage of his head, braving life as it had defied the
bullets of the enemy, the strange brilliance of his gaze, the sweet
inflections of his voice accustomed to command, and the almost caressing
gestures of his hand used to the sword--all showed the good man under
the brave, and, beneath the indomitable soldier, the true gentleman.

When they had shaken the hand of their host, the guests advanced to the
bow of the boat to salute a young girl, an exquisite, pale brunette,
with great, sad eyes, and a smile of infinite charm, who was
half-extended in a low armchair beneath masses of brilliant
parti-colored flowers. A stout man, of the Russian type, with heavy
reddish moustaches streaked with gray, and an apoplectic neck, stood by
her side, buttoned up in his frock-coat as in a military uniform.

Every now and then, leaning over and brushing with his moustaches her
delicate white ear, he would ask:

"Are you happy, Marsa?"

And Marsa would answer with a smile ending in a sigh, as she vaguely
contemplated the scene before her:

"Yes