ly human nature is!" he exclaimed, hurling away the book. "Is
it possible that I love her still? Shall I love her forever?"

And he felt intense self-contempt at the temptation which took
possession of him to see once more Maisons-Lafitte, where he had
experienced the most terrible grief of his life. What was the use of
struggling? He had not forgotten, and he never could forget.

If he had been sincere with himself, he would have confessed that he was
impelled by his ever-living, ever-present love toward everything which
would recall Marsa to him, and that a violent, almost superhuman effort
was necessary not to yield to the temptation.

About a week after the Prince's return to Paris, his valet appeared
one day with the card of General Vogotzine. It was on Andras's lips to
refuse to see him; but, in reality, the General's visit caused him a
delight which he would not acknowledge to himself. He was about to hear
of hey. He told the valet to admit Vogotzine, hypocritically saying to
himself that it was impossible, discourteous, not to receive him.

The old Russian entered, timid and embarrassed, and was not much
reassured by Zilah's polite but cold greeting.

The General, who for some extraordinary reason had not had recourse to
alcohol to give him courage, took the chair offered him by the Prince.
He was a little flushed, not knowing exactly how to begin what he had
to say; and, being sober, he was terribly afraid of appearing, like an
idiot.

"This is what is the matter," he said, plunging at once in medias res.
"Doctor Fargeas, who sent me, might have come himself; but he thought
that I, being her uncle, should--"

"You have come to consult me about Marsa," said Andras, unconsciously
glad to pronounce her name.

"Yes," began the General, becoming suddenly intimidated, "of--of Marsa.
She is very ill-Marsa is. Very ill. Stupor, Fargeas says. She does
not say a word-nothing. A regular automaton! It is terrible to see
her--terrible--terrible."

He raised his round, uneasy eyes to Andras, who was striving to appear
calm, but whose lips twitched nervously.

"It is impossible to rouse her," continued Vogotzine. "The doctors can
do nothing. There is no hope except in an--an--an experiment."

"An experiment?"

"Yes, exactly, exactly--an experiment. You see he--he wanted to know
if--(you must pardon me for what I am about to propose; it is Doctor
Fargeas's idea)--You see--if--if--she should see--(I suppose--these