u! She said--no; those miserable bits of paper, it is
astonishing how they alarm you. There are telegrams which have given
me a fit of indigestion, I assure you--and I haven't the heart of a
chicken!"

"Go on! Marsa? This despatch? Whom was it from? What did Marsa say?"

"She turned white as a sheet; she began to tremble--an attack of the
nerves--and she said: 'Well, in two days I shall know, at last, whether
I am to live!' Queer, wasn't it? I don't know what she meant! But it is
certain--yes, certain, my dear fellow--that she expects, this evening,
some one who is coming--or who is not coming, from Florence--that
depends."

"Who is it? Who?" cried Andras. "Michel Menko?"

"I don't know," faltered Vogotzine in alarm, wondering whether it were
Froloff's hand that had seized him by the collar of his coat.

"It is Menko, is it not?" demanded Andras; while the terrified General
gasped out something unintelligible, his intoxication increasing every
yard the carriage advanced in the Bois.

Andras was almost beside himself with pain and suspense. What did it
mean? Who had sent that despatch? Why had it caused Marsa such emotion?
"In two days I shall know, at last, whether I am to live!" Who could
make her utter such a cry? Who, if not Michel Menko, was so intimately
connected with her life as to trouble her so, to drive her insane, as
Vogotzine said?

"It is Menko, is it not? it is Menko?" repeated Andras again.

And Vogotzine gasped:

"Perhaps! anything is possible!"

But he stopped suddenly, as if he comprehended, despite his inebriety,
that he was in danger of going too far and doing some harm.

"Come, Vogotzine, come, you have told me too much not to tell me all!"

"That is true; yes, I have said too much! Ah! The devil! this is not my
affair!--Well, yes, Count Menko is in Florence or near Florence--I
don't know where. Marsa told me that--without meaning to. She
was excited--very excited--talked to herself. I did not ask her
anything--but--she is insane, you see, mad, mad! She first wrote a
despatch to Italy--then she tore it up like this, saying: 'No, what is
to happen, will happen!' There! I don't know anything but that. I don't
know anything!"

"Ah! she is expecting him!" cried Andras. "When?"

"I don't know!"

"You told me it was to be this evening. This evening, is it not?"

The old General felt as ill at ease as if he had been before a military
commission or in the hands of Froloff.

"Yes, this