ted at the top of the Champs Elysees, when houses were rather
scattered there. Fashion, and the ascensional movement of Paris toward
the Arc de Triomphe, had come to seek him. His house was rich in
beautiful pictures and rare books, and he sometimes received there his
few real friends, his companions in troublous times, like Varhely.
He was generally considered a little of a recluse, although he loved
society and showed himself, during the winter, at all entertainments
where, by virtue of his fame and rank, he would naturally be expected
to be present. But he carried with him a certain melancholy and
gravity, which contrasted strongly with the frivolous trivialities and
meaningless smiles of our modern society. In the summer, he usually
passed two months at the seashore, where Varhely frequently joined him;
and upon the leafy terrace of the Prince's villa the two friends had
long and confidential chats, as they watched the sun sink into the sea.

Andras had never thought of marrying. At first, he had a sort of feeling
that he was doomed to an early death, ever expecting a renewal of the
struggle with Austria; and he thought at that time that the future would
bring to him his father's fate--a ball in the forehead and a ditch.
Then, without knowing it, he had reached and passed his fortieth year.

"Now it is too late," he said, gayly. "The psychological moment is long
gone by. We shall both end old bachelors, my good Varhely, and spend our
evenings playing checkers, that mimic warfare of old men."

"Yes, that is all very well for me, who have no very famous name to
perpetuate; but the Zilahs should not end with you. I want some sturdy
little hussar whom I can teach to sit a horse, and who also will call me
his good old Yanski."

The Prince smiled, and then replied, gravely, almost sadly: "I greatly
fear that one can not love two things at once; the heart is not elastic.
I chose Hungary for my bride, and my life must be that of a widower."

In the midst of the austere and thoughtful life he led, Andras
preserved, nevertheless, a sort of youthful buoyancy. Many men of thirty
were less fresh in mind and body than he. He was one of those beings who
die, as they have lived, children: even the privations of the hardest
kind of an existence can not take away from them that purity and
childlike trust which seem to be an integral part of themselves, and
which, although they may be betrayed, deceived and treated harshly by
life