“He is indifferent to me;” and the way in which she pronounced the words was a terrible condemnation of Michel Menko. “But,” added the Tzigana, “he himself has told me all that you have said of him. He, on his side, has a great affection and a deep veneration for you; and it is not astonishing that it should be so, for men like you are examples for men like him, and--” She paused abruptly, as if unwilling to say more. “And what?” asked the Prince. “Nothing. ‘Examples’ is enough; I don’t know what I was going to say.” She made a little gesture with her pretty hand as if to dismiss the subject; and, after wondering a moment at the girl’s singular reticence after her previous frankness, Andras thought only of enjoying her grace and charm, until the Tzigana gave him her hand and bade him good-night, begging him to remember that she would be very happy and proud to receive him in her own house. “But, indeed,” she added, with a laugh which displayed two rows of pearly teeth, “it is not for me to invite you. That is a terrible breach of the proprieties. General!” At her call, from a group near by, advanced old General Vogotzine, whom Zilah had not noticed since the beginning of the evening. Marsa laid her hand on his arm, and said, distinctly, Vogotzine being a little deaf: “Prince Andras Zilah, uncle, will do us the honor of coming to see us at Maisons-Lafitte.” “Ah! Ah! Very happy! Delighted! Very flattering of you, Prince,” stammered the General, pulling his white moustache, and blinking his little round eyes. “Andras Zilah! Ah! 1848! Hard days, those! All over now, though! All over now! Ah! Ah! We no longer cut one another’s throats! No! No! No longer cut one another’s throats!” He held out to Andras his big, fat hand, and repeated, as he shook that of the Prince: “Delighted! Enchanted! Prince Zilah! Yes! Yes!” In another moment they were gone, and the evening seemed to Andras like a vision, a beautiful, feverish dream. He sent away his coupe, and returned home on foot, feeling the need of the night air; and, as he walked up the Champs-Elysees beneath the starry sky, he was surprised to find a new, youthful feeling at his heart, stirring his pulses like the first, soft touch of spring. CHAPTER VIII. “HAVE I NO RIGHT TO BE HAPPY”