But where, in the whirlpool of the New World, would this Michel Menko disappear? and how could he find him?

The days passed; and Zilah had acquired almost the certainty that Menko had not embarked at Havre.  Perhaps he had not quitted Europe.  He might, some day or another, in spite of what the valet had said, reappear in Paris; and then—­

Meanwhile, the Prince led the life of a man wounded to the heart; seeking solitude, and shutting himself in his hotel, in the Rue Balzac, like a wolf in his den; receiving no one but Varhely, and sometimes treating even old Yanski coldly; then, suddenly emerging from his retirement, and trying to take up his life again; appearing at the meetings of the Hungarian aid society, of which he was president; showing himself at the races, at the theatre, or even at Baroness Dinati’s; longing to break the dull monotony of his now ruined life; and, with a sort of bravado, looking society and opinion full in the face, as if to surprise a smile or a sneer at his expense, and punish it.

He had, however, no right to complain of the sentiment which was felt for him, for every one respected and admired him.  At first, it is true, society, and in particular that society of Parisian foreigners in which Prince Andras mingled, had tried to find out why he had broken so suddenly with the woman he had certainly married for love.  Public curiosity, aroused and excited, had sought to divine the secret of the romance.  “If it does not get into the newspapers,” they said, “it will be fortunate.”  And society was even astonished that the journals had not already discovered the key to this Parisian mystery.

But society, after all as fickle as it is curious (one of its little vices chasing away the other), turned suddenly to another subject; forgot the rupture of Marsa and Andras, and saw in Zilah only a superior being, whose lofty soul forced respect from the frivolous set accustomed to laugh at everything.

A lofty soul, yes, but a soul in torment.  Varhely alone, among them all, knew anything of the suffering which Andras endured.  He was no longer the same man.  His handsome face, with its kindly eyes and grave smile, was now constantly overshadowed.  He spoke less, and thought more.  On the subject of his sadness and his grief, Andras never uttered a word to any one, not even to his old friend; and Yanski, silent from the day when he had been an unconscious messenger of ill, had not once made any allusion to the past.

Although he knew nothing, Varhely had, nevertheless, guessed everything, and at once.  The blow was too direct and too cruelly simple for the old Hungarian not to have immediately exclaimed, with rage: 

“Those were love-letters, and I gave them to him!  Idiot that I was!  I held those letters in my hand; I might have destroyed them, or crammed them one by one down Menko’s throat!  But who could have suspected such an infamy?  Menko!  A man of honor!  Ah, yes; what does honor amount to when there is a woman in question?  Imbecile!  And it is irreparable now, irreparable!”