Vogotzine, who had become purple, seized the doctor’s arm convulsively.
“She no longer knows even her own name!”
“It will be only temporary, I hope,” said the doctor. “But in her present state, she needs the closest care and attention.”
“I have never seen her like this before, never since—since the first day,” exclaimed the General, in alarm and excitement. “She tried to kill herself then; but afterward she seemed more reasonable, as you saw just now. When she asked you who sent you, I thought Ah! at last she is interested in something. But now it is worse than ever. Oh! this is lively for me, devilish lively!”
Fargeas took between his thumb and finger the delicate skin of the Tzigana, and pinched her on the neck, below the ear. Marsa did not stir.
“There is no feeling here,” said the doctor; “I could prick it with a pin without causing any sensation of pain.” Then, again placing his hand upon Marsa’s forehead, he tried to rouse some memory in the dormant brain:
“Come, Madame, some one is waiting for you. Your uncle—your uncle wishes you to play for him upon the piano! Your uncle! The piano!”
“The World holds but One Fair Maiden!” hummed Vogotzine, trying to give, in his husky voice, the melody of the song the Tzigana was so fond of.
Mechanically, Marsa repeated, as if spelling the word: “The piano! piano!” and then, in peculiar, melodious accents, she again uttered her mournful: “I do not know!”
This time old Vogotzine felt as if he were strangling; and the doctor, full of pity, gazed sadly down at the exquisitely beautiful girl, with her haggard, dark eyes, and her waxen skin, sitting there like a marble statue of despair.