Andras found himself in the presence of a pleasant-looking middle-aged man, who was writing at a modest desk when the Hungarian entered, and who bowed politely, motioning him to be seated.
As Zilch sat down upon the sofa, there appeared upon the threshold of a door, opposite the one by which he had entered, a small, dark, elegantly dressed young man, whom Andras vaguely remembered to have seen somewhere, he could not tell where. The newcomer was irreproachable in his appearance, with his clothes built in the latest fashion, snowy linen, pale gray gloves, silver-headed cane, and a single eyeglass, dangling from a silken cord.
He bowed to Zilch, and, going up to the secretary, he said, rapidly:
“Well! since Tourillon is away, I will report the Enghien races. I am going there now. Enghien isn’t highly diverting, though. The swells and the pretty women so rarely go there; they don’t affect Enghien any more. But duty before everything, eh, Fremin?”
“You will have to hurry,” said Fremin, looking at his watch, “or you will miss your train.”
“Oh! I have a carriage below.”
He clapped his confrere on the shoulder, bowed again to Zilah, and hurried away, while Fremin, turning to the Prince, said:
“I am at your service, Monsieur,” and waited for him to open the conversation.
Zilah drew from his pocket the copy of L’Actualite, and said, very quietly:
“I should like to know, Monsieur, who is meant in this article here.”