Michel regarded the entrance of Varhely into the little salon where he awaited him, as if he were some spectre, some vengeance which he had expected, and which did not astonish him. He stood erect, cold and still, as Yanski advanced toward him; while Angelo Valla remained in the doorway, mechanically stroking his smoothly shaven chin.
“Monsieur,” said Varhely, “for months I have looked forward impatiently to this moment. Do not doubt that I have sought you.”
“I did not hide myself,” responded Menko.
“Indeed? Then may I ask what was your object in going to Warsaw?”
“To seek-forgetfulness,” said the young man, slowly and sadly.
This simple word—so often spoken by Zilah—which had no more effect upon the stern old Hungarian than a tear upon a coat of mail, produced a singular impression upon Valla. It seemed to him to express unconquerable remorse.
“What you have done can not be forgotten,” said Varhely.
“No more than what I have suffered.”
“You made me the accomplice of the most cowardly and infamous act a man could commit. I have come to you to demand an explanation.”
Michel lowered his eyes at these cutting words, his thin face paling, and his lower lip trembling; but he said nothing. At last, after a pause, he raised his eyes again to the face of the old Hungarian, and, letting the words fall one by one, he replied: