“That is true; yes, I have said too much! Ah! The devil! this is not my affair!—Well, yes, Count Menko is in Florence or near Florence—I don’t know where. Marsa told me that—without meaning to. She was excited—very excited—talked to herself. I did not ask her anything—but—she is insane, you see, mad, mad! She first wrote a despatch to Italy—then she tore it up like this, saying: ‘No, what is to happen, will happen!’ There! I don’t know anything but that. I don’t know anything!”
“Ah! she is expecting him!” cried Andras. “When?”
“I don’t know!”
“You told me it was to be this evening. This evening, is it not?”
The old General felt as ill at ease as if he had been before a military commission or in the hands of Froloff.
“Yes, this evening.”
“At Maisons-Lafitte?”
“At Maisons,” responded Vogotzine, mechanically. “And all this wearies me—wearies me. Was it for this I decided to come to Paris? A fine idea! At least, there are no Russian days at Maisons!”
Andras made no reply.
He stopped the carriage, got out, and, saluting the General with a brief “Thank you!” walked rapidly away, leaving Vogotzine in blank amazement, murmuring, as he made an effort to sit up straight: