The boat stopped at last at Maisons-Lafitte. The great trees of the park formed a heavy mass, amid which the roof of the villa was just discernible.
“What a pity it is all over,” cried the Baroness, who was ruddy as a cherry with the exercise of dancing. “Let us have another; but Maisons-Lafitte is too near. We will go to Rouen the next time; or rather, I invite you all to a day fete in Paris, a game of polo, a lunch, a garden party, whatever you like. I will arrange the programme with Yamada and Jacquemin.”
“Willingly,” responded the Japanese, with a low bow. “To collaborate with Monsieur Jacquemin will be very amusing.”
As Marsa Laszlo was leaving the boat, Michel Menko stood close to the gangway, doubtless on purpose to speak to her; and, in the confusion of landing, without any one hearing him, he breathed in her ear these brief words:
“At your house this evening. I must see you.”
She gave him an icy glance. Michel Menko’s eyes were at once full of tears and flames.
“I demand it!” he said, firmly.
The Tzigana made no reply; but, going to Andras Zilah, she took his arm; while Michel, as if nothing had happened, raised his hat.
General Vogotzine, with flaming face, followed his niece, muttering, as he wiped the perspiration unsteadily from his face:
“Fine day! Fine day! By Jove! But the sun was hot, though! Ah, and the wines were good!”