With her eyeglasses perched upon her little nose, she stopped before a statuette, a picture, no matter what, exclaiming, merrily:
“Oh, how pretty that is! How pretty it is! It is a Tanagra! How queer those Tanagras are. They prove that love existed in antiquity, don’t they, Varhely? Oh! I forgot; what do you know about love?”
At last, with a glass of champagne in her hand, she paused before a portrait of Marsa, a strange, powerful picture, the work of an artist who knew how to put soul into his painting.
“Ah! this is superb! Who painted it, Marsa?”
“Zichy,” replied Marsa.
“Ah, yes, Zichy! I am no longer astonished. By the way, there is another Hungarian artist who paints very well. I have heard of him. He is an old man; I don’t exactly remember his name, something like Barabas.”
“Nicolas de Baratras,” said Varhely.
“Yes, that’s it. It seems he is a master. But your Zichy pleases me infinitely. He has caught your eyes and expression wonderfully; it is exactly like you, Princess. I should like to have my portrait painted by him. His first name is Michel, is it not?”
She examined the signature, peering through her eyeglass, close to the canvas.
“Yes, I knew it was. Michel Zichy!”