She made a desperate effort to look him in the face; but she could not remove her eyes from that sealed package bearing the name Menko.
Ah! that Michel! She had forgotten him! Miserable wretch! He returned, he threatened her, he was about to avenge himself: she was sure of it!
That paper contained something horrible. What could Michel Menko have to say to Prince Andras, writing him at such an hour, except to tell him that the wretched woman he had married was branded with infamy?
She shuddered from head to foot, steadying herself against the piano, her lips trembling nervously.
"I assure you, Marsa—" began the Prince, taking her hands. "Your hands are cold. Are you ill?"
His eyes followed the direction of Marsa's, which were still riveted upon the piano with a dumb look of unutterable agony.
He instantly seized the sealed package, and, holding it up, exclaimed:
"One would think that it was this which troubled you!"
"O Prince! I swear to you!—"
"Prince?"