Prince Vàsàrhely, though a brilliant soldier and magnificent noble, was simple in his tastes, and occupied himself largely with the welfare of his people.
The Princess yawned discreetly behind her fan many times during this conversation, to her utterly uninteresting, upon villages, vines, harvests, bridges swept away by floods, stewards just and unjust, and the tolls and general navigation of the Danube. Quite tired of all these details and discussion of subjects which she considered ought to be abandoned to the men of business, she said suddenly, in a pause:
'Egon, did you ever know a very charming person, the Marquis de Sabran?'
Vàsàrhely reflected a moment.
'No,' he answered slowly. 'I have no recollection of such a name.'
'I thought you might have met him in Paris.'
'I am so rarely in Paris; since my father's death I have scarcely passed a month there. Who is he?'
'A stranger whose acquaintance we made through his being cast adrift here in a storm,' said the Countess Wanda, with some impatience. 'My dear aunt is devoted to him, because he has painted her a St. Ottilie on a screen, with the skill of Meissonnier. Since he left us he has become celebrated: he has broken the bank at Monte Carlo.'
Egon Vàsàrhely looked at her quickly.
'It seems to anger you? Did this stranger stay here any time?'