Wanda von Szalras hesitated a moment.
'In a measure he interested me,' she answered, being a perfectly truthful woman. 'He is a man who has the capacity of great things, but he seems to me to be his own worst enemy; if he had fewer gifts he might probably have more achievement. A waste of power is always a melancholy sight.'
'He is only a boulevardier, you know.'
'No doubt your Paris asphalte is the modern embodiment of Circe.'
'But he is leaving Circe.'
'So much the better for him if he be. But I do not know why you speak of him so much. He is a stranger to me, and will never, most likely, cross my path again.'
'Oh, Parsifal will come back,' said Madame Brancka, with a little smile. 'Hohenszalras is his Holy Grail.'
'He can scarcely come uninvited, and who will invite him here?' said the mistress of Hohenszalras, with cold literalness.
'Destiny will; the great master of the ceremonies who disposes of us all,' said her cousin.
'Destiny!' said Wanda, with some contempt. 'Ah, you are superstitious; irreligious people always are. You believe in mesmerism and disbelieve in God.'