'One could always kill him,' muttered Vàsàrhely, 'and set her free so, if one were sure.'
'Sure of what?' said Kaulnitz, rather alarmed at the effect of his own words. 'You Magyar gentlemen always think that every knot can be cut with a sword. If he were a mere adventurer (which is hardly possible) it would not mend matters for you to run him through the heart; there are his children.'
'Would the marriage be legal if his name were assumed?'
'Oh, no! She could have it annulled, of course, both by Church and Law. All those pretty children would have no rights and no name. But we are talking very wildly and in a theatrical fashion. He is as certainly Marquis de Sabran as I am Karl von Kaulnitz.'
Vàsàrhely said nothing; his mind was in tumult, his heart oppressed by a sense of secrecy and of a hope that was guilty and mean.
He did not speak to his companion of Vassia Kazán, but his conjecture seemed to hover before his sight like a black cloud which grew bigger every hour.
He remained at Hohenszalras throughout the autumnal festivities. He felt as if he could not go away with that doubt still unsolved, that suspicion either confirmed or uprooted. His cousin grew as uneasy at his presence there as she had before been uneasy at his absence. Her instinct told her that he was the foe of the one dearest to her on earth. She felt that the gallant and generous temper of him had changed and grown morose; he was taciturn, moody, solitary.
He spent almost all his time out of doors, and devoted himself to the hardy sport of the mountains and forests with a sort of rage. Guests came and went at the castle; some were imperial, some royal people; there was always a brilliant circle of notable persons there, and Sabran played his part as their host, with admirable tact, talent, and good humour. His wit, his amiability, his many accomplishments, and his social charm were in striking contrast to the sombre indifference of Vàsàrhely, whom men had no power to amuse and women no power to interest. Prince Egon was like a magnificent picture by Rembrandt, as he sat in his superb uniform in a corner of a ball-room with the collars of his orders blazing with jewels, and his hands crossed on the diamond-studded hilt of his sword; but he was so mute, so gloomy, so austere, that the vainest, coquette there ceased to hope to please him, and his most cordial friends found his curt contemptuous replies destroy their desire for his companionship.
Wanda, who was frankly and fondly attached to him, began to long for his departure. The gaze of his black eyes, fixed in their fire and gloom on the little gay figures of her children, filled her with a vague apprehension.
'If he would only find some one and be happy,' she thought, with anger at this undesired and criminal love which clung to her so persistently.