They were now about to depart, to raise the anchor and glide down the
river along the quays. Already Paul Jacquemin, casting his last leaves
to the page of L'Actualite, was quickly descending the gangplank. Zilah
scarcely noticed him, for he uttered a veritable cry of delight as he
perceived behind the reporter a young man whom he had not expected.

"Menko! My dear Michel!" he exclaimed, stretching out both hands to the
newcomer, who advanced, excessively pale. "By what happy chance do I see
you, my dear boy?"

"I heard in London that you were to give this fete. The English
newspapers had announced your marriage, and I did not wish to wait
longer--I----."

He hesitated a little as he spoke, as if dissatisfied, troubled, and a
moment before (Zilah had not noticed it) he had made a movement as if to
go back to the quay and leave the boat.

Michel Menko, however, had not the air of a timid man. He was tall,
thin, of graceful figure, a man of the world, a military diplomat. For
some reason or other, at this moment, he exhibited a certain uneasiness
in his face, which ordinarily bore a rather brilliant color, but which
was now almost sallow. He was instinctively seeking some one among the
Prince's guests, and his glance wandered about the deck with a sort of
dull anger.

Prince Andras saw only one thing in Menko's sudden appearance; the young
man, to whom he was deeply attached, and who was the only relative he had
in the world (his maternal grandmother having been a Countess Menko), his
dear Michel, would be present at his marriage. He had thought Menko ill