"We resemble," he said to Varhely, "those emigrants who never unpack
their boxes, certain that they are soon to return home. They wait, and
some day, catching a glimpse of themselves in a glass, they are amazed to
find wrinkles and gray hairs."

No longer having a home in his own country, Prince Andras had never
dreamed of making another abroad. He hired the sumptuous hotel he
inhabited at the top of the Champs Elysees, when houses were rather
scattered there. Fashion, and the ascensional movement of Paris toward
the Arc de Triomphe, had come to seek him. His house was rich in
beautiful pictures and rare books, and he sometimes received there his
few real friends, his companions in troublous times, like Varhely. He
was generally considered a little of a recluse, although he loved society
and showed himself, during the winter, at all entertainments where, by
virtue of his fame and rank, he would naturally be expected to be
present. But he carried with him a certain melancholy and gravity, which
contrasted strongly with the frivolous trivialities and meaningless
smiles of our modern society. In the summer, he usually passed two
months at the seashore, where Varhely frequently joined him; and upon the
leafy terrace of the Prince's villa the two friends had long and
confidential chats, as they watched the sun sink into the sea.

Andras had never thought of marrying. At first, he had a sort of feeling
that he was doomed to an early death, ever expecting a renewal of the
struggle with Austria; and he thought at that time that the future would
bring to him his father's fate--a ball in the forehead and a ditch.
Then, without knowing it, he had reached and passed his fortieth year.

"Now it is too late," he said, gayly. "The psychological moment is long
gone by. We shall both end old bachelors, my good Varhely, and spend our