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PRINCE ZILAH

By JULES CLARETIE

With a Preface by Compte d'Haussonville of the French Academy




JULES CLARETIE

Arsene Arnaud Claretie (commonly called Jules), was born on December 3,
1840, at Limoges, the picturesque and smiling capital of Limousin. He has
been rightly called the "Roi de la Chronique" and the "Themistocle de la
Litterature Contemporaine." In fact, he has written, since early youth,
romances, drama, history, novels, tales, chronicles, dramatic criticism,
literary criticism, military correspondence, virtually everything! He was
elected to the French Academy in 1888.

Claretie was educated at the Lycee Bonaparte, and was destined for a
commercial career. He entered a business-house as bookkeeper, but was at
the same time contributing already to newspapers and reviews. In 1862 we
find him writing for the Diogene; under the pseudonym, "Olivier de
Jalin," he sends articles to La France; his nom-deplume in L'Illustration
is "Perdican"; he also contributes to the Figaro, 'L'Independence Belge,
Opinion Nationale' (1867-1872); he signs articles in the 'Rappel; as
"Candide"; in short, his fecundity in this field of literature is very
great. He is today a most popular journalist and writes for the 'Presse,
Petit Journal, Temps', and others. He has not succeeded as a politician.
Under the second Empire he was often in collision with the Government; in
1857 he was sentenced to pay a fine of 1,000 francs, which was a splendid
investment; more than once lectures to be given by him were prohibited
(1865-1868); in 1871 he was an unsuccessful candidate for L'Assemblee
Nationale, both for La Haute Vienne and La Seine. Since that time he has
not taken any active part in politics. Perhaps we should also mention
that as a friend of Victor Noir he was called as a witness in the process
against Peter Bonaparte; and that as administrator of the Comedie
Francaise he directed, in 1899, an open letter to the "President and
Members of the Court Martial trying Captain Dreyfus" at Rennes,
advocating the latter's acquittal. So much about Claretie as a
politician!

The number of volumes and essays written by Jules Claretie surpasses
imagination, and it is, therefore, almost impossible to give a complete
list. As a historian he has selected mostly revolutionary subjects. The
titles of some of his prominent works in this field are 'Les Derniers
Montagnards (1867); Histoire de la Revolution de 1870-71 (second edition,
1875, 5 vols.); La France Envahie (1871); Le Champ de Bataille de Sedan
(1871); Paris assiege and Les Prussiens chez eux (1872); Cinq Ans apres,
L'Alsace et la Lorraine depuis l'Annexion (1876); La Guerre Nationale
1870-1871', etc., most of them in the hostile, anti-German vein, natural
to a "Chauvinist"; 'Ruines et Fantomes (1873). Les Femmes de la
Revolution (1898)' contains a great number of portraits, studies, and
criticisms, partly belonging to political, partly to literary, history.
To the same category belong: Moliere, sa Vie et ses OEuvres (1873);
Peintres et Sculpteurs Contemporains, and T. B. Carpeaux (1875); L'Art et
les Artistes Contemporains (1876)', and others. Quite different from the
above, and in another phase of thought, are: 'Voyages d'un Parisien
(1865); Journees de Voyage en Espagne et France (1870); Journees de
Vacances (1887)'; and others.

It is, however, as a novelist that the fame of Claretie will endure. He
has followed the footsteps of George Sand and of Balzac. He belongs to
the school of "Impressionists," and, although he has a liking for
exceptional situations, wherefrom humanity does not always issue without
serious blotches, he yet is free from pessimism. He has no nervous
disorder, no "brain fag," he is no pagan, not even a nonbeliever, and has
happily preserved his wholesomeness of thought; he is averse to exotic
ideas, extravagant depiction, and inflammatory language. His novels and
tales contain the essential qualities which attract and retain the
reader. Some of his works in chronological order, omitting two or three
novels, written when only twenty or twenty-one years old, are:
'Pierrille, Histoire de Village (1863); Mademoiselle Cachemire (1867); Un
Assassin, also known under the title Robert Burat (1867); Madeleine
Bertin, replete with moderated sentiment, tender passion, and exquisite
scenes of social life (1868); Les Muscadins (1874, 2 vols.); Le Train No.
17 (1877); La Maison Vide (1878); Le Troisieme dessous (1879); La
Maitresse (1880); Monsieur le Ministre (1882); Moeurs du Jour (1883); Le
Prince Zilah (1884), crowned by the Academy four years before he was
elected; Candidat!(1887); Puyjoli (1890); L'Americaine (1892); La
Frontiere (1894); Mariage Manque (1894); Divette (1896); L'Accusateur
(1897), and others.

It is, perhaps, interesting to know that after the flight of the Imperial
family from the Tuileries, Jules Claretie was appointed to put into order
the various papers, documents, and letters left behind in great chaos,
and to publish them, if advisable.

Very numerous and brilliant have also been the incursions of Jules
Claretie into the theatrical domain, though he is a better novelist than
playwright. He was appointed director of the Comedie Francaise in 1885.
His best known dramas and comedies are: 'La Famille de Gueux, in
collaboration with Della Gattina (Ambigu, 1869); Raymond Lindey (Menus
Plaisirs, 1869, forbidden for some time by French censorship); Les
Muscadins (Theatre Historique, 1874); Un Pyre (with Adrien Decourcelle,
Gymnase, 1874); Le Regiment de Champagne (Theatre Historique, 1877);
Monsieur le Ministre, together with Dumas fils and Busnach (Gymnase,
1883); and Prince Zilah (Gymnase, 1885).

Some of them, as will be noticed, are adapted to the stage from his
novels. In Le Regiment de Champagne, at least, he has written a little
melodramatically. But thanks to the battles, fumes of powder, muskets,
and cannons upon the stage the descendants of Jean Chauvin accept it with
frenetic applause. In most of the plays, however, he exhibits a rather
nervous talent, rich imagination, and uses very scintillating and
picturesque language, if he is inclined to do so--and he is very often
inclined. He received the "Prix Vitet" in 1879 from the Academy for Le
Drapeau. Despite our unlimited admiration for Claretie the journalist,
Claretie the historian, Claretie the dramatist, and Claretie the
art-critic, we think his novels conserve a precious and inexhaustible
mine for the Faguets and Lansons of the twentieth century, who, while
frequently utilizing him for the exemplification of the art of fiction,
will salute him as "Le Roi de la Romance."

COMPTE D'HAUSSONVILLE
de L'Academie Francaise.
PRINCE ZILAH




BOOK 1.




CHAPTER I

THE BETROTHAL FETE

"Excuse me, Monsieur, but pray tell me what vessel that is over there."

The question was addressed to a small, dark man, who, leaning upon the
parapet of the Quai des Tuileries, was rapidly writing in a note-book
with a large combination pencil, containing a knife, a pen, spare leads,
and a paper-cutter--all the paraphernalia of a reporter accustomed to the
expeditions of itinerant journalism.

When he had filled, in his running hand, a leaf of the book, the little
man tore it hastily off, and extended it to a boy in dark blue livery
with silver buttons, bearing the initial of the newspaper, L'Actualite;
and then, still continuing to write, he replied:

"Prince Andras Zilah is giving a fete on board one of the boats belonging
to the Compagnie de la Seine."

"A fete? Why?"

"To celebrate his approaching marriage, Monsieur."

"Prince Andras! Ah!" said the first speaker, as if he knew the name well;
"Prince Andras is to be married, is he? And who does Prince Andras Zil--"

"Zilah! He is a Hungarian, Monsieur."

The reporter appeared to be in a hurry, and, handing another leaf to the
boy, he said:

"Wait here a moment. I am going on board, and I will send you the rest of
the list of guests by a sailor. They can prepare the article from what
you have, and set it up in advance, and I will come myself to the office
this evening and make the necessary additions."

"Very well, Monsieur Jacquemin."

"And don't lose any of the leaves."

"Oh, Monsieur Jacquemin! I never lose anything!"

"They will have some difficulty, perhaps, in reading the names--they are
all queer; but I shall correct the proof myself."

"Then, Monsieur," asked the lounger again, eager to obtain all the
information he could, "those people who are going on board are almost all
foreigners?"

"Yes, Monsieur; yes, Monsieur; yes, Monsieur!" responded jacquemin,
visibly annoyed. "There are many foreigners in the city, very many; and I
prefer them, myself, to the provincials of Paris."

The other did not seem to understand; but he smiled, thanked the
reporter, and strolled away from the parapet, telling all the people he
met: "It is a fete! Prince Andras, a Hungarian, is about to be married.
Prince Andras Zilah! A fete on board a steamer! What a droll idea!"

Others, equally curious, leaned over the Quai des Tuileries and watched
the steamer, whose tricolor flag at the stern, and red streamers at the
mastheads, floated with gay flutterings in the fresh morning breeze. The
boat was ready to start, its decks were waxed, its benches covered with
brilliant stuffs, and great masses of azaleas and roses gave it the
appearance of a garden or conservatory. There was something highly
attractive to the loungers on the quay in the gayly decorated steamer,
sending forth long puffs of white smoke along the bank. A band of
dark-complexioned musicians, clad in red trousers, black waistcoats
heavily embroidered in sombre colors, and round fur caps, played odd airs
upon the deck; while bevies of laughing women, almost all pretty in their
light summer gowns, alighted from coupes and barouches, descended the
flight of steps leading to the river, and crossed the plank to the boat,
with little coquettish graces and studied raising of the skirts, allowing
ravishing glimpses of pretty feet and ankles. The defile of merry, witty
Parisiennes, with their attendant cavaliers, while the orchestra played
the passionate notes of the Hungarian czardas, resembled some vision of a
painter, some embarkation for the dreamed-of Cythera, realized by the
fancy of an artist, a poet, or a great lord, here in nineteenth century
Paris, close to the bridge, across which streamed, like a living
antithesis, the realism of crowded cabs, full omnibuses, and hurrying
foot-passengers.

Prince Andras Zilah had invited his friends, this July morning, to a
breakfast in the open air, before the moving panorama of the banks of the
Seine.

Very well known in Parisian society, which he had sought eagerly with an
evident desire to be diverted, like a man who wishes to forget, the
former defender of Hungarian independence, the son of old Prince Zilah
Sandor, who was the last, in 1849, to hold erect the tattered standard of
his country, had been prodigal of his invitations, summoning to his side
his few intimate friends, the sharers of his solitude and his privacy,
and also the greater part of those chance fugitive acquaintances which
the life of Paris inevitably gives, and which are blown away as lightly
as they appeared, in a breath of air or a whirlwind.

Count Yanski Varhely, the oldest, strongest, and most devoted friend of
all those who surrounded the Prince, knew very well why this fanciful
idea had come to Andras. At forty-four, the Prince was bidding farewell
to his bachelor life: it was no folly, and Yanski saw with delight that
the ancient race of the Zilahs, from time immemorial servants of
patriotism and the right, was not to be extinct with Prince Andras.
Hungary, whose future seemed brightening; needed the Zilahs in the future
as she had needed them in the past.

"I have only one objection to make to this marriage," said Varhely; "it
should have taken place sooner." But a man can not command his heart to
love at a given hour. When very young, Andras Zilah had cared for
scarcely anything but his country; and, far from her, in the bitterness
of exile, he had returned to the passion of his youth, living in Paris
only upon memories of his Hungary. He had allowed year after year to roll
by, without thinking of establishing a home of his own by marriage. A
little late, but with heart still warm, his spirit young and ardent, and
his body strengthened rather than worn out by life, Prince Andras gave to
a woman's keeping his whole being, his soul with his name, the one as
great as the other. He was about to marry a girl of his own choice, whom
he loved romantically; and he wished to give a surrounding of poetic
gayety to this farewell to the past, this greeting to the future. The men
of his race, in days gone by, had always displayed a gorgeous, almost
Oriental originality: the generous eccentricities of one of Prince
Andras's ancestors, the old Magyar Zilah, were often cited; he it was who
made this answer to his stewards, when, figures in hand, they proved to
him, that, if he would farm out to some English or German company the
cultivation of his wheat, corn, and oats, he would increase his revenue
by about six hundred thousand francs a year:

"But shall I make these six hundred thousand francs from the nourishment
of our laborers, farmers, sowers, and gleaners? No, certainly not; I
would no more take that money from the poor fellows than I would take the
scattered grains from the birds of the air."

It was also this grandfather of Andras, Prince Zilah Ferency, who, when
he had lost at cards the wages of two hundred masons for an entire year,
employed these men in constructing chateaux, which he burned down at the
end of the year to give himself the enjoyment of fireworks upon
picturesque ruins.

The fortune of the Zilahs was then on a par with the almost fabulous,
incalculable wealth of the Esterhazys and Batthyanyis. Prince Paul
Esterhazy alone possessed three hundred and fifty square leagues of
territory in Hungary. The Zichys, the Karolyis and the Szchenyis, poorer,
had but two hundred at this time, when only six hundred families were
proprietors of six thousand acres of Hungarian soil, the nobles of Great
Britain possessing not more than five thousand in England. The Prince of
Lichtenstein entertained for a week the Emperor of Austria, his staff and
his army. Old Ferency Zilah would have done as much if he had not always
cherished a profound, glowing, militant hatred of Austria: never had the
family of the magnate submitted to Germany, become the master, any more
than it had bent the knee in former times to the conquering Turk.

From his ancestors Prince Andras inherited, therefore, superb liberality,
with a fortune greatly diminished by all sorts of losses and
misfortunes--half of it confiscated by Austria in 1849, and enormous sums
expended for the national cause, Hungarian emigrants and proscribed
compatriots. Zilah nevertheless remained very rich, and was an imposing
figure in Paris, where, some years before, after long journeyings, he had
taken up his abode.

The little fete given for his friends on board the Parisian steamer was a
trifling matter to the descendant of the magnificent Magyars; but still
there was a certain charm about the affair, and it was a pleasure for the
Prince to see upon the garden-like deck the amusing, frivolous, elegant
society, which was the one he mingled with, but which he towered above
from the height of his great intelligence, his conscience, and his
convictions. It was a mixed and bizarre society, of different
nationalities; an assemblage of exotic personages, such as are met with
only in Paris in certain peculiar places where aristocracy touches
Bohemianism, and nobles mingle with quasi-adventurers; a kaleidoscopic
society, grafting its vices upon Parisian follies, coming to inhale the
aroma and absorb the poison of Paris, adding thereto strange
intoxications, and forming, in the immense agglomeration of the old
French city, a sort of peculiar syndicate, an odd colony, which belongs
to Paris, but which, however, has nothing of Paris about it except its
eccentricities, which drive post-haste through life, fill the little
journals with its great follies, is found and found again wherever Paris
overflows--at Dieppe, Trouville, Vichy, Cauteret, upon the sands of
Etretat, under the orange-trees of Nice, or about the gaming tables of
Monaco, according to the hour, season, and fashion.

This was the sort of assemblage which, powdered, perfumed, exquisitely
dressed, invaded, with gay laughter and nervous desire to be amused, the
boat chartered by the Prince. Above, pencil in hand, the little dark man
with the keen eyes, black, pointed beard and waxed moustache, continued
to take down, as the cortege defiled before him, the list of the invited
guests: and upon the leaves fell, briskly traced, names printed a hundred
times a day in Parisian chronicles among the reports of the races of
first representations at the theatres; names with Slav, Latin, or Saxon
terminations; Italian names, Spanish, Hungarian, American names; each of
which represented fortune, glory, power, sometimes scandal--one of those
imported scandals which break out in Paris as the trichinae of foreign
goods are hatched there.

The reporter wrote on, wrote ever, tearing off and handing to the page
attached to 'L'Actualite' the last leaves of his list, whereon figured
Yankee generals of the War of the Rebellion, Italian princesses, American
girls flirting with everything that wore trousers; ladies who, rivals of
Prince Zilah in wealth, owned whole counties somewhere in England; great
Cuban lords, compromised in the latest insurrections and condemned to
death in Spain; Peruvian statesmen, publicists, and military chiefs at
once, masters of the tongue, the pen, and the revolver; a crowd of
originals, even a Japanese, an elegant young man, dressed in the latest
fashion, with a heavy sombrero which rested upon his straight, inky-black
hair, and which every minute or two he took off and placed under his left
arm, to salute the people of his acquaintance with low bows in the most
approved French manner.

All these odd people, astonishing a little and interesting greatly the
groups of Parisians gathered above on the sidewalks, crossed the gangway
leading to the boat, and, spreading about on the deck, gazed at the banks
and the houses, or listened to the czardas which the Hungarian musicians
were playing with a sort of savage frenzy beneath the French tricolor
united to the three colors of their own country.

The Tzigani thus saluted the embarkation of the guests; and the clear,
bright sunshine enveloped the whole boat with a golden aureole, joyously
illuminating the scene of feverish gayety and childish laughter.




CHAPTER II

THE BARONESS'S MATCHMAKING

The Prince Zilah met his guests with easy grace, on the deck in front of
the foot-bridge. He had a pleasant word for each one as they came on
board, happy and smiling at the idea of a breakfast on the deck of a
steamer, a novel amusement which made these insatiable pleasure-seekers
forget the fashionable restaurants and the conventional receptions of
every day.

"What a charming thought this was of yours, Prince, so unexpected, so
Parisian, ah, entirely Parisian!"

In almost the same words did each newcomer address the Prince, who
smiled, and repeated a phrase from Jacquemin's chronicles: "Foreigners
are more Parisian than the Parisians themselves."

A smile lent an unexpected charm to the almost severe features of the
host. His usual expression was rather sad, and a trifle haughty. His
forehead was broad and high, the forehead of a thinker and a student
rather than that of a soldier; his eyes were of a deep, clear blue,
looking directly at everything; his nose was straight and regular, and
his beard and moustache were blond, slightly gray at the corners of the
mouth and the chin. His whole appearance, suggesting, as it did, reserved
strength and controlled passion, pleased all the more because, while
commanding respect, it attracted sympathy beneath the powerful exterior,
you felt there was a tender kindliness of heart.

There was no need for the name of Prince Andras Zilah--or, as they say in
Hungary, Zilah Andras--to have been written in characters of blood in the
history of his country, for one to divine the hero in him: his erect
figure, the carriage of his head, braving life as it had defied the
bullets of the enemy, the strange brilliance of his gaze, the sweet
inflections of his voice accustomed to command, and the almost caressing
gestures of his hand used to the sword--all showed the good man under the
brave, and, beneath the indomitable soldier, the true gentleman.

When they had shaken the hand of their host, the guests advanced to the
bow of the boat to salute a young girl, an exquisite, pale brunette, with
great, sad eyes, and a smile of infinite charm, who was half-extended in
a low armchair beneath masses of brilliant parti-colored flowers. A stout
man, of the Russian type, with heavy reddish moustaches streaked with
gray, and an apoplectic neck, stood by her side, buttoned up in his
frock-coat as in a military uniform.

Every now and then, leaning over and brushing with his moustaches her
delicate white ear, he would ask:

"Are you happy, Marsa?"

And Marsa would answer with a smile ending in a sigh, as she vaguely
contemplated the scene before her:

"Yes, uncle, very happy."

Not far from these two was a little woman, still very pretty, although of
a certain age--the age of embonpoint--a brunette, with very delicate
features, a little sensual mouth, and pretty rosy ears peeping forth from
skilfully arranged masses of black hair. With a plump, dimpled hand, she
held before her myopic eyes a pair of gold-mounted glasses; and she was
speaking to a man of rather stern aspect, with a Slav physiognomy, a
large head, crowned with a mass of crinkly hair as white as lamb's wool,
a long, white moustache, and shoulders as broad as an ox; a man already
old, but with the robust strength of an oak. He was dressed neither well
nor ill, lacking distinction, but without vulgarity.

"Indeed, my dear Varhely, I am enchanted with this idea of Prince Andras.
I am enjoying myself excessively already, and I intend to enjoy myself
still more. Do you know, this scheme of a breakfast on the water is
simply delightful! Don't you find it so? Oh! do be a little jolly,
Varhely!"

"Do I seem sad, then, Baroness?"

Yanski Varhely, the friend of Prince Andras, was very happy, however,
despite his rather sombre air. He glanced alternately at the little woman
who addressed him, and at Marsa, two very different types of beauty:
Andras's fiancee, slender and pale as a beautiful lily, and the little
Baroness Dinati, round and rosy as a ripe peach. And he was decidedly
pleased with this Marsa Laszlo, against whom he had instinctively felt
some prejudice when Zilah spoke to him for the first time of marrying
her. To make of a Tzigana--for Marsa was half Tzigana--a Princess Zilah,
seemed to Count Varhely a slightly bold resolution. The brave old soldier
had never understood much of the fantastic caprices of passion, and
Andras seemed to him in this, as in all other things, just a little
romantic. But, after all, the Prince was his own master, and whatever a
Zilah did was well done. So, after reflection, Zilah's marriage became a
joy to Varhely, as he had just been declaring to the fiancee's uncle,
General Vogotzine.

Baroness Dinati was therefore wrong to suspect old Yanski Varhely of any
'arriere-pensee'. How was it possible for him not to be enchanted, when
he saw Andras absolutely beaming with happiness?

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.

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