Here, as formerly at Moscow, Tisza and the Prince lived together, and yet apart--the Tzigana, implacable in her resentment, bitterly refusing all pardon to the Russian, and always keeping alive in Marsa a hatred of all that was Muscovite; the Prince, disconsolate, gloomy, discouraged between the woman whom he adored and whose heart he could not win, and the girl, so wonderfully beautiful, the living portrait of her mother, and who treated him with the cold respect one shows to a stranger.
Not long after their arrival in Paris, a serious heart trouble attacked Marsa's father.

He summoned to his deathbed the Tzigana and her daughter; and, in a sort of supreme confession, he openly asked his child, before the mother, to forgive him for her birth.
"Marsa," he said, slowly, "your birth, which should make the joy of my existence, is the remorse of my whole life.

But I am dying of the love which I can not conquer.

Will you kiss me as a token that you have pardoned me ?" For the first time, perhaps, Marsa's lips, trembling with emotion, then touched the Prince's forehead.

But, before kissing him, her eyes had sought those of her mother, who bowed her head in assent.
"And you," murmured the dying Prince, "will you forgive me, Tisza ?" The Tzigana saw again her native village in flames, her brothers dead, her father murdered, and this man, now lying thin and pale amid the pillows, erect, with sabre drawn, crying: "Courage! Charge! Forward!" Then she saw herself dragged almost beneath a horse's hoofs, cast into a wagon with wrists bound together, carried in the rear of an army with the rest of the victor's spoils, and immured within Russian walls.