Franziska's visits to the Petofy house continued for several weeks, but then broke off rather conspicuously, and even the count's visits to Salesiner Street, which had gone on for a time, stopped. It was said that he was off traveling, and this was indeed so. Finally, he sent word from Paris and apologized in the most obliging way for his abrupt departure. But as obliging as his words were, they were still cooler than usual, or at least more reserved.

Franziska could sense this, but had become too accustomed to such changes to give them any great weight.

It was different in the small circle that continued to gather in the countess's salon on every third evening. Here, a degree of importance was attached to Franziska's absence, and even more so to the count's departure, nor did they refrain from whispering the strangest things among themselves. The old count must be completely besotted with the young lady, or at least interested in her to the point of distraction; the entire trip to Paris must be nothing short of an escape. The countess, furthermore, knowing the count's stubbornness, had initially objected to the trip—with the intention, of course, of making him all the more determined to go. Others dismissed all of this, saying that the old count's jours de fête were over. This only earned them the mockery of the habitues of the club and the casino, who never grew tired of pointing to the seventy-year-old Goethe, or even King Sigurd Ring, who fell passionately in love at ninety and went a-wooing. The count was surely capable of more, full-blooded Hungarian that he was.