“‘Is it possible that you do not know Prince Luigi Saviola fell in a duel with the Duc de Montmeri, nearly two months ago!’
“‘Great Heaven! No, I knew nothing of all that. Oh, poor Luigi! Poor Luigi!’ I covered my face with my hands and fell back in my chair.
“‘And you knew nothing of all this?’
“‘Nothing, nothing!’ I moaned.
“‘And yet the papers were full of the subject.’
“‘I never saw any papers after Luigi left me. I was expecting my child every day, and I lived very secluded, so that I heard no rumors—until very lately a report met me that he was on the eve of marriage with a French heiress,’ I said, remembering the tale told me by Anglesea.
“‘Strange that such a report as that should get afloat about a young man whose fate was well known all over Europe, and filled all hearers with compassion and sympathy.’
“‘Tell me of the duel, father! Tell me all you know,’ I said.
“‘It arose at a gentlemen’s dinner, given by one of the Bonapartes. The talk turned on women, and drifted into the comparative merits of women of different European nationalities. The Duc de Montmeri, who had taken too much wine, made some injurious and sneering remarks on Italian women. The prince warmly took up the defense of his fair compatriots. High words ensued. The quarrel ended in the challenge of Saviola by Montmeri. They met the next morning in a secluded spot in the Rouveret. Montmeri was a professional duelist and a dead shot. Saviola fell at the first fire. It was a murder—no less. When his second went to raise his head the dying man only breathed forth three words—“My poor wife”—and died. Little did I think when I read these words that the poor wife in question was my own daughter.’
“‘Oh, Luigi! Poor Luigi! And to think that I should have listened to such cruel slanders of you and cherished such bitter thoughts of you!’ I exclaimed, in sudden remorse at the remembrance of the ready credence I had given to the story of his second marriage told me by Anglesea.