“Tell me, Lesba, have you long had knowledge of Valcour’s real identity?”
“Francisco told me the truth months ago, and that he loved her,” she replied. “But Valcour was sworn to the Emperor’s service, and would not listen to my brother as long as she suspected him of being in league with the Republicans. So they schemed and struggled against one another for the supremacy, while each admired the other’s talents, and doubtless longed for the warfare to cease.”
“And how came this girl to be the Emperor’s spy, masquerading under the guise of a man?” I inquired.
“She is the daughter of Captain Mazanovitch, who, when her mother died, took delight in instructing his child in all the arts known to the detective police. As she grew up she became of great service to her father, being often employed upon missions of extreme delicacy and even danger. Mazanovitch used to boast that she was a better detective than himself, and the Emperor became attached to the girl and made her his confidential body-guard, sending her at times upon important secret missions connected with the government. When Mazanovitch was won over to the Republican conspiracy his daughter, whose real name is Carlotta, refused to desert the Emperor, and from that time on treated her father as a traitor, and opposed her wit to his own on every occasion. The male attire she wore both for convenience and as a disguise; but I have learned to know Valcour well, and have found her exceedingly sweet and womanly, despite her professional calling.”
It was all simple enough, once one had the clew; yet so extraordinary was the story that it aroused my wonder. In no other country than half-civilized Brazil, I reflected, could such a drama have been enacted.
When we returned to the house we passed the window of Valcour’s room and paused to look through the open sash.
The girl was awake and apparently much better, for she smiled brightly into the face Paola bent over her, and showed no resentment when he stooped to kiss her lips.
CHAPTER XXV
THE GIRL I LOVE
It was long ago, that day that brought Liberty to Brazil and glory to the name of Miguel de Pintra. Fate is big, but her puppets are small, and such atoms are easily swept aside and scattered by the mighty flood-tide of events for which we hold capricious Fate responsible.
Yet they leave records, these atoms.