She did not press the subject. You may guess what a relief that was to me.
After we had strolled about the grounds for an hour, my aunt Eudoxia had made a complete conquest of me. But although everything about her excited my curiosity, I had put very few questions to her, not wishing from motives of delicacy to appear entirely ignorant of her history; such ignorance, indeed, would have appeared strange in a nephew. She seemed quite disposed, however, to answer all my questions without any fencing, and to treat me as an intimate friend. What I felt most surprised at was the attitude of my uncle, who had never said any more to me about her than about my aunt Cora of Les Grands Palmiers. There reigned betwixt them the affectionate manners of the happiest possible couple; they discussed the past, and I could see that their union had never been weakened or affected, notwithstanding my uncle's Mahometan proceedings, which she really appears never to have suspected. I discovered that she had accompanied him on board his ship, during several of his voyages, and that two years back he had stayed six months with her at Corfu. As for him, he talked in such a completely innocent manner, betokening such a pure conscience, that I came to the conclusion he was probably on just as good a footing with all his other spouses, and that he would not have been the least bit more embarrassed with my aunt Van Cloth, had she chanced to turn up.
When we returned to the château, my aunt asked me to have some letters posted for her. I went to her room to take them from her; she had found time to write half-a-dozen for all parts of the world. While she was sealing them, I had a look at the numerous articles with which she had filled and garnished her boudoir. There were on the table flowers in vases, books and albums; on the mantelpiece, several portraits arranged on little gilt easels, among which was a splendid miniature of a young, handsome man, in Turkish costume embroidered with gold, and having on his head a fez ornamented with an egret of precious stones.
"Do you recognise this gentleman," said my aunt, as I was stooping to look at it more closely.
"What!" I exclaimed; "Can that be my uncle?"
"The very man, dressed up as a great mamamouchi. It is a great curiosity, for you are aware of his Turkish notions on the subject. According to these, one ought not to have one's image made."
"Upon my word, that's quite true," I said; "it is the first portrait I have seen of him."
"I have every reason for believing that it is the only one," she replied with a smile; "this was the most difficult victory I ever won over him."
We then began to discuss my uncle and his eccentricities, combined with his remarkable talents. She related to me some events and features in his life which would not be out of place in the legend of a hero of antiquity; amongst other matters she told me the story of their marriage, which runs briefly as follows:—
My aunt, a daughter of one of the richest and noblest Greek families, lived with her father at a castle in Thessaly, a country which is partly Mahometan. During the feast of Bairam, the Turks commenced a massacre of Christians, which lasted three days. Several families, taking refuge in a church, had fortified themselves there, and with their servants were defending themselves desperately against their assailants. The assassins had already broken open the door of the sanctuary, and were about to cut all their throats, when suddenly a man came galloping up, followed by a few soldiers. He struck right and left with his scimitar in the thick of the crowd outside, and reached the doorway, causing his horse to rear up on the pavement. He slays some, and terrifies all. The Christians are saved!