This cavalier with his scimitar was my uncle, who was then in command of the province. The unhappy wretches who had escaped assassination pressed about him, and surrounded him; the girls and the women threw themselves at his feet. My aunt was one of these unfortunates; she was then fifteen years old, and as beautiful as noonday. You may guess how her imagination was wrought on by the sight of this noble saviour. My uncle on his side was thunderstruck by the contemplation of so much beauty. Having to judge and punish the rebels, he established his head-quarters in the castle of the Cornalis. He sentenced twenty persons to death, and demanded Eudoxia's hand in marriage. This, notwithstanding his gratitude, the father refused to grant to a Turkish general.
The lovers were desperate, and separated, exchanging vows of eternal fidelity. Finally, after three months of correspondence and clandestine meetings, an elopement ensued, followed up quickly by marriage. It was as the sequence of this event that my uncle, induced by love, and moreover disgraced again for having exercised too much justice in favour of the Christians, finally quitted the service of the Sultan. His pardon by the Cornalis followed, and it was at this time that he obtained from the Pope the title of Count of the Holy Empire.
All this will serve to explain to you how it is that my aunt, as an heiress of great wealth, possesses in her own right a very large independent fortune in the Crimea.
We have now been living together for a fortnight, and during this time Férouzat has been completely transformed. My aunt Eudoxia is certainly very meublante, as my uncle calls it, and she has brought into the house quite an attractive element of brightness. She has naturally introduced into our circle a certain amount of etiquette, which does not, however, encroach upon the liberties of country life, or disturb that easy-going elegance which forms one of the charms of existence among well-bred people. The Countess of Monteclaro, as might well have been foreseen, having already been intimately acquainted with Doctor Morand, begins to take a most friendly interest in Mademoiselle Geneviève. As a consequence, Geneviève and the children spend almost all their time at the château. In the evenings we have gatherings to which all the young people of the neighbourhood are invited; my aunt, who is an excellent musician, organises concerts, and we generally finish up with a dance.
These worldly recreations afford me a clearer insight into the analytical details of my oriental life, which is now more than ever enveloped in the profoundest mystery. I have invented a story of important botanical studies upon the flora of Provence, in order to justify certain daily excursions which naturally terminate in El-Nouzha. It is well-known, moreover, that I sometimes visit His Excellency Mohammed-Azis, but with the discretion which respect for a great misfortune naturally entails. The exiled minister is no longer even discussed among us; everybody knows that "he shuts himself up like a bear in his den," and there is an end of it.
My aunt is the perfection of a woman. Nothing can be more delightful than our conversations. Her manner partakes both of the indulgence of a mother and of the unrestrained intimacy of a friend. She still remembers the child she used to dance upon her knees; and, although I had for a long while forgotten her very existence, my present affection for her is none the less sincere because it is of such recent growth. I must confess that, after my confined existence at school and college, I am delighted with these pleasures of home life, to which I was until lately quite a stranger.
My aunt, as you may guess, is acquainted with my uncle's famous plan for the future, and knows Anna Campbell, the Pasha's god-daughter. You should hear her chaff him anent this god-fathership, on the strength of which she claims that the captain has returned to the bosom of the Church without knowing it. She tells me that Anna is a charming girl. Thus petted and entertained, I live in other respects very much as I like, and sometimes pass the whole day in the library. I should add that my aunt, who is as sharp as a weasel, makes her own comments upon my frequent absences from the château.
"André," she asked me the other day with a smile, "is your 'Botany' dark or fair?"
"Fair, my dear aunt," I answered, laughing as she did.