A red streak flushed Floyd’s forehead.
“Tell me about them.”
Martin leaned against the gate, revelling in Floyd’s agitation.
“The Gonzolas go back to the time when the Church in Spain commenced war on the Jews; thousands of them were baptized, but they still practiced their religion in secret. Romantic, isn’t it?”
“No; terrible.”
“Many of the Catholic Gonzolas became Bishops, Cardinals, and high state officials on account of their wealth and culture, but others, true to their Faith, fled to Amsterdam, where they founded the great banking house which spread its branches all over Europe. Julie’s grandfather was a handsome, dashing fellow. He married in the family—they all do—but he had an affair with an Austrian actress which lasted for years. Their son was brought up in the religion of his mother who became pious with age and as expiation, dedicated him to the Church. She died before he was ordained, and Gonzola, naturally opposed, easily persuaded the boy against it—and sent him to America where he took the family name. The bank he founded here was successful; he became very rich. This bastard was Julie’s father.”
“But they are Catholics, not Jews,” insisted Floyd.
“That’s the joke of it,” laughed Martin. “An ironic witticism, an impish trick of Fate. Pedro came with letters from his father, to an old friend, Joseph Abravanel, an orthodox Jew, a fanatic, of Spanish origin with infernal pride of race. He boasts his ancestors provided money to help Columbus fit out his ship. Pedro fell desperately in love with Ruth Abravanel; those Spanish Jewesses are handsome, but most of them are old maids, because they won’t marry the Germans whom they look down upon.”
“That old man I saw today at the window?”
“Is Joseph Abravanel, Mrs. Gonzola’s father.”