“Before my friend says anything,” he said in his pleasant boyish voice, “I must tell you that he is really not Lacroix at all—nor my secretary at all, for that matter. May I present the Cavaliere Onofrio dei Pazzi?”
“Ah!” said Zoe sharply. Then, as the rest looked at her in surprise, she laughed with some embarrassment. “I think we must have met a relative of yours at the Dardanian court three or four years ago, Cavaliere—Donna Olimpia Pazzi? She was maid of honour to the young Princess of Dardania.”
“That was my daughter, madame—and it is of her that I am come to speak.” He rose from his chair and stood before them, as though to give himself more freedom. “Highnesses, and my kind host, Colonel Wylie, you will hear the story I have to tell, and give me your opinion on it? May I be pardoned if I first say something of myself?”
“Whatever the Cavaliere Pazzi has to tell us we shall be delighted to hear,” said Maurice courteously.
“Highnesses—” the old man spread forth his hands deprecatingly—“it is not for me to recall to your minds the War of Liberation, nor the fact that the hero-king, Carlo Salvatore, took from his own breast the cross of St Eustace and St Martha and pinned it on mine, after a day in which we had fought side by side. Suffice it that the royal house of Magnagrecia has been pleased to regard me with continued favour. I have never been rich, but while my wife lived she made our small income provide amply for our needs. But she died”—he wrung his hands—“leaving me with an infant daughter, and the money, Highnesses—” he threw his arms wide—“it vanished! I am a soldier, not an economist—I confess it to my shame. My august sovereign and his gracious consort came to my aid, and provided for my child’s future. She shared the education of the young Princess Emilia, and was one of the ladies appointed to her household when she was married to the Prince of Dardania. It was by no will of mine that my child went forth into that barbarous country, but I could give her nothing, and her royal mistress promised to find her a husband of suitable rank, and provide a dowry. My little Olimpia parted from me with the tenderest of farewells, and I lived—yes, literally lived upon her letters. But by degrees there came a change in them. The eyes of paternal love are sharp. I suspected a love-affair, and not a happy one. I entreated my child to treat me with frankness, and at length she revealed the truth. She loved a person whose rank was such that they could never hope to marry. I saw the danger of her position, and begged her to return to me. You will ask, Highnesses, why I did not insist, why I did not rush immediately to Bashi Konak and fetch her away. Alas! I was ashamed, afraid, to do so. Behold me living upon my pension—the only portion of my income that could neither be anticipated nor alienated in my more lavish days. A modest apartment provides me shelter for the night; in the day there is the restaurant, the club, the promenade. But what kind of life would that be for a woman young, beautiful, accustomed to courts, who would, moreover, forfeit all expectations from her royal patrons if she quitted the Princess? Without a dowry who would marry her? Therefore I sent her good advice, but—oh, blame me, Highnesses; you cannot blame me more than I blame myself—I allowed her to remain. Then I received a letter overflowing with the innocent joy of a romantic girl who believes that she has obtained her heart’s desire. She was married. Her royal mistress wrote also, to assuage any anxiety that I might feel as to the marriage. It had been solemnised in her own private chapel, she herself and her mother-in-law had been present, every precaution had been taken to ensure its legality, but—” here came a tremendous pause—“it was to be kept secret for the present in view of the circumstances of the bridegroom. My daughter would remain with her mistress, and no difference would appear until Olimpia could be presented to the world as the bride of Prince Romanos of Emathia.”
“Romanos!” cried Princess Theophanis, her voice rising almost to a shriek. “Maurice, Zoe, do you hear? He is married, and to a Latin!”
“I knew about it,” said Zoe.
“My dear Zoe!” said her brother. “Was it fair to keep a thing like that from us?”
“I had no choice. She swore me to secrecy. It was on the day of his election—she was worried and excited—there had been some absurd idea among the people of his marrying me, you know—” she addressed the explanation to her husband—“and she could not stand it, poor thing. So she told me.”
“And you kept it secret—depriving Maurice of his throne, endangering the rights of your own child!” cried Eirene.