“How should you?” The old man spoke in a clear, thin voice, very unlike his own.  “You could not understand.  But before I die, I will tell you.”

“Do not talk of dying—­”

“No.  It is not necessary.  I realise it enough, and you need not realise it at all.  I have not much to tell you, but a little truth will sometimes destroy many falsehoods.  You remember the story about Lucrezia Ferris?  Maria Consuelo wrote it to you.”

“Remember it!  Could I forget it?”

“You may as well.  There is not a word of truth in it.  Lucrezia Ferris is not her mother.”

“Not her mother!”

“No.  I only wonder how you could ever have believed that a Piedmontese nurse could be the mother of Maria Consuelo.  Nor am I Maria Consuelo’s father.  Perhaps that will not surprise you so much.  She does not resemble me, thank Heaven!”

“What is she then?  Who is she?” asked Orsino impatiently.

“To tell you that I must tell you the story.  When I was young—­very long before you were born—­I travelled much, and I was well received.  I was rich and of good family.  At a certain court in Europe—­I was at one time in the diplomacy—­I loved a lady whom I could not have married, even had she been free.  Her station was far above mine.  She was also considerably older than I, and she paid very little attention to me, I confess.  But I loved her.  She is just dead.  She was that princess mentioned in this telegram.  Do you understand?  Do you hear me?  My voice is weak.”

“Perfectly.  Pray go on.”

“Maria Consuelo is her grandchild—­the granddaughter of the only woman I ever loved.  Understand that, too.  It happened in this way.  My Princess had but one daughter, the Princess Marie, a mere child when I first saw her—­not more than fourteen years old.  We were all in Nice, one winter thirty years ago—­some four years after I had first met the Princess.  I travelled in order to see her, and she was always kind to me, though she did not love me.  Perhaps I was useful, too, before that.  People were always afraid of me, because I could handle the foils.  It was thirty years ago, and the Princess Marie was eighteen.  Poor child!”

Spicca paused a moment, and passed his transparent hand over his eyes.

“I think I understand,” said Orsino.

“No you do not,” answered Spicca, with unexpected sharpness.  “You will not understand, until I have told you everything.  The Princess Marie fell ill, or pretended to fall ill while we were at Nice.  But she could not conceal the truth long—­at least not from her mother.  She had already taken into her confidence a little Piedmontese maid, scarcely older than herself—­a certain Lucrezia Ferris—­and she allowed no other woman to come near her.  Then she told her mother the truth.  She loved a man of her own rank and not much older—­not yet of age, in fact.  Unfortunately, as happens with such people, a marriage was diplomatically impossible.