He was not of her nationality and the relations were strained.  But she had married him nevertheless, secretly and, as it turned out, without any legal formalities.  It is questionable whether the marriage, even then, could have been proved to be valid, for she was a Catholic and he was not, and a Catholic priest had married them without proper authorisation or dispensation.  But they were both in earnest, both young and both foolish.  The husband—­his name is of no importance—­was very far away at the time we were in Nice, and was quite unable to come to her.  She was about to be a mother and she turned to her own mother in her extremity, with a full confession of the truth.”

“I see,” said Orsino.  “And you adopted—­”

“You do not see yet.  The Princess came to me for advice.  The situation was an extremely delicate one from all points of view.  To declare the marriage at that moment might have produced extraordinary complications, for the countries to which, the two young people belonged were on the verge of a war which was only retarded by the extraordinary genius of one man.  To conceal it seemed equally dangerous, if not more so.  The Princess Marie’s reputation was at stake—­the reputation of a young girl, as people supposed her to be, remember that.  Various schemes suggested themselves.  I cannot tell what would have been done, for fate decided the matter—­tragically, as fate does.  The young husband was killed while on a shooting expedition—­at least so it was stated.  I always believed that he shot himself.  It was all very mysterious.  We could not keep the news from the Princess Marie.  That night Maria Consuelo was born.  On the next day, her mother died.  The shock had killed her.  The secret was now known to the old Princess, to me, to Lucrezia Ferris and to the French doctor—­a man of great skill and discretion.  Maria Consuelo was the nameless orphan child of an unacknowledged marriage—­of a marriage which was certainly not legal, and which the Church must hesitate to ratify.  Again we saw that the complications, diplomatic and of other kinds, which would arise if the truth were published, would be enormous.  The Prince himself was not yet in Nice and was quite ignorant of the true cause of his daughter’s sudden death.  But he would arrive in forty-eight hours, and it was necessary to decide upon some course.  We could rely upon the doctor and upon our two selves—­the Princess and I. Lucrezia Ferris seemed to be a sensible, quiet girl, and she certainly proved to be discreet for a long time.  The Princess was distracted with grief and beside herself with anxiety.  Remember that I loved her—­that explains what I did.  I proposed the plan which was carried out and with which you are acquainted.  I took the child, declared it to be mine, and married Lucrezia.  The only legal documents in existence concerning Maria Consuelo prove her to be my daughter.  The priest who had married the poor Princess Marie could never be found.