e had accompanied him on board his ship, during
several of his voyages, and that two years back he had stayed six months
with her at Corfu. As for him, he talked in such a completely innocent
manner, betokening such a pure conscience, that I came to the conclusion
he was probably on just as good a footing with all his other spouses,
and that he would not have been the least bit more embarrassed with my
aunt Van Cloth, had she chanced to turn up.

When we returned to the chateau, my aunt asked me to have some letters
posted for her. I went to her room to take them from her; she had found
time to write half-a-dozen for all parts of the world. While she was
sealing them, I had a look at the numerous articles with which she had
filled and garnished her boudoir. There were on the table flowers in
vases, books and albums; on the mantelpiece, several portraits arranged
on little gilt easels, among which was a splendid miniature of a young,
handsome man, in Turkish costume embroidered with gold, and having on
his head a fez ornamented with an egret of precious stones.

"Do you recognise this gentleman," said my aunt, as I was stooping to
look at it more closely.

"What!" I exclaimed; "Can that be my uncle?"

"The very man, dressed up as a great mamamouchi. It is a great
curiosity, for you are aware of his Turkish notions on the subject.
According to these, one ought not to have one's image made."

"Upon my word, that's quite true," I said; "it is the first portrait I
have seen of him."

"I have every reason for believing that it is the only one," she replied
with a smile; "this was the most difficult victory I ever won over him."

We then began to discuss my uncle and his eccentricities, combined with
his remarkable talents. She related to me some events and features in
his life which would not be out of place in the legend of a hero of
antiquity; amongst other matters she told me the story of their
marriage, which runs briefly as follows:--

My aunt, a daughter of one of the richest and noblest Greek families,
lived with her father at a castle in Thessaly, a country which is partly
Mahometan. During the feast of Bairam, the Turks commenced a massacre of
Christians, which lasted three days. Several families, taking refuge in
a church, had fortified themselves there, and with their servants were
defending themselves desperately against their assailants. The assassins
had already broken open the door of the sanctuary, and