One of the Pazzi of Florence, at the time of
their disasters, fled to Poland, where he settled with some of his
property and founded the Paz family, to which the title of count was
granted. This family, which distinguished itself greatly in the
glorious days of our royal republic, became rich. The graft from the
tree that was felled in Italy flourished so vigorously in Poland that
there are several branches of the family still there. I need not tell
you that some are rich and some are poor. Our Paz is the scion of a
poor branch. He was an orphan, without other fortune than his sword,
when he served in the regiment of the Grand Duke Constantine at the
time of our revolution. Joining the Polish cause, he fought like a
Pole, like a patriot, like a man who has nothing,--three good reasons
for fighting well. In his last affair, thinking he was followed by his
men, he dashed upon a Russian battery and was taken prisoner. I was
there. His brave act roused me. 'Let us go and get him!' I said to my
troop, and we charged the battery like a lot of foragers. I got Paz--I
was the seventh man; we started twenty and came back eight, counting
Paz. After Warsaw was sold we were forced to escape those Russians. By
a curious chance, Paz and I happened to come together again, at the
same hour and the same place, on the other side of the Vistula.
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