Three days later I sailed for Europe, leaving Harry in New York.
It was my first trip across in eighteen months, and I aimed at
pleasure. I spent a week in London and Munich, then, disgusted
with the actions of some of my fellow countrymen with whom I had
the misfortune to be acquainted, I turned my face south for
Madrid.
There I had a friend.
A woman not beautiful, but eminently satisfying; not loose, but
liberal, with a character and a heart. In more ways than one she
was remarkable; she had an affection for me; indeed, some years
previously I had been in a way to play Albert Savaron to her
Francesca Colonna, an arrangement prevented only by my
constitutional dislike for any prolonged or sustained effort in a
world the slave of vanity and folly.
It was from the lips of this friend that I first heard the name
of Desiree Le Mire.
It was late in the afternoon on the fashionable drive. Long,
broad, and shady, though scarcely cool, it was here that we took
our daily carriage exercise; anything more strenuous is regarded
with horror by the ladies of Spain.
There was a shout, and a sudden hush; all carriages were halted
and their occupants uncovered, for royalty was passing.
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