The
coach, a magnificent though cumbersome affair, passed slowly and
gravely by. On the rear seat were the princess and her little
English cousin, while opposite them sat the great duke himself.
By his side was a young man of five and twenty with a white face
and weak chin, and glassy, meaningless eyes. I turned to my
companion and asked in a low tone who he was. Her whispered
answer caused me to start with surprise, and I turned to her with
a question.
"But why is he in Madrid?"
"Oh, as to that," said my friend, smiling, "you must ask
Desiree."
"And who is Desiree?"
"What! You do not know Desiree! Impossible!" she exclaimed.
"My dear," said I, "you must remember that for the past year and
a half I have been buried in the land of pork and gold. The
gossip there is neither of the poet nor the court. I am ignorant
of everything."
"You would not have been so much longer," said my friend, "for
Desiree is soon going to America. Who is she? No one knows. What
is she? Well, she is all things to some men, and some things to
all men. She is a courtesan among queens and a queen among
courtesans.
"She dances and loves, and, I presume, eats and sleeps.
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