“I intend a short visit to some of the old 'Placers' in your neighborhood,” replied I, “after which I mean to return here;” and so, with a last embrace, we parted.
My next care was to pay a visit to Don Estaban, for I was burning with anxiety to see Donna Maria once more, and to open my campaign as a rich suitor for her hand. The day chosen for this expedition seemed a fortunate one, for the road, which led through a succession of vineyards, was thronged with townspeople and peasants in gay holiday dresses, all wending their way in the same direction with ourselves. I asked the reason, and heard that it was the fête of the Virgin de los Dolores, whose chapel was on the estate of Don Estaban. I bethought me of the time when I had planned a pilgrimage to that same shrine,—little suspecting that I was to make it in my carriage, with six mules and two outriders!
In less than an hour's drive we came in sight of Don Estaban's villa, built on the side of a richly wooded mountain, and certainly not betraying any signs of the reduced fortune of which I had heard. A series of gardens, all terraced in the mountain, lay in front, among which fountains were playing and jets d'eau springing. A small lake spread its calm surface beneath, reflecting the whole scene as in a mirror, with its feathery palm-trees and blossoming mimosas, beneath whose shade hundreds of visitors were loitering or sitting, while the tinkling sounds of guitar and mandolin broke the stillness.
It was a strange and curious sight; for while pleasure seemed to hold unbounded sway on every side, the procession of priests in rich vestments, the smoke of censers, the red robes of acolytes, mingled with the throng, and the deep chanting of the liturgies was blended with the laughter of children and the merry sounds of light-hearted joy. “I have come in the very nick of time,” thought I, “to complete this scene of festivity;” and finding that my carriage could only advance slowly along the crowded avenue, I descended, and proceeded on foot, merely attended by two lacqueys to make way for me in front.
A lively controversy ran among the spectators at each side of me, of which I was evidently the subject, some averring that I was there as a portion of the pageant, an integral feature in the procession; others, with equal discrimination, insisting that my presence was a polite attention on the part of Our Lady de “Los Dolores,” who had sent an illustrious personage to grace the festival as her representative. On one point all were agreed,—that my appearance amongst them was a favor which a whole life of devotion to me could not repay; and so rapidly was this impression propagated that it sped up the long approach through various groups and knots of people, and actually reached the villa itself long before my august person arrived at the outer court.
Never was dignity—at least such dignity as mine—intrusted to better hands than those of my “Caçadores.” They swaggered along, pushing back the crowds on each side as though it were a profanation to press too closely upon me. They flourished their great gold-headed canes as if they would smash the skulls of those whose eager curiosity outstepped the reverence due to me; and when at length we reached the gates of the court-yard, they announced my name with a grandeur and pomp of utterance that, I own it frankly, actually appalled myself! I had not, however, much time given me for such weaknesses, as, directly in front of the villa, at a table spread beneath an awning of blue silk, sat a goodly company, whose splendor of dress and profusion of jewellery bespoke them the great guests of the occasion. The host—it was easy to detect him by the elevated seat he occupied—rose as I came forward, and, with a humility I never can praise too highly, assured me that if any choice were permitted him in the matter, he would prefer dying on the spot, now that his worldly honors could never exceed the triumph of that day; that all the happiness of the festivity was as gloom and darkness to his soul, compared to the brilliancy my presence diffused; and not only was everything he owned mine from that moment forth, but, he ardently hoped he might have a long line of grandchildren and great-grandchildren to be my slaves in succeeding generations.
While the worthy man poured forth these “truths” in all the flourish of his purest Castilian, and while I listened to them with the condescending urbanity with which a sovereign may be presumed to hear the strains of some national melody in their praise, as pleasant, though somewhat stale, another individual was added to the group, whose cunning features evinced nothing either of the host's reverence or of my grandeur. This was Fra Miguel, the Friar, who, in a costume of extraordinary simplicity, stood staring fixedly at me.
“Il Condé de Cregauo!” repeated Don Estaban. “I have surely heard the name before. Your highness is doubtless a grandee of Spain?”
“Of the first class!” said I, with a slight cough; for the confounded Friar never took his eyes off me.
“And we have met before, Señhor Condé,” said he, with a most equivocal stress upon the last words. “How pleasant for me to thank the Condé for what I believed I owed to the mere wayfarer.” These words he uttered in a whisper close to my own ear.