It once belonged to the son of a reigning duke who renounced all for love, and thought the world well lost. He offended his family by his marriage, and they treated him as one dead.
The lady of his choice, fair Lucia, was beautiful and charming, but beneath him. Tradition says that she was an actress, and that he fell hopelessly in love with her as she played in a drama where all ended tragically. It might have been a warning to them, but when was love ever warned? He espoused her and they took up their abode in this wonderful old palace, fitting home of romance.
As we gazed upon the matchless courtyard: the overhanging eaves, the rounded arches of the balcony with their graceful and refined pillars, the exquisitely-carved ceilings and staircase of rich black oak: the latter wide enough to drive up a coach and four: we felt that here love might reign for ever. And probably it would have lasted long; for the lady, as history says, had all graces of the spirit as well as all the charm of exquisite form and feature: whilst her knight was true as the needle to the pole, constant as death.
They were happy in each other; life was a paradise; and when did such a perfect condition of things ever last? Paradise is not for this world.
Five summers and winters passed and found them still devoted to each other. Every day was a dream. Then a cruel visitation came to their town: an epidemic, sparing not high or low. It attacked the fair Lucia: and though her husband nursed her night and day, and all the leeches of the town combined their skill and judgment to save her, a stronger power than theirs was against them.
The last day dawned; instinct told her that another sun for her could never rise. Her husband bent over her in an agony of grief. She clasped her fair, frail arms around his neck.
"My love, my love, we have been very happy: all in all to each other," she murmured. "These five years, an eternity of bliss, have yet flown swiftly as a day. You have been good—so good; dear—so dear. Perhaps it is well to die thus and now, with all our youth, and all our dreams, and all our illusions undispelled. Eternity will restore us to each other. I leave you with not one mark on the delicate bloom of our great love."
She died and he was not to be consoled. His people offered to be reunited to him but he would none of them.
It was the time of the War of Succession. Into this he madly plunged, seeking death and finding it. As a rule death is said to avoid those who court him; but here it was not so. The knight, faithful to the end, was found upon the battlefield, his eyes wide open, looking upon the heavens; where perhaps he saw the vision of his lovely wife, whilst her miniature lay next his heart.
The house still stands much as it stood in those days, but two centuries older. It is the most beautiful in Zaragoza, perhaps has few equals in all Spain. A special atmosphere surrounds it: and as we look a vision rises.