“Just tell them to let me out of here,” said the prisoner, “then I’ll call in on the Emperor whenever it’s convenient for him.”
“But, señor,” the don objected testily, “with what status, pray? Has your country a representative here? You must obtain a letter from your ambassador, or have him present you.”
Driscoll shook his head. “Can’t,” he said, “haven’t any country.”
The minion of etiquette despaired.
“But,” Driscoll added, “I’ve got as good as credentials from what used to be my country.”
Velasquez de Leon grasped at the straw. “Then,” he cried, “we can register you as an ambassador.”
“Bringing my country with me,” Driscoll suggested.
So it was all straightened out pleasantly, and quite in the orthodox manner, too. The American’s status was defined. His reception would fall under the rubric: “Private Audience.” There remained only one grave drawback. The protocol allowed no hints as to the un-protocol aspect of an ambassador’s wardrobe. The hidalgo could only finger nervously the Imperial Crown in his Grand Uniform, and with stiff dignity take his leave.
The ambassador who was his own country rode in the marshal’s landau to court, with a retinue of Lancers that was also his guard. Soon they entered the Paseo, which Maximilian was making beautiful at inordinate cost as a link between the City and his summer palace, the alcázar of Chapultepec. Turning into the wide, stately boulevard, Driscoll was that moment plunged into an eddying splendor of Europe transplanted, 244and he blinked his eyes, half humorously. There were mettlesome steeds, and coaches with a high polish, and silver weighted harness, and the insolence of livery, and armorial bearings, and the gilt of coronets on carriage panels. There were silk hats and peaked sombreros, lace mantillas and Parisian bonnets. A lavish use of French money was doing these things, and the Mexicans, believing in their aristocracy since the revival of titles never heard of in Gotha, believed also that such brilliancy of display made their capital the peer of Vienna, or of the Quartier St. Germain. The Mexicans were very happy and arrogant over it.
“I wonder how they can fight and yet keep their clothes so pretty,” thought the Missourian.