“His health is excellent.”
“Is he travelling incognito?”
“No, sir; he travels with his name and Christian names.”
“And he is called—”
“Don Carlos de la Cerda.”
“An illustrious name, very certainly,” cried the painter.
“My name is Pedro de Guzman,” added the servant, “and I am humble servant to you both.” He then made a very humble reverence, and went away.
“Gil Blas is right,” said the Frenchman, “in Spain nothing is more common than glorious names. It is true that in Paris my boot-maker was named Martel, my tailor called himself Roland, and my laundress, Madame Bayard. In Scotland, there are more Stuarts than paving-stones.”
“We are humbugged! That insolent servant is mocking us. But, every thing considered, I have a suspicion that he is an agent of the factions, an obscure emissary of Don Carlos.”
“Certainly not,” replied the artist; “it is my Alonzo Perez de Guzman the Good—the hero of my dreams.” The other Frenchman shrugged his shoulders.