“Laugh away if you will, Raphael,” interrupted the marchioness; “but know, Don Frederico, that this name, so ridiculous in the eyes of my nephew, is one of the most illustrious and most ancient in Spain; it owes its origin to the battle of Las Navas de Tolosa.”
“Which occurred,” added Raphael, “in the year 1212, and was gained by the king Alphonse IX., surnamed the Noble, father of the Queen Blanche of France, who was the mother of Saint Louis. This battle delivered Castile from the yoke of the Saracens.”
“In fact,” replied the marchioness, “I have heard all this related by my sister-in-law. Miramamolin (sovereign prince of the Moors), as my sister also stated, had retreated to a spot where he had deposited all his treasures, in a kind of intrenchment formed of iron chains. A river separated this commanding position from the Christian army: the king, who was unable to cross it, was in despair. Then an old shepherd, covered with a sort of capuchin mantle, came to him, and pointed out the spot where he could, without any difficulty, cross the stream at a ford indicated by the head of a cow which the wolves had devoured. Such was the importance of this information, that the king Alphonse gained the memorable battle of Tolosa. The grateful monarch ennobled him who had rendered him so great a service, and conferred on him and on his descendants the name of Cabeza de Vaca. My sister-in-law said that the statue of the patriotic shepherd, and the chains of the camp of Miramamolin, are still preserved in the cathedral of Toledo.”
“Six hundred years of nobility,” said Raphael, “is a bagatelle in comparison with ours; for you should know, doctor, that the name of Santa-Maria eclipses all the Cabeza de Vacas, if even their genealogical tree came from the horns of the cow which Noah had in his ark. Learn that we are related to the Holy Virgin—nothing less. And to prove it, I will tell you that one of our noble ancestors, when he counted his beads before his servants, according to the good Spanish custom—”
“A custom which is daily falling into disuse,” sighed the marchioness.
“Did not neglect to say,” pursued Raphael, “ ‘God save you; our lady and cousin protect thee!’ and the servants replied: ‘Holy Mary, cousin and lady of his excellency.’ ”
“Don’t say such things before strangers,” replied the countess: “they are enough prejudiced against us to credit them; or, without believing, they have enough bad faith to repeat them. That which you have related is known to everybody here. It is a poor joke invented to mock the exaggerated pretensions of our family as to the antiquity of our nobility.”
“Apropos of what strangers say: do you know, cousin, that Lord Londonderry has written, in his Travels in Spain, that there is but one beautiful woman in Seville, the Marchioness of A., concealing without doubt her name in a manner the most whimsical.”
“He is right,” replied the countess, “no one can be more beautiful than Adèle.”
“Very handsome, cousin, but the only one! It is a frightful extravagance. The major is furious, and intends to institute a process for calumny, with full powers from the Giralda, who believes herself, and gives out, that she is the most beautiful person in all Seville.”