“What a silly question!” thought the magistrate.
“You have a very beautiful cousin,” said the prince to Raphael.
“Yes,” he replied; “she is the Ondine of perfumed waters.”
“And the general whom I see so attentive to the game, and who has an air so distinguished?”
“He is the retired Nestor of the army. You have not at Pompeii an antiquity better preserved.”
“And the señora with whom he is playing?”
“His sister, the Marchioness of Guadalcanal, a species of escurial, a solid assemblage of devout and monarchial sentiments, with a heart which emanated from the Pantheon of kings without thrones.”
There was suddenly heard a great noise. It was the major, who, on rising to join Raphael, had upset a vase of flowers. And Raphael cried out, “The major announces his arrival; without doubt he comes to sigh, like the pipe of an organ, over the little note the ladies take of his person.”
“They must be very difficult to please,” remarked the prince; “the major has a handsome figure.”
“I do not say to the contrary. He is a Samson in strength. But, to begin with, he has his Delilah, who will soon be legitimately his, thanks to the millions which tea and opium cast into the coffers of his father. She waits in the midst of the fogs of his isle, while he amuses himself under the beautiful sky of Andalusia. Foreigners who visit Spain are all of one accord in anticipating the pleasures they propose to themselves: the beauty of the climate, the bull-fights, the oranges, the boléros, and, especially, their love conquests. What complaints have I heard from those who came here like Cæsar, and left like Darius!”