“I did not go,” said she, “for on that day died my only friend the Duke of Medina-Celi. He was ill for three days.”
“I sympathise with you. Was the duke an old man?”
“Hardly sixty. You have seen him; he did not look his age.”
“Where have I seen him?”
“Did he not bring you to my box?”
“You don’t say so! He did not tell me his name and I never saw him before.”
I was grieved to hear of his death; it was in all probability a misfortune for me as well as Madame Pichona. All the duke’s estate passed to a son of miserly disposition, who in his turn had a son who was beginning to evince the utmost extravagance.
I was told that the family of Medina-Celi enjoys thirty titles of nobility.
One day a young man called on me to offer me, as a foreigner, his services in a country which he knew thoroughly.
“I am Count Marazzini de Plaisance,” he began, “I am not rich and I have come to Madrid to try and make my fortune. I hope to enter the bodyguard of his Catholic majesty. I have been indulging in the amusements of the town ever since I came. I saw you at the ball with an unknown beauty. I don’t ask you to tell me her name, but if you are fond of novelty I can introduce you to all the handsomest girls in Madrid.”