Sir Richard Pendragon viewed the Count of Nullepart’s demeanour with a grave disdain. Further, he assured me privily, that “a man’s nation could not hide itself when his foot was on his native soil. Mounseer Nullepart was a good fellow enough, but there was no mistaking his nationality.”
In so far as the Englishman deplored the Count of Nullepart’s levity I was in accord with him. Yet, for my own part, having the sangre azul of Spain in my veins, which is apt to insist that a courtly bearing is beyond all things essential to him who would converse with the great of the earth, I could not help but regret the manner in which our leader had invaded the palace of the most Christian prince.
As we remained thus to await an audience of the King of France, I began to fear dreadfully lest the leader of our embassy should mislay his manners before the Sovereign. The walls of the room were covered by mirrors; and as Sir Richard Pendragon stood before each of them in turn, preening himself like a bird of bright plumage, now with his bonnet on his head to judge the appearance of his Persian cockado, now with it off to see how he seemed without it, I grew sensible of a concern for the affronts our singular leader was like to put upon the Father of his People.
Six times Sir Richard Pendragon put his bonnet on before the mirrors, and six times he took it off again. He then sighed deeply, and said, “Prithee, good Miguel, in how far would you consider that Spain is a civilized nation?”
“Good Sir Richard Pendragon,” I said, “surely your question asks not an answer. From the time of the Cid, as all the world knows, Spain has been the most civilized country on the face of the earth.”
“I understand that perfectly, good Don,” said Sir Richard Pendragon. “But making abatement for your native peninsularity, which in its due place and season is commendable, I would ask you whether, in my capacity of plenipotentiary-extraordinaire to a Spanish princess, I might come before the King of France wearing my bonnet, because I find this Persian cockado sets off my countenance in a very proper, majestical, modish, yet not foppish manner.”
“Good Sir Richard Pendragon,” answered I, “I do conceive that one who has the sangre azul of Spain in his veins may be allowed to answer your question judicially. Nothing could less beseem a representative of Spanish nobility than that wearing his bonnet he should enter the presence of a Christian sovereign.”
This opinion caused Sir Richard’s face to fall.
“It could be done by the ambassador of the Ottoman Empire,” said he, “and the Turks are religious-men. The representatives of Morocco could do it also, and the Moors are a very ancient people. And of course at Teheran it is the mode. And if this Louis, this frog-eating French fellow, were mine old gossip Maximilian, whose kingdom is four times the size of France, the thing could be done so easily as you might count nine.”
“Good Sir Richard Pendragon,” I said gravely, “this act which you contemplate would be a blot upon the fair fame of Spain, of which these many years we have been so jealous.”