All the King’s relations and the direct heirs to thrones stayed at the palace. The other visiting Princes and Ambassadors Extraordinary were lodged at the best private houses. We heard that the owners would accept no pay for the use of them; it was honor enough to be allowed to lend their houses to the King for the use of his guests.
“It may be the custom in other countries,” said Patsy, “but I doubt it. There’s something chivalresque and Spanish about it!”
One of the envoys let it be known that he wished to give various entertainments during his stay in Madrid. He was told that he had but to give his orders: the house and the corps of servants were at his disposal. Only, Spain reserved the right of paying all the bills. In a commercial age such things are pleasant to meet with.
The Austrian Grand Duke stayed not far from the Tower at the palace of the Duke of Medina Celli, the representative of an elder branch of the royal family. At every coronation, the head of this house makes a formal protest, and asserts his hereditary claim to the throne. He ranks next to the King and has the second place at all ceremonials.
When the great people had all arrived, Villegas took an afternoon off and drove us about the city to show us where they were staying. Outside each palace or house where a distinguished guest was billeted a sentry box, painted with the national colors of the guest, had been placed and a sentinel posted. Over the handsome house allotted to Mr. Whittredge, the American Ambassador Extraordinary, floated the stars and stripes; the sentry box before the door was painted red, white and blue.
The American Consul at Madrid was an angel. It may not be set forth in the civil-service examination papers that applicants for consulships must prove angelic character; it is probably one of those traditions mightier than law. How else could they face the cares of office without becoming hopeless misanthropes? Our Consul made us welcome at the Consulate, over whose door a rusty American eagle spread his painted tin wings. In whatever trouble J. or Patsy or I found ourselves, we rushed to No. 8 Calle Jorge y Juan and either the Consul, or his angelic clerk, or his cherubic office boy, rescued and comforted us, smoothed out our difficulties, set our erring feet on the right road. One morning when the pressure on every official in Madrid, even the officials of foreign governments, was almost at breaking point, Patsy dropped in at the Consulate. He found the Consul opening his mail.
“Isn’t it a pretty large order to read all those letters, Mr. Summers?” he asked.
“Listen to this,” sighed the Consul:
“‘Dear Sir: My daughter and I arrive in Madrid on Saturday morning. As I hear the city is full on account of the wedding fêtes I must trouble you to engage rooms for us. They must be in a stylish, but not too expensive house. We wish to go to the wedding, the ball at the palace, and all the other entertainments. If you should be unable to secure us invitations, kindly ask the Ambassador to attend to the matter.
Yours truly,
Mrs. Emerald Green.’”