On that same day in which Carlos Santander had shown himself at the Acordada, only at an early hour, the would-be Emperor was seated in his apartment of the palace in which he was wont to give audience to ordinary visitors. He had got through the business affairs of the morning, dismissed his Ministers, and was alone, when one of the aides-de-camp in attendance entered with a card, and respectfully saluting him, laid it on the table before him.
“Yes; say I can see him. Tell him to come in,” he directed, soon as reading the name on the card.
In the door, on its second opening, appeared Carlos Santander, in the uniform of a colonel of Hussars, gold bedizened, and laced from collar to cuffs.
“Ah! Señor Don Carlos!” exclaimed the Dictator in a joyous, jocular way, “what’s your affair? Coming to tell me of some fresh conquest you’ve made among the muchachas? From your cheerful countenance I should say it’s that.”
“Excellentissimo!”
“Oh! you needn’t deny, or look so demure about it. Well, you’re a lucky fellow to be the lady killer I’ve heard say you are.”
“Your Excellency, that’s only say-say; I ought rather to call it slander. I’ve no ambition to be thought such a character. Quite the reverse, I assure you.”
“If you could assure me, but you can’t. I’ve had you long enough under my eye to know better. Haven’t I observed your little flirtations with quite half a score of our señoritas, among them a very charming young lady you met in Louisiana, if I mistake not?”
Saying this, he fixed his eyes on Santander’s face in a searching, interrogative way, as though he himself felt more than a common interest in the charming young lady who had been met in Louisiana.
Avoiding his glance, as evading the question, the other rejoined—