“This is not a very luxurious neighborhood,” said Murray, when they came to one of those villages of poor people, of which there were several just outside of the city.
“Generally in Europe the rich are very rich, and the poor are very poor. Though the rich are not as rich in Spain as in some other countries, there is no exception to the rule in its application to the poor. These hovels are even worse than the homes of the poor in Russia. Wouldn’t you like to look into one of them?”
“Would it be considered rude for us to do so?” asked Sheridan.
“Not at all. These people are not so sensitive as poor folks in America; but, if they are hurt by our curiosity, a couple of reales will repair all the damages.”
“Is this a château en Espagne?” said Murray. “I have read about such things, but I never saw one before.”
“Châteaux en Espagne are castles in the air,—things unreal and unsubstantial; and, so far as the idea of comfort is concerned, this is a château en Espagne. When we were in Ireland, an old woman ran out of a far worse shanty than this, and, calling it an Irish castle, begged for money. In the same sense we may call this a Spanish castle.”
The carriage was stopped, and the party alighted.
“You see, the people live out-doors, even in the winter,” said the doctor. “The door of this house is wide open, and you can look in.”
The proprietor of the establishment stood near the door. He wore his cloak with as much style as though he had been an hidalgo. Under this garment his clothes were ragged and dirty; and he wore a pair of spatterdashes, most of the buttons of which were wanting, and it was only at a pinch that they staid on his ankles. His wife and four children stopped their work, or their play, as the case was, and gazed at the unwonted visitors.