Five months later, Alfonso XIII, returning from Germany, where he had been to pay his accession-visit to the Berlin Court, stopped to spend a day incognito in Paris. I found him as I had left him; gay, enthusiastic, full of good-nature, glad to be alive.
"Here I am again, my dear M. Paoli," he said, when he perceived me at the frontier, where, according to custom, I had gone to meet him. "But this time I shall not cause you any great worry. I must go home and I sha'n't stop for more than twenty-four hours—worse luck!—in Paris."
On the other hand, he wasted none of his time while there. Jumping into a motor-car the moment he was out of the train, he first drove to the Hôtel Bristol, where he remained just long enough to change his clothes, after which he managed, during his brief stay, to hear mass in the church of St. Roch, for it was Sunday, to pay a visit to M. Loubet, to make some purchases in the principal shops, to lunch with his aunt, the Infanta Eulalie, to take a motor-drive, in the pouring rain, as far as Saint-Germain and back, to dine at the Spanish Embassy and to wind up the evening at the Théâtre des Variétés.
"And it's like that every day, when he's travelling," said one of his suite to me.
The King, I may say, makes up for this daily expenditure of activity with a tremendous appetite. I have observed, for that matter, that the majority of sovereigns are valiant trenchermen. Every morning of his life, Alfonso XIII has a good rumpsteak and potatoes for his first breakfast, often preceded by eggs and sometimes followed by salad and fruit. The King, on the other hand, never drinks wine and generally confines himself to a tumbler of water and zucharillos, the national beverage, composed of white of egg beaten up with sugar.
In spite of his continual need of movement, his passionate love of sport in all its forms and especially of motoring, his expansive, rather mad, but very attractive youthfulness, Alfonso XIII, even in his flying trips, never, as we have seen, loses the occasion of improving his mind. He is very quick at seizing a point, possesses a remarkable power of assimilation and, although he does not read much, for he has no patience, he is remarkably well-informed as regards the smallest details that interest him. One day, for instance, he asked me, point-blank:
"Do you know how many gendarmes there are in France?"
I confess that I was greatly puzzled what to reply, for I have never cared much about statistics. I, therefore, ventured, on the off-chance, to say: