COURT INTRIGUES

1864–1868

On November 28, 1857, “the birth of Alfonso XII.,” as Martin Hume says, “added another thong to the whip which the King-Consort could hold over the Queen for his personal and political ends, and it also had the apparently incongruous effect of sending Captain Puig Moltó into exile.”

Of course there were the usual rejoicings at the birth of a Prince, but things were far from satisfactory at the Court. The Queen had now a taste of personal power and a higher notion of her own political ability. The Congress was in slavish servitude to the palace, and, acting in accordance with this sentiment, it had managed to get rid of the men in the Senate who had been working for the constitutional privileges of the country which would have led to the indispensable protection of the prerogative of a true suffrage; and freed from these patriots, the press was silenced and Parliament was suspended.

The return of Maria Cristina, the Queen’s mother, was another step which added to the unpopularity of Isabella II. Once more wearied out with waiting for the realization of constitutional rights, the people’s exasperation was voiced by the soldiers at the barracks of San Gil, within view of the royal palace of Madrid. O’Donnell at once took steps for the suppression of the insurrection.

The cries of “Viva Prim!” “Viva la Libertad!” showed that the spirit of republicanism was rampant.

Swiftly as O’Donnell went to the scene of action, Narvaez was before him, and so the Prime Minister had the mortification of seeing his rival carried into the palace to be tended for the slight wound he had received in the conflict.

The rebellion was soon quelled, and the insurgents were shot; but disinterested advisers of the Queen might have shown her that such émeutes proved that the fire of discontent was smouldering, and with a strong Government for the constitutional rights for which the country was clamouring the revolution of 1868 would have been avoided.

On the day following the San Gil insurrection a man of influence at the Court went to plead pardon for two of the insurgents from Her Majesty herself.

The interview was characteristic of the kind-heartedness of the Queen.

After waiting for half an hour in the antechamber, the gentleman was shown into the royal presence.

“You have been quite lost,” said Isabel graciously, as her visitor bent over her hand. “It is a thousand years since you have been to see me.”

Whilst excusing himself with courtly grace, Tarfe noticed that during the two years in which he had been absent from the palace the Queen had grown much stouter, and had thus lost some of her queenly dignity. She seemed distrait and troubled, and the red lids of her limpid blue eyes gave her an expression of weariness. They were, moreover, the eyes of a woman who had been brought in contact with the encyclopædic array of the various forms of the despoilers of innocence.

The petitioner submitted his plea for mercy for his friends by saying that his request was backed by a letter from the holy Mother, begging her to write two letters to General Hoyos for their release. To the delight of the intercessor, the Sovereign at once wrote the letters. When this was done, the surprise of the courtier was increased when the Queen, who was generally mañanista, said in a quick, nervous tone: “Do not delay giving these letters; do not wait till to-morrow; do it to-day!”

Before leaving the royal presence, Tarfe ventured to say that O’Donnell was much upset by the events of the preceding day, and the Queen replied in a tone curiously devoid of feeling: “Yes, I like O’Donnell very much.” This she said three times in the same passionless voice, and then, seeing that he was dismissed, Tarfe took leave of Her Majesty; and after fulfilling the mission to Hoyos, he went to see O’Donnell at his palace of Buenavista.

The General declined to believe the reports of his friends, of the intrigues which were to compass his fall.

The victor at Tetuan was more able to repel the open advance of an enemy than the underhand plots of a palace.

But when Ortiz de Pinedo suddenly came in, and said, “Gonzalez Brabo has left San Juan de Luz to-day, and he is coming to form a Ministry with Narvaez,” the General was somewhat taken aback.

On the following morning, after finishing a long despatch for the royal signature, he repaired to the palace, and, anxious to know the real state of affairs, he submitted to Her Majesty the list of appointments to the Senate-house, many of which had been suggested by Isabel herself.

To the surprise of the Minister, the list was rejected by the Queen in a cold, disdainful way, so O’Donnell found himself forced to offer his resignation. This was accepted with the usual meaningless smiles and compliments.

Then O’Donnell returned to his house, where his friends were waiting for him. His face betrayed his rage and mortification, and, throwing his gloves on the table with an angry gesture, he exclaimed:

“I have been dismissed just as you would dismiss one of your servants.”

“My General,” exclaimed one of the partisans of the ex-Minister, “the camarilla delayed the change of Ministry for two days after the mutiny; why was that? And Ayala returned because it was better for Narvaez that we should have the odium of shooting the insurgents. Now he can take his place in Parliament with all the airs of clemency.”

O’Donnell, who could not deny the truth of this remark, took General Serrano by the arm into another room, but they could plainly hear their indignant followers saying: “Eso, señora, es imposible!”

The Marquis of Miraflores says that a General Pierrad, the head of the Pronunciamento, told a chief of the halberdiers that he had better tell the Queen that there were no means of putting down meetings, and this for two reasons: Prim and his friends only wanted a change in the power by a disciplined Pronunciamento, but the artillery, through some strange influence, would not recognize military chiefs. He who said this was to have been shot down by them; he saw them drunk and faithless to their commands. This communication was made to the Queen. In 1867 an important interview took place in the Palace of Madrid between Isabel II. and her sister, the Duchess of Montpensier.

It will be remembered that, after the adventures of the royal couple in the revolution of 1848, the Duke and Duchess retired to Seville, where they lived in the Palace of San Telmo with all the state dignity of sovereigns. The Queen had made the Duke an Infante of Spain, and he had also been appointed Captain-General.

The Duke decided to take his wife to Madrid to counsel her sister to adopt a more liberal policy. The Duchess was expecting another child, but she was advised not to postpone her visit to the royal palace of Madrid. The interview was far from satisfactory, for Isabella had no intention of allowing Montpensier to have an active part in the Government. So the Princess returned to Seville, and Isabella afterwards wrote her a letter, in which she expressed displeasure at her aims. This letter received an angry reply, first from the husband, and then from the wife. So a coldness grew up between the sisters, and, indeed, Isabella’s want of confidence in Montpensier was proved by the subsequent events in 1868, when Prim himself rejected the Duke’s offer to raise forces in his favour.

During all this time the little Prince of Asturias, who was nine years old when the insurrection broke out in the barracks of San Gil for Prim, was pursuing his education in the palace. The style of the Prince’s education is given in the remark of the royal child’s playmate to his father, when he had been to spend a day at the palace.

“Papa,” said the boy, “Alfonso does not know anything. He is taught nothing but religion and drilling. After the religious lesson, which was very dull,” the child continued, “Alfonso was given a spear and a sword, and he waved them about so much that Juanito and I were afraid he would hurt us.”

A record was kept of the little Prince’s doings during the day. His frequent colds, his coughs, his acts of devotion, his appetite at meals, his games, his toys, his little tempers, his deeds of obedience, were all entered in the register as signs of his temperament and as indications of his future character as a man.

The Prince’s apartments were dreary. The windows were high up in the thick walls, the ceilings were low, and, as a grandee says when speaking of this fact, it seemed strange that the light and air so essential for a child should be insufficiently supplied to a future King. General Pavia, who was gentleman-in-waiting to Alfonso, only shrugged his shoulders at this remark, but Señor Morphy ventured to say: “That is our opinion, but she who commands, commands.”

When the grandee was introduced to the little Prince, he returned the salutation with the manner of one accustomed to it, but with a pretty smile which was very attractive.

“Yes,” said his attendant, “His Royal Highness is better to-day. He only has a little cough now, but the doctor says he is not to be tired with lessons to-day; he is only to rest.”

“Last night,” said the General, “His Highness asked for his lead soldiers to play with in bed. He did not want to say his prayers. So I had to fetch the new prayer-book which Her Majesty sent a few days ago, and I read the prayers whilst he repeated them after me. So in this way he said his prayers, but not willingly.”

Hereupon Alfonso protested, saying: “But this morning, Marquis, I said my prayers without your reading anything.”

“Yes, yes,” returned the gentleman; “but Your Highness did not want to get up, so I had to read stories to you until the doctor came.”

A few pages from the diary of the young Prince of Asturias gives some insight into the dreary daily life of the delicate child:

“October 1, 1866.—His Highness breakfasted at 11 o’clock. At 1 o’clock he had drilling till 1.40. At 2 o’clock a writing lesson with Señor Castilla; at 3 o’clock religion with Señor Fernandez; 4.30, rice soup as usual; 4.50 he went up to the rooms of Her Majesty to go for a drive with her.

“October 4.—His Highness played about till 2.15. He had no lessons to-day, as being Her Majesty’s saint’s day. At 2.43 he went up to the Queen’s apartments to assist at the reception. He wore the uniform of a sergeant, with the Cross of Pelayo. The ceremony over at 6.15, when His Highness came down with Señor Novaliches, as a boot hurt him (not the Marquis, but His Highness). The said Marquis took off the boot, and carefully examined the foot, but he found nothing to account for the pain. Mention is made of this circumstance as the Chief of the Chamber of His Highness thinks it fitting to do so....

“October 6.—My Lord Prince lunched at 12 o’clock. I gave him his lessons. He went to the Church of Our Lady of Atocha. He went to bed at 10 o’clock, and slept ten hours. He took some chocolate, made his confession at 9.30, and Father Fernandez celebrated Mass.

“October 9.—He breakfasted with appetite. He had his lessons at the marked hours, and he was somewhat restless. At 4 o’clock he took some soup, and went out for a walk with the Mayordomo, Señor Marquis de Novaliches, Professor Sanchez, and Juanito. He had supper at 8 o’clock, and played till 10 o’clock with Juanito, but left off when he knocked his left leg against a table. He slept from 10 o’clock till 9 o’clock in the morning. He got up at 9.30 without feeling any pain in his leg from the blow. He did his orisons, assisted at the Mass in his room; he went out for a walk with his Mayordomo, returned at 11 o’clock, and assisted at the Mass with Their Majesties and the Princesses; and at 11.45 he had his hair cut.”

As Perez Galdos says in his works, the long hours of religious instruction every day would have qualified the little Prince for the Council of Trent. When any Bishops came to visit Isabella, they were sent to the apartments of her little son; and thus Morphy writes in the register: “I gave the lesson to His Highness in the presence of the Bishops of Avila, Guadix, Taragona, and of other dioceses whose names I do not remember.” And Losa wrote: “He opened his eyes at 8.30; he dressed and gave thanks to God; he took his chocolate with appetite, and at 10 o’clock had his religion lesson in the presence of the Cardinal of Burgos, who was pleased with his progress, and noted that His Highness was ‘magnificent in everything.’”

Courtiers who were true of heart saw with apprehension the artificial character of the Prince’s education.

“Ah!” said a man who would gladly have been frank with the Queen, but he felt he was powerless against her crowd of flatterers, “Alfonso is a very intelligent child. He has qualities of heart and mind which would give us a King worthy of the people, were they only properly cultivated; but we shall never see this ideal realized, because he is being brought up like an idiot. Instead of educating the boy, they are stultifying him; instead of opening his eyes to science, life, and nature, they blind them so that his sensitive soul remains in darkness and ignorance.”

The same courtier implored the Prince’s educators to give the lad a chance. “Take him out of this atmosphere of priests and nuns, and devotional books by Father Claret. If you want Alfonso to be a great King, let him breathe the pure air of fine deeds. Take him away from the gloomy atmosphere of the royal palace; let him inhale the fresh breezes of liberty. His talents will develop, and he will become a different boy.”

It was indeed true the little Prince was in an unnatural atmosphere in the palace, where the tunic of the nun Patrocinio had become an object of worship, and where the King, in his stuffy apartments, gave himself over to the study of relics which were brought to him at a high price by the priestly folk, who made harvest out of his credibility.

The situation of Queen Isabella is graphically given by the historian Galdos in the reflections of a loyal courtier whilst having, with his wife, an audience of Isabella II.:

“Oh, your poor Majesty!” he said to himself. “The etiquette invented by the set-up gentlemen of the Court to shut you off from the national sentiment prevents me telling you the truth, because it would hurt you to hear it. Even those on the most intimate terms with you shut you out from the truth, and they come to you full of lies. So, kind-hearted Isabella, you receive the homage of my gilded untruths. All that I have said to you this afternoon is an offering of floral decorations, the only ones received on royal altars.... You, who are more inclined to the ordinary and the plebeian than other Kings—you let the truth come to you in external decorative, and verbal matters, but in things of public consequence you like nothing but lies, because you are educated in it, and falsity is the religious cloak, or rather the transparent veil, which you like to throw over your political and non-political errors. Oh, poor neglected, ill-fated Queen...!”

The reflections of the courtier were here interrupted by Isabella saying to his wife: “Maria Ignacia, I want to give you the ribbon of Maria Luisa.... I shall never forgive myself for not having done it before. I have been very neglectful—eh?”

The Marchioness was eloquent in her thanks, and Beramendi could only say: “Señora, the kindness of Your Majesty is unbounded.... How can we express our gratitude to Your Majesty?”

But the Marquis said to himself: “We take it, because even as you accept our lying homage, so we receive these signs of vanity. King and people we deceive each other; we give you painted rags of flattery, which look like flowers, and you bestow honours on us which take the place of real affection.”

Isabella continued: “I must give you a title of Count or Viscount, which your son can take when he comes of age.”

The Marquis’s wife returned: “Our Queen is always so good; that is why the Spaniards love her so.”

“Ah, no, no!” exclaimed Isabella in a melancholy tone, “they do not love me as they did.... And many really hate me, and yet God knows I have not changed in my love for the Spaniards.... But things have got all wrong.... I don’t know how it is ... it is through the heated passions of one and the other. But, Beramendi, it is not my fault.”

“No, indeed,” returned the courtier; “you have not caused this embroiled state of affairs. It is the work of the statesmen, who are moved by ambition and egoism.”

This indeed was true, for even as Serrano used the Queen’s favour to his own ends, and had his debts twice paid by Her Majesty, he was the first to lead the country against her.

“Do you think that matters will improve, and that passions will calm down?” asked Isabella anxiously.

“Oh, señora, I hope that the Government will confirm your authority, and that those that are in rebellion will recognize their error.”

“That is what they all say,” said Isabella, with a little satirical smile. “We shall see how things will turn out. I trust in God, and I don’t believe He will forsake me.”

“Ah!” said Beramendi to himself, whilst his royal mistress continued in the same strain of religious trust to his wife, “do not invoke the true God whilst you prostrate yourself before the false one. This god of thine is an idol made of superstition, and decked in the trappings of flattery; he will not come to your aid, because he is not God. I pity you, blind, generous, misled Sovereign.... Those who loved you so much now merely pity you.... You have been silly enough to turn the love of the Spaniards to commiseration, if not to hatred. I see your goodness, your affection, but these gifts are not sufficient to rule a nation. The Spanish people have got tired of looking for the fruit of your good heart.”

When Isabella gave the sign of dismissal of the courtier and his wife by rising to her feet, he said to himself sadly:

“Good-bye, Queen Isabella; you have spoilt your life. Your reign began with the smiles of all the good fairies, but you have changed them into devils, which drag you to perdition.... As your ears are never allowed to hear the truth, I cannot tell you that you will reign until O’Donnell will permit the Generals to second Prim’s plans. Oh, poor Queen! you would think me mad if I said such a thing to you; you would think I was a rebel and a personal enemy, and you would run in terror to consult with your devilish nuns and the odious set which has raised a high wall between Isabella II. and the love of Spain. Good-bye, lady of the sad destiny; may God save your descendants, as He cannot save you!”

The good-heartedness of the Queen was, indeed, seen by all about her, and there are people still at the Palace of Madrid who remember seeing Her Majesty take off her bracelets and give them to the beggars which infest the royal courtyard. All the best impulses of Isabella were turned to her own ruin for the want of true patriots, who by supporting the constitutional rights of the nation would have secured the sovereignty to the Queen. The self-interested conduct of the generals and statesmen, whose command in the camarilla of the palace meant rule over the heart of Her Majesty, tended naturally only to the overthrow of personal rivals, and to the neglect of the welfare of the land.

Prim therefore became the hope of the nation. With his return to the capital, thought the people, crushed down by taxation and deprived of constitutional liberty, there will be an end to the camarilla, Narvaez, and Patrocinio, and we shall have the pure fresh air of disinterested policy.

The death of O’Donnell at Biarritz relieved Narvaez of the fear of his rival’s return, but the General had the mortification of seeing his royal mistress utterly in the hands of Marfori, who had been raised from the position of Intendente of the Palace to the position of supreme personal favour.

When the Queen heard of O’Donnell’s death, she is reported to have said: “He determined not to be Minister with me again, and now he can never be.”

The Queen now committed the suicidal act of making Gonzalez Brabo Prime Minister in the place of Narvaez. The poor lady seemed quite to have lost her head, and there was no one to put her on the right path, surrounded as she was with harpies.

According to a letter from Pius IX., found in the Princess’s prayer-book in the royal palace after the Queen had taken flight, the Pope counselled the marriage of the Infanta Isabella with a Neapolitan Prince. Even whilst the fêtes of the marriage were going on, Gonzalez Brabo was concerting with the revolutionary Generals, and the name of “Prim and Liberty!” was heard on all sides, and messengers were sent to consult with the leader of the Republican party in London.

The supporters of the Montpensier party hoped that the dethronement of Isabella would mean the acceptance of the Duchess of Montpensier as Queen, and her husband as Prince-Consort. But this idea was soon nipped by Monsieur de Persigny, the President of the Privy Council of the Emperor of the French, saying to Olozaga, who was then Spanish Ambassador at Paris, that he would never consent to the crown of Spain being on the head of either the Duke or the Duchess of Montpensier.

After the historic day of September 29, 1868, when Prim made his successful coup at Cadiz, the Royal Family fled to San Sebastian.

The haste with which the flight was made could be seen in the collections of jewels and money which had been thrust into bags which were after all left behind.

In the Hôtel d’Angleterre of the seaside resort Isabella still seemed to expect a miracle to take place in her favour. A throne does not fall every day, and a crowd hovered about the hotel to see how the Queen would accept her overthrow.

A murmur of satisfaction broke out among the bystanders when the loyal-hearted Marquis de Beramendi was seen entering the hotel. “That is a good thing,” they said, “for Isabella will listen to his advice, which is certain to be wise.”

The courtier’s remarks to the Lady-in-Waiting were short and to the point.

“I have come to tell you,” he said, “that, if the Queen keeps to the good idea of abdicating, certain infatuated people ought to be kept from opposing it. I have had direct news from Serrano, and he says that, if Doña Isabella will abdicate in favour of Don Alfonso, he will save the dynasty, and she herself will be saved. The Duke of Torres will not put obstacles in the way of this course.”

“Better than that,” returned the Lady-in-Waiting, in a voice which a cold rendered almost inaudible, “I thought that Her Majesty had the same idea, ‘that she had better go to Logroño, and abdicate in favour of the Prince of Asturias in the presence of Espartero.’”

“That’s admirable!” said Beramendi.

“And then, after abdicating, the Queen will depart immediately for France, leaving the new King in the power of the Regent Espartero.”

“Admirable! splendid!” cried Beramendi; “but there is not a minute to lose.”

“The departure will be arranged this evening.”

“But, my God, I fear delays will be fatal; I am afraid that some bad friend, some plotting courtier of the camarilla, will spoil this saving step——”

“Well, I must go upstairs now,” returned the lady. “The Señora, Don Francisco, and Roncali, are busy with manifestoes for the nation.”

“And Spain will say, ‘Manifestoes to me!’ Now is the time to show the country fine deeds, and not empty rhetoric.”

On the following morning, when Beramendi went to the hotel, he came upon Marfori; and although he had had little to do with this nephew of Narvaez since royal favouritism had raised him to such undue importance, he said, in a tone of assumed respect: “So Her Majesty is going direct to France? Something was said about her travelling to Logroño?”

Upon this Marfori frowned angrily, saying: “You don’t understand, my dear Marquis, that it would be very humiliating for the Queen of Spain to ask protection from a General, although he bear the name of Espartero. All concert with Progressists is dangerous. The Queen is leaving Spain under the conviction that she will soon be recalled by her people.”

“I knew it was useless to say more. Don Carlos Marfori was busy giving orders to the servants. I regarded him with resentment, because he was the personification of the evil influence which brought the Queen to her ruin.

“His Arab type of handsomeness, with his large mouth and heavy jaw, was eloquent of sensuality, and his obesity robbed him of the attraction which he had possessed in earlier days. He was impetuous, overbearing, and wanting in the courtesy common to a superior education.”

The Marquis was then taken into the presence of the Queen, and as he bent over her hand she whispered: “You know we have given up the idea of going to Logroño. No more humiliations! I am going away so as not to aggravate matters, and to prevent bloodshed; but I shall be recalled, shall I not?”

“I had to console Her Majesty with one of the usual Court lies, and the Royal Family soon took its departure, the Queen leaning on the arm of Don Francisco, the little Infantas with their Ladies-in-Waiting, and the Prince of Asturias, in a blue velvet suit, led by Señora de Tacon. The poor little fellow looked pale and sad; his great eyes seemed to express the royal and domestic sadness of the scene, and nothing was now wanting but the order for departure.”

Marfori was always much disliked by people at Court. It was in the summer of 1867. Many courtiers and ladies of high rank were promenading in the beautiful gardens of La Granja. The soft, well-kept turf of the shady alleys by the countless sparkling fountains set off the beauty of the dresses, when, with his usual courtly grace, General Narvaez advanced to meet the Countess of Campo Alange.

This illustrious lady, whose salons in Madrid were graced by the highest in the land, was soon to give a ball.

“I have received your invitation,” said the General, after he had greeted the Countess.

“It is almost the first that I have sent,” returned the lady.

“I have just met Marfori,” said the Duke of Valencia, “and he tells me he has not received his.”

“Neither will he,” replied the lady sharply.

“And why, being a Minister?” queried the General in surprise, knowing how the slight to the Queen’s favourite would be resented at Court.

“Simply because Cabinet Councils are not held at my house,” returned the lady caustically, firm in her decision to show her dislike of the man.

General Narvaez, whose dapper figure and perfect dancing made him always a welcome guest at the Spanish Court, was still unmarried when he had to withdraw to Paris as an exile. He had always been fond of feminine society, but, gay butterfly as he was, he did not fix his affections upon any one lady.

The beautiful Leocadia Zamora had been once the object of the officer’s attention, and, indeed, the charming way she accompanied herself on the harp fascinated other admirers beside the Count of Valencia. She was a constant visitor in the salons of the Countess of Montijo, where the lovely Eugénie shone with the brilliance and charm which were so soon to be transported to the Court of France.

But fate did not reserve the joy of a happy marriage for the lovely Leocadia, and the sweet spirit, disillusioned by an unhappy love, retired to a convent in Oviedo, where she passed the rest of her life performing the duties of a Lady Abbess.

It was said that it was the gallant Don Salvador de Castro who had taken Leocadia’s heart captive, when she was young; and, indeed, it is not surprising if this report be true, for he was a typical courtier of his time, and when he was home from his duties as Ambassador in Italy he seemed to dwarf all the attractions of the lady’s other admirers. Leocadia was, in truth, a star of the Court of Spain, and the beautiful picture by Frederick Madrazo shows the perfection of her charms, with no other ornament than a white rose to adorn her simple white dress. Salvador de Castro was honoured by the friendship of King Francis II. and Queen Maria Sophia when the Italian Revolution robbed them of the throne of the Two Sicilies, and he was able to render them marked services and prove himself as loyal a friend as he was perfect a gentleman. After the capitulation of Gaeta, the King and Queen rewarded his loyalty by granting him the title of Prince of Santa Lucia, with the gift of the beautiful palace on the banks of the Tiber which is known by the name of the Farnesina, whilst the gardens were sold to the Emperor Napoleon. The place was deserted, and so near to its ruin that sheep and goats fed in its grounds, and the custodian took his meals in the beautiful hall of the frescoes of Sodon.

It was in this palace that Michael Angelo painted a head on the wall, which is known by the name of “The Visiting Card,” as he left it as a sign of his call on Raphael when the artist was out.

The Prince of Santa Lucia had the palatial dwelling restored, and he gave magnificent entertainments in this palace, of which it was not destined that the lovely Leocadia should be mistress. Indeed, the lady abandoned all thoughts of love and pomp when she entered a convent in Oviedo, where she ended her days as Lady Abbess; whilst the daughter of her old admirer wedded the Marquis of Bey, and made a mark in Court society of Madrid.

But to return to the gallant little General. His affections were at last taken captive by another friend of the young Empress of the French, the beautiful daughter of the Count of Tacher. The Empress Josephine had belonged to this family, and her parents, the Duke and Duchess de Tacher de la Pogerie, were much beloved by Queen Marie Amélie, wife of King Louis Philippe.

It was General de Cordova, who had played such an important part during the Regency of Queen Maria Cristina, who first took him to the house of the Tachers. When Narvaez paid a second visit to the palace on the Boulevard Courcelles, he found that nobody was at home; and he was waiting in the drawing-room for the return of the lady of the house, when the daughter came in, looking beautiful in a white dress, but with her face tied up.

“Are you ill?” asked the General, with concern.

“Yes,” she returned; “I have a swelled face.”

“How sorry I am!” said the soldier sympathetically, “for I came this afternoon in the hope of hearing you sing.”

“And so you shall,” returned the girl kindly. “You shall not go away disappointed.” And, taking the bandage from her face, she sang song after song to the fascinated General.

The progress of the courtship was swift, and the marriage was celebrated with great magnificence in the palatial abode of Queen Maria Cristina in Paris, with the attendance of representatives of the most distinguished families of France and Spain.

When General Narvaez returned to Madrid he became Prime Minister of Spain.

Unfortunately, the marriage did not prove a happy one, and, indeed, it would have been difficult for anyone to live peacefully with the irascible Spaniard. This irascibility was seen at the funeral of General Manso de Zuñiga, who had died in the expedition against Prim, in the mountains of Toledo. General Narvaez was chief mourner on the occasion, as the deceased officer had been husband of Doña Valentina Bouligni, a lady of great importance at this epoch, with whom he was connected; and the Bishop of Pharsalia was master of the ceremonies.

At a certain point in the function the order was given to kneel. But, probably absorbed in some knotty State question, the Duke of Valencia still stood. Upon this the Bishop quickly approached the grandee, and said:

“Kneel down, kneel down!”

“But I don’t want to kneel,” returned the General petulantly, and so he remained standing for the rest of the service.

When she came to Madrid as the wife of the great General, the Duchess of Valencia was appointed Lady-in-Waiting to Queen Isabella, and she never failed in her loyalty to the dynasty which was in power when she came to the country of her adoption by marriage.

Many years later she was in an hotel in Switzerland, where she purposed making a long stay, when Don Carlos happened to come to the same hotel, accompanied by his secretary. As the Duchess of Valencia was unacquainted with the Pretender to the throne of Spain, she wondered who the imperious-looking new arrival could be, who was greeted so respectfully by everybody. Her curiosity was soon satisfied, for the gentleman’s secretary presented himself before her to say that the Duke of Madrid begged the honour to pay his respects to her.

The message filled the Duchess with dismay, for, although she held the Princes of the blood in great respect, she had no intention of receiving one who disputed the throne with the reigning Queen.

So, summoning all her dignity to her aid, she said, in a tone of icy politeness:

“Tell the Duke of Madrid that I am very sorry not to have the honour of receiving his visit, but to-morrow I leave for Paris.”

And in effect the lady left the hotel on the morrow, and thus the meeting of one of the oldest and most valued Ladies-in-Waiting with Don Carlos was avoided.

Isabella certainly never expected that she would be dethroned, for a few weeks before the revolution of September, 1868, the celebrated General Tacon, Duke of the Union of Cuba, announced the forthcoming marriage of his daughter Carolina with the Marquis Villadarías, of the première noblesse, and a perfect type of a Spanish grandee, and she said: “I congratulate her sincerely on her engagement; but,” she added sadly, “for myself I am sorry, as I shall see her no more at Court.” The Queen here referred to the well-known Carlist opinions of the Marquis Villadarías, which would have made it impossible to receive the Marchioness at the palace if she had remained there.

So Isabella II. was dethroned in 1868, and she can truly be said to have been the victim of circumstances. From the moment King Ferdinand died his daughter had been the object of intrigue and ambition. Whilst our Queen Victoria was carefully educated and drilled in high principles, Isabella was the prey of those who wished to rise to power by her favour. Ministers made love to the Sovereign instead of discussing the welfare of the nation; flowery speeches on patriotism meant merely the gratification of the orator’s vanity to be remarked by Her Majesty. Personal advancement was the end and aim of those in the Government, and thus poor Isabella’s susceptibilities were worked upon to an awful extent.

It is well known that General Serrano, who might have been thought to have the welfare of his country at heart, gained an undue influence over the Queen by means of her affections, and fomented to a great extent the matrimonial differences between her and her husband. Generous to a degree, Isabella paid the debts of this courtier twice, and yet it was this same General who was the first to have her hurled from the royal palace.

When the great Canning visited Madrid, Bulwer Lytton showed him at a Court ball the many women who were the favourites of the Ministers, and there was, indeed, hardly a statesman who would not sacrifice principles to the pleas of his mistress. It was at this Court, steeped in immorality, that Isabella was brought up with little or no knowledge of right and wrong, and even in her marriage she was a victim to the intrigues and ambitions of other Courts of Europe as well as those of her own. She was, in fact, a scapegoat of the nation.

Harassed and in desperation at being pressed on to a miserable marriage destitute of all that could justify it, Isabella, after one of those long and fruitless discussions with her mother, once addressed a letter to our Queen Victoria; but in a pure Court like that of England little idea could be formed of the stagnant atmosphere of the Spanish palace from which the poor young Queen sent forth her plaint. Beyond the Court raged the stormy discontent of the country, which had been thwarted for more than thirty years of the fulfilment of its constitutional rights promised by Ferdinand VII. as the condition of his return to the throne of Spain.

Whilst Queen Victoria was daily increasing in the knowledge of constitutional rights which are the base of a Sovereign’s power, poor Isabella’s Prime Ministers resigned at any moment in pique or jealousy of some other politician, and the people grew daily more discontented at finding the Parliament was a farce, and it meant neither the progress of the land nor the protection of the people.

Bulwer Lytton was constantly sending despatches to England about the shortcomings of Isabella II. as a woman, but he seemed to lay no stress on the cause of her failure as a Queen. Under proper conditions Isabella doubtless would have been a good woman and a great Queen, but choked with the weeds of intrigue she was lost. Undisciplined and uneducated, the poor Queen fell a victim to what, if properly directed, would have been virtues instead of vices.

The marriage to which Isabella was forced by intrigue was, of course, the greatest evil which could have befallen such an impulsive, warm-hearted girl, who knew no more how to turn a deaf ear to a claimant for her favour than to keep her purse shut to the plea of an unfortunate beggar.

The Right Hon. Henry Lytton Bulwer wrote a little later from the British Embassy at Madrid to the Court of St. James’s, saying that he “looked at the Queen’s conduct as the moral result of the alliance she had been more or less compelled to contract, and he regarded her rather with interest and pity than blame or reproach.”

Isabel’s natural intuition of our Queen Victoria’s good heart prompted her letters to her. They were sent by a private hand, and who knows what evils might have been prevented in the Court of Spain if the long journey, so formidable in those days, had not placed the sister-Queens so far apart?

Espartero’s plea for Isabel to marry Don Enrique de Assisi, the man of her heart, met no support in a Court torn with intrigue, and the sad, bad story of Isabel doubtless had its source in the tragedy of an unhappy marriage. At the plea of a persistent wooer, who knew that the Queen had the right of dissolving a Ministry, a Government would fall; and as the station of her favourites became lower and lower, as time went on the ill-regulated Sovereign had a Government as undependable as her friends.

Treachery was the keynote of the Court of Spain, and some of the leaders of the revolution were those who had used the Sovereign’s ignorance and foolhardiness to their own ends. In such an atmosphere of untruth and treachery such men as Espartero, Prim, etc., could play no enduring part. Hardly had Espartero swept the Court clean of the Regency of Queen Maria Cristina than his fall was encompassed by O’Donnell, his rival. The flagrant falsification of the Parliamentary election returns—which is still the cankerworm of the country—was the check to all progress. Count San Luis made a primitive effort for the reform of the elections; he suggested that the names of the candidates as deputies should be put in a bag, and drawn out by a child blindfolded, for the law of chance seemed to him better than the custom of deception.

Isabella’s acts of generosity are still quoted with admiration at the royal palace of Madrid by those who served her as Queen.

Four hundred girls owed their marriage dots to Isabella, and it was the fathers of these four hundred royally endowed brides who treacherously worked for her expulsion.

One day, hearing the story of the penury of a clever man of letters, Isabella commanded 20,000 francs to be sent to him. The administrator of her finances, thinking the Queen could hardly know how much money this sum represented, had twenty notes of 1,000 francs each changed into small money, and put out on a table by which she had to pass.

“What is all this money for?” asked Isabella, when she saw it spread out to view.

“It is the money for the man of letters, and this shows Your Majesty how large is the sum of 20,000 francs.”

“So much the better,” was the prompt reply; and the courtier saw it was not by proving the amount of the boon that he could check his Sovereign in her generous actions.

A Court official at Madrid, who has been sixty years in office at the palace, told me he often saw Isabella take off her bracelets, and give them to the beggars who pressed upon her as she crossed the courtyard of the royal domain.

“And who could help loving her?” said the old courtier, with tears in his eyes; “I know I could not.”

Caught in the darkness of ignorance and intrigue, Isabella was naturally enraged at the revolution. When her son Alfonso was nearly made captive by the Carlists at Lucar, she said: “I would rather my Alfonso be a prisoner of the Carlists than a captive of the revolutionists.”

Isabella had a faithful friend in the Marquis of Grizalba, and he said to Croze:[18]

“It is the loss of faith which causes our woes; the charm of death has been destroyed with the hope of a hereafter. But Spain will die like a gentleman.”