A House of Pomegranates | Page 8

H. GRENFELL OF TAPLOW COURT--LADY
DESBOROUGH]
It was the birthday of the Infanta. She was just twelve years of age, and
the sun was shining brightly in the gardens of the palace.
Although she was a real Princess and the Infanta of Spain, she had only
one birthday every year, just like the children of quite poor people, so it
was naturally a matter of great importance to the whole country that she
should have a really fine day for the occasion. And a really fine day it
certainly was. The tall striped tulips stood straight up upon their stalks,
like long rows of soldiers, and looked defiantly across the grass at the
roses, and said: 'We are quite as splendid as you are now.' The purple
butterflies fluttered about with gold dust on their wings, visiting each
flower in turn; the little lizards crept out of the crevices of the wall, and
lay basking in the white glare; and the pomegranates split and cracked

with the heat, and showed their bleeding red hearts. Even the pale
yellow lemons, that hung in such profusion from the mouldering trellis
and along the dim arcades, seemed to have caught a richer colour from
the wonderful sunlight, and the magnolia trees opened their great
globe-like blossoms of folded ivory, and filled the air with a sweet
heavy perfume.
The little Princess herself walked up and down the terrace with her
companions, and played at hide and seek round the stone vases and the
old moss-grown statues. On ordinary days she was only allowed to play
with children of her own rank, so she had always to play alone, but her
birthday was an exception, and the King had given orders that she was
to invite any of her young friends whom she liked to come and amuse
themselves with her. There was a stately grace about these slim Spanish
children as they glided about, the boys with their large-plumed hats and
short fluttering cloaks, the girls holding up the trains of their long
brocaded gowns, and shielding the sun from their eyes with huge fans
of black and silver. But the Infanta was the most graceful of all, and the
most tastefully attired, after the somewhat cumbrous fashion of the day.
Her robe was of grey satin, the skirt and the wide puffed sleeves
heavily embroidered with silver, and the stiff corset studded with rows
of fine pearls. Two tiny slippers with big pink rosettes peeped out
beneath her dress as she walked. Pink and pearl was her great gauze fan,
and in her hair, which like an aureole of faded gold stood out stiffly
round her pale little face, she had a beautiful white rose.
From a window in the palace the sad melancholy King watched them.
Behind him stood his brother, Don Pedro of Aragon, whom he hated,
and his confessor, the Grand Inquisitor of Granada, sat by his side.
Sadder even than usual was the King, for as he looked at the Infanta
bowing with childish gravity to the assembling counters, or laughing
behind her fan at the grim Duchess of Albuquerque who always
accompanied her, he thought of the young Queen, her mother, who but
a short time before--so it seemed to him--had come from the gay
country of France, and had withered away in the sombre splendour of
the Spanish court, dying just six months after the birth of her child, and
before she had seen the almonds blossom twice in the orchard, or
plucked the second year's fruit from the old gnarled fig-tree that stood
in the centre of the now grass- grown courtyard. So great had been his

love for her that he had not suffered even the grave to hide her from
him. She had been embalmed by a Moorish physician, who in return for
this service had been granted his life, which for heresy and suspicion of
magical practices had been already forfeited, men said, to the Holy
Office, and her body was still lying on its tapestried bier in the black
marble chapel of the Palace, just as the monks had borne her in on that
windy March day nearly twelve years before. Once every month the
King, wrapped in a dark cloak and with a muffled lantern in his hand,
went in and knelt by her side calling out, 'Mi reina! Mi reina!' and
sometimes breaking through the formal etiquette that in Spain governs
every separate action of life, and sets limits even to the sorrow of a
King, he would clutch at the pale jewelled hands in a wild agony of
grief, and try to wake by his mad kisses the cold painted face.
To-day he seemed to see her again, as he had seen her first at the Castle
of Fontainebleau, when