Expelled from Spain | Page 8

the
woman he adores, so nothing is bitterer than the separation; the
pleasure has vanished away, and only the pain remains.
I spent my last days at Madrid drinking the cup of pleasure which was
embittered by the thought of the pain that was to follow. The worthy
Diego was sad at the thought of losing me, and could with difficulty
refrain from tears.
For some time my man Philippe continued to give me news of Donna
Ignazia. She became the bride of a rich shoemaker, though her father
was extremely mortified by her making a marriage so much beneath her
station.
I had promised the Marquis de las Moras and Colonel Royas that I
would come and see them at Saragossa, the capital of Aragon, and I
arrived there at the beginning of September. My stay lasted for a
fortnight, during which time I was able to examine the manners and
customs of the Aragonese, who were not subject to the ordinances of
the Marquis of Aranda, as long cloaks and low hats were to be seen at
every corner. They looked like dark phantoms more than men, for the
cloak covered up at least half the face. Underneath the cloak was
carried el Spadino, a sword of enormous length. Persons who wore this
costume were treated with great respect, though they were mostly
arrant rogues; still they might possibly be powerful noblemen in
disguise.

The visitor to Saragossa should see the devotion which is paid to our
Lady del Pilar. I have seen processions going along the streets in which
wooden statues of gigantic proportions were carried. I was taken to the
best assemblies, where the monks swarmed. I was introduced to a lady
of monstrous size, who, I was informed, was cousin to the famous
Palafox, and I did not feel my bosom swell with pride as was evidently
expected. I also made the acquaintance of Canon Pignatelli, a man of
Italian origin. He was President of the Inquisition, and every morning
he imprisoned the procuress who had furnished him with the girl with
whom he had supped and slept. He would wake up in the morning tired
out with the pleasures of the night; the girl would be driven away and
the procuress imprisoned. He then dressed, confessed, said mass, and
after an excellent breakfast with plenty of good wine he would send out
for another girl, and this would go on day after day. Nevertheless, he
was held in great respect at Saragossa, for he was a monk, a canon, and
an Inquisitor.
The bull fights were finer at Saragossa than at Madrid--that is to say,
they were deadlier; and the chief interest of this barbarous spectacle lies
in the shedding of blood. The Marquis de las Moras and Colonel Royas
gave me some excellent dinners. The marquis was one of the
pleasantest men I met in Spain; he died very young two years after.
The Church of Nuestra Senora del Pilar is situated on the ramparts of
the town, and the Aragonese fondly believe this portion of the town
defences to be impregnable.
I had promised Donna Pelliccia to go and see her at Valentia, and on
my way I saw the ancient town of Saguntum on a hill at some little
distance. There was a priest travelling with me and I told him and the
driver (who preferred his mules to all the antiquities in the world) that I
should like to go and see the town. How the muleteer and the priest
objected to this proposal!
"There are only ruins there, senor."
"That's just what I want to see."

"We shall never get to Valentia to-night."
"Here's a crown; we shall get there to-morrow."
The crown settled everything, and the man exclaimed,
"Valga me Dios, es un hombre de buen!" (So help me God, this is an
honest man!) A subject of his Catholic majesty knows no heartier
praise than this.
I saw the massive walls still standing and in good condition, and yet
they were built during the second Punic War. I saw on two of the
gateways inscriptions which to me were meaningless, but which
Seguier, the old friend of the Marquis Maffei, could no doubt have
deciphered.
The sight of this monument to the courage of an ancient race, who
preferred to perish in the flames rather than surrender, excited my awe
and admiration. The priest laughed at me, and I am sure he would not
have purchased this venerable city of the dead if he could have done so
by saying a mass. The very name has perished; instead of Saguntum it
is called Murviedro from the Latin 'muri veteres' (old walls); but Time
that destroys marble and brass destroys also the very memory of what
has been.
"This place,"