Era el día del cumpleaños de la Infanta, la princesita real de España. Ella cumplía doce años, y el sol iluminaba con esplendor los jardines del Palacio.

Por más que fuese una Princesa de sangre real, y además Infanta del inmenso imperio de España, también ella debía resignarse a no tener más que un cumpleaños cada año, lo mismo que los hijos de los plebeyos del reino. Era, por lo tanto, muy importante para todos que ese día fuera un día hermoso. ¡ Y era un día lindísimo! Los arrogantes tulipanes se erguían en sus tallos, como largas filas de soldados y miraban desafiantes a las rosas, diciendo: —¡Hoy somos tan hermosos como ustedes! Las rojas mariposas revoloteaban alrededor, con alas empolvadas de oro, y visitaban una por una todas las flores; las lagartijas de verde tornasol habían salido de los muros para tomar el sol, y las granadas se abrían con el calor, dejando ver sus corazones rojos. Hasta los pálidos limones amarillentos, que crecían a lo largo de las arcadas sombrías, tomaban del sol un color más rico y resplandeciente, y las magnolias abrían sus grandes flores color marfil, embalsamando el aire con un perfume dulce y pungente al mismo tiempo.

La Princesita con sus compañeros se paseaban por la terraza del palacio que se abría sobre aquel jardín, y después jugó a las escondidas alrededor de los jarrones de piedra y las antiguas estatuas cubiertas de musgo. Por lo general sólo se le permitía jugar con niños de su misma alcurnia, así es que casi siempre tenía que jugar sola. Pero su cumpleaños era una ocasión excepcional, y el Rey había ordenado que la niña pudiese invitar a todos los amigos que quisiera. Los movimientos de los esbeltos niños españoles tienen una gracia majestuosa; los muchachos con sus sombreros anchos, adornados de plumas, y sus capitas flotantes; las niñas, recogiendo la cola de sus largos vestidos de brocado y protegiendo sus ojos del sol con grandes abanicos negro y plata. Pero la Infanta era la más encantadora de todas, y la mejor vestida, según la aparatosa moda de aquellos tiempos. Llevaba un traje de raso gris con amplias mangas abullonadas, damasquinadas de plata, y un rígido corpiño cruzado por hilos de perlas finas. Al caminar, dos pequeños escarpines, con moñitos de cinta carmesí, se le asomaban debajo de la falda. Su inmenso abanico de gasa era rosa y nácar, y en la cabellera, que rodeaba su carita pálida como un halo de oro, llevaba prendida una rosa blanca.

Triste y melancólico, el Rey observaba a los niños desde una ventana del palacio. Detrás de él estaba, de pie, su hermano, don Pedro de Aragón, a quién odiaba, y su confesor, el Gran Inquisidor de Granada, estaba sentado a su lado. El Rey estaba más triste que de costumbre, porque al ver a la Infanta saludando con gravedad infantil a los cortesanos, o riéndose detrás del abanico de la horrible Duquesa de Alburquerque, quien la acompañaba siempre, se acordaba de la Reina, la madre de la Infanta, que había venido del alegre país de Francia, para marchitarse en el sombrío esplendor de la Corte de España. Su amada reina había muerto seis meses después de nacer su hija, sin alcanzar a ver florecer dos veces los almendros del jardín. Tan grande había sido el amor del Rey por ella, que no permitió que la tumba se la robara por completo. Un médico moro al que perdonaron la vida —porque según se murmuraba en el Santo Oficio, era hereje y sospechoso de practicar la brujería—, la embalsamó, y el cuerpo de la Reina todavía descansaba en su ataúd, en la capilla de mármol negro del Palacio, tal como los monjes la habían dejado un tempestuoso día de marzo, doce años atrás. Cubierto por una capa oscura y con una bujía en la mano, el Rey iba a arrodillarse al lado del sepulcro cada primer viernes del mes. —¡Reina mía, Reina mía! —gemía roncamente. Y a veces, olvidando la rígida etiqueta que gobierna cada acto de la vida y limita hasta las expresiones del dolor en un Rey, tomaba entre las suyas aquellas manos pálidas y enjoyadas, y trataba de reanimar con besos insensatos aquel rostro maquillado y frío.

Sin embargo, esta mañana le parecía verla de nuevo tal como aquella vez en que la contempló por primera vez en el castillo de Fontainebleau, cuando él sólo tenía quince años, y ella era aún menor. Fue en aquella ocasión, cuando sellaron los esponsales ante el Nuncio de Su Santidad, el propio Rey de Francia y toda su Corte. Poco después él había regresado a El Escorial, llevando junto al corazón un rizo de cabellos rubios y el recuerdo de dos labios infantiles que se inclinaban a besarle la mano cuando subía a la carroza. Más tarde celebraron su matrimonio en Burgos, ciudad próxima a la frontera de ambos países, y en seguida entraron solemnemente en Madrid, asistieron a la tradicional misa mayor en la Iglesia de Atocha, y dictaron un auto de fe más solemne que de costumbre, por el cual más de trescientos herejes fueron entregados a la hoguera.

 t 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 he was but fifteen years of age, and she still younger. They had been formally betrothed on that occasion by the Papal Nuncio in the presence of the French King and all the Court, and he had returned to the Escurial bearing with him a little ringlet of yellow hair, and the memory of two childish lips bending down to kiss his hand as he stepped into his carriage. Later on had followed the marriage, hastily performed at Burgos, a small town on the frontier between the two countries, and the grand public entry into Madrid with the customary celebration of high mass at the Church of La Atocha, and a more than usually solemn auto-da-fe, in which nearly three hundred heretics, amongst whom were many Englishmen, had been delivered over to the secular arm to be burned.

Sí, el Rey la había amado con locura, y para su propio infortunio. Apenas permitía que se apartara de su lado, y por ella olvidaba, o al menos parecía olvidar, los graves asuntos del Estado. La amaba tanto que jamás llegó a comprender que las complicadas ceremonias con que trataba de entretenerla, sólo conseguían agravar la extraña enfermedad que ella padecía. Cuando la reina falleció, el Rey anduvo algún tiempo como privado de razón. Y sin duda habría abdicado para recluirse en el Gran Monasterio Trapense de Granada, si no hubiese temido dejar a la Infanta, que todavía no tenía un año, en manos de su hermano, cuya crueldad y ambición eran famosas en toda España. Además muchos sospechaban que don Pedro de Aragón había provocado la muerte de la Reina, ofreciéndole unos guantes envenenados cuando ella lo visitó en su castillo de Aragón. Después de pasar los tres años de luto oficial que ordenó en todos sus dominios, el Rey no toleró que sus ministros le hablasen de un nuevo matrimonio. El mismo Emperador de Alemania le ofreció la mano de su sobrina, la encantadora Archiduquesa de Bohemia, pero el Rey dijo a los embajadores que él ya había contraído nupcias con el Dolor. Esta respuesta le costó a su trono perder las ricas provincias de los Países Bajos, que se revelaron contra él, acaudilladas por los fanáticos hugonotes.

Mientras veía a la Infanta jugar en la terraza, recordaba toda su vida conyugal, con sus goces vehementes y su terrible agonía. La niña tenía, al igual que la Reina, esa petulancia deliciosa, ese gesto voluntarioso, la misma boca encantadora con arrogantes labios altivos, y misma sonrisa maravillosa de su madre cuando miraba hacia la ventana o tendía la manito para que la besaran los solemnes hidalgos españoles. Pero la risa penetrante de los niños le lastimaba los oídos, y el resplandor del sol se burlaba de su tristeza, y un perfume denso de especias orientales, como las que utilizan los embalsamadores, parecía viciarle el aire puro de la mañana. Escondió entre las manos sus facciones, y cuando la Infanta miró nuevamente hacia la ventana, las cortinas estaban corridas, y el Rey se había retirado.

La Infanta hizo un gesto de desagrado y se encogió de hombros. Su padre tendría que haberla acompañado el día de su cumpleaños... ¿Qué podían importarle los aburridos asuntos del Estado?, o, ¿acaso se había ido a la sombría capilla, donde ardían continuamente los cirios, y a donde a ella no la dejaban entrar? ¡Qué tontería, cuando el sol brillaba alegremente y todo el mundo estaba contento! Además, se iba a perder el simulacro de corrida de toros, que ya anunciaban los sones de trompeta, sin contar los títeres y las demás maravillas. Su tío Pedro y el Gran Inquisidor eran más cuerdos. Habían bajado a la terraza para saludarla y decirle frases bellas y galantes. Levantó entonces su cabecita, y de la mano de don Pedro descendió lentamente las escalinatas, para dirigirse hacia un gran pabellón de seda púrpura que habían levantado a un extremo del jardín. Los demás niños la seguían por orden riguroso de precedencia, ya que iban primero aquellos que tenían una serie más larga de apellidos.

Un cortejo de niños nobles, vestidos de toreros, salió a su encuentro, y el joven Conde de Terra Nova, de catorce años y belleza asombrosa, se quitó el sombrero con toda la gracia de un hidalgo y la condujo con solemnidad a un pequeño trono de oro y marfil, colocado sobre un alto estrado que dominaba la plaza. Las muchachas se apiñaron a su alrededor, agitando sus inmensos abanicos y secreteándose entre ellas. Don Pedro y el Gran Inquisidor se quedaron riendo a la entrada. Hasta la Duquesa, dama de facciones enjutas y duras, no parecía de tan mal humor como de ordinario, y por su rostro se veía vagar algo parecido a una sonrisa fría y desvaída.

Fue por cierto una soberbia corrida de toros, mucho más bonita, pensaba la Infanta, que la corrida de verdad que había visto en Sevilla, cuando el Duque de Parma visitó a su padre. Algunos muchachos caracoleaban sobre caballos de madera y mimbre, esgrimiendo largas lanzas adornadas con gallardetes de colores brillantes; otros iban a pie agitando delante del toro sus capas escarlata y saltando ágilmente la barrera cuando arremetía contra ellos; y en cuanto al toro, era idéntico a uno de verdad, aunque sólo fuera de mimbre forrado de cuero, y mostrara una marcada tendencia a correr en dos patas por la plaza, cosa que nunca haría un toro verdadero. Sin embargo, se portó con tanta valentía, que las entusiasmadas doncellitas, terminaron subidas a los bancos, agitando sus pañuelos de encaje y voceando: —¡Bravo toro! ¡Bravo, toro bravo! —igual que si fueran personas mayores. Finalmente el Condecito de Terra Nova logró vencer al toro, y tras de recibir la venia de la Infanta, hundió con tanta fuerza su estoque de madera en el morrillo del animal, que la cabeza cayó a tierra, dejando ver el rostro sonriente del Vizconde de Lorena, hijo del Embajador de Francia en Madrid.

Después de eso, entre aplausos entusiastas, dos pajecitos moros despejaron el ruedo, arrastrando solemnemente los caballos muertos, y tras de un corto intermedio, en el que un equilibrista francés realizó unos ejercicios vertiginosos sobre la cuerda floja, aparecieron en el escenario de un teatro expresamente construido para ese día, unas marionetas italianas, representando la tragedia semiclásica de Sofonisba. La representaron tan bien y con gestos tan naturales, que al final de la obra los ojos de la infanta estaban bañados de lágrimas. Algunos niños lloriqueaban también, y hubo que consolarlos con golosinas. El mismo Gran Inquisidor se sintió tan conmovido que comentó a Don Pedro que le parecía intolerable que unos simples objetos de madera y cera, movidos por alambres, pudieran ser tan desdichados y sufrir tantas desdichas.

Apareció después un malabarista africano que traía una gran canasta cubierta con un velo rojo. La puso en el centro del ruedo, extrajo de su turbante una flauta de caña, y comenzó a tocar. De pronto el paño comenzó a agitarse y mientras la flauta emitía sonidos cada vez más penetrantes, dos serpientes de verde y oro asomaron sus extrañas cabezas triangulares, y se fueron levantando muy despacio, balanceándose al ritmo de la música, como una planta acuática se balancea en la corriente. Los niños se asustaron un poco, y se divirtieron mucho más cuando el malabarista hizo brotar de la tierra un naranjo diminuto, que súbitamente se cubrió de preciosas flores blancas, y por último exhibió racimos de verdaderas naranjas. Y también se sintieron fascinados cuando el africano le pidió su abanico a la hija del Marqués de Las Torres, y lo transformó en un pájaro azul, que revoloteó cantando entusiasmado alrededor del pabellón. Entonces el deleite y asombro de los niños no tuvo límite. Luego vino el espectáculo encantador del solemne minué que bailaron los niños del coro de la iglesia de Nuestra Señora del Pilar, de Zaragoza. La Infanta no había presenciado nunca esta maravillosa ceremonia que cada año se celebra durante el mes de mayo ante el altar mayor de la Virgen. Además ningún miembro de la familia real había vuelto a entrar en la catedral de Zaragoza desde que un sacerdote loco, y según, se dijo, sobornado por la solterona Isabel de Inglaterra, había intentado hacer comulgar al Príncipe de Asturias con una hostia envenenada. Por eso, la Infanta sólo conocía de oídas aquel minuet que todos llamaban la "Danza de Nuestra Señora". Estos niños Zaragozanos venían vestidos con trajes antiguos, de terciopelo blanco, y sus tricornios estaban ribeteados de plata y adornados con grandes penachos de blanquísimas plumas de avestruz. Todo el mundo se sintió encantado por la lindura y dignidad con que bailaron las complicadas figuras de la danza y por la gracia de sus ademanes y reverencias. Cuando terminaron, se sacaron los sombreros para saludar a la Infanta, y ella contestó con mucha cortesía, prometiendo además mandar un gran cirio al santuario, para agradecer la alegría y el placer con que la habían agasajado.

En el momento en que salían de la iglesia, un grapo de gitanitos avanzó por la plaza. Se sentaron con las piernas cruzadas, formando circulo, y empezaron a tocar suavemente sus guitarras y citaras, al tiempo que canturreaban, casi imperceptiblemente, un aire soñador y melancólico. Cuando divisaron a don Pedro, algunos se aterraron, y otros pusieron el ceño adusto y embravecido, pues pocas semanas atrás don Pedro había mandado a ahorcar por brujería a dos hombres de la tribu; pero la Infanta, que los contemplaba por encima del abanico con sus grandes ojos azules, les encantó transformándoles el ánimo. Una criatura tan encantadora no podía ser cruel con nadie. Y continuaron tocando muy dulcemente, rozando las cuerdas con sus largas uñas, e inclinando sobre el pecho la cabeza, mientras cantaban como si estuvieran a punto de quedarse dormidos. Después se levantaron, desaparecieron por un instante, y regresaron con un lanudo oso pardo, sujeto por una cadena, que llevaba en los hombros varios monos de Berbería. El oso se puso de cabeza, con la mayor gravedad, y los monos hicieron todo tipo de piruetas con dos gitanillos de diez años. En verdad, los gitanos tuvieron un gran éxito con su presentación.

Certainly he had loved her madly, and to the ruin, many thought, of his country, then at war with England for the possession of the empire of the New World. He had hardly ever permitted her to be out of his sight; for her, he had forgotten, or seemed to have forgotten, all grave affairs of State; and, with that terrible blindness that passion brings upon its servants, he had failed to notice that the elaborate ceremonies by which he sought to please her did but aggravate the strange malady from which she suffered. When she died he was, for a time, like one bereft of reason. Indeed, there is no doubt but that he would have formally abdicated and retired to the great Trappist monastery at Granada, of which he was already titular Prior, had he not been afraid to leave the little Infanta at the mercy of his brother, whose cruelty, even in Spain, was notorious, and who was suspected by many of having caused the Queen's death by means of a pair of poisoned gloves that he had presented to her on the occasion of her visiting his castle in Aragon. Even after the expiration of the three years of public mourning that he had ordained throughout his whole dominions by royal edict, he would never suffer his ministers to speak about any new alliance, and when the Emperor himself sent to him, and offered him the hand of the lovely Archduchess of Bohemia, his niece, in marriage, he bade the ambassadors tell their master that the King of Spain was already wedded to Sorrow, and that though she was but a barren bride he loved her better than Beauty; an answer that cost his crown the rich provinces of the Netherlands, which soon after, at the Emperor's instigation, revolted against him under the leadership of some fanatics of the Reformed Church.

His whole married life, with its fierce, fiery-coloured joys and the terrible agony of its sudden ending, seemed to come back to him to-day as he watched the Infanta playing on the terrace. She had all the Queen's pretty petulance of manner, the same wilful way of tossing her head, the same proud curved beautiful mouth, the same wonderful smile--vrai sourire de France indeed--as she glanced up now and then at the window, or stretched out her little hand for the stately Spanish gentlemen to kiss. But the shrill laughter of the children grated on his ears, and the bright pitiless sunlight mocked his sorrow, and a dull odour of strange spices, spices such as embalmers use, seemed to taint--or was it fancy?--the clear morning air. He buried his face in his hands, and when the Infanta looked up again the curtains had been drawn, and the King had retired.

She made a little moue of disappointment, and shrugged her shoulders. Surely he might have stayed with her on her birthday. What did the stupid State-affairs matter? Or had he gone to that gloomy chapel, where the candles were always burning, and where she was never allowed to enter? How silly of him, when the sun was shining so brightly, and everybody was so happy! Besides, he would miss the sham bull-fight for which the trumpet was already sounding, to say nothing of the puppet-show and the other wonderful things. Her uncle and the Grand Inquisitor were much more sensible. They had come out on the terrace, and paid her nice compliments. So she tossed her pretty head, and taking Don Pedro by the hand, she walked slowly down the steps towards a long pavilion of purple silk that had been erected at the end of the garden, the other children following in strict order of precedence, those who had the longest names going first.

A procession of noble boys, fantastically dressed as toreadors, came out to meet her, and the young Count of Tierra-Nueva, a wonderfully handsome lad of about fourteen years of age, uncovering his head with all the grace of a born hidalgo and grandee of Spain, led her solemnly in to a little gilt and ivory chair that was placed on a raised dais above the arena. The children grouped themselves all round, fluttering their big fans and whispering to each other, and Don Pedro and the Grand Inquisitor stood laughing at the entrance. Even the Duchess--the Camerera-Mayor as she was called--a thin, hard-featured woman with a yellow ruff, did not look quite so bad-tempered as usual, and something like a chill smile flitted across her wrinkled face and twitched her thin bloodless lips.

It certainly was a marvellous bull-fight, and much nicer, the Infanta thought, than the real bull-fight that she had been brought to see at Seville, on the occasion of the visit of the Duke of Parma to her father. Some of the boys pranced about on richly- caparisoned hobby-horses brandishing long javelins with gay streamers of bright ribands attached to them; others went on foot waving their scarlet cloaks before the bull, and vaulting lightly over the barrier when he charged them; and as for the bull himself, he was just like a live bull, though he was only made of wicker- work and stretched hide, and sometimes insisted on running round the arena on his hind legs, which no live bull ever dreams of doing. He made a splendid fight of it too, and the children got so excited that they stood up upon the benches, and waved their lace handkerchiefs and cried out: Bravo toro! Bravo toro! just as sensibly as if they had been grown-up people. At last, however, after a prolonged combat, during which several of the hobby-horses were gored through and through, and, their riders dismounted, the young Count of Tierra-Nueva brought the bull to his knees, and having obtained permission from the Infanta to give the coup de grace, he plunged his wooden sword into the neck of the animal with such violence that the head came right off, and disclosed the laughing face of little Monsieur de Lorraine, the son of the French Ambassador at Madrid.

The arena was then cleared amidst much applause, and the dead hobbyhorses dragged solemnly away by two Moorish pages in yellow and black liveries, and after a short interlude, during which a French posture-master performed upon the tightrope, some Italian puppets appeared in the semi-classical tragedy of Sophonisba on the stage of a small theatre that had been built up for the purpose. They acted so well, and their gestures were so extremely natural, that at the close of the play the eyes of the Infanta were quite dim with tears. Indeed some of the children really cried, and had to be comforted with sweetmeats, and the Grand Inquisitor himself was so affected that he could not help saying to Don Pedro that it seemed to him intolerable that things made simply out of wood and coloured wax, and worked mechanically by wires, should be so unhappy and meet with such terrible misfortunes.

An African juggler followed, who brought in a large flat basket covered with a red cloth, and having placed it in the centre of the arena, he took from his turban a curious reed pipe, and blew through it. In a few moments the cloth began to move, and as the pipe grew shriller and shriller two green and gold snakes put out their strange wedge-shaped heads and rose slowly up, swaying to and fro with the music as a plant sways in the water. The children, however, were rather frightened at their spotted hoods and quick darting tongues, and were much more pleased when the juggler made a tiny orange-tree grow out of the sand and bear pretty white blossoms and clusters of real fruit; and when he took the fan of the little daughter of the Marquess de Las-Torres, and changed it into a blue bird that flew all round the pavilion and sang, their delight and amazement knew no bounds. The solemn minuet, too, performed by the dancing boys from the church of Nuestra Senora Del Pilar, was charming. The Infanta had never before seen this wonderful ceremony which takes place every year at Maytime in front of the high altar of the Virgin, and in her honour; and indeed none of the royal family of Spain had entered the great cathedral of Saragossa since a mad priest, supposed by many to have been in the pay of Elizabeth of England, had tried to administer a poisoned wafer to the Prince of the Asturias. So she had known only by hearsay of 'Our Lady's Dance,' as it was called, and it certainly was a beautiful sight. The boys wore old-fashioned court dresses of white velvet, and their curious three-cornered hats were fringed with silver and surmounted with huge plumes of ostrich feathers, the dazzling whiteness of their costumes, as they moved about in the sunlight, being still more accentuated by their swarthy faces and long black hair. Everybody was fascinated by the grave dignity with which they moved through the intricate figures of the dance, and by the elaborate grace of their slow gestures, and stately bows, and when they had finished their performance and doffed their great plumed hats to the Infanta, she acknowledged their reverence with much courtesy, and made a vow that she would send a large wax candle to the shrine of Our Lady of Pilar in return for the pleasure that she had given her.

A troop of handsome Egyptians--as the gipsies were termed in those days--then advanced into the arena, and sitting down cross-legs, in a circle, began to play softly upon their zithers, moving their bodies to the tune, and humming, almost below their breath, a low dreamy air. When they caught sight of Don Pedro they scowled at him, and some of them looked terrified, for only a few weeks before he had had two of their tribe hanged for sorcery in the market- place at Seville, but the pretty Infanta charmed them as she leaned back peeping over her fan with her great blue eyes, and they felt sure that one so lovely as she was could never be cruel to anybody. So they played on very gently and just touching the cords of the zithers with their long pointed nails, and their heads began to nod as though they were falling asleep. Suddenly, with a cry so shrill that all the children were startled and Don Pedro's hand clutched at the agate pommel of his dagger, they leapt to their feet and whirled madly round the enclosure beating their tambourines, and chaunting some wild love-song in their strange guttural language. Then at another signal they all flung themselves again to the ground and lay there quite still, the dull strumming of the zithers being the only sound that broke the silence. After that they had done this several times, they disappeared for a moment and came back leading a brown shaggy bear by a chain, and carrying on their shoulders some little Barbary apes. The bear stood upon his head with the utmost gravity, and the wizened apes played all kinds of amusing tricks with two gipsy boys who seemed to be their masters, and fought with tiny swords, and fired off guns, and went through a regular soldier's drill just like the King's own bodyguard. In fact the gipsies were a great success.

Pero lo más divertido de la fiesta, lo mejor de todo sin duda alguna, fue la danza del enanito. Cuando apareció en la plaza tambaleándose sobre sus piernas torcidas y balanceando su enorme cabezota deforme, los niños estallaron en ruidosas exclamaciones de alegría, y la infanta rió tanto que la camarera se vio obligada a recordarle que si bien muchas veces en España la hija de un Rey había llorado delante de sus pares, no había procedente de que una Princesa de Sangre Real se mostrara tan regocijada en presencia de personas inferiores a ella. Pero el enano era irresistible, y ni siquiera en la Corte de España, conocida por su afición a lo grotesco, se había visto jamás un monstruo tan extraordinario. Fuera de eso, esta era la primera aparición en público del enano. El día anterior, mientras cazaban en uno de los Sitios más apartados del bosque de encinas que rodeaba la ciudad, lo habían descubierto dos nobles, corriendo locamente por entre los árboles. Los nobles pensaron que podía servir de diversión a la Princesa y lo llevaron al Palacio, ya que el padre del enano, un mísero carbonero, no puso dificultad alguna en que lo libraran de un hijo que era tan horrible como inútil. Tal vez lo más divertido era la absoluta inconsciencia que tenía el enano de su grotesco aspecto. Al contrario, parecía muy feliz y orgulloso. Tanto, que cuando los niños se reían, el también reía, tan franca y alegremente como ellos, y al terminar cada danza los saludaba con las más divertidas reverencias, como si fuera igual a ellos, y no un ser raquítico y deforme, que sólo servía para que los demás tuviesen algo de qué burlarse. La Infanta lo había fascinado de un modo tal que al enano se le hacía imposible dejar de mirarla, y parecía bailar solamente para ella. Cuando terminó de bailar, la niña recordó haber visto a las grandes damas de la Corte arrojarle ramos de llores a Caffarelli, el famoso tiple italiano, y entonces, en parte por burla y en parte para enojar a su Camarera Mayor, sacó la rosa blanca de sus cabellos y la arrojó a la plaza con la más dulce de sus sonrisas. El enano tomó la cosa muy en serio, besó la flor con sus gruesos labios y se llevó la mano al corazón antes de arrodillarse delante de la Infanta, gesticulando con sus ojos chispeantes de alegría.

Con esto se quebrantó la seriedad y compostura de la Infanta que no pudo contener la risa, ni siquiera cuando el enanito desapareció de la plaza, y manifestó a su tío el deseo de que se repitiera la danza de inmediato. Pero la Camarera Mayor decidió que el sol calentaba demasiado y que sería preferible que Su Alteza regresara sin tardanza al Palacio, donde le habían preparado una fiesta maravillosa. Al fin, la Infanta se puso de pie con suma dignidad, y dio la orden de que el enanito danzase de nuevo para ella después de la siesta. Agradeció también al condecito de Terra Nova por su encantador recibimiento, y se retiró a sus habitaciones, seguida por los niños, en el mismo orden en que habían entrado.

Al saber que iba a bailar de nuevo ante la Infanta, obedeciendo sus expresas órdenes, el enanito se sintió tan orgulloso y feliz, que se lanzó a correr por el jardín besando la rosa blanca en un absurdo transporte de alegría, y gesticulando del modo más estrambótico y pagano.

Hasta las flores se indignaron de aquella insolente invasión a sus dominios, y cuando le vieron hacer piruetas por los paseos y agitar los brazos de modo tan ridículo, no pudieron contenerse.

—Es demasiado horrible para permitirle estar donde estamos nosotros —exclamaron los tulipanes.

—¡Ojalá bebiera jugo de amapolas, que lo hiciera dormir más de mil años! —dijeron las grandes azucenas, encendidas de ira.

—¡Qué cosa tan horrible! —aullaron las calceolarias—. Es contrahecho y rechoncho, y no puede haber mayor desproporción entre su cabeza y sus piernas. Si se nos llega a acercar va a conocer nuestros pelitos urticantes.

—¡Y lleva una de mis rosas más bella! —exclamó el rosal blanco—. Yo mismo se la di esta mañana a la Infanta, como regalo de cumpleaños. No cabe duda que la ha robado. Y se puso a gritar con todas sus fuerzas: —¡Atajen al ladrón! ¡Al ladrón! ¡Al ladrón!

Incluso los rojos geranios, que no suelen creerse grandes señores, y se les suele conocer por sus numerosas relaciones de dudosa calidad, se encresparon de disgusto cuando lo vieron. Y hasta las violetas mismas observaron —aunque dulcemente—, que si por cierto el enano era sumamente feo, la culpa no era de él. Algunas agregaron que siendo la fealdad del enanito casi ofensiva, demostraría más prudencia y buen gusto adoptando un aire melancólico o siquiera pensativo, en lugar de andar saltando como un enajenado y haciendo gestos tan grotescos y estúpidos.

En su despreocupación, el enano llegó a pasar rozando el viejo reloj de sol que antiguamente indicaba las horas nada menos que al Emperador Carlos V. El venerable reloj se desconcertó tanto, que casi se olvidó de señalar los minutos, y comentó con el pavo real plateado que tomaba el sol en la balaustrada, que todo el mundo podía advertir que los hijos de los Reyes eran Reyes, y carboneros los hijos de los carboneros. Afirmación que aprobó el pavo real: —¡Indudablemente, indudablemente! —dijo con voz tan áspera y chillona que los peces dorados que vivían en la fuente, sacaron del agua la cabeza preguntando qué ocurría a los grandes tritones de piedra que arrojaban sus gruesos chorros para mantener fresca el agua.

Sin embargo, los pájaros amaban al enanito. Lo habían visto bailando en la selva, como un duendecillo detrás de los torbellinos de hojas, o acurrucado en el hueco de la vieja encina, compartiendo sus nueces con las ardillas, y no les importaba en absoluto que no tuviese esos rasgos que los humanos consideran belleza. Para ellos, el enano no era en absoluto feo. El mismo ruiseñor que canta tan dulcemente en los bosques de naranjos, no es muy hermoso que digamos. Además el enanito había sido muy bueno con ellos y durante aquel invierno crudísimo, cuando no ya en los árboles no quedaba fruta ni semilla alguna, y la tierra estaba dura como el hierro, y los lobos aullaban en las mismas puertas de la ciudad buscando alimento, el enanito no los había olvidado ni un sólo día; siempre les dio migajas de su mendrugo de pan negro y compartió con ellos su almuerzo, por más pobre que fuera.

Es por eso que volaron su alrededor, rozándole el rostro con una caricia de alas y hablando entre sí. El enanito estaba tan maravillado que les mostró la hermosa rosa blanca, y les dijo que se la había dado la propia Infanta, en prueba de amor.

Los pájaros no le entendieron ni una palabra, pero no importaba, porque ladeaban la cabeza y lo miraban con aire doctoral.

También las lagartijas sentían un aprecio muy grande por él, y cuando el enanito se cansó de dar volteretas por todos lados y se tendió sobre la hierba a descansar, jugaron y brincaron alrededor de él entreteniéndolo lo mejor posible. —No todos pueden ser tan hermosos como una lagartija —exclamaban—, sería mucho pedir. Y, aunque parezca absurdo, no es tan feo cuando uno cierra los ojos y deja de verlo. Las lagartijas son de naturaleza extraordinariamente filosófica, y muy a menudo se pasan horas y horas meditando, cuando no tienen otra cosa que hacer o llueve o hace demasiado frío para salir a pasear.

Las flores, ante esto, se sintieron fastidiadas por la manera cómo actuaban los lagartos y los pájaros, que para ellas resultaba desleal. —Esto demuestra con toda claridad —decían—, como reblandece el cerebro ese ir y venir, ese revolotear sin sentido. La gente bien educada no se mueve de su sitio, como hacemos nosotras. ¿Quién nos ha visto corretear por los paseos o rotar sobre la hierba detrás de las libélulas? Cuando necesitamos cambiar de aire mandamos venir al jardinero, y él nos traslada de sitio. Pero los pájaros y los lagartos no tienen sentido del reposo, y de los pájaros en particular hasta se puede decir que no tienen domicilio fijo. Son simples vagabundos, como los gitanos, y como tales deberían ser tratados. Y alzando sus corolas, adoptaron un aire más altanero todavía; sólo volvieron a mostrarse alegres cuando vieron que, poco rato después, el enanito se levantó de la hierba y atravesó la terraza en dirección al Palacio.

—Como asunto de higiene pública deberían encerrarlo bajo llave para el resto de su vida —comentaron las flores—. ¿Han visto esa joroba y esa piernas retorcidas? —y empezaron a reír burlonamente.

But the funniest part of the whole morning's entertainment, was undoubtedly the dancing of the little Dwarf. When he stumbled into the arena, waddling on his crooked legs and wagging his huge misshapen head from side to side, the children went off into a loud shout of delight, and the Infanta herself laughed so much that the Camerera was obliged to remind her that although there were many precedents in Spain for a King's daughter weeping before her equals, there were none for a Princess of the blood royal making so merry before those who were her inferiors in birth. The Dwarf, however, was really quite irresistible, and even at the Spanish Court, always noted for its cultivated passion for the horrible, so fantastic a little monster had never been seen. It was his first appearance, too. He had been discovered only the day before, running wild through the forest, by two of the nobles who happened to have been hunting in a remote part of the great cork-wood that surrounded the town, and had been carried off by them to the Palace as a surprise for the Infanta; his father, who was a poor charcoal- burner, being but too well pleased to get rid of so ugly and useless a child. Perhaps the most amusing thing about him was his complete unconsciousness of his own grotesque appearance. Indeed he seemed quite happy and full of the highest spirits. When the children laughed, he laughed as freely and as joyously as any of them, and at the close of each dance he made them each the funniest of bows, smiling and nodding at them just as if he was really one of themselves, and not a little misshapen thing that Nature, in some humourous mood, had fashioned for others to mock at. As for the Infanta, she absolutely fascinated him. He could not keep his eyes off her, and seemed to dance for her alone, and when at the close of the performance, remembering how she had seen the great ladies of the Court throw bouquets to Caffarelli, the famous Italian treble, whom the Pope had sent from his own chapel to Madrid that he might cure the King's melancholy by the sweetness of his voice, she took out of her hair the beautiful white rose, and partly for a jest and partly to tease the Camerera, threw it to him across the arena with her sweetest smile, he took the whole matter quite seriously, and pressing the flower to his rough coarse lips he put his hand upon his heart, and sank on one knee before her, grinning from ear to ear, and with his little bright eyes sparkling with pleasure.

This so upset the gravity of the Infanta that she kept on laughing long after the little Dwarf had ran out of the arena, and expressed a desire to her uncle that the dance should be immediately repeated. The Camerera, however, on the plea that the sun was too hot, decided that it would be better that her Highness should return without delay to the Palace, where a wonderful feast had been already prepared for her, including a real birthday cake with her own initials worked all over it in painted sugar and a lovely silver flag waving from the top. The Infanta accordingly rose up with much dignity, and having given orders that the little dwarf was to dance again for her after the hour of siesta, and conveyed her thanks to the young Count of Tierra-Nueva for his charming reception, she went back to her apartments, the children following in the same order in which they had entered.

Now when the little Dwarf heard that he was to dance a second time before the Infanta, and by her own express command, he was so proud that he ran out into the garden, kissing the white rose in an absurd ecstasy of pleasure, and making the most uncouth and clumsy gestures of delight.

The Flowers were quite indignant at his daring to intrude into their beautiful home, and when they saw him capering up and down the walks, and waving his arms above his head in such a ridiculous manner, they could not restrain their feelings any longer.

'He is really far too ugly to be allowed to play in any place where we are,' cried the Tulips.

'He should drink poppy-juice, and go to sleep for a thousand years,' said the great scarlet Lilies, and they grew quite hot and angry.

'He is a perfect horror!' screamed the Cactus. 'Why, he is twisted and stumpy, and his head is completely out of proportion with his legs. Really he makes me feel prickly all over, and if he comes near me I will sting him with my thorns.'

'And he has actually got one of my best blooms,' exclaimed the White Rose-Tree. 'I gave it to the Infanta this morning myself, as a birthday present, and he has stolen it from her.' And she called out: 'Thief, thief, thief!' at the top of her voice.

Even the red Geraniums, who did not usually give themselves airs, and were known to have a great many poor relations themselves, curled up in disgust when they saw him, and when the Violets meekly remarked that though he was certainly extremely plain, still he could not help it, they retorted with a good deal of justice that that was his chief defect, and that there was no reason why one should admire a person because he was incurable; and, indeed, some of the Violets themselves felt that the ugliness of the little Dwarf was almost ostentatious, and that he would have shown much better taste if he had looked sad, or at least pensive, instead of jumping about merrily, and throwing himself into such grotesque and silly attitudes.

As for the old Sundial, who was an extremely remarkable individual, and had once told the time of day to no less a person than the Emperor Charles V. himself, he was so taken aback by the little Dwarf's appearance, that he almost forgot to mark two whole minutes with his long shadowy finger, and could not help saying to the great milk-white Peacock, who was sunning herself on the balustrade, that every one knew that the children of Kings were Kings, and that the children of charcoal-burners were charcoal- burners, and that it was absurd to pretend that it wasn't so; a statement with which the Peacock entirely agreed, and indeed screamed out, 'Certainly, certainly,' in such a loud, harsh voice, that the gold-fish who lived in the basin of the cool splashing fountain put their heads out of the water, and asked the huge stone Tritons what on earth was the matter.

But somehow the Birds liked him. They had seen him often in the forest, dancing about like an elf after the eddying leaves, or crouched up in the hollow of some old oak-tree, sharing his nuts with the squirrels. They did not mind his being ugly, a bit. Why, even the nightingale herself, who sang so sweetly in the orange groves at night that sometimes the Moon leaned down to listen, was not much to look at after all; and, besides, he had been kind to them, and during that terribly bitter winter, when there were no berries on the trees, and the ground was as hard as iron, and the wolves had come down to the very gates of the city to look for food, he had never once forgotten them, but had always given them crumbs out of his little hunch of black bread, and divided with them whatever poor breakfast he had.

So they flew round and round him, just touching his cheek with their wings as they passed, and chattered to each other, and the little Dwarf was so pleased that he could not help showing them the beautiful white rose, and telling them that the Infanta herself had given it to him because she loved him.

They did not understand a single word of what he was saying, but that made no matter, for they put their heads on one side, and looked wise, which is quite as good as understanding a thing, and very much easier.

The Lizards also took an immense fancy to him, and when he grew tired of running about and flung himself down on the grass to rest, they played and romped all over him, and tried to amuse him in the best way they could. 'Every one cannot be as beautiful as a lizard,' they cried; 'that would be too much to expect. And, though it sounds absurd to say so, he is really not so ugly after all, provided, of course, that one shuts one's eyes, and does not look at him.' The Lizards were extremely philosophical by nature, and often sat thinking for hours and hours together, when there was nothing else to do, or when the weather was too rainy for them to go out.

The Flowers, however, were excessively annoyed at their behaviour, and at the behaviour of the birds. 'It only shows,' they said, 'what a vulgarising effect this incessant rushing and flying about has. Well-bred people always stay exactly in the same place, as we do. No one ever saw us hopping up and down the walks, or galloping madly through the grass after dragon-flies. When we do want change of air, we send for the gardener, and he carries us to another bed. This is dignified, and as it should be. But birds and lizards have no sense of repose, and indeed birds have not even a permanent address. They are mere vagrants like the gipsies, and should be treated in exactly the same manner.' So they put their noses in the air, and looked very haughty, and were quite delighted when after some time they saw the little Dwarf scramble up from the grass, and make his way across the terrace to the palace.

'He should certainly be kept indoors for the rest of his natural life,' they said. 'Look at his hunched back, and his crooked legs,' and they began to titter.

 Pero el enanito no había escuchado nada. Amaba profundamente a las aves y las largatijas, y pensaba que las flores eran la cosa más maravillosa del mundo, exceptuando naturalmente a la Infanta; porque ella le había dado la rosa blanca, y le amaba, y eso establecía una gran diferencia. ¡Cómo anhelaba volver a encontrarse ante la Princesita! Ella lo sentaría a su diestra, y le sonreiría, y después no volvería a apartarse de su lado; iba a ser su compañero, y le enseñaría juegos deliciosos. Porque a pesar de no haber estado nunca antes en un Palacio, él sabia hacer muchas cosas admirables. Sabía hacer jaulitas de junco para encerrar los grillos, y que cantaran dentro; y con las cañas nudosas podía fabricar flautas y caramillos. Imitaba el grito de todas las aves, y podía hacer bajar a los estorninos de la copa de los árboles, y atraer a las garzas de la laguna. El sabia reconocer las huellas de todos los animales y podía seguir la pista de la liebre por su rastro casi invisible, y la de los jabalíes por unas pocas hojas pisoteadas. Conocía todas las danzas salvajes: la danza desenfrenada del otoño, en traje rojo; la danza estival sobre las mieses, en sandalias azules; la danza con blancas guirnaldas de nieve, en el invierno; y la danza embriagada de las flores a través de los jardines en la primavera. Sabía en qué lugares las palomas torcazas ocultan sus nidos, y una vez que un cazador había capturado a los padres, él crió a los polluelos construyéndoles un pequeño palomar en la oquedad de un olmo desmochado. Y los domesticó con tanta habilidad que todas las mañanas acudían a comer en su mano. La Infanta también los amaría, lo mismo que a los conejos, que se hacen invisibles entre los grandes helechos y las zarzas; y a los grajos, de plumas aceradas y picos negros; y a los puercoespines que pueden convertirse en una bola de púas y a las grandes galápagos, que se arrastran lentamente, menean la cabeza y comen hojas tiernas y raíces suculentas. Sí, la Infanta iría a la selva, y jugaría con él. Por las noches le cedería su propia cama para que ella durmiese, y él la cuidaría hasta el alba, para que los lobos hambrientos no se allegasen demasiado a la choza. Y al amanecer, la despertaría con unos golpecitos en la ventana. Y se irían al bosque, y allí, bailando juntos, dejarían transcurrir el día entero.

Pero ¿dónde estaba la Infanta? Interrogó a la rosa blanca pero no obtuvo respuesta. Todo el Palacio parecía dormir, y hasta en las ventanas abiertas colgaban pesados cortinajes para amortiguar la resolana. Después de dar mil vueltas buscando una entrada, halló finalmente una puertecilla, que había quedado entreabierta. Se deslizó dentro con cautela, y se encontró en un salón espléndido, mucho más espléndido, pensó atemorizado, que la misma selva. Todo era dorado, y hasta el piso estaba hecho de primorosos baldosines de colores, dispuestos en dibujos geométricos. Pero la Infanta tampoco estaba allí; sólo había unas maravillosas estatuas blancas, que le miraban desde lo alto de sus zócalos de jaspe, con ojos de mirada ambigua y una extraña sonrisa en los labios.

Al fondo del salón había una cortina de terciopelo negro, lujosamente bordada de soles y estrellas; era la enseña favorita del Rey. ¿No estaría la Infanta ahí detrás?

Avanzó sigilosamente y descorrió la cortina. No había nadie. Era otra habitación, todavía más hermosa que la anterior. Las paredes estaban cubiertas con tapices de Arras, en tonos verdes y castaños, representando una escena de cacería. En otro tiempo esa había sido la habitación de Jean Le Fou, como llamaban a ese Rey Loco, tan apasionado por la cacería, que más de una vez, en su delirio, había querido montar en los grandes corceles encabritados de los tapices, y perseguir al ciervo acosado por los enormes sabuesos. Ahora la habían destinado a sala del consejo, y sobre la mesa del centro se veían las carteras rojas de los ministros y consejeros.

El enano miró a su alrededor lleno de asombro, y casi sin atreverse a seguir su camino, a los extraños jinetes silenciosos, que galopaban tan velozmente por el bosque, sin hacer el menor ruido en la tapicería. Le parecía que eran los Comprachos, esos terribles fantasmas de que había oído hablar a los carboneros, que sólo cazan de noche, y si encuentran a un hombre lo transforman en ciervo para cazarlo. Pero el recuerdo de la encantadora Infantita le hizo recobrar el coraje. Necesitaba encontrarse a solas con ella y decirle que él también la amaba.

Atravesó corriendo las alfombras persas y abrió la puerta siguiente. ¡No! Tampoco estaba allí. La habitación estaba completamente vacía.

Era el imponente salón del Trono, destinado a la recepción de los embajadores extranjeros, cuando el Rey accedía a darles audiencia, cosa que sucedía rara vez. Las colgaduras eran de cuero dorado de Córdoba, y una pesada lámpara dorada colgaba del techo blanco y negro, con suficientes brazos como para sostener trescientas bujías. El trono se alzaba bajo un gran dosel de brocado de oro, donde estaban bordados los leones y las torres de Castilla. Sobre el segundo escalón del Trono estaba el reclinatorio de la Infanta, con su cojín de tisú de plata; y más abajo, fuera del dosel, el asiento del Nuncio Pontificio, único dignatario que tenía el derecho de estar sentado en presencia del Rey. En la pared frente al trono pendía un retrato, en tamaño natural, de Carlos V en traje de caza, acompañado de su gran mastín. Otro cuadro representaba a Felipe II recibiendo el homenaje de sus vasallos de Flandes.

Mas poco le importaba toda esta magnificencia al enanito. No habría cambiado su rosa blanca por todas las perlas del dosel, ni habría dado un sólo pétalo por el mismísimo trono. Lo único que quería era ver a la Infanta antes que ella fuese al pabellón, y pedirle que se marchara con él cuando la danza concluyese. Dentro del palacio, el aire era sofocante y pesado, mientras que en la selva el viento soplaba filtrándose alegremente entre hojas fragantes y la luz del sol apartaba las ramas con sus manos doradas. También había flores en la selva, no tan espléndidas como las flores del jardín, pero de perfume más dulce: como los jacintos tempranos, las prímulas amarillas, las brillantes celidonias, las verónicas azules y los lirios de color morado y oro. ¡Sí, la Princesa se iría con él una vez que lograse encontrarla! Le acompañaría a la selva, y él pasaría el día entero bailando para ella. Esta idea lo hizo sonreír y entró sin vacilar en la cámara siguiente.

De todas las habitaciones dónde ya había estado, ésta era la más espléndida y hermosa. Las paredes estaban tapizadas de damasco rojo, salpicado de pájaros y flores de plata; los muebles eran de plata maciza y ante las dos enormes chimeneas, se abrían dos grandes pantallas, con pavos reales y papagayos de hilo de oro bordado en relieve. El pavimento, de ónix color verde mar, parecía perderse en la lejanía. Pero aquí no estaba solo. Desde la sombra de la puerta, al otro extremo de la habitación, una pequeña figura lo contemplaba. Le tembló el corazón, dejó escapar un grito de alegría, y avanzó. Entonces, la figura avanzó también y el enanito consiguió distinguirla con claridad.

¿Era la Infanta? No, quien se le acercaba era un monstruo, el monstruo más grotesco que podía existir. No era proporcionado como todo el mundo, sino jorobado y patizambo, con una cabezota enorme que se bamboleaba de un lado a otro, y una hirsuta crin negra. El enanito frunció el ceño, y el monstruo también lo frunció. Se echó a reír, y el monstruo se puso a reír con él, dejando caer los brazos lo mismo que él. Le hizo una reverencia burlona, y el monstruo le respondió con una reverencia todavía más irónica. Avanzó hacia él, y el monstruo vino a su encuentro remedando todos sus gestos y deteniéndose cuando él se detenía. Gritó alegremente y corrió hacia él, alargándole la mano, y la mano del monstruo tocó la suya y era fría como el hielo. Se asustó y retiró la mano y la mano del monstruo le imitó vivamente, mientras ponía una grotesca expresión de miedo. Hizo un intento de esquivarlo y seguir adelante pero lo detuvo aquel ente, poniéndosele siempre por delante con su contacto duro y resbaladizo. La cara del monstruo estaba muy cerca de la suya, como si tratase de besarlo, y se veía patéticamente aterrorizada. Retiró los mechones que le caían sobre los ojos, y el monstruo hizo lo mismo. Lo golpeó, y el monstruo le devolvió golpe por golpe, le hizo muecas y en el rostro del monstruo se dibujaron las mismas muecas. Retrocedió, y el monstruo retrocedió también, entreabriendo una jeta repulsiva.

¿Qué extraño fenómeno era ése? Reflexionó un momento mirando en torno suyo por todo el salón. Era extraño: todo parecía tener su igual detrás de ese muro invisible de agua transparente y sólida. Si, cuadro por cuadro, y asiento por asiento todo estaba allí como duplicado. El fauno dormido, junto a la puerta, tenía su hermano gemelo que dormía también; y la Venus de plata, en pie bajo los rayos del sol, extendía los brazos a otra Venus tan hermosa como ella.

¿Sería aquello el Eco? Recordó aquella ocasión en que había llamado al eco en el valle y el Eco le había respondido palabra por palabra. ¿Podría burlar la vista, como burlaba la voz? ¿Podría crear un mundo a imitación, idéntico al mundo real? ¿Las sombras de las cosas, podrían tener color y vida y movimiento? ¿Sería posible que...?

Se estremeció, y sacando de su pecho la rosa blanca, la besó. ¡ Pero he aquí que el monstruo también tenía una rosa, pétalo por pétalo idéntica a la suya! ¡Y la besaba con igual deleite, y la estrechaba contra su corazón haciendo gestos grotescos!

Cuando al final la verdad se abrió paso en su mente, el enano lanzó un aullido un grito de desesperación y cayó al pavimento sollozando. ¡Ese ser deforme y jorobado, de aspecto horrible y grotesco, era él! ¡Era él mismo, él era el monstruo, y era de él de quien se habían reído todos los muchachos... y la Princesita, en cuyo amor creyera... ella también se había burlado de su fealdad, había hecho mofa de sus piernas torcidas! ¿Por qué no lo habían dejado en el bosque, donde no había espejo que le mostrara su horror? ¿Por qué no lo había matado su padre antes de permitir que se burlaran de él? Lloró lágrimas quemantes, y sus manos destrozaron la rosa blanca... y el monstruo hizo lo mismo y esparció por el aire los delicados pétalos. El enanito se cubrió los ojos con las manos, y se alejó del espejo temiendo verlo una vez más. Como un pobre ser herido se arrastró hacia la sombra, y allí se quedó gimiendo.

En ese preciso instante, por el ventanal abierto, entró la propia Infanta con su séquito, y cuando vieron al horroroso enanito de bruces en el pavimento, golpeándolo con los puños del modo más fantástico, estallaron en alegres carcajadas.

—Sus danzas son muy graciosas —dijo la infanta—, pero su manera de actuar es mucho más divertida todavía. Lo hace casi tan bien como las marionetas, aunque con menos naturalidad. Agitó su abanico, y aplaudió.

Pero el enanito no levantó la cabeza. Sus sollozos eran cada vez más débiles; hasta que exhaló un extraño suspiro y se oprimió el costado. Luego, cayó boca arriba y quedó inmóvil.

—¡Lo has hecho estupendo! —aplaudió la Infanta después de una pausa— Pero ahora te toca bailar.

—Sí —gritaron los demás niños—, tienes que levantarte y bailar. Eres tan inteligente como los monos de Berbería, y mucho más gracioso. Pero el enanito no contestó.

La Infanta, airada, dio un golpe en el suelo con su pie, y llamó a su tío, que estaba paseando con el Chambelán, mientras leían unas cartas recién llegadas de México, donde se acababa de establecer la Santa Inquisición. —Mi enanito se está haciendo el desobediente —gritó la Infanta—. ¡Levántenlo y díganle que baile!

Los caballeros sonrieron entre sí y entraron sin prisa. Al llegar junto al enanito, don Pedro se inclinó y lo golpeó suavemente en la mejilla con su guante bordado. —Baila ya, petit montre –dijo-. La Infanta de España y de todas las Indias quiere que la diviertas.

Pero el enanito permaneció inmóvil.

—Habrá que hacer venir al verdugo —dijo enojado don Pedro. Pero el Chambelán, que miraba la escena con rostro grave, se arrodilló junto al enanito y le puso la mano sobre el corazón. Después de un momento se encogió de hombros y levantándose, hizo una profunda reverencia a la infanta diciendo:

—Mi bella Princesa, tu enanito no volverá a bailar. Y es lamentable, porque es tan feo, que con seguridad habría hecho sonreír al propio Rey.

—¿Y por qué no volverá a bailar? —preguntó la Infanta con aire decepcionado.

—Porque su corazón se ha roto —contestó el Chambelán.

Y la Infanta frunció el ceño, y sus finos labios se contrajeron en un delicioso gesto de fastidio. —De ahora en adelante —exclamó echando a correr al jardín— los que vengan a jugar conmigo no deben tener corazón.

 But the little Dwarf knew nothing of all this. He liked the birds and the lizards immensely, and thought that the flowers were the most marvellous things in the whole world, except of course the Infanta, but then she had given him the beautiful white rose, and she loved him, and that made a great difference. How he wished that he had gone back with her! She would have put him on her right hand, and smiled at him, and he would have never left her side, but would have made her his playmate, and taught her all kinds of delightful tricks. For though he had never been in a palace before, he knew a great many wonderful things. He could make little cages out of rushes for the grasshoppers to sing in, and fashion the long jointed bamboo into the pipe that Pan loves to hear. He knew the cry of every bird, and could call the starlings from the tree-top, or the heron from the mere. He knew the trail of every animal, and could track the hare by its delicate footprints, and the boar by the trampled leaves. All the wild- dances he knew, the mad dance in red raiment with the autumn, the light dance in blue sandals over the corn, the dance with white snow-wreaths in winter, and the blossom-dance through the orchards in spring. He knew where the wood-pigeons built their nests, and once when a fowler had snared the parent birds, he had brought up the young ones himself, and had built a little dovecot for them in the cleft of a pollard elm. They were quite tame, and used to feed out of his hands every morning. She would like them, and the rabbits that scurried about in the long fern, and the jays with their steely feathers and black bills, and the hedgehogs that could curl themselves up into prickly balls, and the great wise tortoises that crawled slowly about, shaking their heads and nibbling at the young leaves. Yes, she must certainly come to the forest and play with him. He would give her his own little bed, and would watch outside the window till dawn, to see that the wild horned cattle did not harm her, nor the gaunt wolves creep too near the hut. And at dawn he would tap at the shutters and wake her, and they would go out and dance together all the day long. It was really not a bit lonely in the forest. Sometimes a Bishop rode through on his white mule, reading out of a painted book. Sometimes in their green velvet caps, and their jerkins of tanned deerskin, the falconers passed by, with hooded hawks on their wrists. At vintage-time came the grape-treaders, with purple hands and feet, wreathed with glossy ivy and carrying dripping skins of wine; and the charcoal-burners sat round their huge braziers at night, watching the dry logs charring slowly in the fire, and roasting chestnuts in the ashes, and the robbers came out of their caves and made merry with them. Once, too, he had seen a beautiful procession winding up the long dusty road to Toledo. The monks went in front singing sweetly, and carrying bright banners and crosses of gold, and then, in silver armour, with matchlocks and pikes, came the soldiers, and in their midst walked three barefooted men, in strange yellow dresses painted all over with wonderful figures, and carrying lighted candles in their hands. Certainly there was a great deal to look at in the forest, and when she was tired he would find a soft bank of moss for her, or carry her in his arms, for he was very strong, though he knew that he was not tall. He would make her a necklace of red bryony berries, that would be quite as pretty as the white berries that she wore on her dress, and when she was tired of them, she could throw them away, and he would find her others. He would bring her acorn-cups and dew-drenched anemones, and tiny glow-worms to be stars in the pale gold of her hair.

But where was she? He asked the white rose, and it made him no answer. The whole palace seemed asleep, and even where the shutters had not been closed, heavy curtains had been drawn across the windows to keep out the glare. He wandered all round looking for some place through which he might gain an entrance, and at last he caught sight of a little private door that was lying open. He slipped through, and found himself in a splendid hall, far more splendid, he feared, than the forest, there was so much more gilding everywhere, and even the floor was made of great coloured stones, fitted together into a sort of geometrical pattern. But the little Infanta was not there, only some wonderful white statues that looked down on him from their jasper pedestals, with sad blank eyes and strangely smiling lips.

At the end of the hall hung a richly embroidered curtain of black velvet, powdered with suns and stars, the King's favourite devices, and broidered on the colour he loved best. Perhaps she was hiding behind that? He would try at any rate.

So he stole quietly across, and drew it aside. No; there was only another room, though a prettier room, he thought, than the one he had just left. The walls were hung with a many-figured green arras of needle-wrought tapestry representing a hunt, the work of some Flemish artists who had spent more than seven years in its composition. It had once been the chamber of Jean le Fou, as he was called, that mad King who was so enamoured of the chase, that he had often tried in his delirium to mount the huge rearing horses, and to drag down the stag on which the great hounds were leaping, sounding his hunting horn, and stabbing with his dagger at the pale flying deer. It was now used as the council-room, and on the centre table were lying the red portfolios of the ministers, stamped with the gold tulips of Spain, and with the arms and emblems of the house of Hapsburg.

The little Dwarf looked in wonder all round him, and was half- afraid to go on. The strange silent horsemen that galloped so swiftly through the long glades without making any noise, seemed to him like those terrible phantoms of whom he had heard the charcoal- burners speaking--the Comprachos, who hunt only at night, and if they meet a man, turn him into a hind, and chase him. But he thought of the pretty Infanta, and took courage. He wanted to find her alone, and to tell her that he too loved her. Perhaps she was in the room beyond.

He ran across the soft Moorish carpets, and opened the door. No! She was not here either. The room was quite empty.

It was a throne-room, used for the reception of foreign ambassadors, when the King, which of late had not been often, consented to give them a personal audience; the same room in which, many years before, envoys had appeared from England to make arrangements for the marriage of their Queen, then one of the Catholic sovereigns of Europe, with the Emperor's eldest son. The hangings were of gilt Cordovan leather, and a heavy gilt chandelier with branches for three hundred wax lights hung down from the black and white ceiling. Underneath a great canopy of gold cloth, on which the lions and towers of Castile were broidered in seed pearls, stood the throne itself, covered with a rich pall of black velvet studded with silver tulips and elaborately fringed with silver and pearls. On the second step of the throne was placed the kneeling-stool of the Infanta, with its cushion of cloth of silver tissue, and below that again, and beyond the limit of the canopy, stood the chair for the Papal Nuncio, who alone had the right to be seated in the King's presence on the occasion of any public ceremonial, and whose Cardinal's hat, with its tangled scarlet tassels, lay on a purple tabouret in front. On the wall, facing the throne, hung a life-sized portrait of Charles V. in hunting dress, with a great mastiff by his side, and a picture of Philip II. receiving the homage of the Netherlands occupied the centre of the other wall. Between the windows stood a black ebony cabinet, inlaid with plates of ivory, on which the figures from Holbein's Dance of Death had been graved--by the hand, some said, of that famous master himself.

But the little Dwarf cared nothing for all this magnificence. He would not have given his rose for all the pearls on the canopy, nor one white petal of his rose for the throne itself. What he wanted was to see the Infanta before she went down to the pavilion, and to ask her to come away with him when he had finished his dance. Here, in the Palace, the air was close and heavy, but in the forest the wind blew free, and the sunlight with wandering hands of gold moved the tremulous leaves aside. There were flowers, too, in the forest, not so splendid, perhaps, as the flowers in the garden, but more sweetly scented for all that; hyacinths in early spring that flooded with waving purple the cool glens, and grassy knolls; yellow primroses that nestled in little clumps round the gnarled roots of the oak-trees; bright celandine, and blue speedwell, and irises lilac and gold. There were grey catkins on the hazels, and the foxgloves drooped with the weight of their dappled bee-haunted cells. The chestnut had its spires of white stars, and the hawthorn its pallid moons of beauty. Yes: surely she would come if he could only find her! She would come with him to the fair forest, and all day long he would dance for her delight. A smile lit up his eyes at the thought, and he passed into the next room.

Of all the rooms this was the brightest and the most beautiful. The walls were covered with a pink-flowered Lucca damask, patterned with birds and dotted with dainty blossoms of silver; the furniture was of massive silver, festooned with florid wreaths, and swinging Cupids; in front of the two large fire-places stood great screens broidered with parrots and peacocks, and the floor, which was of sea-green onyx, seemed to stretch far away into the distance. Nor was he alone. Standing under the shadow of the doorway, at the extreme end of the room, he saw a little figure watching him. His heart trembled, a cry of joy broke from his lips, and he moved out into the sunlight. As he did so, the figure moved out also, and he saw it plainly.

The Infanta! It was a monster, the most grotesque monster he had ever beheld. Not properly shaped, as all other people were, but hunchbacked, and crooked-limbed, with huge lolling head and mane of black hair. The little Dwarf frowned, and the monster frowned also. He laughed, and it laughed with him, and held its hands to its sides, just as he himself was doing. He made it a mocking bow, and it returned him a low reverence. He went towards it, and it came to meet him, copying each step that he made, and stopping when he stopped himself. He shouted with amusement, and ran forward, and reached out his hand, and the hand of the monster touched his, and it was as cold as ice. He grew afraid, and moved his hand across, and the monster's hand followed it quickly. He tried to press on, but something smooth and hard stopped him. The face of the monster was now close to his own, and seemed full of terror. He brushed his hair off his eyes. It imitated him. He struck at it, and it returned blow for blow. He loathed it, and it made hideous faces at him. He drew back, and it retreated.

What is it? He thought for a moment, and looked round at the rest of the room. It was strange, but everything seemed to have its double in this invisible wall of clear water. Yes, picture for picture was repeated, and couch for couch. The sleeping Faun that lay in the alcove by the doorway had its twin brother that slumbered, and the silver Venus that stood in the sunlight held out her arms to a Venus as lovely as herself.

Was it Echo? He had called to her once in the valley, and she had answered him word for word. Could she mock the eye, as she mocked the voice? Could she make a mimic world just like the real world? Could the shadows of things have colour and life and movement? Could it be that--?

He started, and taking from his breast the beautiful white rose, he turned round, and kissed it. The monster had a rose of its own, petal for petal the same! It kissed it with like kisses, and pressed it to its heart with horrible gestures.

When the truth dawned upon him, he gave a wild cry of despair, and fell sobbing to the ground. So it was he who was misshapen and hunchbacked, foul to look at and grotesque. He himself was the monster, and it was at him that all the children had been laughing, and the little Princess who he had thought loved him--she too had been merely mocking at his ugliness, and making merry over his twisted limbs. Why had they not left him in the forest, where there was no mirror to tell him how loathsome he was? Why had his father not killed him, rather than sell him to his shame? The hot tears poured down his cheeks, and he tore the white rose to pieces. The sprawling monster did the same, and scattered the faint petals in the air. It grovelled on the ground, and, when he looked at it, it watched him with a face drawn with pain. He crept away, lest he should see it, and covered his eyes with his hands. He crawled, like some wounded thing, into the shadow, and lay there moaning.

And at that moment the Infanta herself came in with her companions through the open window, and when they saw the ugly little dwarf lying on the ground and beating the floor with his clenched hands, in the most fantastic and exaggerated manner, they went off into shouts of happy laughter, and stood all round him and watched him.

'His dancing was funny,' said the Infanta; 'but his acting is funnier still. Indeed he is almost as good as the puppets, only of course not quite so natural.' And she fluttered her big fan, and applauded.

But the little Dwarf never looked up, and his sobs grew fainter and fainter, and suddenly he gave a curious gasp, and clutched his side. And then he fell back again, and lay quite still.

'That is capital,' said the Infanta, after a pause; 'but now you must dance for me.'

'Yes,' cried all the children, 'you must get up and dance, for you are as clever as the Barbary apes, and much more ridiculous.' But the little Dwarf made no answer.

And the Infanta stamped her foot, and called out to her uncle, who was walking on the terrace with the Chamberlain, reading some despatches that had just arrived from Mexico, where the Holy Office had recently been established. 'My funny little dwarf is sulking,' she cried, 'you must wake him up, and tell him to dance for me.'

They smiled at each other, and sauntered in, and Don Pedro stooped down, and slapped the Dwarf on the cheek with his embroidered glove. 'You must dance,' he said, 'petit monsire. You must dance. The Infanta of Spain and the Indies wishes to be amused.'

But the little Dwarf never moved.

'A whipping master should be sent for,' said Don Pedro wearily, and he went back to the terrace. But the Chamberlain looked grave, and he knelt beside the little dwarf, and put his hand upon his heart. And after a few moments he shrugged his shoulders, and rose up, and having made a low bow to the Infanta, he said

- 'Mi bella Princesa, your funny little dwarf will never dance again. It is a pity, for he is so ugly that he might have made the King smile.'

'But why will he not dance again?' asked the Infanta, laughing.

'Because his heart is broken,' answered the Chamberlain.

And the Infanta frowned, and her dainty rose-leaf lips curled in pretty disdain. 'For the future let those who come to play with me have no hearts,' she cried, and she ran out into the garden.