An entertainment even more wonderful, on account of its exquisite daintiness, was a smaller ball of only about three hundred and fifty guests; it led, moreover, to some amusing incidents. The order from the Court was that civilians were not to wear uniform, so with two brilliant exceptions, the diplomatic body arrived as black as rooks. The brilliant two were General Cassius Clay and the Duc d’Osuna, the Spanish Ambassador, who, conceiving themselves to be soldiers, took it for granted that the order did not apply to them; the General especially was full of military ardour as regarded his clothes, so he came in a nondescript blue coat, a yellow nankeen waistcoat, white trousers and something in his hand which he said was a forage-cap. The Duc d’Osuna, on the other hand, appeared in a gorgeous uniform, his breast plastered all over with stars and decorations (the only wonder being that he did not wear some on his back as well), his little legs incased in white leather breeches and jack-boots. He was a great character and really a very charming personality; fabulously rich, an ambassador without pay, he hospitably kept open house for his staff, even when he was on leave. His many châteaux were maintained in the same sumptuous way, whether he were in Spain or abroad, ready to receive him at any moment, and so, while his agents accumulated good fortunes, when his death came he was reputed to have well-nigh run through everything. The ship had too many leaks. He was several times over grandee of Spain, and so had the right to wear any number of hats in the presence of his sovereign. He is alluded to in Lord Beaconsfield’s letter to his sister, giving an account of Queen Victoria’s coronation. “He is a great dandy, and looks like Philip the Second, but though the only living descendant of the Borgias, he has the reputation of being very amiable. When he was last at Paris he attended a representation of Victor Hugo’s _Lucrezia Borgia_. She says in one of the scenes: ‘_Great crimes are in our blood_.’ All his friends looked at him with an expression of fear. ‘_But the blood has degenerated_,’ he said, ‘_for I have committed only weaknesses_.’” The dear little man’s great foible was vanity, concentrated in the admiration of his own tiny Spanish feet. “Oh! moi,” said a little French actress one evening. “Quand j’ai besoin de deux ou trois cents roubles, je m’en vais trouver le Duc d’Osuna; je lui fais un doigt de cour et je lui dis, en regardant ses pieds: ‘Ah! comme ils sont jolis! Il n’y a que Monsieur le Duc d’Osuna pour avoir ces pieds-là—sont-ils assez mignons!’ Cela ne rate jamais.”