“What does my father mean to say about this Jarpeado who turns his head?” she inwardly inquired, seating herself outside a hothouse. Pretty Anna remained pensively rooted to the seat, while her father, absorbed in his own thoughts, never missed her presence. The maiden was endowed with a highly strung nervous temperament which, had she lived four hundred years ago, would have brought her to the stake in the Place de Grève. But happily for her, she was born in more enlightened times. II. That which Prince Jarpeado found most extraordinary in Paris, was himself, like the dodge of Gênes at Versailles. He was undoubtedly a fine fellow, though small, remarkable for the classic beauty of his features. His legs might have been doubtful, a trifle or so bandy, but they were encased in boots garnished with precious stones and fixed up on three sides _a la poulaine_. On his back, as was the usage of Castraine, in his country, he carried a cape which cast into the shade those worn by the ecclesiastics of Charles X. It was covered with aberesques of diamonds on a ground of lapis-lazuli, divided into two equal parts like the two flaps of a trunk. These flaps were fastened by a gold clasp, and displayed like the priestly surplice, in token of dignity, for he was prince of Coccirubri. He wore a pretty necklace of sapphire and two aigrettes infinitely finer than any of the feathers in the caps of European potentates worn on State occasions. Anna thought him charming, only his two arms were rather short and slender for embracing. This slight defect, however, was carried off by the rich carnation of his royal blood. Anna soon found out what her father meant, by witnessing one of those mysterious things which pass unnoticed in this terrible Paris, at once so full and so empty, so foolish and so wise, so preoccupied and so much on the alert, yet always so fantastic. {270} III. The three thousand windows of this glass palace exchanged glances of moonlight so bright that the edifice seemed glowing at a white heat, ablaze with the fire, kindled by the rising orb which so frequently deceives the traveller. The cactus was breathing forth a store of strange odour, the vanilla its sweet perfume. The volcaneria distilled the vinous heat from its tufts, the jessamine exhaled a poetic fragrance, the magnolia intoxicated the air, while the aroma of the datura advanced with the pomp of a Persian king, and the powerful Chinese lily sent her breath onward with an overpowering force that assimilated all the other odours of the flowery scene.