And the revolutionist described the young invalid:  his thin body, artificially strengthened by hygiene and gymnastics, his eyes heavy and sunk deep in their sockets, the lower jaw hanging loose like that of a corpse, wanting the strength that keeps it fixed to the skull.

“Poor youth!  Why was he born?  What would be accomplished in his journey through the world?  Why had Nature, who so often refuses fecundity to the strong, shown herself prodigal to the loveless union of a dying consumptive?  What was the use to him of having carriages and horses, liveried servants to salute him, and ninnies to give him food; it would have been far better had he never appeared in the world but had remained in the limbo of those who are never born.  Like the squire of Don Quixote, who finding himself at last in the plenty of Barataria, had by his side a doctor Recio to restrain his appetite, this poor creature could never enjoy with freedom the pleasures of the remains of life left to him.”

“They pay him thousands of duros,” added Gabriel, “for every minute of his life, but no amount of gold can procure him a drop of fresh blood to cure the hereditary poison in his veins.  He is surrounded by beautiful women, but if he feels arising the happy tremors of youth, the sap of the spring of life, the predisposition of a family who have only been notable for the victories won in love’s battles, he must remain cold and austere, under his mother’s vigilant eye, who knows that carnal passion would rapidly end a life so weak and uncertain.  And the end of all these sad-and painful privations—­inevitable death.  Why was this poor creature born?  Often the greatness of the earth is worse than a malediction, and reasons of State are the most cruel of all torments for an invalid, obliging him to feign a health he does not feel.  To speak of the illness of the king is a crime, and the courtiers living under the shadow of the throne consider the slightest allusion to the king’s health as a sacrilege, a crime worthy of punishment, as though he were not a human being subject like others to death.”

“I do not care much for politics,” said the Chapel-master; “kings and republics are all the same to me, I am a votary of art.  I do not know what monarchy may be in the other countries that you have seen, but in Spain it seems quite played out.  It is tolerated like so many relics of the past, but it inspires no enthusiasm and no one is inclined to sacrifice themselves for it, and I believe that even the people who live in its shadow, and whose interests are most bound up with those of the crown, have more devotion on their tongues than in their hearts.”