In the days of his wandering exile, my father had sojourned at Havana, and my first care was to seek out the friends he had left behind him there.  Thanks to them, I soon found myself at home, in the Montalvo, Penalver, Arminteros, Arastegui, O’Reilly and de Arcos families, whose charming companionship formed the chief delight of my own stay.  My cousinship with the Queen of Spain caused me to be received with great honour, also, by the authorities, especially by the Captain General, Espeieta.  A review was arranged for me on the Paseo Tacon, and of that same review I have an undying recollection.  Let my readers imagine a line formed by the Espana, Barcelona and Habana regiments, the artillery, and a lancer regiment, splendid troops all of them, under the command of General Count de Mirasol, with his baton slung at his buttonhole.  And, facing this line, another of the most exquisitely charming aspect.  All the volantes in Havana drawn up in battle array!  The said volantes, peculiar to the place, are gigs without hoods or aprons, perched on two huge wheels, and each drawn by one horse in silver-mounted trappings, ridden by a calassero or negro postilion in flaming livery, laced on every seam.  In each volante two ladies lounged, in evening dress, low-necked, bare-headed, and armed with fans.  Every pretty woman in Havana was there, talking to the occupiers of the next carriage, looking on and being looked at, and all under a lovely tropical sunset, which lighted up the sea, whence a soft refreshing breeze was blowing, on one side, and on the other a forest of cocoa palms with the fortress of Principe rising above them.  The ensemble of the picture and its details were alike charming, and to us sailors, just off the sea, it was heightened by contrast.  These Havana ladies add all the charm of Spaniards to a mingling of Creole indifference with the confidence of well-born women.  Their eyes and complexions are magnificent, their wrists and ankles exquisitely delicate, and their feet!  I never saw anything like them—­the feet of a Chinese woman, only natural, not produced by torture, I brought away a precious souvenir from Havana, in the shape of a shoe which I knew to be genuine, but which never met with anything but incredulity till the sacking of the Tuileries in 1884 bereft me of it altogether.

I remember yet a beautiful excursion in the interior of the island, partly by rail, partly by volante, along splendid avenues of palmettos, and thick shady mango trees, to the country house belonging to Dona Matilda de Casa Calvo, Marquise de Arcos, where I spent two days in the pleasantest of company, and where Lord Clarence Paget, who was of the party, astonished us by his talent as a singer.  Our delightful stay in port was brought to a close by a ball given to me by the town of Havana at the Societad Philarmonica.  I had just been dancing that pretty dance, a sort of slow valse, which is called the Habanera, and I was walking with my partner, a beautiful Spanish Mexican, with tiny feet, under the arcades which ran round the patio, when she pulled a straw-covered cigarette out of her pocket and lighted it.  “Don’t you smoke?” she enquired.