The eyes of Queen Isabella, mother of King Alphonso, whom we saw in the mild winter just past, are not genuine Andalusain eyes. She is somewhat advanced in years; but Spanish eyes never grow old. Queen Isabella has a youthful soul; perhaps too youthful. The fires of an envious and passionate nature is revealed in her little, coaxing, sparkling, and bold eyes. They are firmly set amid the mounting flesh by which they are surrounded. The flexible and quick intelligence of the great lady alone makes one forget the heavy human machine in which it is lodged. Although she is a thorough Spaniard and loves her people, they did well in driving her away. She has only the bad points of the Spanish character combined with recklessness and nervous outbursts. She can love, forgive, weep, and give alms. That is enough for a woman. But she knows nothing of the profound human problem now being solved, advancing by one degree the transformation of the beast in man. She cannot understand the true wants of a people whose hearts are gnawed by the worm of revolution, who are tired of their shame and laziness, and who demand the right to lift their voice in the formidable concert of progress. She could utter witticisms and welcome every morning the captains of her guard with good grace. Notwithstanding her excessive embonpoint, she can wear the royal robe with a true majesty, and enjoy a supper at the Hotel Lhardy, where people are discreet, and where there is a private entrance. All this is very little for a queen of the present age. To make a favorable impression upon people guided by reason and inspired by the press, a queen must live like the woman of the people, with the key of the pantry in her belt and a baby at her breast. So lived the charming Maria Victoria, wife of King Amadeus. She was called by the Marquise de Vega Armijo, of the haute noblesse, "the innkeeper of Alcorcon." The young Queen of Greece has set a good example. She has become popular in Europe. With an elegant and fearless pen, she defends her crown and her friends. Sovereigns must be people, or the people will be sovereigns.

Isabella has a certain grandeur of soul. She does not possess the rare elevation that separates the duties of life from the ardent desires of the soul; but she boldly faces misfortune and accommodates herself to circumstances — a pretty easy matter for a woman with an annual income of nearly $200,000, with a brace of pretty marquises in attendance, with the young bridegroom, Ramiro de la Puente, now Marquis of Altavilla, for an all powerful secretary, and with a charming little court in exile. It is true that she has ceased to be Queen of Spain, and that she is prevented from returning to Madrid, where from the granite windows of the Palacio de Oriente, she saw poor sentinels die from cold in the Campo del Moro. But at Paris she is besieged as the representative of royal simplicity and good nature. She is saluted with the great word, "Majesty," by monarchical journals, happy to find a queen in such good health. Lines of human beings will fence the pathway to the door of the church, where, it is announced, that she will carry to the baptismal font the newly-born son of "Popaul," as the "low people" of Paris call Monsieur Paul de Cabsagnac.

Queen Isabella is engaged in politics. In conspiring for her crown she conspires against human liberty. Without a frown and in good company she eats the bitter bread of exile; yet she has a strong desire to exile those who have exiled her. She is a royal creature, absolutely saturated with the monarchical spirit of olden times. To the solemn and rebellious voice of modern existence she turns a deaf ear. Her royal airs, her proud and condescending gestures, her complimentary salutes, and the graceful manner in which she proffers her hand to the lips of visitors, all come from her belief that she is of a nature altogether different from that of her vassals. "Vassals?" The word expresses everything. She still believes in vassals. In addressing Spanish nobles she uses the tu! She calmly permits the handsomest officers, the oldest soldiers, and the noblest ladies to bend the knee before her, looking upon them as nothing more than creatures born to serve her. This immovable conviction is softened and almost hidden by a heart simple and sincere, which has the courage of its love and the weakness of its hatred.

In vain have they dethroned her and sent her to keep company with the unemployed King of Naples. In vain do they, for political reasons, keep her far from the Court of Spain, under the pretext of an offensive sentiment. If ever she goes back she becomes mistress. Nobody would dispute with her the first place. Her haughty daughter — that sturdy widow who is now running about among all the Austrian palaces in search of Catholic husbands for her sisters — would be completely blotted out. The young King is only the son; the Queen is the mother. Young kings of the present day, educated like other persons in the feverish march of the nineteenth century, know very well that they are not kings. Poised on thrones whose weakness and instability are well known, they are constantly thinking of the hour when they must fall.

Queen Isabella, spoiled in childhood by a loyal and fanatical people, firmly believes in her majesty, wraps it around her, and freely asserts it. She did this when Alphonso was married to the Princess Maria Christine. The court was set up in two parlors. Royalists paid their homage to the King, and afterward to his mother. Before the King they felt the disdainful and suspicious breath that froze the moisture upon the brow of Marie Antoinette. Before the mother what éclat, what marked respect, what joy! They were again revelling in the good old times of monarchy, all powerful and undisputed. This victory prepared for the Queen mother was only a tribute to a woman. A group of faithful nobles, however, saw in her their rightful ruler. Habit entered largely into the transactions of that day which aroused so much anxiety and hastened the return of Isabella to France. How cowardly and yet tenacious are the knees of courtiers! They ask for nothing more than the opportunity to bend. Can there be hope for a people so leavened with the desires of a lackey?

The besamanos is an old ceremony. The Queen, seated in a golden armchair draped in red damask, receives the court. Courtiers pass before her in Indian file, and kiss her hand. The happiest moments of Isabella were the besamanos. She gave each courtier a quick and arrogant glance. Beauty, courage, or fidelity always drew from her complimentary remarks. At times she gave herself over to the sour pleasure of sarcasm. She indulged her fantasy for keen and cutting remarks. It was the talent of a woman giving expression to her feelings. This besamanos marked an epoch in the conspiracy of kings against the people. The picture was deplorable. Honest eyes were turned aside in disgust from hands soiled by so many servile lips, from the spectacle of so many gutter-born apostates exuding from the parlors of the Queen for whose downfall they had formerly conspired. All were bespangled with gold, like the horses of the royal equipage. In the parlor of the King the salutations were cold. That was the sick chamber. But in that of the Queen were the warm whispers of admiration, and eyes that flashed like lightning. It was like a christening feast — a feast of the resurrection enlivened with all the joys and gayeties of life.

There was a crowd of carriages in the great courtyard of the palace. They manoeuvred like crayfish, and finally poured out of the gates and were driven away. It was a sort of battle in which perfumes formed the smoke, while the sun shone upon brilliant uniforms. The men appeared stiff, but the women calmly braved the storm of noise and light. A young man with a sneering expression of countenance arrested our attention. He wore a three-cornered hat and had stylish whiskers. He presented a most curious political figure. He was Romero Robledo, a parvenu, who came to the surface in the tumult of the revolution on the dark foam raised by the fall of the throne. He had just kissed the hand that he and his friends had so many times declared dishonored and ignoble.

And there was Lopez Ayala, the elegant poet who drew up the declaration of the revolution of 1868, which drove a rotten court from Spain; he was announced as coming, in his character of President of the Congress of Deputies, to do homage to the woman whom he had covered with shame. What a spectacle that would have been. Ayala kneeling to Isabella! But although he trampled under foot his political honor the poet at last determined to be a man. He refused to submit to this final humiliation. He had the courage to keep away. A few months afterward he died, leaving some very fine comedies, some pretty sonnets, and a young wife, an actress full of energy, a widow of poetic love. Like Gambetta, he became enormously fat in the Presidential chair, but, unlike him, he was not created to terrify. It was in this chair that he committed an act of political weakness that could not be repaired. Then he died, and died well, for, when a man has no strength to do his duty, he ought to die. The courtiers repeated on the day of the besamanos the terrible phrase that the Queen had prepared for Lopez de Ayala when she should find him at her feet. He did well to stay away. Isabella, like her mother, kills with a word.

It was in the street, however, that Isabella received a genuine ovation. The people did not believe all that was said about her. It is true that she barely obtained permission to be present at the first marriage of her son. Stories were circulated in salons concerning certain freaks of her heart, which had an ugly echo when Queen Isabella returned to witness the wedding of Mercedes. To soften the effect of these stories she was forced to deprive herself of the company of one person in her suite. However near he was to her in Paris, his presence in Spain would not be tolerated.

The King was married to his second wife on a Saturday. The weather had been wet and disagreeable, but he gallantly predicted that it would not rain on that day. The prediction was verified, but it is nevertheless true that before making it Alphonso received a little note from the observatory. Madrid was moved by a cold curiosity. It was easy to see that the heart of the people was not beating. A stranger might have imagined that the Spaniards were going to assist at some spectacle in which they had no interest. Before the marriage, the Cortes suspended its sessions, after an animated debate, in which Cristino Martos, an able democrat and a sarcastic speaker, tried to overturn the ministry of Gen. Martinez Campos, or to throw against it a majority devoted to Canovas. What happened was curious. About a hundred deputies were borrowed, just as a farmer in distress might borrow a hundred sheep for the season. To win the victory Canovas made a pretense of lending his forces to the poor General, who made an awkward and rambling speech on the evening of the adjournment. The weather was stormy without and within. The fire of eloquence illumined the Chamber of Deputies, and the fire of heaven streaked the blue sky above it. The mysterious characters seen at Belsflazzar's feast were there. "Behold the coming storm," said Martos in a piercing tone. Then Don Praxedes Sagasta, one who had aided in upsetting the throne, fancied he saw in the young Queen the foundation of a new party in the heart of the court. He forgot that love was not the only spur to the marriage. Its real object was the riveting of Spain and Austria, a riveting that might give a lease of life to an evanescent monarchy and to a clergy that nursed the germs of its existence. The shrewd Sagasta sent to the Austrian Princess a bouquet of violets. Probably he fancied that its perfume would win the chair of the first Minister, but it never reached the royal palace. It is still en route, and Sagasta is beginning to show signs of impatience. He made the revolution and aided in wiping it out. Now he threatens a new revolution. It is not a bad piece of work for a political prestidigitateur.

"Gentlemen," said he, "let us not make worldly noise during these heavenly days. Let us hide our griefs from the eyes of the charming Princess, who comes to give happiness to our young sovereign. Let us salute her."

He spoke these words with a dignified and elegant air, with a smiling countenance and white-gloved hands, and with thumbs hooked in the arm holes of his waistcoat. People accustomed to the reign of a woman of gallantry predicted that Sagasta would next day be called to power. But no; neither Faust nor Marguerite had any faith in this white-gloved Mephistopheles.

Despite the predictions of the democracy the day of the marriage was bright. The storm hid itself underground. The streets and balconies of Madrid were bathed in sunshine. The Spanish women, like all women, are flowers, but they are not the slavish flowers bound and bruised amid the faded leaves of bouquets. Seated within airy little balconies, silent witnesses of so many dramas of love, they resembled the stalk-cut flowers that float in the water and bend over the edges of crystal bowls, gladdening the eye with a thousand colors and filling the air with perfume.

There was not the rush of visitors from the provinces that marked the marriage of Mercedes. The people passed through the streets without noise, without gayety, and without haste. "Ah! the little thing," they said, "how pretty she is; but she is an Austrian!"

The looked upon the monarchical display as upon a malady that would pass away. You might have almost fancied it to be the return of Marie Antoinette to France. Queer expressions were heard in the streets. "What sort of a figure will Ayala cut, shut up in his great official carriage, which looks like a yellow cage?" asked one. "And the poor Queen, they didn't want to let her come!" said a second. "I wonder what the Austrians look like?" ventured a third. To hear them speak you might have thought that the days of Philip the Handsome or of Charles V. had returned. Such expression as "Will old Serrano dare to seat himself beside the Queen whom he has deceived?" and "How can Christine be handsome, when she is not a Spanish woman?" were common. The more select groups spoke in terms of flowering bitterness. Nobody showed friendship for the Princess who was flowing about to be married. The hearts of the women rankled against the ingratitude of the King. They remembered poor Mercedes, and railed against the royal cortége before it was in motion. A year before it had honored another bride. There were the same plumed horses, the same gilded carriages, and the same smiling courtiers. Curiosity and not love controlled the throng of spectators.

The procession came at last, and with all its pomp and splendor. Gilded coats of arms in relief upon superb drapery covered the backs of white horses, and reached almost to the ground. Old heralds, with richly-draped snare-drums raised about six inches above the backs of their horses, headed the cortége. It was a rich display, an effort, a trial, a challenge; but it had the defect of poverty. The fifty horses of the monarch pranced proudly. A crowd of effeminate jockeys, looking like eunuchs, powdered, painted, gloved, with thin legs and close-fitting breeches, rode the horses attached to the carriages, but it was easy to see that all the wigs were not made for those who wore them.

The great houses gave signs of a weak foundation. Agony and death could be detected in this cold and measured procession — in those creaking coaches, made of old worm-eaten ebony, flaky veneering, and of tarnished gold. The richly plumed steeds suggested gay notes in a requiem for the dead. The crowd was eager to see the King's family. They saw the Infanta "Boba," as the people call a sister of the Queen, whose idiotic face shows the epicurean trait of the Bourbon family. They saw the traitorous marshals. Guided by their curiosity they swept after the procession, swaying like drunken men. The procession itself was more than a study. You could hardly believe that real men would seat themselves up in such coffins. The ancient and sickly customs of the past cannot be reconciled with the institutions of the present age.

Women dressed by Worth and men in shining raiment showed themselves at the windows of the old broad-wheeled vehicles. They seemed like people in this world looking out of the windows of another. Alphonse felt that the coldness of the people was serious. The Princess carried her crown lightly. She had transformed herself. She was like a dove, radiant, languishing, and tender. Her handsome mother looked with suspicion upon the crowd. The blond and corpulent Austrians reclined upon their cushions like superior beings.

When the carriage of Queen Isabella rolled by, the crowd became excited, restless, and undulating. A murmur of affection saluted the exile. A loyal sadness filled all hearts. In the presence of the woman they forgot and forgave the Queen. Surrounded as she was by her daughters dressed in white, the weeping mother evoked recollections of the accusations of the accused wife. How well she knows how to weep! Suppressed sobs replied to the dull clamorings of the people — a people proud of having banished her, and ready to banish her again if necessary. Pity drove away all resentment against a woman who saluted them with a handkerchief wet with tears. Moreover, she had really been very kind to the people. With the money that she had acquired without trouble she was as generous as a gambler. Of a frank nature, she loved those subjects who were clothed in rags, and who slept on the ground, but who still had hearts. She is really a big-hearted woman, and she could not help loving them.

The people of Madrid adore two Virgins. The Virgin of Paloma is the favorite of the washerwomen, who have their own town in the heart of the great city. The Virgin of Almudena is a stone figure found in a granary when Madrid was taken centuries ago. It is the favorite of the modistes, dancing women, and matadors. A committee of washerwomen, all in tears, offered flowers to the Queen, and a striking scene followed. The Queen promised to go and hear a mass at the chapel of the Virgin of Paloma.

The murmurs of sympathy and the silent ovation received by the Queen on the day of the procession caused a sensation at the palace. "The people are half mad," said the King's advisers. "They do not know what to do with themselves. Sire, you must send the Queen away before she once more wins them to her side."

Such was the language in which they addressed the King. Their advice was followed. The Queen kept her promise and went to the mass. The people tore pieces from her dress. They kissed her royal train. Hot tears fell upon her hands. The chapel was crowded to suffocation. It was indeed a strange ovation, springing from the heart.

Isabella left Madrid even before the time appointed for her departure.