It was the commencement of February when I reached Madrid. After
staying a few days at a posada, I removed to a lodging which I
engaged at No. 3, in the Calle de la Zarza, a dark dirty street,
which, however, was close to the Puerta del Sol, the most central
point of Madrid, into which four or five of the principal streets
debouche, and which is, at all times of the year, the great place
of assemblage for the idlers of the capital, poor or rich.
It was rather a singular house in which I had taken up my abode. I
occupied the front part of the first floor; my apartments consisted
of an immense parlour, and a small chamber on one side in which I
slept; the parlour, notwithstanding its size, contained very little
furniture: a few chairs, a table, and a species of sofa,
constituted the whole. It was very cold and airy, owing to the
draughts which poured in from three large windows, and from sundry
doors. The mistress of the house, attended by her two daughters,
ushered me in. "Did you ever see a more magnificent apartment?"
demanded the former; "is it not fit for a king's son? Last winter
it was occupied by the great General Espartero."
The hostess was an exceedingly fat woman, a native of Valladolid,
in Old Castile.
