Viva Jacquelina!: Being an Account of the Further Adventures of Jacky Faber, Over the Hills and Far Away by L. A. Meyer

Author:L. A. Meyer
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Houghton Mifflin Harcourt

Eventually, there is a hustle and many people bustle about the room—well-dressed men, men in uniforms, men holding papers, men looking anxiously to the door.

“I believe the King is coming,” whispers Asensio out of the side of his mouth, his voice dripping with contempt.

I give him a bit of an elbow and hiss back, “You be good now, Asensio! I know what you are thinking. Shush.”

As for myself, I stand back and listen, for much of the babble is in French. Hmmm . . . I’m thinking, I was sent here as a spy and I shall have to get some of this down on paper. That Field Marshall with all the medals on his chest is saying, “Yes, Murat will move the First Fusiliers to . . .” and “Junot is in position to strike at . . .”

I cannot be seen actually writing things down, but I will remember, and when I get back to the studio, I will record what I hear. I am, after all, a girl who does her duty.

El Rey! El Rey! is announced, and the people in the room line up against the walls. A door opens and a man walks in. All bow low, as the King strides to the center of the room.

He is dressed afrancesado, of course, and not only looks like, but also is dressed very much like, his brother, Napoleon Bonaparte. Blue jacket, gold sash, white trousers, black boots. Among other medals, he has the Legion of Honor on his left breast. I’ll wager I did more for that bauble than he ever did, but so it goes.

“I am ready. Let us get this done,” he says in French, and he strikes a pose.

He does look a lot like his brother, I’m thinking. I’m also thinking, as I look over at Goya, that the pose will not do. The master shakes his head and says, “Please, Majesty, if you would stand a little to the left there, so that the light . . .”

His Majesty does not understand, because Goya spoke in Spanish. Seeing that, the Master motions to me. I understand and step out.

“Please, your Majesty, forgive me my impertinence,” I say softly in French. “But if you would place your left foot there, and bring your right foot over there. That’s it . . . Now put your weight on your left leg . . . Oh, yes, magnificent.”

I look over at Goya and he motions with his hands that the King should turn a bit more to the right, and I spin my hands about in front of King Joseph to get him to do it, but it doesn’t work.

I look to Goya, but he shakes his head. All right, only one way to do this.

“Excellency,” I say. “I ask your permission to touch your person.”

He looks down at me, incredulous, but as I do not seem to be much of a physical threat, he nods.

There are gasps as I grasp the kingly hipbones in my hands and turn him several degrees to the right.

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