Dona Xima stayed in Paris, where it took her only a few weeks to become better known that Alboni or even La Rigolboche. She carried herself like an experienced woman. Instead of yielding to the desires of Louis Napoleon, she told the Duke that she had never entered a house through anything other than a main door, and that if the Monarch wished to see her at the Tuileries all he had to do was arrange for an official introduction and she would be glad to pay her respects to ‘the Imperial family’ (the Emperor alone would not suffice). Campo Formio was shocked by a response that not even he, with his title and his millions, would have dreamt of making, and he delivered it, duly modified, to his master. It appears that he also recounted it more faithfully to the Countess of Teba,*with whom he was on excellent terms. The lady, whose reactions were quick, was very pleased by her fellow citizen. ‘On ne badine pas avec une femme espagnole,’ she told Campo Formio, who, being young and arrogant, was tempted to reveal to what extent the honour of a Spanish lady is incorruptible. Meanwhile, the Emperor, who could not quite make up his mind whether to allow an official introduction, felt more desire than ever after receiving such an unexpected reply. Thus, Eugenia de Montijo lost her husband and her ‘chevalier servant’ all at once.
Among the adventures of Dona Xima in Paris, the Senyor used to tell the story of a fight with a local celebrity at that time: La Rigolboche, whom I have already mentioned. ‘I do not know,’ he writes, ‘exactly how their rivalry began, as I was in Mallorca. Yet it is hardly surprising, considering they both aspired to the same thing. It appears that at the Jardin-Mabille the dancer had her eye on Campo Formio during her can-can solo, despite the fact that he was in the company of a lady, or perhaps for that very reason. Since her attempt was unsuccessful, she must have felt humiliated, and when that same year of 1860, she published her Memoirs, she included a passage that was an offence to Xima and to our entire family. Needless to say, she would have been incapable of writing them herself, so she found a journalist by the name of Ernest Blum—who was no great writer either—to write them for her. Tradition, Joan’—I find it touching that the Senyor thought of me upon writing these lines—’ leads us to believe that the Bearns are honourable noblemen who have occupied a well-known position if not since the Conquest, because that is not certain, at least since the fifteenth century. We have set an example with Bishop Rigobert, Don Ramon of Bearn and La Venerable. But there are so many exceptions to the rule!
‘You know the story of my aunt Dona Anna, Xima’s grandmother. You already know the rhymes they made up about my great-grandfather Toni. If you look in the archives [he continued to address me] you will find even more things, episodes that have been voluntarily forgotten. The legend of our coat of arms reads specifically: “Better to die than to let in new blood.” ’ The three following lines are crossed out, and I could only make out two words: ‘I myself.’ The account continues: ‘When we were in Paris, we considered ourselves as noble as we are among these mountains. However, we were considered suspect. We spent a lot, particularly at the beginning. Xima was too beautiful; I was too tolerant. When we stopped spending, which was before long, when she became acquainted with Campo Formio and started accepting jewels, there was no question about it: we were a hoax. However that may be, it is particularly unpleasant to have it said by a can-can dancer. Xima, the woman who never loses her temper, was angry that time. Fate gave her a chance to take revenge. One of La Rigolboche’s most popular ‘numbers’, which she performed every night at Mabille, was La Toilette de Mam’zelle. She stepped out of bed and chose two gentlemen at random from the audience to comb her hair. It was long, thick and splendid, and there was not a single fool or man of fashion who did not wish to claim he had touched it and knew it was not fake. Participating in the raffle cost fifty francs. The scene had appeal because of its idiocy. I mentioned that the actress rode around the park in the morning in a cabriolet: she was always changing her horses, and the older she became, the younger she liked them. That morning she was out with a magnificent Spanish three-year-old, which she treated as absurdly as she did her admirers at the Mabille, until she was finally thrown against a tree. Xima, who happened to be riding by in her carriage, took the unconscious woman to a nearby restaurant, where she asked for a pair of scissors and cut off all her hair. The waiters were so astonished that when they finally tried to stop her it was too late. Xima wrapped the woman’s head up in a bandage, even though she was not hurt, and revived her with a cup of coffee. Kinder then ever, she even took her to her carriage and saw her off with a kiss of Judas. The story spread like wild fire. The dancer tried to take her to court, which only added to Xima’s popularity. By the time her hair grew back, she had been forgotten: she was dead and ready to be entombed in three lines of the Petit Larousse.’
That sentence, more worthy of a Marchioness in the court of Louis XV than of a Mallorcan nobleman, is all that death inspired in Don Toni: a three-line entombment under the letter R in an encyclopedia, without the slightest mention of the poor woman’s soul.