The king and the queen of Spain

The first glance I took, when I made my first reverence to the king of Spain¹ upon arriving, astonished me so much, that I had to use all my senses to pull myself together. I couldn't see anything about him reminding one of the Duc d'Anjou, and I had to look hard into this long and much changed face, which was even more closed up than when he left France. He was bent forward, and much smaller, his chin thrown forward, very distant from his chest, his feet stiff, touching one another, and stepping over each over as he walked, although walked quickly, and the knees more than one foot apart. What he told me was well said, but he said it so slowly, as though dragging each word out of his mouth, with such a stupid look on his face, that I felt astounded. A jerkin, without any gilt, made of some sort of brown homespun, because of the hunt where he was about to go, did not do anything for his appearance or his bearing. He wore a wig and his blue ribbon over his jerkin, always and on any occasion, so that...