“Listen to me, Sergei. I know what you’re thinking. What a face! You look like you’re fighting in Japan and you’ve lost your men! Wipe that look off your face. You’re sinking in a glass of water. Not another word about the tsar’s letter until we’ve returned from the theater. Because I really, really, really want to go to the New Year’s concert. And I want to go for you, you’ve been looking forward to this for days. Enough! All right? When we get home we’ll decide what to say and what to do. But let it go for the time being, think about something else…. Stop tormenting yourself. Enough.”

“There’s nothing to say, Claudine, I’m done for…. Calling the tsar a glass of water!”

“Stop, stop!” sweet, patient Claudia says. “Take a deep breath!”

Claudia was marked by the sun of Seville. Her mother gave birth to her there at midday. Between one step and the next, she felt an intense cramping, the little girl appeared before she even had time to squat down, the midwife had to catch the baby to save her from hitting the floor. The couple’s entourage fell over themselves looking after the ambassador’s wife, and despite the fact that she didn’t need to rest (she could have walked anywhere she needed to go), they wouldn’t let her take a step.

“But I’m fine! Nothing’s wrong!”

“Don’t lift a finger!” the ambassador replied, untroubled, unashamed, unembarrassed. That’s how easily his wife gave birth: she didn’t even know when her babies were about to be born. Her fertility filled him with pride. Overjoyed with his little girl (his first), when he held her he practically shouted, “Vivo Sevilla! Viva Sevillo! Vivo Sevillo!” muddling the feminine and the masculine; his knowledge of Spanish was shaky, and he was emotional to the point of tears.

The mother was carried to the palace where they were staying—the Palace of the Dukes of Alba—where a doctor attended to her.