"Your Majesty," said I, "I sat next to the Baron at breakfast and was not spared the salad problem."
"How did he have it this time?" asked the Emperor.
"This time, your Majesty, he had it that you had said he liked salad because it was his mother."
The Emperor burst out laughing and said, "He is hopeless."
It would seem as if Fate had chosen the Baron to be the butt of all the plaisanteries to-day.
Later in the afternoon we drove in chars-à-bancs to St. Corneille, a lovely excursion through the woods. The carriages spun along over the smooth roads, the postilions cracked their whips and tooted their horns, the air was cold and deliciously invigorating, and we were the gayest party imaginable. One would have thought that even the worst grumbler would have been put in good spirits by these circumstances; but no! our distinguished diplomat was silent and sullen, resenting all fun and nonsense. No wonder that all conspired together to tease him.
At St. Corneille there are some beautiful ruins of an old abbey and an old Roman camp. When we came to the "Fontaine des Miracles" Mr. Mallet (of the English embassy) pulled out of his pocket a Baedeker and read in a low tone to those about him what was said about the miracles of the fountain. The Marquis de Gallifet, not wishing any amusement to take place without helping it on and adding some touches of his own, thereupon interposed in a stage whisper (evidently intended to be heard by the Baron), "The waters of this fountain are supposed to remove [then raising his voice] barrenness."
"Baroness who?" asked the diplomat, who was now all alert.
Mr. Mallet, to our amazement (who ever could have imagined him so jocose), said quite gravely, "Probably the wife of the barren fig-tree."
"Ah!" said the Baron, "I don't know them," thus snubbing all the fig- trees.