“Good Sir Richard Pendragon,” said the Count of Nullepart in his most subtle and melodious accent, “it seems to my mind that these parallels you have been learned enough to adduce from Constantinople, Tangier, Teheran, and other centres of light are extremely pregnant to this embassy. If the measure of civilization in such places--and as you say, in those countries religion is not unknown--would permit the diplomatic body to appear bonneted à la Persie before a crowned Christian prince, it seems to me that you have furnished the clearest reason why you should conform to their usage.” “You speak well, mounseer, you speak well,” said Sir Richard Pendragon with a complacent air. “My good friends,” said I, “I deplore the fact that these are not my views. Let me assure you that the act you contemplate would be far from the dignity of Spain.” The Count of Nullepart, observing that I was exercised upon the subject, was good enough to make a proviso. “Perchance, good Sir Richard,” said he, “there is one formality we should observe if we would enter the presence of majesty bonneted à la Persie. We owe it to the dignity of France, I think, that we follow the practice of Mohammedan countries. If we wear our bonnets, it seems to me that we must remove our shoes.” To this proposal Sir Richard Pendragon seemed loth to assent. The Count of Nullepart, with great courtesy, appealed to my judgment. Now I, although extremely reluctant to appear in my bonnet before a great Christian sovereign, yet felt that if such a course was imperative, the Count of Nullepart’s suggestion came from a quarter where breeding was admired. So familiar was he with the temper of courts, and so firmly did he adhere to the opinion that the removal of our shoes was necessary if the leader of our embassy was determined to wear his bonnet, that I gave my sanction to this proposal. But it was not until we had had further controversy upon the subject that Sir Richard Pendragon, still declining to remove his bonnet, at last consented to take off his shoes. “Perhaps,” said he, as he reluctantly removed them, “it will give France a better notion of our breeding.” However, when he had discarded them and he came to survey their buckles, he grew discomposed in his mind. He had purchased them expressly that morning, and very handsome and imposing did they look. “By my good soul,” he said, “I am not at all clear that silver buckles do not make a better appearance than Persian cockadoes in the palaces of the West.” “It is a mere matter of taste, my dear Sir Richard,” said the Count of Nullepart, smiling. Yet the count had already followed the example of his leader, having put on his bonnet and having doffed his shoes. I also had deemed it necessary to do the same. Therefore, when the grave French nobleman presently returned to say that the most Christian King would see us in audience, he found us seated in somewhat remarkable case. CHAPTER XXVII