"Parce qu'elle était ma mère!" he replied, and laughed immoderately, until such a fit of coughing set in that I thought there would not be a button left on him. When he had finished exploding he said, "Did you understand the 'choke'?" If I had not understood the "choke," I understood the choking, and I thought any more jokes like this would be the end of him then and there. I answered quite seriously, "I think I would understand better, if I knew what sort of salad his Majesty meant." He shook his head and said he did not think it made any difference what sort of salad it was. And we became tombstones again. I could hardly wait till we returned to the salon, I was so impatient to tell the Emperor of the Baron's latest version. As his Majesty was near me, talking to some lady during the _cercle_, I stepped forward so as to attract his attention. He soon moved toward me, and I, against all the rules of etiquette, was the first to speak. "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. "A very old family," said Mallet, "mentioned in the Bible."