The Shah, for that matter, was no less distrustfull of his own subjects; in fact, I observed that, when the Persians were in his presence, they adopted a uniform attitude which consisted in holding their hands crossed on their stomach, no doubt as evidence of their harmless intentions. It was a guarantee of a very casual sort, we must admit. For the rest, his "alarms" displayed themselves under the most diverse aspects and in the most unexpected circumstances. For instance, there was no persuading him ever to ascend the Eiffel Tower. The disappointment of his guides was increased by the fact that he would come as far as the foot of the pillars; they always thought that he meant to go up. But no: once below the immense iron framework, he gazed up in the air, examined the lifts, flung a timid glance at the staircases, then suddenly turned on his heels and walked away. They told him in vain that his august father had gone up as far as the first floor; nothing could induce him to do as much. I again remember a day--it was at the time of his second stay in Paris--when, on entering his drawing-room, I found him wearing a very careworn air. "Paoli," he said, taking my hand and leading me to the window, "look!" Look as I might, I saw nothing out of the way. Down below, three bricklayers stood on the pavement, talking quietly together. "What!" said the Shah. "Don't you see those men standing still, down there. They have been there for an hour, talking and watching my window. Paoli, they want to kill me." Repressing a terrible wish to laugh, I resolved to reassure our guest with a lie: "Why, I know them!" I replied. "I know their names: they are decent working-men." Muzaffr-ed-Din's face lit up at once: "You seem to know everybody," he said, giving me a grateful look. [Illustration: THE SHAH OF PERSIA]