I answered, "'Come back soon to your own chickabiddy' means 'Reviens
bientôt à ta chérie,'" which apparently satisfied him.
Their Majesties thanked me with effusion, and were very gracious.
The Emperor himself brought a cup of tea to me, a very unusual thing for
him to do, and I fancy a great compliment, saying, "This is for our
chickabiddy!"
Their Majesties bowed in leaving the room; every one made a deep
reverence, and we retired to our apartments.
_November 30th._
The old, pompous, ponderous diplomat (what am I saying?)--I should have
said, "the very distinguished diplomat"--the same one the Emperor told me
yesterday was so impervious to a joke, honored me by giving me his
baronial arm for _déjeuner_. I can't imagine why he did it, unless it
were to get a lesson in English gratis, of which he was sadly in need. He
struck me as being very masterful and weighed down with the mighty affairs
of his tiny little kingdom. I was duly impressed, and never felt so
subdued in all my life, which I suppose was the effect he wished to
produce on me.
We sat like two gravestones, only waiting for an epitaph. Suddenly he
muttered (as if such an immense idea was too great for him to keep to
himself), "Diplomacy, Madame, is a dog's business." ("La diplomatie est un
métier de chien.")