He gave me such a withering look that I wished I had never made this silly
remark.
All the same, he unbent a little and, with a dismal twinkle in his eye,
his face brightening, and launching into frivolity, said: "The Emperor
told me something very funny the other day. (I knew what was coming.)
He asked me why I liked salad." Turning to me he said, "Can you guess the
answer?"
I had many ready for him; but I refrained and only said, "No, what was
it?"
"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."