nor any of the terms that are usually adopted in polite society).  “A Berlin, Sire.”  “Pourquoi a Berlin?” “Comme plenipotentiaire Francais au Congres de Berlin.”  “Oui, oui, je sais, je sais.  Cela l’interesse?” “Beaucoup; il voit tant de personnes interessantes.”  “Oui, je sais.  Il va bien?” always coming closer to me, so that I was edging back against the wall, with his hard, bright little eyes fixed on mine, and always the same sharp, jerky tone.  “Il va parfaitement bien, je vous remercie.”  Then there was a pause and he made one or two other remarks which I didn’t quite understand—­I don’t think his French went very far—­but I made out something about “jolies femmes” and pointed out one or two to him, but he still remained staring into my face and I was delighted when his minister came up to him (timidly—­all his people were afraid of him) and said some personage wanted to be presented to him.  He shook hands with me, said something about “votre mari revient bientot,” and moved off.  The Marechale asked me if I were not touched by His Majesty’s solicitude for my husband’s health, and wouldn’t I like to come to the front of the box and sit next to him, but I told her I couldn’t think of engrossing His Majesty’s attention, as there were various important people who wished to be presented to him.  I watched him a little (from a distance), trying to see if anything made any impression on him (the crowd, the pretty, well-dressed women, the march past, the long lines of infantry,—­rather fatiguing to see, as one line regiment looks very like another,—­the chasseurs with their small chestnut horses, the dragoons more heavily mounted, and the guns), but his face remained absolutely impassive, though I think he saw everything.  They told a funny story of him in London at one of the court balls.  When he had looked on at the dancing for some time, he said to the Prince of Wales:  “Tell those people to stop now, I have seen enough”—­evidently thought it was a ballet performing for his amusement.  Another one, at one of the European courts was funny.  The monarch was very old, his consort also.  When the Shah was presented to the royal lady, he looked hard at her without saying a word, then remarked to her husband:  “Laide, vieille, pourquoi garder?” (Ugly, old; why keep her?)

[Illustration:  Nasr-ed-Din, Shah of Persia.]

I went to a big dinner and reception at the British Embassy, given for all the directors and commissioners of the exposition.  It was a lovely warm night, the garden was lighted, everybody walking about, and an orchestra playing.  Many of the officials had their wives and daughters with them, and some of the toilettes were wonderful.  There were a good many pretty women, Swedes and Danes, the Northern type, very fair hair and blue eyes, attracting much attention, and a group of Chinese (all in costume) standing proudly aloof—­not the least interested apparently in the gay scene before them.  I wonder what they