I had an idea then that his majesty must have meant this for sarcasm though my own experience told me that it was only too true; and it also occurred to me that I was not in my true station as the representative of a government of “asses.”  Nothing but a stern sense of duty prevented me from clearing out at once under this last harrowing reflection.  Accordingly, I returned to the charge with diminished vigor, assuring the King that if his army kept on blockading Paris in this cruel sort of way, the population would soon be dying by thousands.  It was very strange why he wouldn’t draw off his troops.  What did he want with Paris?  What had Paris done to him?  Weren’t there plenty of other cities in this world that didn’t care a cent how much he bombarded them?  (I began to think that possibly I might be growing childish in my method of stating the case, but it was only a momentary weakness that made me think so.) Where was Tyre?  Let him go and bombard Tyre.  Nobody cares for Tyre now.  Where was Sidon?  If he wanted to throw away his ammunition, let him “go” for Sidon.  Where was Tuckahoo, New Jersey?  Would New York care if Tuckahoo was reduced to the level of its original swamp?  Moreover, there were lots of cities away off in China, yearning to have the rays of modern civilization let into them.  Would it be anything out of his way to travel in that direction with a few big KRUPP guns, and give civilization a fair opening to get in at?  Wasn’t it cowardly to be punching all the time at one poor, miserable little town like Paris, that ain’t big enough to help itself, and wouldn’t have done the same by him no matter if it got ever so many high old chances?  “Think of it, oh! think of it, my royal brother,” I said, laying a hand on each of his royal shoulders.  He took my hands off, and told BISMARCK to bring him a wisp-broom.  It was a cruel insult, but I stood unmoved in the midst of it.  “Perhaps at some future hour and place, Your Majesty, we may meet under different circumstances.”  That was a proposition he exhibited no disposition to deny.  At this juncture a courier arrived from the front, breathless with excitement, and speechless too.  The King seized him by the back of the neck and shook him violently, but the poor fellow couldn’t articulate a word, I suggested that cold keys be put down his back, and his feet thrust into the fire.  That brought him to so fast that I got behind an arm-chair for protection.  In a few seconds he gathered voice enough to say: 

“S-S-Sire, P-P-P-Paris is e-eatin’ u-u-up the m-m-mon-monkeys.”

Fatal news!  It was all up with my museum.

Paris reduced to monkeys, and no treaty signed!

Horrible catastrophe!

I offered myself to Satan for a good lie—­anything, I didn’t care what, to clinch matters, and bring the King to terms.  The Old Boy served me.

“Your Majesty, I forebore to tell you the worst; but it can be kept back no longer.  You must fly from here; fly from Paris.  Your worthy queen, the great, the good, the patriotic AUGUSTA, is now lying at the point of—­”