some self-restraint to listen to the old diplomatist, for his stories
were beyond all belief, and yet he was quick at detecting the shadow of
a smile or the slightest little raising of the eyebrows. Then his huge,
rounded back would straighten itself, his bull-dog chin would project,
and his r's would burr like a kettledrum. When he got as far as, "Ah,
monsieur r-r-r-rit!" or "Vous ne me cr-r-r-royez pas donc!" it was quite
time to remember that you had a ticket for the opera.

There was his story of Talleyrand and the five oyster-shells, and there
was his utterly absurd account of Napoleon's second visit to Ajaccio.
Then there was that most circumstantial romance (which he never ventured
upon until his second bottle had been uncorked) of the Emperor's escape
from St. Helena--how he lived for a whole year in Philadelphia, while
Count Herbert de Bertrand, who was his living image, personated him at
Longwood. But of all his stories there was none which was more
notorious than that of the Koran and the Foreign Office messenger. And
yet when Monsieur Otto's memoirs were written it was found that there
really was some foundation for old Lacour's incredible statement.

"You must know, monsieur," he would say, "that I left Egypt after
Kleber's assassination. I would gladly have stayed on, for I was
engaged in a translation of the Koran, and between ourselves I had
thoughts at the time of embracing Mahometanism, for I was deeply struck
by the wisdom of their views about marriage. They had made an
incredible mistake, however, upon the subject of wine, and this was what
the Mufti who attempted to convert me could never get over. Then when
old Kleber died and Menou came to the top, I felt that it was time for
me to go. It is not for me to speak of my own capacities, monsieur, but
you will readily understand that the man does not care to be ridden by
the mule. I carried my Koran and my papers to London, where Monsieur
Otto had been sent by the First Consul to arrange a treaty of peace; for
both nations were very weary of the war, which had already lasted ten
years. Here I was most useful to Monsieur Otto on account of my
knowledge of the English tongue, and also, if I may say so, on account
of my natural capacity. They were happy days during which I lived in
the square of Bloomsbury. The climate of monsieur's country is, it must
be confessed, detestable. But then what would you have? Flowers grow
best in the rain. O