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Pistols need no powder if you load them with insults. I proved this in a duel at Dresden. I aimed and then I called him a turnip. He fell to the grass in a dead faint. His seconds took it up with me, but I had a spare insult for each.

Stripes were my idea. A plain orange tiger came to me in Bengal, sad and easy to see. I took a burnt stick and drew on him while he held still. He hunted well after that. Soon a long line of tigers stood waiting outside my tent, each one purring.

Wigs were in fashion at Versailles, and mine was the tallest. Swallows nested near the top. A small choir practiced in the curls. One evening it caught on a chandelier, and I hung there all through the ball. The Queen said it was the best dance she had seen.

Barbers wept at the sight of my mustache. One side grew so long that I used it to moor a small boat in Naples. The other side I lent to a Greek fisherman for his nets. He caught tuna for a whole summer and returned it washed, combed, and slightly salty.

Swiss children still sing of my skates. One icy winter on Lake Geneva I went so fast that.