Vienna, Hofburg Palace.
Seated on the throne, Franz simply couldn't make a 79-year-old foreign envoy stand while expressing his good faith.
The audience alone would take over an hour, even as a mere formality, and the other man clearly had business to discuss.
Franz had no doubt that the old man before him, worn down by wine and women, might drop dead on the spot.
"Bring Old Pasha Ali a chair."
"No, Your Majesty, Emperor of the Austrian Empire. I don't need one. Please allow me to fulfill my duty as an envoy."
Franz was a little helpless, but he nodded.
In the eyes of the Austrian Empire's officials, Muhammad Ali's behavior was clearly rude and arrogant, and on top of that, ungrateful.
They had never thought much of those who wore white turbans, and now they despised him all the more.
Baron Bordeaux, however, knew what to do. After all, he had served Franz for so long. He immediately ordered someone to summon Vienna's finest medical team. They absolutely could not let the old fellow die in Hofburg Palace.
After the formal ceremony ended, Franz invited Muhammad Ali to attend a small banquet at Hofburg Palace.
In reality, it was a private meeting, since Muhammad Ali had nearly run out of strength while reading that lengthy letter of credence.
At last, the stubborn Albanian agreed to Franz's proposal.
A quarter of an hour later, in the small banquet hall.
Seated in a chair, Muhammad Ali looked much better than before. At least he showed none of the heart palpitations, gasping, or other signs of breathing difficulty.
"Your Majesty Franz, I have always envied you. Your country is so beautiful and prosperous, and your people are obedient and wise.
"Unlike the Egyptians. They're either brutes who know nothing but war