Our English arm-chair critics—those who do not travel and see the country for themselves—do not understand the Balkans. They form their opinions from the incorrect and misleading statements made by journalists and by journals subsidised by the enemy. Some of the statements are so absurd as to be amusing, for they are utterly devoid of the slightest foundation of fact. Indeed, they are often mere tissues of plausible falsehoods. While in the Balkans I read extraordinary accounts in the _Zeit_ of things that, to my own personal knowledge, never happened. Each day, in fact, the latest brand-new intelligence from the Vienna factory is served up to Europe with sauce so piquant as to betray its origin. The greater part of the so-called “news” concerning the Balkans appearing in the English Press is utterly unreliable. The correspondents, with few exceptions, are Austrians, and also act as correspondents of the anti-Servian or anti-Bulgarian papers printed in Vienna. From Austria these unscrupulous scribblers gain more than from England, and therefore we are allowed glimpses of the Balkans only through Austrian spectacles. Spend a week in any Balkan city, and you will in future heed none of the glib _canards_ you read in your responsible London morning paper regarding Servia or Bulgaria. Austria and Turkey are for ever conspiring in the Balkans. Austria has her eye on Servia, while Turkey intends, if possible, to put her foot into Bulgaria, or at least to prevent the formation of a “big Bulgaria.” As far as Turkey is concerned, as long as the Sultan lives there will be no declaration of war against Bulgaria. His Majesty’s death would, I fear, be the declaration of war between the two countries—and then the sallow-faced gentleman in fez and slippers will have an unhappy time. The day of the Sultan’s death will put the Balkans aflame, and then the map of the Peninsula will assuredly be very quickly altered. But before then Bulgaria may declare war. ROUMANIA [Illustration: HIS MAJESTY KING CHARLES OF ROUMANIA.] CHAPTER I BUCHAREST OF TO-DAY My friend the spy—How I was watched through the Balkans—An exciting half-hour—The Paris of the Near East—Gaiety, extravagance, and pretty women—Forty years of progress—The paradise of the idler—Husbands wanted! My friend the spy picked me up at Rustchuk. He was a well-dressed, middle-aged man, in a black overcoat with a velvet collar. His face was sharply cut and intelligent, but his dark eyes were set rather too closely together to suit me. Suddenly I recollected having seen the same man in the streets of Sofia a week before. Indeed, I saw him frequently when in the Bulgarian capital, but until I met him that night upon the Danube steamer, between Rustchuk and Guirgevo, the thought never occurred to me that the fellow was persistently following me.