I had an opportunity of examining the commercial statistics for the present year, not yet published, and they showed on the exports an augmentation on each of the past six years of considerably over 100 million francs. This, in itself, speaks volumes for the prosperity of this the most civilised and progressive nation of the Orient, which has, no doubt, a greater and far more brilliant future before it. [Illustration: HER MAJESTY THE QUEEN OF ROUMANIA.] CHAPTER III A CHAT WITH THE QUEEN OF ROUMANIA The royal drawing-room—Her Majesty’s greeting—Her kind words of welcome—Roumania not in the Balkan States—We talk politics—The name of “Carmen Sylva”—The Queen’s deep interest in the blind—She shows me some photographs—Public interest in the new institution—I visit it next day. I was standing one Sunday evening in the great drawing-room of the royal palace at Bucharest, chatting with Madame Zoe Bengesco, lady-in-waiting to the Queen of Roumania. Madame Maurojeni, _grande-maîtresse_ of Her Majesty’s Court, had appointed my audience for half-past six, and as the bowing liveried servants had conducted me through the great entrance and up the large red-carpeted horse-shoe staircase, I was struck with the old-fashioned comfort, combined with taste, everywhere displayed. While chatting with Madame Bengesco, who was inquiring after some mutual friends in Belgrade, I glanced around the great salon or salons—for there are two of equal proportions, the one running at right angles with the other. Splendid old brocade-covered furniture, tables with interesting knick-knacks, a grand piano, the fine organ upon which Her Majesty so often plays, beautiful hangings, magnificent paintings upon the walls and old Persian rugs upon the polished floor, all combined, under the soft electric light, to produce a harmony of quiet taste and luxury. The salons were huge, high-ceilinged, and splendid, yet there was an air of homeliness about them, and indeed about the whole palace, that I have not found in other royal palaces of Europe wherein I have been received. The great quiet room bore traces of the artistic hand of Her Majesty herself. I had asked for audience not without some misgiving, for His Majesty the King was lying very ill, and the Queen—the “Carmen Sylva” of European literary fame—was at his bedside always, administering to her sick husband’s wants, nursing him, and reading aloud to him for hours each day. For weeks she had given audience to no one, therefore it was a pleasant surprise when Madame Maurojeni told me that the Queen was going to make an exception in my case. I was chatting with Madame Bengesco, and suddenly turned to find Her Majesty—a tall, fine figure _en décolletée_, a sweet smile of welcome upon her face—standing before me. She wore a very handsome gown of pale dove-grey _crêpe-de-chine_, but no jewellery save a single gold bracelet and one or two very fine rings.