For Bulgaria had a real ruler, in spite of the kidnapping of its first prince and the appointment of a half-pay lieutenant to take his place. He was a little, fat, dirty man, the son of an innkeeper named Stambuloff. One can measure Bulgarian character by the stamp of the greatest man Bulgaria has yet produced. Stambuloff, the patriot statesman, was not ashamed to admit that he made Sofia the Bulgarian capital, because he owned large holdings of land there, and could reap a fortune from the circumstance. And before his coronation as Prince of Bulgaria Ferdinand had a sufficing taste of the mastery of this overlord who ruled his new subjects with a rod of iron. The Prince had designed his own coronation robe, a tasteful garment in purple and ermine that became him marvellously. Nicely scented, and jewelled in admirable taste, he encountered his Prime Minister, who was smoking a black cigar that smelt like the burning of old boots—what the Americans call a cooking cigar—and displayed a liberal portion of Bulgarian soil under his long finger-nails. Stambuloff looked him over with a loud snort. “I cannot, and will not, be seen with you, if you don’t take that rubbish off,” he shouted; and then as a malicious afterthought added: “Why not spend the money on a trusty body-guard?” And the ruffian laughed aloud as Ferdinand went livid in his gorgeous purple and ermine robe. For it was an open secret that Bulgaria held no terror for Ferdinand to compare with his fear of assassination. But even the fear of assassination could not scare him off his uneasy throne. “Mon Dieu!” said he. “As they leave me here I will remain. The position is not particularly brilliant, but where is a better one to be found? I am a reigning prince. I have a pretty good civil list, and rather pleasant shooting. I might as well be here as anywhere else.” There, you see, is the real Ferdinand, with his habitual cant phrases laid aside for once. And he soon found an occupation that pleased him infinitely, and filled in the gaps of his time very pleasantly while he was making acquaintance with the language and customs of Bulgaria. He occupied himself with the organization of such a secret police service as has disgraced no other country in the nineteenth century. The ranks of this precious service were recruited from handy foreigners who had established themselves in Bulgaria for some time. In that service promotion was rapid—provided that the agent was a good and trustworthy assassin. He paid these worthies out of his own pocket, and their work was the constant espionage on all the leading men of Bulgaria. Thus he got acquainted with all the peccadilloes of the men who governed the country for him, while they despised the scented dandy who came among them with such show of royal state.