Animated by a sense of duty, he set out to see the tomb of his uncle, the Prince de Joinville, at Eu, near Paris. But when, with his Grand Chamberlain, he reached the mortuary chapel, he found the door locked. The priest, it was explained, had gone away and taken the key with him. Should it be sent for? “No, no; don’t trouble,” said Ferdinand, immensely relieved, “let us go and get some lunch.” This they did, and the subject of dead uncles was not referred to, even over the coffee. Naturally Ferdinand dabbles in the fine arts. He does wonderful things with a camera, and plays the piano most beautifully. Once he composed the libretto of an opera, and took some part in the arrangement of the music. When I think that the people of Sofia had to listen to that opera, my conscience smites me for some of the harsh things I have written about the Bulgarians. They have done wrong, certainly; but they have suffered. I have read that libretto, and I know. Another much-vaunted accomplishment of the Shoddy Czar is his skill as an engine-driver. He is said to be quite at his best on the foot-plate of a locomotive. I remember what a commotion there was on the boulevards one summer evening when the news went round that Ferdinand was approaching Paris dressed as an engine-driver, and actually driving the locomotive of the train which was bearing him to the City of Light. What a rush there was to the railway station, and what a gang of secret police! But the Bulgarian Prince had dismounted from the cab at Abbeville, and indulged in a wash and a brush-up before he reached the city. On another occasion, when he was staying at Bad-Neuheim, he asked permission to drive a train to Frankfort and back, and this was granted. There was quite a crowd to greet him when the journey was finished, but his beaming face was all clouded when a sarcastic lady stepped forward and handed him a bouquet inscribed with the simple word “Bravery.” The best way out of the ridiculous situation that he could devise was to hand the flowers to the real engine-driver, with the remark, “This lady has confused you with me, my friend.” On another occasion he was telling some journalist of his skill on the engine-plate, and this man, wishing to please him, remarked that the accomplishment was a useful one, and might one day save his life. It was a tactless remark to make to a man of sensibility. “I am sorry I have no locomotive now,” he growled, “to escape from such silly remarks.” Yet it is difficult to imagine any use for what appears to be the nearest thing to a manly accomplishment he possesses. Unless he wants to run away from somewhere, his engine driving is hardly likely to be of any benefit to himself or anyone else.