"You will sit in that carriage," said an obese and rubicund Englishman to his groom, pointing to my compartment; "I cannot go with servants;"—and he entered another carriage. Farther on I saw the portly personage in the refreshment-room at Dijon. He was talking to a little Frenchman, and apparently on the best of terms with him. The sound of their voices was mingled with the jingling of glasses and the clinking of knives and forks. Every one was eating as fast as he could. The waiters were serving the different travellers with lightning rapidity, and the proprietor of the buffet was calling out from time to time in a deep bass voice,— "Ne vous pressez pas, messieurs. Il y a encore 10 minutes avant le départ du train." "Who is the little man?" I inquired of a talkative Yankee who was sitting by my side during the _table d'hôte_. "He, sir? He is my cook, and I am taking him with me to Nice." The obese Englishman heard the remark, and became more rubicund than before. "I reckon I have collapsed him," muttered the American. "If I have to travel with his darned servant, I don't see why he should not travel with mine." The train rattled on. Each man in our crowded compartment tried to compose himself to sleep; the red light from the American's cigar gradually died away, and the individual himself, coolly lolling his head on his neighbour's shoulder, sank into semi-unconsciousness. The morn broke bright and glorious. Winter was left behind; we were in the land of orange-trees and olives. The steamer for Constantinople started at four o'clock that afternoon, so we drove straight from the station in Marseilles to the harbour. Here I found a splendid vessel belonging to Les Messageries Maritimes, and which was already getting up steam. The captain was bustling about, giving orders. The crew were hauling in the ponderous anchors.