The Bosphorus—The commissionnaires—Nothing like the Hôtel de Luxembourg—Perdrix aux truffes—Baksheesh—Officials in the custom-house—A rickety old carriage—A Turkish Café Chantant—A vocalist—Sultan Abdul Aziz—His kismet—We are all under the influence of destiny—"Great Sultan, rest in peace!"—Did Sultan Abdul Aziz really kill himself?—The popular belief—He had agreed to sell the fleet to Russia—A Russian force to garrison Constantinople—Two of the secret police—The other verse—The audience—Too much liberty in Constantinople—English newspapers, hostile to Turkey, sold at every bookstall—An English army of occupation in Constantinople—No gold; nothing but paper—Trade paralyzed—In search of a servant—A Mohammedan servant; his costume—A coachman to a Pacha—Buffaloes as a means of locomotion—Mr. Schuyler—Mr. Gallenga—Our consul at Belgrade—Mr. Sala—The stations along the Russian line crowded with troops—Mr. McGahan very popular with the Christians—The Turkish newspapers—A ruse on the part of England—An English officer—A strategic position—Some influential Armenians—"We have no wish to become Russian subjects"—The Catholics in Poland—Similar treatment required for all sects—The word of a Christian in a court of law—An Armenian priest—From Scutari to Kars—The road blocked by snow—The dread of being seen speaking to a European. The following morning my servant awoke me with the announcement that we had arrived in the Bosphorus, and that he had not been able to eat his supper. By this last piece of intelligence he wished to convey to my mind that the storm had been more than usually violent. I was soon dressed, and, going on deck, found it crowded with interpreters from the different hotels. During previous sojourns in Constantinople, I had learnt by experience the discomfort of some of the purely British establishments. I had made up my mind on this occasion to try a French hotel. My hands were filled with cards announcing the merits of the different inns. The commissionnaires were deafening me with their shouts, each man bawling louder than his fellow, when the silk-merchant declared in a loud voice that there was nothing like the Hôtel de Luxembourg, and he added that the _perdrix aux truffes_ and the _vol-au-vent à la financière_, as supplied by the chef of that establishment, were something—yes, something; and he kissed the tips of his fingers as he made the last remark, so as to show his appreciation of the exquisiteness of those dishes. "Perhaps the gentlemen do not wish their luggage examined?" said an officious Greek, the commissionnaire of the Luxembourg. "I will give a baksheesh to the officials in the custom-house, and they will pass the luggage at once. But if we do not give them any money," he added, with a knowing grin, "they will detain you at least an hour, and rumple all the shirts in your portmanteaus."