“Grotesque, horrible machines” was “Mulai’s” comment on the hats of the fashionable Frenchwomen. The military bands, “they drive me mad.” The actresses, “shameless and shocking”—they should be veiled like the ladies of Morocco. “Where is your sun?” demanded the ex-Sultan, looking up at the grey skies. “I am so bored that I am going to bed. What a people, what a country!” All this, and more, the Yellow journalists gleefully repeated in their newspapers. Then, photographs of “Mulai” scowling, of “Mulai” disdainful, of “Mulai” contemptuous. So that when “Mulai” came to Paris, still scowling, the Hippolyte Durands were indignant at his bad manners. In France, you mustn’t speak ill of anything French: especially when you are in receipt of a pension of 350,000 francs a year. But “Mulai” didn’t care. He was for ever taking the Paris journalists into his confidence, and more and more unflattering became his comments on French life. As it rained every day, his temper was detestable; and he has been seen to shake his fist at the French skies. Then he omitted to salute the French flag: he described the French language as ridiculous; he yawned in the Louvre: and he retired to bed through sheer boredom a dozen times a day. Also, “Mulai” was said to be furious because the Press had compared him unfavourably with Sisowath, the amazing ebony-black monarch of Cambodia. “Sisowath,” said the papers, was not only _rigolo_. When he came to Paris seven years ago he wore brilliant robes, a multitude of diamonds—as well as a battered old top-hat. And he laughed and laughed all day long. Not only did he kiss his great black hands at the Parisiennes, but he showered silver amongst the crowd. And he meant it kindly when he hugged bald, portly State officials. In a word, black, enormous Sisowath of Cambodia was an unsophisticated, affectionate, merry old soul. But, in “Mulai’s” estimation, Sisowath is a savage, and furious, as I have said, is the ex-Sultan that he should be mentioned in the same breath with him. Socially, in fact, “Mulai’s” visit to France is anything but a success. He has been raging against French boots, because, after putting on a pair, they pinched him. He has been cursing French automobiles, because they travel so fast. And he has hurled a French suit of clothes (especially made for him) out of the window, because of the buttons. “Ah non, c’est trop fort,” cries Hippolyte Durand, as he reads of “Mulai’s” outbursts in the papers. And still greater becomes his indignation, when he comes upon the following statement:—“The situation in Morocco continues serious. The Vled Bu Beker, of the Rehama tribe, is active. The attitude of the Vled Belghina and the Vled Amrane Fukania is threatening. The Hiania tribesmen are gathered at Safrata on the Wed Sebu. At Ben Guerie, Bab Aissa, Suk-el-Arba and——” “I will read no more; I understand nothing, I am distracted!” cries M. Hippolyte Durand. “Ah, _nom d’un nom_, what a sinister country is this Morocco!”