"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.
There were not many passengers on board; only a silk merchant from Lyons, a rabid republican, and a pretty Greek girl,—a friend of Madame Ignatieff, the wife of the Russian ambassador at Constantinople,—who, after paying a visit to some friends in Paris, was again on her way to Constantinople. Our vessel was soon steaming ahead. She ploughed her way splendidly through the waters, and hardly a motion could be perceived inside the spacious saloon which formed the dining-room of the passengers. We were but a small party. The captain, a cheery tar who had been in every part of the world, and knew more stories about the unguardedness of the fair sex than perhaps any other mortal living. The doctor, a somewhat bilious and elderly gentleman, who became easily excited on all religious questions, and gave short dissertations between the courses on the respective merits of medicine and Christianity. The silk-merchant, who cursed the empire, and then informed us that trade had never been so flourishing as under Napoleon's rule. Presently he told me in a whisper that some Frenchmen wished for another Emperor, and he concluded, with an oath, that if there were, he would head a revolution and sacrifice his own life—yes, his own life!—sooner than that the Prince Imperial should sit upon the throne of France.
We steam into the bay of Smyrna; the picturesque and undulating coast is shaded in a framework of azure clouds; the sea, blue as lapis lazuli, is dotted with numerous vessels; flags of almost every nation in the world float in the balmy air; the clean white houses, with their many-coloured wooden shutters, brighten up the glorious landscape; and boatmen, dressed in garbs of many hues and fashions, throng the sides of our vessel.
"I am going on shore," said the silk-merchant, who was surrounded by a crowd of vociferous Greeks. "Our steamer will not start for several hours. Let us dine in a café, and see if the fair sex in this part of Turkey is as beautiful as some travellers would have us believe."
I accepted his proposal, and we walked through the streets of Smyrna. The town, clean as it looked from the harbour, proved to be a hideous deception. The streets were narrow and dirty, and the odour which everywhere met our olfactory nerves, was strongly suggestive of typhus. Women were seated in the patios or open courts of the houses, and the Greek ladies in Smyrna are evidently not shy. They boldly returned the inquisitive glances of my companion and myself, and appeared rather pleased than otherwise at our curiosity.