THE
LAND OF THE BEY.
BEING IMPRESSIONS OF
TUNIS UNDER THE FRENCH.
BY
T. WEMYSS REID,
AUTHOR OF “CHARLOTTE BRONTË: A MONOGRAPH,” ETC.
London:
SAMPSON LOW, MARSTON, SEARLE, & RIVINGTON,
CROWN BUILDINGS, 188, FLEET STREET.
1882.
[_All rights reserved._]
LONDON:
PRINTED BY GILBERT AND RIVINGTON, LIMITED,
ST. JOHN’S SQUARE.
CONTENTS.
* * * * *
CHAPTER I.
HOW I ATE BOUILLABAISSE AT MARSEILLES.
PAGE
A mad holiday scheme — Prophecies of evil — Paris after rain —
In the “Rapide” — Marseilles — A dish of Bouillabaisse, and a
disillusionment 1
CHAPTER II.
ON BOARD THE “CHARLES QUINT.”
A noble ship — Fellow-passengers — The vivandière — Husbands and
wives — A defect in the ship’s arrangements — “Why is an
Englishman never sea-sick?” — Bone — Hair-cutting made easy —
Colonel Allegro — The vivandière distinguishes herself — A sudden
change 18
CHAPTER III.
A WHITE SQUALL.
A crowded deck — Rough seas — La Calle and its boatmen — A
sea-fight on a small scale — Dinner under difficulties — Trying
to sleep — The small miseries of life — The Gulf of Tunis — A
beautiful prospect — Goletta — My friend Afrigan — Jewish women
— French soldiers 38
CHAPTER IV.
A FIRST GLIMPSE OF TUNIS.
An African railway-station — Fellow-countrymen — Mr. Parnell’s
arrest — The “Little Sea” — African scenery — Sketches by the
road-side — Camels, Moors, Bedouins — Tunis — The Grand Hotel —
The Bab el Bahr — Tunisian costumes — The “Grande Rue de Tunis”
— The bazaars — The slave-market 57
CHAPTER V.
THE ENGLISH CONSULATE.
Mr. Reade — His appointment as Consul-General — Changed
circumstances — The Consul at home — Walls of blue china — The
Consul’s duties — An offensive globe-trotter — A drive round the
city walls — The Spanish aqueduct — The forts of Tunis — An
awkward dilemma — My vivandière in trouble — An English home in
Tunis — A sudden alarm 78
CHAPTER VI.
A DAY AT CARTHAGE.
The pious Æneas — A street scene — A nondescript vehicle — The
road to Carthage — A wayside tragedy — Bedouin children —
_Delenda est Carthago_ — An Empire’s dust — Dido’s Palace —
The cisterns of Carthage — A lovely situation — The College of
St. Louis — English ladies in Tunis 95
CHAPTER VII.
WALKS ABOUT TUNIS.
The English burial-ground — A sad spot — The author of “Home,
sweet Home” — An Arab fortune-teller — On the top of a volcano
— The “fanatical quarters” — More eastern than the East —
Shopping in the bazaars — Mohamed the shopkeeper — Driving a
bargain — Time _versus_ money 116
CHAPTER VIII.
OUTSIDE TUNIS.
Risks outside the walls — A tantalizing prospect — The gates of
Tunis — The Belvedere hill — The French camp — Typhus — A fine
prospect — A visit to the Marsa — Mr. Reade’s country-house — A
country drive — Taib Bey — The fall of Kairwan — The Bardo — The
suzerainty of the Caliph — A quaint custom 137
CHAPTER IX.
ON THE ROAD TO KAIRWAN.
The story of a failure — Friendly warnings — Uxorious Afrigan —
A change of diet — I start for Susa — An African thunderstorm —
Susa — Troublous times — A busy scene — A miniature railway — The
English Vice-Consul — Preparations for camping-out — A new
servant — Disappointed — A “Parisian Hotel” in the Gulf of
Hammamet — A risky expedition — A faithful follower 159
CHAPTER X.
A GALE OFF CAPE BON.
A night of misery — No chance of seeing Kairwan — The Great
Mosque of Susa — The Vice-Consul’s house — An English captive in
Susa — Arab revolvers — Old friends — On board the _Ville de
Naples_ — A disturbed meal — Running for shelter — Rounding Cape
Bon — Glasgow for ever! 178
CHAPTER XI.
LAST DAYS AT TUNIS.
A retrospect — The captain of the Aristides — A curious meeting
— Tunis again — Farewell visits — Rich shopkeepers — A last
tussle with Mohamed — A real Arab gentleman — The Jeweller’s
Bazaar — A visit to the Jewish quarter — An Arabian Night’s
Entertainment — Dining, drinking, dancing 197
CHAPTER XII.
GOOD-BYE TO GOLETTA.
An Arab holiday — A state reception — A last look at the Bab el
Bahr — The heir apparent — An English sailor’s courage — Italian
greed — The _Sicilia_ — Sea-sick Arabs 221
CHAPTER XIII.
HOMEWARD BOUND.
Malta — The Union Club — A delightful change — The harbour by
moonlight — A thrilling scene — the _Elettrico_ — Etna — Messina
— Between Scylla and Charybdis — Sunrise off Naples — Home again 240
CHAPTER XIV.
POLITICS IN TUNIS.
A survey of the situation — M. Roustan’s policy — The first
campaign — The Treaty of the Bardo — The insurrection —
Bombardment of Sfax — Occupation of Tunis — March upon Kairwan
— Capture of Kairwan — Results of the French policy — English
interests — Estrangement of Italy 265
TO
W. H. MUDFORD, ESQ.
My dear Mudford,—Although the days of patrons and of epistles
dedicatory have passed away, it is still permissible to inscribe the
name of a friend on the fly-leaf of a book. I venture, therefore, to
associate your name with this trifling record of a pleasant holiday
trip. I do so not because you were in a certain sense connected with
part of my experiences in Tunis, nor even because in common with all
who have any knowledge of the Press I recognize and rejoice in the
great position you have gained in English Journalism; but because I
wish to keep alive the memory of times long past, when you and I were
bound together by the ties of an intimacy that was personal as well
as professional, and that did not a little to cheer and strengthen
me in a dark crisis of my life.
“Able editors,” though they are by no means common in this world,
may still by a happy chance be met with at any period of one’s
existence; but after a man has reached a certain age, if he does not
cease to make friends he at least discovers that he cannot afford to
part with any of those whom he made whilst he was still young. It
is therefore rather to my old friend, than to the journalist who
has done much to revive the best traditions of the English Press,
that I ask leave to dedicate this simple story; and whilst I do so,
may I add the expression of a hope that many years of usefulness
and honour still lie before you?
Yours always,
T. WEMYSS REID.
LEEDS, _Feb. 20th_, 1882.
INTRODUCTION.
* * * * *
Recent events have attracted so much attention to Northern Africa,
and to that part of it over which the Bey of Tunis has hitherto ruled,
that it seems unnecessary to offer any apology for the publication
of this volume. But if an apology is unnecessary, an explanation is
undoubtedly called for. Let me say then that I make no pretensions
to any special knowledge of Tunis. I have not attempted to write a
history of the Regency—though such a history could hardly fail to
be intensely interesting; nor have I even sought to give a complete
account of the country as it is now to be seen by visitors from a
distance. Several circumstances made it impossible that I should do
this. During the time I spent in Tunis, as will be gathered from the
following pages, the country was not only in a state of war, but was
under the influence of a very vehement anti-Christian feeling. That
feeling had found expression in hideous massacres of Christians who
had fallen into the hands of the so-called “insurgent Arabs.”
French armies were in occupation of different points in the Regency,
and were about to begin the march to the sacred city of Kairwan; and
Tunis itself had, as a matter of precaution, been strongly occupied by
the soldiers of the Republic. As a result of this state of things it
had become dangerous for any Christian to go beyond the very limited
districts in which the French troops were actually posted. Even
in Tunis itself it was perilous to visit certain quarters of the
city at any time, and after dark no European could walk about the
streets safely. Consequently it was not possible for a visitor at this
particular moment to see so much of the country as he could have done
under happier circumstances—or, indeed, so much of it as he may see
now, when there appears to be a temporary lull in the excitement of
the Arab population. My story therefore is not a complete one. But
I have endeavoured to tell, as simply and honestly as possible, the
tale of a brief visit paid to the Regency at a very exciting time,
and to give some account of the many scenes and persons of interest I
encountered during my sojourn in the Land of the Bey. As it happened,
I had some advantages as a traveller which enabled me to meet with
people and to enter houses not usually accessible to Englishmen;
and I have sought to tell an unvarnished and straightforward story
about them. I might have added a great deal of information about
the Regency generally, and the city of Kairwan in particular, for
I gathered not a little knowledge of these subjects whilst I was in
Tunis; but since I left the country Kairwan itself has been visited
by Europeans, and is now accessible to travellers, and I do not
think it desirable therefore to inflict my secondhand evidence upon
the reader. If what I have written of my own experiences and actual
observations should induce him to follow my example, and to spend a
holiday in Tunis, I feel certain that he will consider himself well
repaid for his pains by the enjoyment which the novel and picturesque
sights of that strange and romantic land cannot fail to afford him.
THE LAND OF THE BEY.
* * * * *
CHAPTER I.
HOW I ATE BOUILLABAISSE AT MARSEILLES.
A mad holiday scheme — Prophecies of evil — Paris after rain
— In the “Rapide” — Marseilles — A dish of Bouillabaisse,
and a disillusionment.
“Go to Tunis!” cried all my friends, when I intimated my
intention of taking a holiday in that little-visited district of
Northern Africa; “why, you must be mad to think of it.” And
then from each in succession there was poured forth a catalogue of
the dangers, difficulties, and hardships which I was certain to
encounter if I ventured into the dominions of the Bey. “Do you
not know that the country is in a state of war; that a French army
is on the point of occupying the city of Tunis itself; that the
Arabs are murdering every European they can catch, and the French,
not to be behind them, are doing the same by the Arabs?” “Have
you read those horrible revelations about the prevalence of typhoid
fever in Tunis? They say they are dying there by hundreds daily.”
“Do you know what the African climate is? Have you any conception
of the heat of an African sun?” These were but specimens of the
admonitions poured into my unheeding ears by my kind friends.
The truth was that my determination to visit Tunis dated from a
lovely day in October, 1880, when, sailing in the good ship _Sidon_
towards Malta, I had the entrance to the Gulf of Tunis pointed out
to me. Until that moment, although I had often looked at the place
upon the map, I had never thoroughly realized its nearness to the
shores of Europe. Tunis had seemed like Morocco or Timbuctoo or Lake
N’gami, a mysterious spot shut out from the civilized world. But
when I saw that this land in which the manners and customs of
the East are to be found to-day in a degree of perfection which
is unknown at Stamboul, was within four-and-twenty hours’ sail
of Malta, I inwardly resolved that, if the Fates were propitious,
I should make it the goal of my next year’s holiday.
Between that trip in the _Sidon_ and my voyage in the following
year a good many things had happened at Tunis. M. Roustan, aided by
his accomplices in Paris, had planned and carried out the greatest
act of international brigandage upon record, and unoffending Tunis
had been violently seized by the French army in the name of a gang
of mercenary conspirators. The hot-blooded Arabs and Moors of the
regency had not been slow to resent the usurpation of the infidel,
and a bitter war had begun. It was in the very midst of this war,
on the day on which a French army entered the city of Tunis itself
and made themselves masters of the capital, that I set off on my
journey from a Yorkshire town to an African State. I propose to
tell the story of that journey in some detail in these pages; for
it was one of singular interest, albeit accompanied by more than
one unpleasant adventure, and attended at times by an amount of
discomfort that often caused me to smile grimly at the notion that I
was engaged upon a pleasure excursion. In describing my experiences,
I shall quote largely from the diary which I kept from day to day
all through my journey; but if at any moment I feel inclined to
dwell upon a particular scene or incident, the reader will forgive
me if I lay my diary aside, and enlarge upon the rough notes made
upon the spot. I can promise him that whether in quoting from my
diary or in giving a detailed description of the various scenes I
witnessed—some of which were of more than ordinary interest—I
shall do my best to keep most strictly within the limits of the truth.
Circumstances not unconnected with an important incident in the
political history of Leeds reduced the amount of time at my disposal
for preparation for the journey to a few hours. Still the time was
sufficient to enable me to lay in the stock of light summer clothing
that I required. I shall not soon forget the amazed look of a certain
shop-keeper in Briggate, when on a stormy October day I ransacked his
stores in search of his lightest neck-ties, handkerchiefs, stockings,
and hats, such as, in his opinion, could only be worn in the hottest
days of an English summer. A revolver, a box of quinine pills,
and some other simple medicines, a portable filter, a very large
bottle of vermin powder, and a goodly flask filled with the finest
brandy formed part of my equipment. The brandy, like the medicine,
was carefully set aside for an emergency; not to be used, in fact,
save in case of illness. In due time the emergency arrived, and I
then found the provision I had made for it invaluable.
_Wednesday, October 12th_, 1881.—There is always something to
be done at the last moment. Starting from my hotel this morning
to catch the tidal express at Charing Cross, I made the melancholy
discovery that I had lost the key of one of my portmanteaus, which
accordingly could not be locked. I knew what a railway journey
from London to Marseilles with an open portmanteau portended, and
not wishing to lose half my effects before I reached the shores of
the Mediterranean, I set about procuring another key. There was
very little time to spare. I dashed into one shop after another
in the Strand, and finally, just in the nick of time, got what I
wanted. There was a great crowd of passengers at Charing Cross, and
the usual bustle and confusion in getting the baggage registered. But
at eleven o’clock punctually the train started to run through
the beautiful country between London and Folkestone. The day was
dull and raw, and the southern suburbs of the metropolis looked
melancholy enough in that damp atmosphere; but one’s eye rested
lovingly upon them, as each successive name at the wayside stations
recalled some happy incident in “the days that are no more.” My
travelling companions to Folkestone were a returned Australian, who
had left England when he was two years old, and an Irish gentleman
and his pretty sisters. “Remember, girls,” said the Irishman as
we drew near to Folkestone, “that sea-sickness is not an affection
of the stomach but of the brain. All you have to do is to bear that
fact in mind, and there will be no fear of your being sea-sick.”
Folkestone was in gala dress when we reached the place. In spite
of the wind and rain the little town was crowded; bands of music
were playing, flags were flying, and cannon were being fired. The
Prince and Princess of Wales were laying the foundation-stone of
some new docks, so that our last look at England showed us a loyal
population yelling themselves hoarse round the carriage in which
rode the heir-apparent and his pretty wife. Before we got clear
of Folkestone harbour the wind had increased to half a gale, and
no sooner were we outside than our wretched little boat began to
pitch and roll horribly. Then followed the usual scene. There were
220 passengers on board, and before long fully 200 of these were
groaning and writhing in the agonies of sea-sickness. Even those
who were proof against the malady—among whom I could happily count
myself—had an uncomfortable time of it, for the vessel shipped an
immense quantity of water. I had, of course, packed my waterproof in
one of my portmanteaus, so that I was quickly drenched to the skin,
my through ticket to Marseilles being reduced to something like a
state of pulp. Among the earliest of those who succumbed to the sea
was my Irish friend of the railway train. Either there was a flaw in
his theory concerning sea-sickness, or, like certain other preachers,
he expounded doctrines which his own faith was too weak to enable him
to accept. The grey, storm-laden sky, the broken foam-topped waves,
and the labouring boat, wrapped in its cloud of spray, made up a fine
picture; but the groans of misery all around me, and the sights and
smells of the vessel detracted greatly from one’s enjoyment of it.
After a passage of nearly three hours’ duration we reached
Boulogne. Some of the passengers had suffered so much that they
decided to stay there for the night, but, of course, most of us went
on to Paris, after paying the usual exorbitant tax to the keeper
of the _buffet_. We had a curious assemblage in the carriage in
which I found a seat. There was a shabbily-dressed old gentleman
who persistently smoked a black wooden pipe, and whom I eventually
discovered to be an English general on his way to his post in India,
another Indian going out to manage a newly-discovered gold-mine,
a smart young fellow bound for China, myself for Tunis, and three
pleasure-seeking tourists intent upon Paris and the Rhine, one
of whom I recognized as an old schoolfellow of my own. We reached
Paris at 10.30 instead of eight. So much for Sir Edward Watkin’s
performances as compared with his promises. After a long detention at
the Custom House, where, however, the usual civility was shown to us,
I and the two travellers to India found quarters in the Grand Hotel,
the familiar courtyard of which I find is now lighted by electricity.
_Thursday, October 13th_.—A beautiful morning after yesterday’s
rain and storm. Paris was looking her best when I strolled out
after my first breakfast, to secure a place in the sleeping-car for
Marseilles and a berth for Tunis. The sleeping-car, alas! is not
yet on the line. “It will be put on to-morrow.” I always find
when I miss a good thing of this sort that if I could only wait till
to-morrow it would be all right. Among misleading proverbs there is
none that more urgently requires revision than that about “the early
bird.” Or perhaps I am one of those unfortunates who are doomed by
circumstances to take the worm’s view of the situation. I do not
find there will be any difficulty in getting a berth in to-morrow’s
steamer from Marseilles to Tunis. “Monsieur, nobody goes there at
present,” says the clerk in the office of the Transatlantic Company
when I inquire upon the subject. I drive up the beautiful Champs
Elysées to call upon the L.’s. How charming Paris looks to-day
in the bright sunshine, with the trees just beginning to assume the
tints of autumn! One feels all the temptations of the spot strong
upon one, and there is an urgent desire to inquire whether a later
boat might not be just as suitable as to-morrow’s for the voyage.
After luncheon, during which Mrs. L. expresses her horror at the
notion of any one visiting Tunis for pleasure at this moment, I go
to the Ministry of War, accompanied by L., in order to ascertain
if any special permission is needed to get into Tunis. A very
polite official distinctly assures me that nothing of the kind is
required, and that I can not only enter Tunis, but travel about in
it as freely as I please. “Or rather as the Arabs please,” I
think of suggesting; but upon second thoughts it strikes me that
the joke might not be appreciated. Before I tear myself away from
the flesh-pots of Egypt, I must have one good dinner at least; so
we betake ourselves to Champeau’s, close to the Bourse, and there
indulge in those “luxuries of the Salt Market,” which I cannot
hope to carry with me across the Mediterranean. The dinner, which is
begun with oysters, is fairly good; but the bill for it is unfairly
big. This, however, is nothing to what I have to face at the Grand
Hotel, where I am charged thirteen francs for my room on the fourth
floor! As I sit smoking a last cigar in the well-known courtyard,
meditating upon merry parties I have joined in here in former days,
the evening papers bring me the announcement of Parnell’s arrest. At
that moment my travelling companion of yesterday, General A———,
passes me, and I tell him the news. “Hurrah!” shouts the general,
regardless of the fashionable crowd around him, and his battered
hat goes spinning up into the air in token of his joy.
_Friday, Oct. 14th._—A night in a French train is always a
painful penance, and my journey from Paris to Marseilles has been
no exception to the rule. We started from the Lyons Railway Station
at twenty minutes past seven last night. Of course the carriage
was full. Happily, I succeeded in getting a seat facing one of the
windows, and I was thus able to ensure the admittance of a little
fresh air. Presently, as we stole onwards during the raw, dark night
I saw that the window at the other end of the carriage was also
open. I blessed my fate which had sent me as a travelling companion
a Frenchman who actually liked fresh air. I was still marvelling
over the mystery of the existence of such a being when the gentleman
who was keeping guard over that window, addressed me in excellent
English. “Oh,” I said, “you’re an Englishman, are you? That
explains your open window. But why did you speak to me in French
before?” “Because I thought you were a Frenchman; and it was only
when I saw _your_ open window that I knew you weren’t.” Needless
to say, the companionship of my new acquaintance, Captain A———,
of the Carlton Club, beguiled the journey, at any rate during its
later stages, when we had shaken off the somnolence of night.
It was quite cold towards dawn. When day broke we found ourselves
running through something which bore a suspicious resemblance
to an English November fog. And this was in Valence! Clearly the
“sunny south” had not yet been reached. At Avignon, however,
the fog had cleared off, and I could get a good view of the famous
ruins and admire the beautiful situation of the town. From Avignon
to Marseilles the sun became hotter and ever hotter. The scenery on
either side of the line reminded me much of bits of Malta. There was
the same scanty covering of earth upon the white chalk-like rocks,
and the same semi-tropical vegetation. At last Marseilles itself
was reached, about an hour and a half behind time. Here it was
as hot and as glaring as on that day when the story of “Little
Dorrit” began, goodness knows how many years ago. I had some
trouble in getting my baggage out of the train; but I had at the
same time occasion to admire the courtesy and good arrangements of
the railway officials. When my portmanteaus had been placed in the
cab, an inspector asked me where I wished to be driven to, and then
handed me a printed paper on which he had filled up the amount to
which the cabman was entitled! I wonder when the unlucky foreigner
arriving in our beloved London will meet with a similar attention.
Marseilles is much more picturesquely situated than I had expected. It
lies at the bottom of a fine bay, with jutting promontories of high
rocks running out into the Mediterranean on either side. Behind it
is a range of barren hills in the form of an amphitheatre. The glare
of white from the city and the surrounding country is positively
painful. As for the town itself, it reminded me in one part of
Glasgow—Glasgow with an Italian sky overhead!—in another part
of Paris, and in a third of Syra. It seems, indeed, to present a
curious admixture of different styles of street architecture; but
the prevailing type is decidedly Oriental. As I drove through the
glaring streets down to the dock where my steamer for Tunis lay,
I saw the _lazzaroni_ lying sleeping in the noon-day sun, and,
among curious or unfamiliar spectacles, I had time to observe the
professional letter-writer in the Market-square, to whom a girl was
whispering some message of love or intrigue. It was delightful on
reaching the steamboat, a splendid Glasgow-built vessel, belonging
to the Transatlantic Company, to be able to indulge in a bath and a
change of linen. After that, as much refreshed as though I had been in
bed for the traditional eight hours, I set forth to keep rendezvous
with my travelling acquaintance, Captain A———, at the Maison
Dorée, in order that we might together partake of Bouillabaisse.
Do you know what Bouillabaisse is, good reader? Possibly not;
and yet I can hardly suppose that you are ignorant of the name of
this wonderful dish. It has as high a place in English literature
as the roast pig immortalized by Charles Lamb. Has not Thackeray
taken it as a title of his most beautiful poem? You must have read
that noble Ballad of Bouillabaisse, and having read you can never
have forgotten it.
A street there is in Paris famous,
For which no rhyme our language yields,
Rue Neuve de Petits Champs its name is—
The New Street of the Little Fields.
And here’s an inn, not rich and splendid,
But still in comfortable case;
The which in youth I oft attended,
To eat a bowl of Bouillabaisse.
Ever since I first read those immortal lines, I had been longing
for the chance of eating Bouillabaisse. I could no longer do so in
“the New Street of the Little Fields,” for Terré’s Tavern has
disappeared from the surface of the earth. But I knew that Marseilles
was the headquarters of Bouillabaisse, the spot where alone it can
be eaten in perfection; and so I waited for the opportunity which
had now at last arrived.
This Bouillabaisse a noble dish is—
A sort of soup or broth, or brew,
Or hotchpotch of all sorts of fishes
That Greenwich never could outdo;
Green herbs, red peppers, mussels, saffern,
Soles, onions, garlic, roach, and dace.
So sings Thackeray. A———, who, like myself, had never tasted
the dish before, quoted the lines to me with enthusiasm, and we
prepared ourselves for a wondrous treat as we sat in that cool, shady
best dining-room of the Maison Dorée, looking out through the green
Venetian blinds upon the hot and crowded Southern street. Alas! for
disillusionment. When the Bouillabaisse appeared we attacked it
eagerly. It was a thick sort of stew, in which there were many fishes,
chiefly of the bony, spiky description, a considerable quantity of
red pepper, saffron, and garlic, and an inordinate amount of bread.
A——— was the first to succumb. “I don’t care for it,” he said, pushing
his plate away, and gulping down a goblet of Burgundy. If I had spoken
the truth, I should have made the same admission; but loyalty to my
great Master kept me silent. Only for a minute or two, however. With
profound thankfulness I recognized the fact that my plate was empty,
and eagerly declined the invitation of the waiter to accept of more.
And this dismal fish curry was the far-famed Bouillabaisse! Thackeray
must have been more _gourmand_ than _gourmet_ if he really liked it.
But I consoled myself with the thought that though Bouillabaisse might
not be worth eating, nothing could affect the charm of the immortal
ballad, and whilst I waited for the next course I quoted, quite
inappropriately, a few more lines from it:—
Ah me! how quick the days are flitting!
I mind me of a time that’s gone,
When here I’d sit as now I’m sitting,
In this same place—but not alone.
I had got so far in my sentimental rambling when a voice I recognized
fell upon my ear. I looked up, and lo! at the next table sat a man
whom I had last seen standing in front of the Treasury Bench in the
House of Commons, Sir Charles Dilke, the Under-Secretary for Foreign
Affairs. And he, too, was making believe to eat Bouillabaisse at
the Maison Dorée at Marseilles. I hope he liked it.