One evening, General Vallee had an entertainment got up for him in the harem.  There were great illuminations, singing, music with tambourine accompaniment and the danse du ventre.  Amongst those present was General de Caraman, who commanded the artillery.  He was seized with cholera just as he was going away, and was dead by six o’clock the next morning.  Such is life!  Several adventures arose out of the fact of the harem’s presence.  One fine night, when everybody was asleep, two of the officers of infantry irregulars on guard took it into their heads to knock at the door, and were filled with delighted surprise on hearing the gentle voice of the good-natured cantiniere reply, “Is that you?  Well upon my word,” and the door opened.  But within less than two minutes the frightful uproar caused by two hundred women shrieking at once roused the whole of head-quarters, and our two officers tore full pace back to the guardroom and got the men under arms.  This scare, and it may be some others too, added to the pestiferous smell from the negresses’ quarters, made the authorities resolve to get rid of all this human cattle and distribute it amongst the most well-to-do of the Mussulman population.  I went to look on at their departure, which was presided over by a major on the staff, assisted by a detachment of irregulars.  The women had been warned the evening before, and leave had been given for each to take away as much as she herself could carry.  So they had spent the whole night rolling as many precious stuffs round their waists as they could support the weight of, and we found ourselves face to face with human balloons, like monstrous gourds.  They could hardly walk, even when held up by the soldiers, and getting through the doorways was more difficult still.  Some of them, hauled at in front and pushed from behind, shot through like the cork of a champagne bottle.  Others, who could not squeeze through at all, were made over to the soldiers to be reduced to the necessary size, the whole thing accompanied by a chorus of shouts and objurgations of every kind.  But to pass from the harem to graver subjects.  On October 18th, I was present at the military funeral of the Comte Damremont.  It was a moving sight.  Some few hundred yards from the spot where he had been killed, just at the foot of the breach, a cenotaph had been built of sand-bags, on which the coffin, with his General’s cloak, and his sword and white feathered hat laid on it, had been placed.  The weather had gone into mourning too, for the occasion.  It was a very gloomy day.  The whole Arab population was looking on, squatting on the walls.  On the top of the breach were planted the colours of the 47th Regiment.  Below it the Zouaves’ drums rolled a funeral march, while the officers did obeisance for the last time to the remains of their former general.  And what officers they were too!  How many future men of mark there were in that assemblage, which, not to mention its chiefs, numbered Captains Niel, Canrobert, MacMahon, St. Arnault, Le Boeuf, Ladmirault, Morris, Leflo, and many another in its ranks!