‘Fair princess,’ he said to the lady, ‘sing me, I beg you, something pleasant. They say that you sing charmingly.’

These words, although spoken in a very familiar way, did not at all displease the daughter of Boyruc. Instead of being offended, she burst out laughing.

‘Very willingly,’ she said, ‘my dear Catalpan; there is nothing that I will not do for you.’

She immediately ordered a well-tuned lute, and sang a very beautiful air in the Persian manner, which she accompanied with the instrument. Then, taking a tambourine, she sang another air in the Arabian manner.

The king, who had never heard such good singing nor such excellent playing on the lute and tambourine, was transported with pleasure, and, for­getting that he wished to pass for a slave, ‘You enchant me, madam,’ he cried; ‘however attractive a picture Couloufe may have given of you, he has not said enough about you.’

The son of Abdallah made signs to him to stop in vain: there was no means of doing so.

‘No,’ pursued the prince, ‘Isaac Mouseli, my musician, whose voice is so much praised, does not sing as agreeably as you.’

Dilara, recognising by these words that the man whom she took for a slave was the king him­self, rose abruptly and ran to fetch a veil to cover her face.

‘Ah, we are lost!’ she said low to her women. ‘It is not a slave who came here with Couloufe, it is the king!’

After having said that, she returned to find Mirgehan, and did not dare sit down before him.

‘Sit down, madam,’ said the prince; ‘it is for me to stand in your presence. Am I not your slave? I should not have sat down at all, if, as my sovereign mistress, you had not ordered me to do so.’

The daughter of Boyruc began to weep at these words.

‘Ah! great monarch,’ she said, throwing her­self at his feet, ‘I humbly beg your majesty to have pity on me. I am an inexperienced maiden. You have witnessed my fault; deign, I pray you, to pardon it.’

The king raised the lady, consoled her, told her to fear nothing, and asked her who she was. She satisfied his curiosity, after which he left the house with Couloufe, and regained the palace.

The pleasantries which Dilara had indulged in with Couloufe about Ghulendam were productive of sad results. Mirgehan suspected his favourite and the son of Abdallah of loving one another, and he thought that without regard to their duty, they dared in his very palace to confess their love.

By having them both closely watched he would soon have been persuaded of the falseness of his suspicions, but he was one of those jealous persons who only listen to their jealousy, and who, yield­ing to the first impression given them, think it unnecessary to be further enlightened.

For this reason, the very next day, without seek­ing to verify his conjectures, he sent to tell Couloufe that he forbad him to appear henceforth before him, and that he wished him to leave Caracoram that very day.

The favourite, although he was conscious of the cause of his disgrace, having nothing to reproach himself with, did not despair of attesting his innocence if he could succeed in getting a hearing. He neglected, however, to seek means to justify himself. He yielded with a good grace to his misfortune. He obeyed the king’s order, and joining a great caravan which was going to China, he went with it to Samarcand. As no one knew better than he how to resist misfortune, he was not overwhelmed by this fresh blow. Since he had already found himself in a miserable situa­tion, all accidents of life appearing inevitable to him, as has already been said, nothing could bend the strength of his spirit.

He lived in Samarcand, giving himself up to everything heaven had demanded of him. He lived well, and amused himself so long as he had money.

When he had none left he went and placed himself at the corner of a mosque. The ministers interrogated him on his religion, and finding him very learned, they gave him a daily alms of two loaves and a jug of water, with which he lived very contentedly. Now, it happened one day that a great merchant called Mouzaffer came to pray in this mosque. He cast his eyes on Couloufe and called him.

‘Young man,’ he said, ‘whence are you, and what chance brings you to this town?’

‘My lord,’ replied the son of Abdallah, ‘I am the child of a Damascus family. I had the wish to travel. I came to Tartary, and some miles from Samarcand I met some robbers, who killed my servants and robbed me.’

Mouzaffer, having listened to Couloufe, believed him, and said to him: ‘Do not distress yourself, good fortune is linked to bad, you may find here means of consolation; get up and follow me to my house.’

The son of Abdallah did as he was told, and when he got to the merchant’s house he judged Mouzaffer to be a very rich man. A shop full of rich stuffs, precious furniture, and the very large number of servants he saw, caused him to form this opinion. And he was not wrong, Mouzaffer had considerable wealth.

This merchant made Couloufe sit beside him at table and first offered him some sherbet. Then cates and very savoury meats were presented to them. After the dinner they conversed together, and Mouzaffer then dismissed him with some presents.

The following day the merchant returned to the same mosque. He took the son of Abdallah, conducted him to his house, and regaled him as on the preceding day.

There was there a doctor named Danischemend, who, taking Couloufe aside after the repast, spoke to him thus:

‘Young stranger, the lord Mouzaffer, the master of this house, has a plan for you, a plan which demands prompt execution and which ought to please you in the present condition of your affairs. You know that he has an only son named Taher, who is a young man of a very violent dispo­sition. This Taher has recently married the daughter of a great foreign lord. The husband, in his usual impetuous manner, has offended his wife. She has retaliated by words full of contempt and pride. This has so irritated Taher that he has repudiated her. He repented a moment after, for she is a very beautiful person and he loves her passionately; but the laws do not permit of his taking her back until another man has first married and repudiated her. That is why Mouzaffer hopes you will marry her this very day, according to the law of Islam, and repudiate her to-morrow. He will give you fifty gold sequins. Will you not do this for him?’

‘Very willingly,’ replied Couloufe. ‘I am quite disposed to render him this service. He has received me too well for me to refuse to do any­thing he wishes; and, moreover, I feel no repug­nance for what he proposes to me.’

‘I quite believe it,’ replied Danischemend. ‘There are in this town a great many men who would ask nothing better than to be chosen on this occasion. Are there not fifty gold sequins to be gained? The wife of Taher is of perfect beauty. Her body is straighter than a cypress; she has a round face, well separated and arched eyebrows, and her glances are so many poisoned arrows. The snow is not whiter than her complexion, and her little crimson mouth resembles a rosebud. Therefore as many friends could be found in Samarcand,’ continued Danischemend, ‘as one wished; but it is preferable that he should be a stranger, because those sort of things should be done as secretly as possible. Mouzaffer has cast his eyes on you. I am the lieutenant of the cadi, and consequently vested with power to marry you to this charming lady this com­bination of all perfections; and, if you wish, from this very moment you shall be the possessor of the fifty sequins.’

‘I consent,’ replied the son of Abdallah. After the portrait you have just drawn of her, you may well think that I wish I had already met her.’

‘Yes, but,’ said Danischemend, ‘you must promise to repudiate her at once, and to leave Samarcand instantly with the money which will be given you. The family of the lord Mouzaffer will not be pleased for you to remain in this town after this adventure.’

‘I will not stay long,’ replied Couloufe, ‘and if promising is not enough, I swear that to-morrow I will repudiate the lady you have made me marry.’

He had no sooner taken this oath than the lieutenant of the cadi informed Mouzaffer that the young stranger was ready to serve his wishes. ‘He accepts,’ he said, ‘the conditions which I proposed to him on your behalf. He has only to be married now to your daughter-in-law.’

Mouzaffer sent for his son and the rest of the family immediately, and in their presence Danischemend married Couloufe without letting him see the lady, because Taher wished it thus. He was even resolved that Couloufe should pass the night without light, so that the following day, not having seen her, it would be less difficult to repudiate her.

However, the night having come, Couloufe was introduced into a chamber, where he was left without light with the lady, who was lying on a couch of gold brocade. He doubly locked the door, felt for the couch, and having found it, he seated himself beside his wife. It is easy to believe that she was not asleep; it was not without emotion that she saw herself given up to the society of a man whose face was hidden from her, and of whom she had drawn a dis­agreeable picture to herself, because she was not ignorant that the first wretched creatures which chance offered were ordinarily taken on such occasions.