On the other hand, Couloufe, although Danischemend had extolled to him the beauty of the lady, was very mortified at not having the pleasure of seeing her; or rather the portrait which had been drawn of her, inspired in him an eager curiosity to verify it. This desire, which consumed him, and which he could not satisfy, diminished his pleasure in the thought of his fifty sequins.

‘Madam,’ he said, ‘favourable as is this night for me, I cannot taste a perfect joy. Every minute redoubles the desire that I have to see your face. I have formed such a beautiful idea of it, and I wish so ardently to contemplate it, that I do not know whether it is not as great a trouble to be with you without seeing you, as to see you without speaking to you. However, I must give you up to-morrow. Oh, since our acquaintance was to be so short lived, at least I ought to have been aware of all its value.’

After having said these words, he was silent to hear what the lady would reply; and he was rather surprised when, instead of replying to the speech, she said:

‘O you whom Taher has chosen to re-establish the union which his violent temper has destroyed, whoever you may be, inform me who you are. It seems to me that the sound of your voice is not unknown to me. I cannot listen to you calmly.’

Couloufe trembled at these words.

‘Madam,’ he replied, ‘tell me yourself what your family is? The sound of your voice also troubles my senses. I seem to hear a young Tartar lady whom I know. Great God, could it be . . . . But no,’ he said, restraining himself, ‘it cannot be that you are the daughter of Boyruc?’

‘Ah! Couloufe,’ cried the lady, ‘is it you who speak to me?’

‘Yes, my queen,’ he said, ‘it is Couloufe him­self, who can hardly believe it is Dilara whom he hears.’

‘Be persuaded of it,’ she replied. ‘I am that unhappy Dilara who received you in her house with the King Mirgehan, who by her indiscreet remarks made you an object of suspicion to this prince, and whom you ought to regard as your greatest enemy, since she is the cause of your disgrace.’

‘Cease, madam,’ replied the son of Abdallah, ‘cease to impute it to yourself. Heaven wished it thus, and far from accusing it of rigour, I give thanks to its kindness for having made such an agreeable chance succeed my misfortune. But, beautiful Dilara,’ he continued, ‘how did the daughter of Boyruc become the wife of Taher?’

‘I am going,’ she said, ‘to tell you. My father, during his embassy to Samarcand, lodged with Mouzaffer, whom he had known a long time. They arranged this marriage between them, and Boyruc, having returned to Caracoram, sent me well-accompanied to Samarcand. I obeyed my father with a repugnance of which you can have little idea; for I will admit, my dear Couloufe, that I loved you, although I had not shown it you, and I call Heaven to bear witness that your disgrace cost me many tears. My marriage with Taher did not banish you from my memory. This brutal husband, who is, more­over, little agreeable in person, instead of effacing you, only kept your image there. And as if I had foreseen that love or fortune would bring us together, I have always preserved the hope of see­ing you again. But my happiness surpasses my expectation, since I find my lover in the husband given me. O marvellous adventure! I can hardly believe it.’

Couloufe, after what he had just heard, could no longer doubt that he was with the daughter of Boyruc.

‘Beautiful Dilara,’ he cried, transported with love and joy, ‘what a happy change! By what strange series of adventures have I attained to the summit of my wishes! What! is it you, whom they have made me marry? You, whose charm­ing image is engraved on my heart! You, whom I thought never to see again! Ah! princess, if you have indeed pitied the son of Abdallah, if my disgrace has cost you tears, share now the sweetness of the transports inspired by my happiness. Who could have told me when the king banished me from his court that Heaven only sent me this misfortune to make me the happiest of men.’

Dilara was not insensible to the tender declara­tions of Couloufe. They both passed the night in mutual testimony of the pleasure they had in meeting each other again, and they were still giving assurances of it when a slave of Mouzaffer came and knocked somewhat roughly at the door of their room, crying at the pitch of his voice:

‘Hola, my lord! Take, if you please, the trouble to come forth; it is daylight.’

The son of Abdallah did not reply to the voice of the slave, but continued to speak with the daughter of Boyruc. But he felt his joy fade away; a mortal sadness succeeded suddenly the sweet transports which agitated him.

‘My queen,’ he said, ‘have I heard him aright? They want to separate us already. Mouzaffer, impatient to see you enter his family again, counts the moments of the divorce which has severed you from it; and his son, justly jealous of my happiness, cannot endure its duration; daylight itself, in accord with our enemies, seems to have precipitated its return. Hardly, alas! have I found you again, than I must lose you again in spite of the bonds which unite us, for I have promised, I have sworn to repudiate you.’

‘And you could keep this terrible oath?’ interrupted the lady. ‘Did you know when you made it that it was me you promised to renounce? You are not at all obliged to keep a rash promise, and were it otherwise, is not Dilara worth a broken oath? Ah! Couloufe,’ she added weeping, you do not love me if you are capable of wavering between possessing me and the vain honour of keeping a word which shocks love and reason.’

‘But, madam,’ he replied, ‘does it depend on me to keep you for myself? Even were I to violate my oath, do you suppose a stranger, with­out help, without wealth, can resist Mouzaffer?’

‘Yes,’ replied the daughter of Boyruc, ‘you can: despise his threats, reject his offers, the law is on your side. If you have firmness you will render futile all the efforts that will be made to disunite us.’

‘Well, my princess,’ he said, carried away by his passion, ‘you shall be satisfied. My oath, indeed, was rash, and I feel I cannot keep it with­out its costing me the peace of my life. It is settled, I will not repudiate you since I can prevent it. It is the resolution which I take. I defy Mouzaffer and all the world to turn me from it.’

Whilst he was assuring his wife, and was promising himself to remain firm in his intention, Taher, to whom the night had appeared much longer than to them, also came to knock at the door of their room.

‘Now then, friend,’ he cried, ‘the day advances. You have already been told to come forth; you require much urging. We have waited a long time to thank you and give you the promised sum. Dress quickly that we may finish this business; the lieutenant of the cadi will be here in a moment.’

Couloufe rose immediately, reclothed himself, and opened the door to Taher, who had him con­ducted to the bath and served by a Greek slave. When the son of Abdallah had left the bath, the slave gave him some beautiful linen and a very clean robe, and then led him into a room where Mouzaffer was, with his son and Danischemend. They saluted Couloufe, who made them a profound reverence. They insisted on his seating himself beside them at table, and they were served with many dishes.

After the repast Danischemend took Couloufe aside, and presented him with fifty gold sequins, and with a magnificent turban enclosed in a parcel.

‘Here, young man,’ he said, ‘is what the lord Mouzaffer gives you; he thanks you for the pleasure you have given him, and he begs you not to remain longer at Samarcand. Repudiate your wife, leave the town, and if anyone asks you aught concerning this matter answer naught.

Danischemend imagined that Couloufe, touched by the kindness of Mouzaffer, was going to indulge in speeches full of gratitude, and he was very surprised at his answer.

‘I thought,’ said Couloufe, throwing far from him the parcel and the sequins, ‘that justice, good faith, and religion reigned in Samarcand, especially since Usbec Kan came to Tartary, but I perceive that I am mistaken, or rather that the king is deceived. He does not know that in the very town where he is staying they tyrannise over strangers. What! I arrive at Samarcand, a mer­chant addresses himself to me, invites me to dinner at his house, caresses me, makes me marry a lady according to the laws, I undertake it with the best faith in the world, and when I have undertaken it I am called upon to repudiate my wife! Cease, my lord, cease to propose an action to me so unworthy of an honest man, or I shall put earth on my head in public mark of extreme grief. I shall go and throw myself at the feet of Usbec-Kan, and we will see what he will command.’

The lieutenant of the cadi, at these words, took Mouzaffer aside, and said to him: ‘You wished to take this stranger as an intermediary; you could not have made a worse choice. He refuses to repudiate his wife, but I see he is a man who is not easily satisfied, and who wishes to oblige you to make him a considerable present.’