Hazar yik ruz - The Thousand and One Days (Mcarthy)

HERE is a collection of excellent tales. They are now old friends of mine, yet I made their acquaintance by mere chance. I fell upon them—or rather I should say upon some of them—a few years ago, when I was first attempting to gain that smattering of Persian which, slight though it be, has given me so much pleasure. It was on a secondhand bookstall—the very bookstall, I believe, that has been made famous by Mr. Andrew Lang in his ‘Book Lover’s Purgatory’—that I, rummaging, discovered some little French volumes, French volumes of the last century, lettered ‘Mille et un Jours.’ The title captivated me at once. I had loved ‘The Thousand and One Nights’ all my life, but I had never heard of ‘The Thousand and One Days.’ I opened one of the volumes, and found that they professed to contain Persian stories. To the beginner in Persian, anything bearing the Persian name has a charm, and I eagerly collected the companions of the set. They were imperfect, unfortunately, only four out of a proper five, but I bought them, and read their stories, as far as they went. I soon learned that they were easily obtainable in modern French editions, and I got the modern French editions and completed my knowledge of ‘The Thousand and One Days.’

It is curious to find that while in France ‘The Thousand and One Days’ are only second in popularity to ‘The Thousand and One Nights,’ they are almost if not entirely unknown in England. They have been translated, it is true, into English twice, but both times were early in the last century. The first translation, by Dr. King, was published in 1714; the second, by Ambrose Philips, was published in 1738. So far as I know, these translations have not been reprinted; so far as I know, no other translation of ‘The Thousand and One Days’ has been made. And yet they well deserve translating. If they are not such splendid stories as ‘The Thousand and One Nights,’ what stories in the world are so splendid? We may love ‘The Thousand and One Nights’ with all our hearts, and yet be willing to welcome ‘The Thousand and One Days’ for the sake of that enchanted and enchanting Orient of which they tell.

According to the preface to the Garnier edition, ‘The Thousand and One Days’ were first given to the Western world by the French Orientalist, Petis de la Croix, in 1710. His version professes to be a translation of a Persian original called ‘Hazar Yek Ruz,’ or ‘The Thousand and One Days.’ Petis de la Croix professed to get them from a Dervish named Mocles, whom he knew when he was in Ispahan in 1675. Mocles had adapted them, it would seem, from certain Indian comedies. Of these Indian comedies it is said that a Turkish version exists in the Bibliothèque Nationale in Paris, under the title of ‘Al farady baad al chidda,’ or ‘Joy after Sorrow.’ Mocles allowed Petis de la Croix, who seems to have stood high in his favour, to take a copy of the ‘Hazar Yek Ruz,’ and from this copy Petis de la Croix made his translation on his return to Paris. That is the statement. Whether it is accurate or not, whether the manuscript of the ‘Hazar Yek Ruz’ used by Petis de la Croix exists, whether the ‘Hazar Yek Ruz’ are still familiar studies in Ispahan and Bagdad, whether they are all truly Eastern tales, I leave it to others to argue over, and, if they can, to decide. One, at least, will be familiar, in many forms, to all students of folk-lore. Another will recall one of the most fanciful of the tales of Hans Christian Andersen. But whatever the origin of these stories, whatever their parallels in the illimitable kingdom of fiction, they deserve for their own sake attention and applause. ‘The Thousand and One Days’ are here and ready to speak for themselves.

JUSTIN HUNTLY McCARTHY.

September 1892.

THE kingdom of Cashmere was formerly governed by a king named Togrul Bey. He had a son and a daughter who were the admiration of their epoch.

The prince, named Farrukhrouz, or Happy Day, was a young hero of a thousand virtues; and Farrukhnaz, or Happy Pride, his sister, was a miracle of beauty.

This princess was indeed so beautiful, and at the same time so attractive, that she inspired all men who dared look upon her with love, but this love became fatal to them, for the majority lost their reason or fell into a languor which insensibly consumed them.

When she left the palace to go hunting, she wore no veil. The people followed her in crowds, and testified by their acclamations the pleasure they took in seeing her. She usually rode a white Tartar horse with red spots, and moved in the midst of a hundred slaves, magnificently clothed and mounted on black horses. These slaves were also unveiled, but though they were almost all of charming beauty, their mistress alone attracted all the attention. Every one tried to approach her, in spite of the numerous guards which surrounded her. In vain the soldiers tried, sword in hand, to keep the people back, in vain even they struck and slew those who advanced too near, there were always some unhappy persons who, far from fearing such a deplorable fate, seemed to take a pleasure in dying before the eyes of the princess.

The king, touched by the misfortunes caused by the charms of his daughter, resolved to conceal her from the eyes of men. He forbade her to leave the palace, so that the people saw her no more. Nevertheless the reputation of her beauty spread over the East. Several kings became desirous of her on the faith of her renown, and soon it was known in Cashmere that ambassadors from all the courts of Asia were coming to ask the hand of the princess. But before they arrived she had a dream which made every man odious to her. She dreamt that a stag caught in a trap had been liberated by a doe, and that the doe having fallen into the same trap, the stag, instead of having helped, had abandoned her.

Farrukhnaz on awaking was struck by this dream. She did not look upon it at all as an illusion of an agitated fancy. She thought that the great ruler of Heaven had interested himself in her destiny, and by these images had wished to make her understand that all men were traitors who could only repay with ingratitude the affection of women.

Possessed by this strange idea, and fearing to be sacrificed to some one of the princes whose ambassadors were daily expected, she went to find the king her father. Without telling him she was opposed to men, she conjured him with tears in her eyes not to marry her in spite of herself. Her tears distressed Togrul Bey.

‘No, my daughter,’ he said to her, ‘I will not force your inclinations. Although it is usual to dispose of women like yourself without consulting them, I swear that no prince, were he even the heir to the Sultan of India, shall ever marry you without your consent.’

The princess, reassured by this oath, the value of which she knew, retired well satisfied and well resolved to refuse every prince who sought her hand.

A few days after, the ambassadors of several different courts arrived. They had audience in turn. Each one extolled the alliance of his master and the merits of the prince whom he came to propose. The king was very agreeable to them all, but he declared his daughter was the mistress of her hand, because he had solemnly sworn that he would not give her away against her inclination. Thus, the princess not wishing to give herself to anyone, the ambassadors returned very confused at not having succeeded in their embassy.

The wise Togrul Bey saw their departure with sorrow. He feared lest their masters, irritated at his refusals, might think of revenging themselves, and angry at having taken an oath which might bring upon himself a cruel war, he sent for the nurse of Farrukhnaz.

‘Sutlumemé,’ he said, ‘I must confess to you that the conduct of the princess astonishes me. What can cause the repugnance she has for marriage? Speak. Is it not you who have inspired it in her?’

‘No, my lord,’ replied the nurse, ‘I am not at all an enemy of men, and this repugnance is the effect of a dream.’

‘Of a dream!’ replied the king, very surprised. ‘Ah! what are you saying? No, no,’ he added a moment after, ‘I cannot believe what you tell me. What dream could have made such a strong impression on my daughter?’

Sutlumemé related it, and after telling him all the circumstances, ‘Such, my lord,’ she continued, ‘such is the dream which has struck the imagination of the princess. She judges of men by that stag, and persuaded that they are all ungrateful and perfidious, she rejects all who are presented to her.’

This speech increased the astonishment of the king, who could not conceive that this dream would have placed the princess in the disposition she was in.

‘Well, my dear Sutlumemé,’ he said to the nurse, ‘what shall we do to destroy the mistrust with which the mind of my daughter is filled against men?’

‘My lord,’ she replied, ‘if your majesty will charge me with that care, I do not despair of acquitting myself therein happily.’

‘What will you do?’ said Togrul Bey.

‘I know,’ replied the nurse, ‘an infinity of curious stories, the relating of which may, in amusing the princess, remove the bad opinion she has of men. In showing her that there have been faithful lovers, I shall doubtless dispose her to believe that they still exist. So, my lord,’ she added, ‘let me combat her error; I flatter myself I could dissipate it.’

The king approved of the nurse’s plan, and she thought only of finding a favourable moment to execute it.

As Farrukhnaz usually spent the time after dinner with the king, the prince of Cashmere, and all the princesses of the court, listening to the palace slaves singing and playing on all sorts of instruments, the mornings appeared more suitable to Sutlumemé, who resolved to take the time which the princess employed in her bath.

So the next day, as soon as Farrukhnaz was in her bath, the nurse said to her, ‘I know a story full of singular events. If my princess will permit me to relate it for her amusement, I do not doubt she will take great pleasure in it.’

The princess of Cashmere, less perhaps to satisfy her curiosity than to content that of her women who pressed her to hear this story, permitted Sutlumemé to begin the recital of it; which she did in these terms.

(Be it known now that hereafter the Persian sage interpolates, in the manner of the Arabian scribe, the intervals between the bathing times of the princess between the tale-tellings of the nurse. These intervals have been omitted in this English rendering that the stories may move uninterrupted from beginning to end.)

ALL historians agree that the Caliph Haroun-al-Raschid would have been the most perfect, as he was the most powerful, prince of his century if he had not been a little too much inclined to anger, and insupportably vain. He was continually saying that there was no prince in the world so generous as he.

Giafar, his grand vizir, grieved that he should thus praise himself, took the liberty of saying to him one day, ‘Oh, my sovereign master, monarch of the earth, pardon your slave if he dares represent to you that you ought not to praise yourself. Leave your praises to be sung by your subjects and the crowd of strangers that are seen at your court. Content yourself with the knowledge that the former thank Heaven that they were born in your dominions, and that the latter congratulate themselves upon having left their native country to come and live here under your jurisdiction.’

Haroun was hurt at these words. He gazed proudly upon his vizir, and asked him whether he knew anyone to be compared to him in generosity.

‘Yes, my lord,’ replied Giafar; ‘there lives in the town of Bassora a young man called Aboulcasem. Although a private person, he lives with more than royal magnificence; and, not excepting your majesty, no prince in the world is more generous than he.’

The caliph flushed at this speech, his eyes sparkled with rage. ‘Do you know,’ he said, ‘that a subject who has the audacity to lie to his master deserves death?’

‘I advance nothing but what is true,’ replied the vizir. ‘On the last journey I made to Bassora, I saw this Aboulcasem. I went to his house. My eyes, although accustomed to your treasures, were surprised at his riches, and I was charmed with his generous ways.’

At these words the impetuous Haroun could not restrain his anger. ‘You are very insolent,’ he cried, ‘to compare a private individual with me. Your impudence shall not remain unpunished.’ Saying this, he made a sign to the captain of his guards to approach, and commanded him to arrest the vizir Giafar. Then he entered the apartment of the Princess Zobeide his wife, who turned pale with fright at seeing his irritated expression.

‘What, my lord,’ she said to him, ‘can have caused the trouble which agitates you?’

He informed her of what had passed and he complained of his vizir in terms which made Zobeide realise how enraged he was against the minister.

But this wise princess represented to him that he ought to suspend his resentment and send someone to Bassora to verify the matter; that if it turned out to be false the vizir should be punished, but that if on the contrary it were true, which she could not suppose, it was not just to treat him as a criminal.

This speech calmed the fury of the caliph.

‘I approve of this advice, madam,’ he said to Zobeide, ‘and I must admit that I owe this justice to a minister such as Giafar. I will do more; as the person entrusted with this errand might, from aversion to my vizir, bring me an unfaithful report, I shall go to Bassora and myself discover the truth. I shall make the acquaintance of this young man whose generosity is praised to me. If I have been told the truth I shall load Giafar with favours and bear him no grudge because of his frankness, but I swear it will cost him his life if he has told me a falsehood.’

As soon as Haroun had taken this resolution he thought only of carrying it out. He left his palace secretly one night, mounted his horse, and set out on his way without allowing anyone to accompany him, in spite of all Zobeide could say to prevent his departing alone.

Having arrived at Bassora he alighted at the first caravanserai that he found on entering the town, the landlord of which was a worthy old man.

‘My father,’ said Haroun to him, ‘is it true that there is in this town a young man called Aboulcasem who surpasses kings in magnificence and generosity?’

‘Yes, my lord,’ replied the landlord, ‘had I a hundred mouths and in each a hundred tongues I could not relate to you all the generous actions he has done.’

As the caliph had need of rest, he retired to bed after having taken some nourishment.

He rose early the next morning and went for a walk in the town till sunrise. Then, approaching a tailor’s shop, he asked for the residence of Aboulcasem.

‘What country do you come from?’ said the tailor. ‘You can never have been in Bassora, since you do not know where the lord Aboulcasem lives. His house is better known than the king’s palace.’

The caliph replied, ‘I am a stranger. I do not know anyone in this town, and you will oblige me if you will have me conducted to the house of this lord.’

The tailor immediately ordered one of his boys to conduct him to the house of Aboulcasem. It was a large mansion built of stone, the door of which was of jasper. The prince entered the court, where there was a crowd of domestics, as many slaves as freemen, who were amusing themselves whilst awaiting their master’s orders. He approached one of them and said, ‘Brother, I should be much obliged if you would take the trouble to go and tell the lord Aboulcasem that a stranger wishes to speak to him.’

The servant judged from Haroun’s appearance that he was not an ordinary man. He ran to inform his master, who came out into the courtyard to receive the stranger, whom he took by the hand and conducted into a very beautiful apartment.

There the caliph told the young man that he had heard him so favourably spoken of that he had not been able to resist the desire to see him.

Aboulcasem replied very modestly to the compliment; and after having made him seat himself on a sofa, asked him of what country and profession he was, and where he lodged at Bassora.

‘I am a merchant of Bagdad,’ replied the emperor, ‘and I am lodging in the first caravanserai that I found on arriving.’

After a few moments’ conversation twelve white pages entered the room laden with vases of agate and rock crystal, enriched with rubies, and full of exquisite liquors. They were followed by twelve very beautiful slaves, some of whom bore bowls of porcelain filled with fruits and flowers, and others gold boxes in which were preserves of delicious flavour.

The pages poured out their different liquors to present to the caliph. He tasted them, and although accustomed to the most delicious beverages in all the East, he declared that he had never drunk better. The dinner hour having arrived, Aboulcasem conducted his guest into another saloon where they found a table covered with the most delicate dishes and served in massive gold plates. The repast over, the young man took the caliph by the hand and led him into a third saloon more richly furnished than the other two, where they brought a prodigious quantity of gold vases, enriched with precious stones and full of all sorts of wines, with dishes of porcelain filled with dried preserves. Whilst the host and his guest drank the most excellent wines, there entered singers and musicians, who commenced a concert which charmed Haroun. ‘I have,’ he said to himself, ‘admirable voices in my palace, but I must admit that they are not to be compared with these. I cannot understand how a private individual can have wealth enough to live so magnificently.’

Whilst the prince was listening with particular attention to a voice the sweetness of which enchanted him, Aboulcasem left the saloon and returned a minute later, holding in one hand a rod and in the other a little tree, the stem of which was of silver, the branches and the leaves of emeralds, and the fruit of rubies. On the top of the tree appeared a peacock of finely wrought gold, the body of which was full of amber, spirit of aloes, and other perfumes. He placed this tree at the emperor’s feet, then tapping the peacock’s head with the rod, the peacock spread its wings and tail, and began to revolve with great speed, and as it turned the perfumes with which it was filled came out on all sides and scented the whole saloon.

The caliph could not tire of gazing at the tree and the peacock, and he was still testifying to his admiration when Aboulcasem took them and carried them off very abruptly.

Haroun was surprised at this action and said to himself, ‘What does this mean? This young man seems to me not to do things as well as I thought. He takes this tree and the peacock away from me when he sees me absorbed in contemplation of them. Is he afraid I shall ask him to make me a present of them? I fear that Giafar has inappropriately applied to him the title of a generous man.’

This thought was present in his mind when Aboulcasem returned, accompanied by a little page as beautiful as the sun. This engaging child wore a robe of gold brocade, adorned with pearls and diamonds. He held in his hand a cup made of a single ruby and filled with a purple-coloured wine. He approached the caliph, prostrated himself to the ground before him, and presented the cup to him. The prince put out his hand to take it, and having done so, he put it to his lips; but, to his amazement, after having drunk, he perceived, on returning it to the page, that it was still quite full. He immediately took it back again, and having put it to his lips, he drained it to the last drop. He then gave it back to the page, and instantly he saw that it filled again without anyone pouring into it.

At this marvellous sight the surprise of Haroun was extreme, and made him forget the tree and the peacock. He asked how that could be done.

‘My lord,’ replied Aboulcasem, ‘it is the work of an ancient sage who possessed all the secrets of nature.’

Saying these words he took the page by the hand and went out precipitately.

The caliph was indignant. ‘Oh!’ he said, ‘this young man is certainly out of his mind. He brings me his curiosities without my asking him; he presents them to my gaze, and when he sees that I take the greatest pleasure in looking at them, he takes them from me. Nothing could be more ridiculous or ill-mannered. Ah, Giafar! I will teach you to judge men better!’

He did not know what to think of the character of his host, or rather he began not to have a good opinion of him, when he saw him return for the third time, followed by a maiden covered with pearls, precious stones, and still more adorned by her beauty than by her ornaments.

The caliph, at the sight of so beautiful an object, remained seized with astonishment. She made him a profound reverence and charmed him still more as she approached. He made her sit down. At the same time Aboulcasem asked for a lute ready tuned.

They brought him one made of aloes wood, ivory, sandal-wood, and ebony. He gave this instrument to the beautiful slave, who played it so perfectly that Haroun, who was a musician, cried in the excess of his admiration, ‘O young woman, how enviable is your fate. The greatest kings of the earth, the commander of the faithful himself, is not as happy as you.’

As soon as Aboulcasem remarked that his guest was enchanted with the girl, he took her by the hand and led her out of the saloon. This was a fresh mortification for the caliph. He nearly burst out, but he controlled himself, and as his host returned immediately, they continued to enjoy themselves till sunset. Then Haroun said to the young man, ‘O generous Aboulcasem, I am overwhelmed at the way you have entertained me. Permit me to retire and to leave you in peace.’ The young man of Bassora, not wishing to importune him, made him a graceful reverence, and, without opposing his wishes, conducted him as far as the door of his house, asking his pardon for not having received him as magnificently as he deserved.

‘I admit,’ said the caliph on returning to his caravanserai, ‘that as regards magnificence, Aboulcasem excels kings, but as regards generosity, my vizir has no ground for placing him on a parallel with me. Has he made me the least present? Yet I exclaimed at the beauty of the tree, the cup, the page, and the maiden. And my admiration ought at least to have compelled him to offer me some one of these things. No, that man is only ostentatious. He takes pleasure in displaying his riches before the eyes of strangers. Why? Merely to satisfy his pride and vanity. In reality, he is nothing but a miser, and I certainly ought not to forgive Giafar for having lied to me.’

With these reflections, so disagreeable for his first minister, he arrived at the caravanserai. But what was his astonishment to find there silken carpets, magnificent tents, pavilions, a large number of domestics, slaves as well as freemen, horses, mules, camels, and besides all this, the tree and the peacock, the page with his cup, and the beautiful slave with her lute. The domestics prostrated themselves before him, and the girl presented to him a roll of silk paper, which he unrolled and which contained these words: ‘Dear and amiable guest, whom I do not know,—I have not, perhaps, shown you the respect due to you. I implore you to forget the shortcomings of your reception, and not to affront me by refusing the little presents that I send you. As for the tree, the peacock, the page, the cup, and the slave, they were already yours, since they pleased you: for anything that pleases my guests ceases to belong to me and becomes their own property.’

When the caliph had finished reading this letter, he was surprised at the liberality of Aboulcasem, and admitted that he had misjudged the young man. ‘A thousand million benedictions on Giafar,’ he cried. ‘He is the cause of my being disabused. Boast no longer, Haroun, of being the most magnificent and the most generous of men! One of your subjects excels you in that respect. But, he added, how can a private person make me such presents? I ought to ask him where he has found so much wealth. I was wrong in not interrogating him on that point. I do not wish to return to Bagdad without having investigated this matter. It concerns me to know how in the states which are under my control, there comes to be a man who leads a more delightful life than I. I must see him again, and discover adroitly by what means he has been able to make such a prodigious fortune.’

Impatient to satisfy his curiosity, he left his new domestics in the caravanserai and returned to the young man immediately, and when alone with him, ‘O too amiable Aboulcasem,’ he said, ‘the presents which you have made me are so considerable that I feel I cannot accept them without abusing your generosity. Permit me to return them to you, and charmed by the reception you have given me, let me go and publish in Bagdad your magnificence and your generous inclinations.’

‘My lord,’ replied the young man with a mortified air, ‘you have doubtless occasion to complain of the unhappy Aboulcasem. Some action of his must have displeased you since you reject his presents. You would not do me this injury if you were pleased with me.’

‘No,’ replied the prince, ‘Heaven bears me witness that I am enchanted with your politeness, but your presents are too precious. They surpass those of kings, and if I dare tell you what I think, you should be less prodigal of your wealth, and reflect that it may become exhausted.’

Aboulcasem smiled at these words and said to the caliph, ‘My lord, I am very glad to learn that it is not to punish me for having committed a fault that you wish to refuse my presents. To induce you to receive them, I will tell you that I can make similar ones every day, yea, even greater ones without inconvenience. I see,’ he added, ‘that this speech astonishes you, but you will cease to be surprised at it when I have related to you all the adventures which have happened to me. I must needs confide in you.’

Thus speaking, he conducted Haroun into a room a thousand times richer and more ornate than the others. Several very fragrant perfume-burners scented it, and in it was a golden throne with rich foot carpets. Al-Raschid could not persuade himself that he was in a private person’s house; he thought he must be with a prince more powerful than himself. The young man made him mount the throne, seated himself at his side, and commenced the history of his life in this manner:

‘I am the son of a jeweller of Cairo, named Abdelaziz. He possessed such wealth that, fearing to rouse against himself the envy or the avarice of the Sultan of Egypt, he left his country and came to establish himself at Bassora, where he espoused the only daughter of the richest merchant of the town.

‘I was the sole issue of this marriage, so that, inheriting all the wealth of my father and mother after their death, I had a very brilliant fortune. But I was very young. I liked spending, and seeing that I had the means for indulging my liberal tendencies, or, rather, my prodigality, I lived with such extravagance that in less than two or three years my patrimony was dissipated.

‘Then, like all those who repent of their ill-conduct, I made the finest reflections in the world. After the figure I had cut at Bassora I thought it best to go and live miserably elsewhere. It seemed to me that my poverty would be less insupportable before the eyes of strangers. I sold my house, the only thing that remained to me. I joined a caravan of merchants, with whom I went to Moussul, then to Damascus; and, crossing the desert of Arabia and Mount Pharan, I arrived at Cairo.

‘The beauty of the houses and the magnificence of the mosques surprised me; and, remembering suddenly that I was in the town where Abdelaziz was born, I could not help sighing and shedding tears. “Oh, my father!” I said to myself, “if you were still alive and saw in the place where you enjoyed so enviable an existence, your son in such deplorable case, how great would be your grief!” Occupied with this thought which saddened me, I walked by the banks of the Nile. I was behind the sultan’s palace. A young lady, whose beauty struck me, appeared at a window. I stopped to look at her; she perceived it and retired. As night was approaching, and as I had not yet secured a lodging, I went to look for one in the neighbourhood.

‘I slept little; the young lady’s features were continually before my mind’s eye. I felt that I loved her already. “Would to God,” I said, “that I had not seen her or that she had not noticed me. I should not have conceived for her this mad love or I should have had the pleasure of looking at her longer.” I did not fail to return on the morrow beneath her windows in the hope of seeing her. But I was disappointed. She did not appear. That troubled me greatly, without discouraging me, however; for I returned the following day and was more fortunate. The lady appeared, and seeing that I was looking at her with attention she said,

‘“Insolent fellow, do you not know that it is forbidden to men to stop under the windows of this palace? Retire instantly. If the sultan’s officers were to surprise you in this place, they would put you to death.”

‘Instead of being alarmed at these words and taking flight, I bowed my face to the ground, then, having risen: “Madam,” I said, “I am a stranger. I am ignorant of the customs of Cairo, and did I know them your beauty would prevent my observing them.”

‘“Ah! bold fellow,” she cried, “tremble lest I summon slaves to punish your audacity.”

‘Thus saying she disappeared, and I thought that, indignant at my boldness, she was really going to call her people to ill-treat me. I expected to see armed men pounce down upon me, but more affected by the anger of the lady than by her threats, I was insensible to the peril in which I found myself. What a cruel night it was for me! An ardent fever, caused by the agitation of my love, excited my blood and caused me to dream frightfully.

‘However, the desire to see the lady again and the hope of being more favourably looked upon by her, although I had no occasion to expect it, calmed my transports.

‘Carried away by my mad passion, I walked again the next day along the banks of the Nile, and placed myself on the same spot as on the preceding days.

‘The young lady appeared as soon as she saw me, but she looked so proud that I was afraid.

‘“What, miserable wretch!” said she, “after the threats I uttered, you return to this place! Fly from this palace! I will warn you once more out of pity that your destruction is certain if you do not disappear at once.”

‘“What can keep you?” she added, a moment later, seeing that I did not go away. “Tremble, bold youth, the thunderbolt is ready to fall on you!”

‘At this speech, which would doubtless have persuaded a man less enamoured than myself, instead of leaving the lady, I looked at her and replied:

‘“Lovely lady, do you suppose that an unhappy man who has allowed himself to be charmed and who adores you hopelessly, can fear death? Alas! I prefer death to life without you.”

‘“Well,” she replied, “since you are so obstinate, go and pass the rest of the day in the town and return to-night beneath my windows.”

‘At these words she disappeared precipitately and left me filled with astonishment, love, and joy.

‘If till then I had been rebellious to the rigorous commands of the lady, you can well imagine that I now submitted very willingly, as the new condition added to it softened its rigour. In the expectation of the pleasures which I promised myself, I forgot my misfortunes.

‘“I should no longer,” I said, “complain of fortune; she becomes as favourable to me as she was unfavourable.” I retired home, where I occupied myself in adorning and perfuming myself.

‘When night had come and I thought it time to go whither my love called me, I betook myself there in the darkness. I found a rope suspended from the window of the lady’s apartment.

‘I made use of it to ascend. I traversed two rooms to gain a third, which was magnificently furnished, in the middle of which was a silver throne.

‘I paid little attention to the precious furniture and all the rare things which it contained. The lady alone attracted my attention. How fair she was! Whether Nature had formed her to show men that she knew, when it pleased her, how to make a perfect work, or whether, but too enamoured of her, my charmed imagination concealed her defects from my eyes, I was enchanted with her beauty.

‘She made me ascend the throne, sat herself beside me, and asked who I was. I related my history to her with all sincerity. I perceived that she listened very attentively. She even appeared to me touched by the situation to which fortune had reduced me, and this pity, which indicated a generous heart, succeeded in making me the most enamoured of men. “Madam,” I said, “however unhappy I may be, I cease to be an object of pity, since you are sensible of my misfortunes.”

‘Insensibly we engaged in a tender conversation which she sustained with much brilliancy, and she admitted to me, that if I had been struck at sight of her, she, on her side, had not been able to help being interested in me.

‘“Since you have informed me who you are,” she continued, “I would like you to know who I am.

‘“My name is Dardané. I was born in the town of Damascus. My father was one of the vizirs of the prince who reigns there to-day, and was called Behrouz. As the glory of his master and the welfare of the state regulated all his actions, he numbered among his enemies all those who had other principles, and these enemies poisoned the king’s mind against him. The unfortunate Behrouz, after several years’ service, was removed from the court. He retired to a house which he possessed at the gates of the town, where he devoted himself entirely to my education. But, alas! he had not the pleasure of enjoying the fruit of his labours, he died whilst I was still a child. My mother no sooner saw him dead than she sold all his effects, and this wretched woman, after having sold me to a slave merchant, departed for the Indies with a young man whom she loved.

‘“The slave merchant took me to Cairo with several other girls whom he had bought. He dressed us very magnificently, and when he thought us fit to be presented to the Sultan of Egypt, he made us enter a great room where the sultan was seated on his throne. One after the other we passed before this prince, who seemed charmed at the sight of me. He descended from his throne, and having approached me, ‘How well made she is!’ he cried. ‘What eyes! what a mouth! My friend,’ he continued, addressing the merchant, ‘since you have sold me slaves you have never brought me one so beautiful as this one. No, nothing is to be compared to this young person. Ask what you wish for her. I cannot sufficiently pay you for so charming an object.’ Finally, the prince, transported with joy and already very amorous, gave a large sum to the merchant, and dismissed him with his other slaves. He then called the chief of the eunuchs: ‘Keyd Kabir,’ said he, ‘conduct this sun into a separate apartment.’ Keyd Kabir obeyed, and brought me into this one, which is the richest in the palace. I was no sooner there than several slaves, young and old, entered. Some brought me magnificent clothes, others refreshments, and others had lutes, on which they played well. They all told me that they were sent by the sultan: that the prince destined them for my service, and that they would spare nothing to acquit themselves well.

‘“I soon received a visit from the sultan. He declared his love for me in the most ardent terms, and the simple replies I made to speeches so new to me, instead of displeasing the prince, inflamed his passion.

‘“And now you behold me favourite sultana. All the slaves who thought themselves beautiful enough to merit my place were very jealous of me, and you cannot imagine all the means employed by them for three years past to destroy me.

‘“But I keep guard so well that their malice has been futile till now. It is not that I am content with my fate, for I cannot love the sultan, and I am not ambitious enough to be dazzled by the honours done to me.

‘“I am only piqued by all the efforts that my rivals make to destroy me, and I wish to baffle them. You must pardon that in a woman.

‘“Their chagrin,” she continued, “gives me more pleasure than the sultan’s love. I must admit, however, that the prince is amiable, but whether it does not depend upon us to love, or whether the conquest of my heart was reserved for you, you are the first man who has attracted my attention.”

‘In response to such an amiable avowal, which seemed to me to increase the value of my good fortune, I promised the young lady an immortal love, and I besought her to grant me her love. My passionate address melted her, but fortune delights in presenting to the unfortunate deceptive hopes, and my unlucky star had not yet shed on me all its evil influence. At the moment when the beautiful Dardané, listening to my pressing and tender demands, was about to answer me, a loud knocking was heard at the door of the room. We were both alarmed. “O heaven!” said the lady, quite low, to me, “I have been betrayed! We are lost! It is the sultan himself!”

‘Had the rope of which I had made use for ascending been attached to the window of the room where we were, I could easily have saved myself, but it was at a window of the very room through which the sultan had passed. So, having recourse to the only move left to me, I hid under the throne, and Dardané went to open the door.

‘The sultan, followed by several black eunuchs who carried torches, entered with a furious air. “Unhappy woman,” he cried, “what man is here with you? One has been seen to climb to a window, and the rope is still attached to it.” The lady remained speechless at these words. She could not answer a single syllable, and though she strove to put on a bold front, her terror but too surely condemned her. “Search everywhere,” added the sultan, “and don’t let the villain escape my vengeance!”

‘The eunuchs obeyed. They soon discovered me. They tore me out from under the throne and dragged me to the feet of their master, who said, “O miserable creature! what boldness is thine! Has the town of Cairo not women enough for you that you do not respect my palace?”

‘I was not less frightened than the favourite. I almost fell into a swoon. I think if the same adventure were to happen to you at Bagdad and you were to find yourself surprised by the great Haroun-al-Raschid in his seraglio (forgive me this reflection, my lord), you would not perhaps be otherwise affected. I had not the strength to speak. I was on my knees before the sultan, and I only expected death. The prince drew his sabre, but just as he was about to strike, an old mulatto woman arrived who prevented him.

‘“What are you going to do, my lord?” she said to him. “Do not strike these miserable wretches; do not soil your hand with such abject blood. They are unworthy even that the earth should receive their bodies, since they have had the insolence, the one to be wanting in respect to you, and the other to betray you. Order them both to be thrown into the Nile, and let them serve as food for the fishes.”

‘The sultan followed this advice, and the eunuchs threw us into the Nile from the windows of a tower, the walls of which were washed by the river.

‘Although dazed by my fall, as I can swim very well, I gained the bank opposite the palace. Escaped from such a great danger, I remembered the young lady whom the fear of death had made me forget, and love in its turn triumphing over the fear of death, I re-entered the Nile with more ardour than that with which I had left it, and swam down its stream; and, as far as the darkness of the night would allow me to discern objects, I endeavoured to discover on the water the body of the unfortunate lady whose destruction I had caused. But I could see it nowhere, and feeling that my strength was beginning to give out, I was obliged to regain the bank in order to preserve a life which I was risking uselessly. I could not doubt but that the favourite had lost hers, and I was inconsolable at having her death to reproach myself with. I wept bitterly. “Alas!” I said, “but for me, but for my fatal love, Dardané, the beautiful Dardané, would be still alive! O, why did I come to Cairo? why, knowing that misfortune is contagious, did I seek the affection of so charming a person?” Overcome with grief at being the cause of her misfortune, and sojourn at Cairo being odious to me after this adventure, I took the road to Bagdad.

‘After several days’ journey, I arrived one evening at the foot of a mountain, behind which was a rather large town. I seated myself to rest on the banks of a stream, and I resolved to pass the night in this place. Sleep overcame me, and already the first rays of daylight were about to appear, when I heard at a few paces from me cries and groans which awoke me.

‘I listened attentively, and it seemed to me that these cries came from a woman who was being ill-treated. I rose immediately, and, advancing in the direction of the cries, I saw a man digging a ditch with a spade. I hid myself in a bush to watch him. I observed that having made the ditch, he put in it something which he covered with earth, and that he then went away. Day having dawned almost at that moment, I approached to see what it was. I removed the earth, and found a large sack all blood-stained, in which there was a young girl who seemed about to breathe her last sigh. Her clothes, although covered with blood, did not prevent my judging her to be a person of quality. “What cruel hand,” I cried, overcome with horror and compassion, “what barbarian can have ill-treated this young woman? May Heaven punish this assassin.”

‘The lady, whom I thought unconscious, heard these words, and said, “O Mussulman! be charitable enough to succour me! If you love your Creator, give me a drop of water to appease the thirst which consumes me, and to relieve my great pain.”

‘I ran immediately to the fountain and filled my turban with water, which I brought to her. She drank it, and then opening her eyes, she looked at me.

‘“O young man,” she said to me, “who come so timely to my assistance, endeavour to stop my blood. I do not think my wounds are mortal. Save my life: you will not regret it.”

‘I tore up my turban and a part of my vest, and when I had bandaged her wounds, “Extend your charity still further,” she said to me; “carry me into the town and have my wounds dressed.”

‘“Fair lady,” I said, “I am a stranger, I know no one in this town. If I am asked how I come to be in charge of a wounded maiden, what answer must I make?”

‘“Say that I am your sister,” she replied, “and do not fear the rest.”

‘I took the lady on my back. I carried her into the town and went to a caravanserai, where I had a bed prepared for her. I sent for a surgeon, who dressed her wounds and who assured me that they were not dangerous. In fact, she was cured at the end of a month. When she was convalescent she asked for paper and ink. She wrote a letter, and putting it in my hands: “Go,” she said to me, “to the place where the merchants assemble, ask for Mahyar, present my letter to him, take what he gives you and return.”

‘I carried the letter to Mahyar. He read it with much attention, kissed it very respectfully and placed it on his head. He then drew out two great purses full of gold sequins which he gave me. I took them and returned to the lady, who charged me to hire a house. I took one and we both went to lodge there. As soon as we had arrived there, she wrote a second letter to Mahyar, who gave me four purses filled with gold pieces. I bought, by order of the lady, clothes for her and for me, with some slaves to wait on us.

‘I passed in the quarter for the brother of the lady, and I lived with her as if it had been so in reality, although she was a very beautiful person. Dardané occupied my thoughts unceasingly, and far from giving myself up to new loves, I wished more than once to leave the lady, but she begged me not to abandon her. “Wait, young man,” she said to me, “I still have need of you for some time. I will soon tell you who I am, and I mean to reward well the services you have rendered me.”

‘So I lived on with her, and I did out of pure generosity all that she asked of me. However desirous I was of knowing why she had been wounded, it was not possible to get her to tell me. It was in vain that I often gave her occasion to relate her story to me; she kept a profound silence on the subject instead of satisfying my curiosity.

‘“Go,” she said to me one day, presenting me with a purse full of sequins, “go and find a merchant called Namahran. Tell him that you wish to buy some beautiful stuffs. He will show you several kinds. Choose some pieces and pay for them without bargaining. Be very affable to him, and bring me the stuffs.”

‘I inquired for Namahran’s dwelling; it was pointed out to me. He was seated in his shop. I saw a man of very fine figure whose hair was in small waves and black as jet. He had beautiful earrings and large diamonds on all his fingers. I seated myself beside him. I asked for stuffs; he had several pieces shown to me. I chose three of them; he put the price on them. I counted out the money to him. I rose and after having taken leave of him very civilly, I had the stuffs carried away by a slave who followed me.

‘Two days after, the lady gave me another purse and told me to return to Namahran to buy other stuffs. “But remember,” she added, “that you must not bargain. Whatever he asks you, do not fail to give it to him.”

‘As soon as the merchant saw me coming and knew what brought me, he spread before me his richest stuffs. I stopped at those which pleased me, and when it came to paying I threw my purse to Namahran, telling him to take what he wished. He was charmed with this noble proceeding.

‘“My lord,” he said, “would you not one day do me the honour of coming to dine with me?”

‘“Very willingly,” I replied, “and that to-morrow if you wish it.”

‘The merchant signified that it would give him much pleasure.

‘When I told the lady that Namahran had invited me to dine with him, she seemed transported with joy.

‘“Do not fail to go,” she said, “and to beg him to come here to-morrow. Tell him that you wish to regale him in your turn. I will take care to have a superb feast prepared.”

‘I did not know what to think of the joy she expressed. I saw that she had some plan, but I was very far from realising it.

‘I went on the following day to the merchant, who received and treated me perfectly well. Before separating I told him of my place of abode, and that I wanted also to entertain him at dinner on the following day.

‘He did not fail to come. We both seated ourselves at table and passed all the day in drinking the best of wines. The lady would not be of the party; she even took great care to remain in retirement during the meal. As she had strongly urged me to amuse the merchant and not to allow him to return home that night, I detained him in the evening in spite of all his entreaties to be allowed to go. We continued drinking and carried on the debauch till midnight.

‘Then I led him into a room where there was a bed prepared for him. I left him there and retired to my own room.

‘I went to bed and fell asleep, but I did not long enjoy the sweets of slumber. The lady soon came to wake me. She held a torch in one hand and a dagger in the other. “Young man,” she said, “get up: come and see your guest bathed in his perfidious blood.”

‘I rose full of horror at these words. I dressed in haste. I followed the lady into the merchant’s room, and saw the unhappy man stretched lifeless on his bed. “Ah! cruel woman,” I cried, “what have you done? How can you have committed such a black deed? And why have you made me an instrument of your rage?”

‘“Young stranger,” she said, “do not be angry at having helped me to revenge myself on Namahran. He was a traitor. You will not pity him when you know his crime; or, rather, when you learn that he is the author of my misfortune that I am going to relate to you.”

‘“I AM,” she continued, “the daughter of the king of this city. One day that I was going to the public baths, I perceived Namahran in his shop. I was struck by him, and in spite of myself, his image was always before me.

‘“I felt that I loved him. I fought at first against my feelings. I represented to myself their indignity, and I thought to conquer them by reflections. But I was deceived; love got the better of my pride. I became restless and languishing, and the evil increasing every moment, I fell into an illness of which I should infallibly have died, if my companion, who better understood my symptoms than the physicians, had not guessed the cause. With much adroitness she got me to admit that her conjectures were correct. I related to her in what manner my unhappy love had originated, and she judged, from what I said to her, that I was madly enamoured of Namahran.

‘“She was touched by the condition in which I was, and she promised to relieve my distress. One night, in fact, she introduced the young merchant into the seraglio in the clothes of a girl, and brought him into my apartment. In addition to the joy of seeing him, I had the pleasure of remarking that he was charmed at his good fortune.

‘“After having kept him enclosed in a cabinet for several days, my companion got him out of the seraglio as happily as she had introduced him and, from time to time he returned under the same disguise.

‘“The fancy took me to go in my turn to see Namahran. I took pleasure in surprising him, not doubting that this step, which proved to him the excess of my passion, would be very agreeable to him.

‘“I left the palace quite alone one night, by détours which were known to me, and betook myself to his house.

‘“I had little trouble in finding it because I had remarked it well in going to and returning from the baths. I knocked at the door. A slave came to open it and asked me who I was and what I wanted.

‘“I am, I replied to him, a young lady of the city, and I wish to speak to your master.”

‘“He is with company,” replied the slave. “He is entertaining another lady at this moment; come back again to-morrow.”

‘“At the mention of the word lady I felt beside myself with jealousy: I became furious. Instead of retiring I entered the house precipitately and, proceeding into a hall in which there was light and all the paraphernalia of a feast, I perceived the merchant at table with a rather beautiful young girl. They were both drinking and singing tender and passionate songs. I could not restrain my anger at this spectacle. I threw myself upon the young girl and struck her a thousand blows. I should have taken her life had she not succeeded in escaping me. I did not confine myself only to my rival in my rage, I did not spare Namahran.

‘He first threw himself at my knees, asked pardon of me, and swore he would not betray me. He appeased me: I yielded to his vows and his contrition. He even persuaded me to drink with him, and so effectually that I became intoxicated. When he saw me in this state, the traitor struck me several blows with a knife. I fell insensible; he believed me dead. He put me in a great sack and carried me himself on his back out of the town, to the place where you found me. Whilst he was digging a grave I recovered my senses and uttered several cries; but far from being touched and showing himself merciful enough by despatching me before putting me in the earth, the barbarian took a delight in burying me alive.

‘“As for Mahyar,” she continued, “the other merchant to whom you carried letters from me, he is a seraglio-merchant. I let him know that I wanted money and told him my adventure, begging him to keep it secret until I had tasted the pleasure of a complete revenge. This, O young man, is my history. I did not wish to tell it you before for fear that you might scruple to bring my victim to me here. I do not think that you now disapprove my noble action; and to show that you are an enemy to treacherous hearts, you ought to praise me for having had the courage to pierce that of Namahran. As soon as it is daylight,” she added, “we will go together to the palace. The king my father loves me passionately. I shall confess my fault to him. I hope that he will forgive me, and I venture to promise that he will overwhelm you with favours.”

‘“No, madam,” I said to the princess, “I ask nothing for having saved you. Heaven bears me witness that I do not regret it; but I admit to you that I am in despair at having served your resentment so well. You have abused my complaisance in making me contribute to a treachery. You ought rather to have called upon me to revenge you nobly. I would willingly have exposed my life for you.”

‘For, my lord, although I considered Namahran justly punished, I so much regretted having myself led him to death that I abandoned the lady on the spot and despised her promises. I left the town before daybreak, and perceiving a caravan of merchants who were encamped in a meadow, I joined them, and as they were going to Bagdad, where I wished to go, I journeyed with them. I arrived there happily; but I soon found myself in a sad situation. I was without money, and only a gold sequin remained to me of all my past fortune. I bought with it scented apples, sweets, balms, and roses. I went every day to the shop of a merchant who vended cooling drinks, where several lords and other persons were accustomed to assemble to converse. I presented to them in a basket what I had bought. Each one took what he wished, and did not fail to give me some money, so that this little trading furnished me with means to live comfortably.

‘One day that I was offering flowers as usual at the merchant’s, in the corner of the room there was an old man to whom I paid no attention, and who, seeing that I did not address myself to him at all, called me, and said, “My friend, how comes it that you do not offer me your merchandise as well as the others? Don’t you count me amongst worthy people, or do you think that I have nothing in my purse?”

‘“My lord,” I replied, “I beg you to excuse me. I did not see you, I assure you. All I have is at your service, and I ask you nothing for it.”

‘At the same time I offered him my basket. He took a scented apple, and bade me seat myself beside him, which I did. He asked me a thousand questions, who I was and what I was called.

‘“Excuse me,” I said sighing, “from satisfying your curiosity. I cannot satisfy it without opening wounds which time is beginning to heal.”

‘These words, or rather the tone in which they were said, prevented the old man from pressing me further. He changed the conversation: and when, after a long talk, he rose to go, he took from his purse ten gold sequins which he placed into my hands.

‘I was very surprised at his liberality. The most prominent persons to whom I was in the habit of offering my basket did not give me even a sequin, and I did not know what to think of this man. I returned the next day to the merchant’s shop, and found the old man there again. He was not that day the last to attract my attention. I addressed myself first to him: he took a little balm, and having made me again seat myself beside him, he pressed me so warmly to relate my story to him, that I could not help doing so.

‘I related to him everything that had happened to me, and after I had confided in him, he said:

‘“I knew your father. I am a merchant of Bassora. I have no children nor hope of having any. I have conceived a friendship for you. I adopt you. Thus, my son, console yourself for past misfortunes. You find a father richer than Abdelaziz, and who will not be less friendly to you.”

‘I thanked this venerable old man for the honour which he did me, and followed him when he left. He made me cast away my basket and my flowers and led me into a large house which he had hired. He gave me an apartment in it, with slaves to wait on me. They brought me, by his order, rich clothes. It was as if my father Abdelaziz still lived, and it did not seem as if I had ever been in a miserable condition.

‘When the merchant had finished the business which kept him in Bagdad, that is to say, had sold all the merchandise which he had brought thither, we took together the road to Bassora. My friends, who had not hoped to see me again, were not a little surprised to learn that I had been adopted by a man who was considered the richest merchant in the town. I strove to please the old man. He was charmed at my behaviour.

‘“Aboulcasem,” he often said to me, “I am charmed to have met you at Bagdad. You seem to me very worthy of what I have done for you.”

‘I was so touched with the sentiment which he expressed for me that, far from abusing it, I did all I could to give him pleasure. Instead of seeking young people of my own age, I kept him company. I hardly left him. However, this good old man fell ill and the physicians could not cure him. Seeing himself in extremity, he made everyone retire and said to me:

‘“It is time, my son, to reveal an important secret to you. If I had, as sole wealth, only this house with the riches which you see in it, I should think I was leaving you only a moderate fortune; but all the wealth that I have amassed during the course of my life, although considerable for a merchant, is nothing in comparison with the treasure which is concealed in the house, and which I wish to discover to you. I shall not tell you how long, by whom, nor how it happens to be here, for I do not know. All that I know is that my grandfather in dying discovered it to my father, who also made me the same confidence a few days before his death.

‘“But” he continued, “I have an advice to give you, and beware of despising it. You are naturally generous. When you see yourself in a position to follow out your inclination, you will not fail to be prodigal with your wealth. You will receive magnificently the strangers who come to you. You will overwhelm them with presents, and you will do good to all those who implore your aid.

‘“This conduct, which I should highly approve if you could maintain it with impunity, will be the cause of your destruction. You will live with so much magnificence that you will excite the envy of the King of Bassora or the avarice of his ministers. They will suspect you of having a hidden treasure, and will spare no pains to discover it, and they will take it from you. To prevent this misfortune, you have only to follow my example. I have always, like my grandfather and my father, exercised my profession and enjoyed this treasure without display. We have indulged in no expense at which the world has been surprised.”

‘I did not fail to promise the merchant that I would imitate his prudence. He told me where the treasure was, and he assured me that however great an idea I might form of the wealth which it contained I should find it still more considerable than I had imagined. Indeed, after this generous old man was dead, and as his only heir I had rendered him the last services, I took possession of all his goods, of which this house forms a part, and I went to see the treasure, I will admit to you, my lord, that I was astonished at it. If it is not inexhaustible it is at least so rich that I could not exhaust it were Heaven to allow me to live longer than other men.

‘So far from keeping the promise which I made the merchant, I spread my riches broadcast. There is no one in Bassora who has not experienced my favours. Is not daring to touch a treasure, possessing it? And can I make a better use of it than by employing it to relieve the unfortunate, to receive strangers well, and to lead a delicious life.

‘Everyone imagined at first that I was going to ruin myself a second time. “Had Aboulcasem,” they said, “all the treasures of the Commander of the Faithful, he would dissipate them.” But they were very much astonished when, instead of seeing the least disorder in my affairs, they appeared on the contrary to become day by day more flourishing. They could not conceive how I could augment my wealth whilst lavishly spending it.

‘I, however, made so much display, that at last I roused envy against myself, as the old man had predicted. The rumour spread in the town that I had found a treasure. That was all that was wanted to attract to me greedy persons. The lieutenant of police came to see me.

‘“I am,” he said, “the lieutenant of police, and I come to ask you where the treasure is which enables you to live with so much magnificence.”

‘I was troubled at these words and remained silent. He concluded from my embarrassed manner that the reports about me in the town were not without foundation. But instead of pressing me to discover my treasure to him: “Lord Aboulcasem,” he continued, “I discharge my duty like a sensible man. Make me a present worthy of my discretion and I will retire.”

‘“How much do you require?” I said to him.

‘“I will content myself,” he replied, “with ten gold sequins a day.”

‘I replied to him: “It is not enough, I will give you a hundred. You have only to come here every day or every month, and my treasurer will give them you.”

‘The lieutenant of police was transported with joy when he heard these words.

‘“My lord,” he said, “I would that you had found a thousand treasures. Enjoy your wealth in peace. I shall never trouble your possession of it.”

‘He took a large sum in advance and went away. A little time after, the vizir Aboulfatah-Waschy sent for me, and having had me admitted into his cabinet, he said to me:

‘“O young man, I have learnt that you have discovered a treasure. You know that the fifth part belongs to God. You must give it to the king. Therefore pay the fifth part and you shall remain in tranquil possession of the four other parts.”

‘I replied: “My lord, I will admit to you that I have found a treasure, and at the same time I swear to you by the great God who has created us both, that I will not discover it, even if I were torn to pieces. But I undertake to give you every day a thousand gold sequins, provided that you then leave me in peace.”

‘Aboulfatah was as amenable as the lieutenant of police. He sent me a confidential man to whom my treasurer gave thirty thousand sequins for the first month.

‘This vizir, fearing no doubt that the King of Bassora would hear what was going on, preferred to tell him himself. This prince listened very attentively to him, and the matter seeming to him to merit investigation, he wished to see me. He received me laughing and said: “O young man, why do you not show me your treasure? Do you think me unjust enough to take it from you?”

‘“Sire,” I replied, “may the life of your majesty endure with the centuries; but were my flesh torn from me with hot irons, I will not discover my treasure. I consent to pay to your majesty every day two thousand gold sequins. If you refuse to accept them, and you think it more desirable to have me put to death, you have only to command. I am ready to suffer all imaginable tortures rather than satisfy your curiosity.”

‘At this speech the king looked towards his vizir and asked his advice.

‘“Sire,” said the minister, “the sum which he offers you is so considerable that it is the discovery of a real treasure. Let this young man go. Let him live with his ordinary magnificence; only let him be careful to keep exactly his word to your majesty.”

‘The king followed this advice. He caressed me much. And since that time, according to our agreement, I pay every year, to him as well as to the vizir and the lieutenant of police, more than a million and sixty thousand gold sequins.

‘There, my lord, is what you wished to learn. You must no longer be surprised at the presents which I have made you, nor at all that you have seen here.’

When Aboulcasem had finished the account of his adventures, the caliph, animated by a violent desire to see the treasure, said to him:

‘Is it possible that there is in the world a treasure which your generosity is not capable of soon exhausting? No, I cannot believe it, and if it were not exacting too much from you, my lord, I would ask to see the treasure you possess, swearing to you by all that can make an oath inviolable that I will not abuse your confidence.’

The son of Abdelaziz seemed distressed at the speech of the caliph: ‘I am sorry, my lord,’ he said, ‘that you have this curiosity. I can only satisfy it on very disagreeable conditions.’

‘No matter,’ cried the prince, ‘what these conditions may be, I submit to them without repugnance.’

‘I must,’ replied Aboulcasem, ‘bind your eyes and conduct you without arms and bareheaded, with a scimitar in my hand, ready to strike you a thousand mortal blows if you violate the laws of hospitality. I know well,’ he added, ‘that I might be accused of imprudence, and that I ought not to yield to your desire; but I rely on the fidelity of your oaths, and moreover, I cannot bring myself to send away a guest discontented.’

‘Pray,’ said the caliph, ‘satisfy my desires immediately.’

‘That cannot be at once,’ replied the young man; ‘but stay here to-night. When all the servants are at rest, I will come and fetch you from the apartment to which I am going to conduct you.’

At these words he called, and, by the light of a great quantity of candles carried by slaves in gold candle-sticks, he conducted the prince into a magnificent room and retired to his own. The slaves undressed the caliph, laid him to rest and retired, after having placed at the head and feet of the bed their candles, the perfumed wax of which gave out a pleasant scent in burning.

Instead of thinking of taking some repose, Haroun-al-Raschid awaited Aboulcasem impatiently. He did not fail to come and fetch him in the middle of the night, and said, ‘My lord, all my servants are asleep, a profound silence reigns in the house, I can now show you my treasure on the conditions that I have told you.’

‘Let us go,’ replied the caliph rising, ‘I am ready to follow you; and I swear by the Creator of heaven and earth, that you will not repent of having satisfied my curiosity.’

The son of Abdelaziz helped the prince to dress, then placed a bandage on his eyes; ‘It is with regret, my lord,’ he said, ‘that I treat you thus’; your air and behaviour seem to be worthy of confidence.’

‘I approve of these precautions,’ interrupted the caliph, ‘and I do not bear you ill-will because of them.’

Aboulcasem conducted him down a secret stairway into a garden of vast extent: and after several turns, they both entered the place which contained the treasure. It was a deep and spacious underground place, of which a simple stone covered the entrance. First they found a long, sloping passage, very dark, at the end of which there was a great hall which was rendered very brilliant by several carbuncles. When they had arrived in this hall, the young man removed he bandage from the eyes of the caliph, who now saw with astonishment everything that presented itself to his sight.

A basin of white marble, fifty feet in circumference, appeared in the middle. It was full of great gold pieces, and all round were twelve columns of the same metal, which supported as many statues of precious stones admirably well worked.

Aboulcasem conducted the prince to the edge of the basin, and said to him, ‘This basin is thirty feet deep. Look at this heap of gold pieces, it has as yet diminished only by a couple of inches. Do you think I can soon dissipate that?’

Haroun, after having looked at the basin attentively, replied: ‘There are, I admit, immense riches there; but you can exhaust them.’

‘Well,’ replied the young man, ‘when this basin is empty, I shall have recourse to what I am going to show you.’

Thus saying, he led him into another hall, still more brilliant than the first, and where there were several sofas of red brocade, adorned with an infinity of pearls and diamonds. There also in the middle was a marble basin. True, it was not as large as that in which the gold pieces were, but to compensate, it was full of rubies, topazes, emeralds, and all sorts of stones. Nothing could equal the surprise which the caliph then displayed. He could hardly believe he was awake.

This new basin seemed an enchantment to him. He had his gaze still fastened upon it, when the son of Abdelaziz called his attention to a golden throne on which were two persons who, he told him, were the first possessors of the treasure. They were a prince and princess who had on their heads crowns of diamonds. They both seemed full of life. They were lying at full length, and at their feet was an ebony table on which one read in letters of gold: ‘I have amassed during a long life all the riches which are here. I have taken towns and castles which I have pillaged. I have conquered kingdoms, and laid low all my enemies. I have been the most powerful king in the world, but all my power has yielded to that of death. Whoever sees me in the state in which I am, should open his eyes. Let him reflect that I have lived like him, and that he will die like me. Let him not fear to exhaust this treasure. He will never be able to come to the end of it. Let him make use of it to gather friends together and to lead an agreeable life, for, when he must die, all this wealth will not guarantee him against the common fate of all men.’

‘I do not any longer disapprove of your conduct,’ said Haroun to the young man, after having read these words. ‘You are right in living as you do, and I condemn the advice which the old merchant gave you. But,’ he added, ‘I should like very much to know the name of this prince. What king can have possessed so much wealth? I am sorry this inscription does not inform me.’

The young man then showed the caliph another hall in which there were several very precious things, and among others some trees similar to that of which he had made him a present. The prince would willingly have spent the rest of the night examining all that this marvellous subterranean place contained, if the son of Abdelaziz, fearing to be perceived by his servants, had not compelled him to leave before daybreak in the same manner in which he had conducted him thither, bare-headed and blindfold, while Aboulcasem held a scimitar in his hand, ready to cut off the caliph’s head if he made the least effort to remove the bandage.

They traversed the garden and reascended the hidden staircase to the room where the emperor had slept. They still found the candles lit there. They conversed together till the break of day.

‘After what I have just seen,’ said the prince, ‘to judge by the slave you have given me, I do not doubt that you have here the most beautiful women of the east.’

‘My lord,’ replied Aboulcasem, ‘I have many beautiful slaves, but I can love none of them. Dardané, my dear Dardané, always fills my memory. It is in vain that I say to myself continually that she is dead, and that I ought not to think of her any longer. I am unfortunate enough not to be able to free myself from her image. It possesses me to such an extent, that in spite of all my riches, in the midst of all my prosperity, I feel that I am not happy. Yes, I would a thousand times rather have only a modest fortune and possess Dardané, than live without her with all my treasures.’

The emperor admired the constancy of the son of Abdelaziz, but he exhorted him to make every effort to conquer a chimerical passion. He then renewed his thanks to him for the reception he had given him. After that, having returned to his caravanserai, he took the road to Bagdad, with all the servants, the page, the lovely slave, and all the presents which he had received from Aboulcasem.

Two days after the departure of this prince, the vizir Aboulfatah, having heard speak of the magnificent presents which Aboulcasem made every day to the strangers who went to see him, and moreover, astonished at the exactitude with which he paid him, as well as the king and the lieutenant of police, the promised sums, resolved to spare nothing in discovering where this treasure could be whence he drew such wealth. This minister was one of those wicked men to whom the greatest crimes cost nothing when they wish to satisfy themselves. He had a daughter of eighteen of ravishing beauty. She was called Balkis. She had every good quality of heart and mind. Prince Aly, nephew of the King of Bassora, loved her devotedly. He had already asked her of her father and was soon to marry her.

Aboulfatah sent for her to his cabinet, and said to her: ‘My daughter, I have need of you. I wish you to adorn yourself in your finest array and go to-night to Aboulcasem. You must do everything to charm this young man and induce him to discover to you the treasure which he has found.’

Balkis trembled at this speech and showed at once on her face the horror she had for the step which was exacted of her obedience.

‘My lord,’ she replied, ‘what do you propose to your daughter? Do you think of the peril to which you expose her? Consider the shame with which you are about to cover her, the stigma you are setting on your honour and the outrage you will do the Prince Aly in sending the woman whom he loves upon such an errand.’

‘I have reflected on all that,’ replied the vizir; ‘but nothing can turn me from my resolution, and I command you to prepare to obey me.’

The young Balkis burst into tears at these words.

‘In the name of God, my father,’ she cried, ‘do not force me yourself to dishonour you. Stifle this avaricious impulse which drives you to despoil a man of wealth which does not belong to you. Let him enjoy his riches in peace, instead of trying to snatch them from him.’

‘Silence, impertinent girl!’ said the angry vizir; ‘it ill becomes you to reflect upon my intentions: do not answer me further. I wish you to go to Aboulcasem, and I swear that if you return without having seen his treasure, I will plunge a dagger in your breast.’

Balkis seeing herself obliged to take such a dangerous step, retired to her apartment overwhelmed with sadness. She took rich clothes and adorned herself with jewels, without, however, making every addition possible through art to her charms; but there was no need for it. Her natural beauty was alone but too capable of inspiring love. Never maiden wished less or feared more to please than Balkis. She feared as much to appear too beautiful to the son of Abdelaziz as she was apprehensive of not being sufficiently so when she appeared before the Prince Aly.

When the night had arrived and Aboulfatah judged it time for his daughter to go to Aboulcasem, he took her out very secretly and conducted her himself to the door of the young man’s house, where he left her, after having told her again that he would kill her if she did not acquit herself well in the infamous part which he made her play. She knocked at the door and asked to speak to the son of Abdelaziz. A slave immediately led her into a room where his master, lying on a large sofa, was recalling to his memory his past misfortunes; and, as often happened to him, was dreaming of his dear Dardané.

As soon as Balkis appeared, Aboulcasem rose to receive her. He made her a profound reverence, put out his hand to her with a respectful air and having obliged her to seat herself on the sofa he asked her why she had done him the honour of coming to see him. She replied, that from his reputation of being a very gallant young man, the fancy had taken her to join in a revel with him. At the same time she removed her veil and dazzled his eyes with a beauty which surprised him. In spite of his indifference to women he could not with impunity look upon so much charm. He was affected by it.

‘Beautiful lady,’ he said, ‘I thank my lucky star for having procured me so agreeable an adventure. I cannot enough rejoice in my happiness.’

After some minutes’ conversation the supper-hour arrived. They both went and seated themselves at a table on which were several different dishes. A great number of pages and officers were there; but Aboulcasem made them retire, so that the lady might not be exposed to their glances. He proceeded to wait on her; he offered her everything of the best and poured out for her excellent wine in a cup enriched with rubies and emeralds. He drank too to keep her in countenance, and the more he looked at Balkis the more beautiful he found her. He made gallant speeches to her, and as the lady was not less witty than beautiful, she replied so brilliantly that he was charmed by her. He threw himself at her knees at the end of the repast. He took one of her hands, and pressing it between his, ‘Lady,’ he said, ‘if your beautiful eyes dazzled me at first, your conversation has completely enchanted me. You kindle in me a fire which will never die. I wish henceforth to be your slave, and to consecrate to you all the moments of my life.’

Saying these words, he kissed the hand of Balkis with such ardour, that the lady, frightened at the pressing danger which threatened her, changed countenance suddenly. She became paler than death; and losing all control, she assumed a melancholy air and her eyes were soon bathed in tears.

‘What is the matter, madam?’ said the young man, very surprised. ‘Whence this sudden grief? What do these tears mean which penetrate my very soul? Is it I who make them flow? Am I unhappy enough to have said or done something which has displeased you? Speak! do not leave me, I beg, any longer in ignorance of the cause of this sad change in you.’

‘My lord,’ replied Balkis, ‘I can dissimulate no longer. Modesty, fear, grief, and perfidy are warring within me, so that I can endure it no longer: I am going to break silence. I am deceiving you, Aboulcasem. I am a maiden of quality. My father, who knows that you have a hidden treasure, wishes to make use of me to discover the place where it is hidden. He has ordered me to come to you, and to spare nothing to get you to show it me. I wished to rebel, but he swore to me that he would take my life if I returned without having seen it. What a cruel command for me! Had I not as a lover a prince whom I love devotedly, and who is soon to marry me, the step which my father makes me take would not appear the less terrible to me. Thus, my lord, if I come to you, it is with a repugnance that the fear of death alone can surmount.’

After the daughter of Aboulfatah had thus spoken, Aboulcasem said to her: ‘Lady, I am glad that you have made known your sentiments to me. You shall not repent of this noble frankness. You shall see my treasure, and you shall be treated with all the respect you desire. However beautiful you are, whatever impression you have made on me, you have nothing to fear, you are here in safety. I renounce the hope I had formed of winning your love, and you can without blushing see again the happy lover, the tender interest in whom redoubles your charms. Cease, then, to shed tears and to afflict yourself.’

‘Ah, my lord!’ cried Balkis at this speech, ‘it is not without reason that you are esteemed the most generous of men. I am charmed at your noble conduct, and I shall not rest satisfied till I have found some occasion of showing my gratitude to you for it.’

After this conversation the son of Abdelaziz conducted the lady into the same room where the caliph had slept, and remained alone with her there until all was silent amongst his servants. Then, placing a bandage on the eyes of Balkis: ‘Lady,’ he said to her, ‘pardon me for treating you thus, but I can only show you my treasure on this condition.’

‘Do everything you wish, my lord,’ she replied; ‘I have so much confidence in your generosity that I will follow you wherever you wish. I have no other fear than that of not being able to sufficiently recognise your kindnesses.’

Aboulcasem took her by the hand, and, having descended into the garden by the hidden stairway, he led her into the underground place, where he removed her bandage. If the caliph had been surprised at seeing so many gold pieces and precious stones, Balkis was much more so. Everything she saw caused her extreme astonishment. Nevertheless, what most attracted her attention, and what she could not tire of looking at, were the first possessors of the treasure. She read the inscription to be seen at their feet. As the queen had a necklace of pearls as large as pigeons’ eggs, Balkis could not help exclaiming at it. Whereupon Aboulcasem detached it from the neck of the princess, and put it on that of the young lady, saying that her father would judge by that that she had seen the treasure, and so, that he might be the better persuaded of it, he begged her to take some of the finest jewels. She took a good quantity of them, which he chose himself.

However, the young man fearing that the day would break whilst she was amusing herself with looking at all the subterranean marvels, which could not tire her curiosity, he replaced the bandage on her eyes, led her out and conducted her to a room where they conversed together till sunrise. Then the lady, after having repeated to the son of Abdelaziz that she would never forget his kindness and his generosity, took leave of him, returned home, and went to give an account to her father of what had passed.

The vizir, solely absorbed in his avarice, impatiently awaited his daughter. He feared she would not be charming enough to captivate Aboulcasem.

He was in an inconceivable state of agitation. But when he saw her return with the necklace, and she showed him the jewels which the young man had given her, he was transported with joy.

‘Well, my daughter,’ he said, ‘have you seen the treasure?’

‘Yes, my lord,’ replied Balkis, ‘and to give you a just idea of it, I will tell you, that were all the kings of the earth together to unite their riches, they would not be comparable with those of Aboulcasem, but, however great may be the wealth of the young man, I am less charmed by it than by his politeness and generosity.’

At the same time she related the whole adventure to him. He was indifferent to the nobility of the son of Abdelaziz, and he would have preferred his daughter’s sorrow to not knowing where the treasure was which he wished to discover.

During this time Haroun-al-Raschid advanced towards Bagdad. As soon as this prince had returned to his palace he set his grand vizir at liberty, he restored him to confidence, and, after having detailed the journey to him:

‘Giafar,’ he said, ‘what shall I do? You know that the gratitude of caliphs ought to surpass the pleasure that has been given them. If I content myself by sending to the magnificent Aboulcasem what I have that is rarest and most precious in my treasury, that would be very little to him. How, then, can I outdo him in generosity?’

‘My lord,’ said the vizir, ‘if your majesty will believe me, you will write this very day to the King of Bassora to order him to remit the government of his state to the young Aboulcasem. We will immediately send off the courier, and in a few days I will go myself to bear the patents to the new king.’

The caliph approved of this suggestion. ‘You are right,’ he said to his minister: ‘that will be the way to acquit myself towards Aboulcasem, and to revenge myself upon the King of Bassora and his vizir, who have concealed from me that they receive considerable sums from this young man. It is even just to punish them for the violence they have done him, and they are not worthy of the places they occupy. He wrote immediately to the King of Bassora and sent off the courier. He took himself to the apartment of Zobeide to relate to her also the success of his journey, and to present to her the little page, the tree, and the peacock. He also made her a present of the maiden.

Zobeide found her so charming that, smiling, she told the emperor that she accepted this beautiful slave with much more pleasure than the other presents. The prince kept only the cup for himself: the vizir Giafar had all the rest, and this minister, according to his resolve, arranged everything for his departure a few days after.

The courier of the caliph was no sooner arrived in the town of Bassora than he hastened to remit his despatch to the king, who could not read it without feeling deeply pained. He showed it to his vizir:

‘Aboulfatah,’ he said, ‘see what fatal order the Commander of the Faithful sends me. Can I avoid obeying it?’

‘Yes, my lord,’ replied the minister. ‘Do not abandon yourself to your affliction. Aboulcasem must be destroyed. I am going, without taking his life, to make everyone believe that he is dead. I shall keep him so well concealed that he will never be seen. By this means you will always remain on the throne, and you will have all the riches of this young man: for when we are masters of his person we will make him suffer such tortures that we will make him discover his treasure.’

‘Do what you wish,’ replied the king; ‘but what shall we say to the caliph?’

‘Rely upon me for that too,’ replied the vizir. ‘The Commander of the Faithful will be deceived like the others. Only let me execute the plan which I contemplate, and don’t let the rest cause you any anxiety.’

Aboulfatah, accompanied by several courtiers who did not know his intention, went to see Aboulcasem. He received them as the first persons of the court. He regaled them magnificently. He made the vizir seat himself in the place of honour and overwhelmed him with civilities, without having the least suspicion of his perfidy. Whilst they were all at table and were drinking excellent wines, the treacherous Aboulfatah threw skilfully into Aboulcasem’s cup, without anyone perceiving it, a powder which deprived the drinker of all feeling, the body falling into lethargy and resembling a corpse long dead.

The young man had no sooner lifted the cup to his lips than weakness overtook him. His servants advanced to support him; but soon, seeing in him all the indications of a dead man, they laid him on a sofa and began to utter terrible cries. All the guests, struck by a sudden terror, remained seized with astonishment. As for Aboulfatah, it is impossible to say how far he carried his dissimulation. He did not content himself with feigning an immoderate grief: he began to tear his garments, and by his example incite all the others to grief. He then ordered a coffin of ivory and ebony to be made; and whilst they were at work on it, he took possession of all the effects of Aboulcasem, and placed them in sequestration in the king’s palace.

The rumour of the young man’s death spread in the town. Everyone of both sexes put on mourning and flocked to the door of his house, with bare heads and feet. The old men and the young, the women and the girls, were in tears. They made the air resound with cries and lamentations. One would have said they mourned, some an only son, others a brother, and the others a dearly loved husband.

Rich and poor were both equally affected by his death. The rich mourned a friend who received them agreeably in his house, and the poor a benefactor whose charity they could never tire. There was general consternation.

The unhappy Aboulcasem was enclosed in the coffin, which the people, by order of Aboulfatah, bore outside the town to a great cemetery where there were several tombs, and among others a magnificent one where rested the father of this vizir with some other persons of his family.

They put the coffin in the tomb, and the treacherous Aboulfatah, with his head on his knees, beat his breast. He made every demonstration of a man possessed by despair. All who saw him had pity on him and prayed heaven to console him.

As night approached all the people retired into the town, and the vizir remained with two of his slaves in the tomb, the door of which they doubly locked. Then they lit a fire, warmed water in a silver basin, then, having taken Aboulcasem from the coffin, they washed him with warm water. The young man recovered his senses by degrees. He cast his eyes on Aboulfatah, whom he recognised.

‘Ah, my lord!’ he said, ‘where are we, and to what a state do I see myself reduced?’

‘Miserable fellow,’ replied the minister, ‘learn that it is I who cause your misfortune. I have brought you here to have you in my power, and to make you suffer a thousand ills if you do not discover your treasure to me. I shall break your body in pieces. I shall invent every day new tortures to make your life insupportable to you. In a word, I shall not cease to torment you if you do not give up to me those hidden riches which enable you to live with more than kingly magnificence.’

‘You can do all you wish,’ replied Aboulcasem, ‘I shall not reveal my treasure.’

Hardly had he said these words than the cowardly and cruel Aboulfatah had the unhappy son of Abdelaziz held by his slaves, and drew from beneath his robe a whip made of intertwined lion-skin thongs, with which he struck him for some time, and with such violence that the young man fainted. When the vizir saw him in this state, he ordered his slaves to replace him in his coffin, and leaving him in the tomb which he had well closed, he went home.

He went the next morning to give an account to the king of what he had done.

‘Sire,’ he said to him, ‘I experienced yesterday the firmness of Aboulcasem. It has not yet been belied, but I do not think it will resist the torments which I am preparing for him.’

The prince, who was not less barbarous than his minister, said to him:

‘Vizir, I am pleased with you. I hope we shall soon learn where the treasure is. However, the courier must be sent back without further delay. What are we going to write to the caliph?’

‘Let us inform him,’ replied Aboulfatah, ‘that Aboulcasem having learnt that your place was given to him, was so overjoyed at it, and indulged in such great rejoicings, that he died suddenly in a debauch.’

The king approved of this idea. They wrote immediately to Haroun-al-Raschid and sent back his courier.

The vizir, who flattered himself that Aboulcasem would that very day discover his treasure to him, left the town with the resolution to go and make him suffer fresh tortures. But on arriving at the tomb, he was surprised to find the door open. He entered quite troubled, and not seeing the son of Abdelaziz in the coffin, he thought that he had lost his senses. He returned promptly to the palace and related this accident to the king, who felt himself seized with a mortal terror, and said: ‘O Heaven, what will become of us? Since this young man has escaped us we are lost. He will not fail to go to Bagdad and speak to the caliph.’

Aboulfatah, on his side, in despair at having no longer by his side the victim of his avarice and cruelty, said to the king his master: ‘Would to Heaven that I had yesterday taken his life. He would not cause us so much anxiety. We must not, however,’ he added, ‘despair yet. If he has taken flight, as it is idle to doubt, he cannot be far from here. Let us go with all the soldiers of the guard. Let us search all the environs of the town. I hope we shall find him.’

The king decided, without difficulty, on such an important search. He assembled all his soldiers, and dividing them into two bodies, he gave one to his vizir. He put himself at the head of the other; and these troops scoured the country.

Whilst they were seeking Aboulcasem in all the villages, in the woods, and in the mountains, the vizir Giafar, who had started on his way, met the courier on the road, who said to him: ‘My lord, it is useless to go to Bassora if Aboulcasem is the sole object of your journey; for the young man is dead. His obsequies have been held a few days ago. My eyes have been the sad witness of them.’

Giafar, who anticipated with pleasure seeing the new king, and presenting him with his patents himself, was very afflicted at his death. He shed tears, and thinking it useless to continue his journey, he retraced his steps.

As soon as he had arrived at Bagdad, he went to the palace with the courier. The sadness which appeared upon their countenances made the caliph understand in advance that they had some misfortune to announce to him.

‘Ah! Giafar,’ cried the prince, ‘you have soon returned. What news do you bring me?’

‘Commander of the Faithful,’ replied the vizir, ‘you doubtless will not expect the sad news which I am going to tell you. Aboulcasem is no more. Since your departure from Bassora, this young man has lost his life.’

Haroun-al-Raschid had no sooner heard these words than he threw himself down from his throne. He remained for some moments stretched on the ground without giving any sign of life. They hastened to succour him, and when he had recovered from his swoon, he sought with his eyes the courier who came from Bassora, and having perceived him, he asked for his despatch. The courier presented it to him. The prince read it with much attention. He then shut himself up in his cabinet with Giafar. He showed him the letter of the King of Bassora. After having re-read it several times, the caliph said:

‘That does not seem natural. I suspect the King of Bassora and his vizir. Instead of executing my orders they have killed Aboulcasem.’

‘My lord,’ said Giafar in his turn, ‘the same suspicion crosses my mind, and I would advise the arrest of both of them.’

‘That is what I this moment am resolved on,’ replied Haroun. ‘Take ten thousand cavalry of my guard: march to Bassora. Seize the two guilty persons and bring them to me here. I wish to avenge the death of the most generous of all men.’

Giafar obeyed: he chose ten thousand horse and set out on the march with them.

Let us now return to the son of Abdelaziz and see why the vizir, Aboulfatah, did not find him any longer in the tomb where he had left him. This young man, after a long faint, was beginning to recover his senses, when he felt himself seized by vigorous arms, which drew him from the coffin and placed him on the ground. He thought it was the vizir and his slaves who wished to begin to ill-treat him again.

‘Tyrants,’ he said to them, ‘give me death if you are capable of pity! Spare me tortures which benefit you nothing, since I tell you again that your torments will never tear my secret from me!’

‘Fear nothing, young man,’ said one of the persons who had drawn him from his coffin; ‘instead of coming to ill-treat you, we come to your help.’

At these words Aboulcasem opened his eyes, looked at his liberators, and recognised among them the young lady to whom he had shown his treasure.

‘Ah! madam,’ he said, ‘is it you to whom I owe my life?’

‘Yes, my lord,’ replied Balkis, ‘it is to me and to the Prince Aly, my lover, whom you see here Informed of all your generosity, he has wished to share with me the pleasure of delivering you from death.’

‘It is true,’ said the Prince Aly, ‘and I would a thousand times expose my life rather than let so generous a man perish.’

The son of Abdelaziz, having entirely recovered his senses with the aid of some drink given to him, thanked the lady and Prince Aly in proportion to the service rendered, and asked them how they had known that he still lived.

‘My lord,’ said Balkis, ‘I am the daughter of the vizir Aboulfatah. I have not been duped by the false rumour of your death. I suspected my father of all he has done, and I have won over one of his slaves who has told me everything. This slave is one of the two who were here with him, and as he was entrusted with the key of the tomb, he confided it to me. I then had the Prince Aly informed immediately, and he hastened to join me, with some of his most faithful domestics. We came with all speed, and we thank Heaven for not having arrived too late.’

‘O God,’ said Aboulcasem, ‘can so cowardly and cruel a father have so generous a daughter?’

‘Come, my lord,’ said the Prince Aly, ‘let us lose no time. I do not doubt but that the vizir, not finding you any longer in the tomb to-morrow, will have you searched for with great care; but I am going to conduct you to my house. You will be in safety there. They will never suspect me of having given you a refuge.’

They covered Aboulcasem with a slave’s robe, after which they all left the tomb, leaving it open, and took the road to the town. Balkis returned home and gave back the key of the tomb to the slave, and the Prince Aly took the son of Abdelaziz to his house and kept him so well hidden that his enemies could learn no news of him.

Aboulcasem remained in the house of the Prince Aly, who treated him well in every way, until the king and the vizir, despairing of finding him, ceased searching for him.

Then the Prince Aly gave him a very fine horse, loaded him with sequins and precious stones, and said to him, ‘You can now escape. The roads are open to you. Your enemies do not know what has become of you. Go where you wish.’

The son of Abdelaziz thanked the generous prince for his kindness, and assured him that he would be eternally grateful to him. Prince Aly embraced him, saw him depart, and prayed Heaven to guide him. Aboulcasem took the road to Bagdad and arrived there happily after several days’ march.

When he had arrived in this town, the first thing he did was to go to the place where the merchants assemble.

The hope of seeing him whom he had entertained at Bassora, and relating to him his misfortune, was his only consolation. He was mortified at not finding him. He went all over the town, and sought his features in the faces of all the men he met. Feeling tired, he arrived before the caliph’s palace. The little page whom he had given to the caliph was then at a window, and the child, having by chance cast his eyes upon him, recognised him. He ran immediately to the caliph’s apartment.

‘My lord,’ he said to him, ‘I have just seen my former master at Bassora.’

Haroun placed no faith in what he said.

‘You are mistaken,’ he replied. ‘Aboulcasem lives no more. Led away by some resemblance, you must have taken another for him.’

‘No, no! Commander of the Faithful,’ replied the page, ‘I am sure it is he. I recognised him at once.’

Although the caliph did not believe this news, he nevertheless wished to examine if it were true. He sent immediately one of his officers with the page, to see if the man in question were really the son of Abdelaziz.

They found him still in the same place, for, thinking that he had recognised the little page, he waited for the child to reappear at the window.

When the page was convinced that he was not mistaken, he threw himself at the feet of Aboulcasem, who lifted him up, and asked him if he had the honour to belong to the caliph.

‘Yes, my lord,’ replied the child; ‘it is the Commander of the Faithful himself whom you have received at Bassora, and it is to him you have given me. Come with me, my lord, the caliph will be very pleased to see you.’

At this speech the surprise of the young man of Bassora was extreme. He let himself be led into the palace by the page and the officer, and he was soon introduced into the apartment of Haroun. The prince was seated on his sofa. He felt extraordinarily moved on seeing Aboulcasem. He rose eagerly, went towards the young man and held him in a long embrace without being able to say a word, so transported was he with joy.

When he had recovered a little from the extreme emotions which this adventure had caused him, he said to the son of Abdelaziz: ‘O young man, open your eyes and recognise your happy guest. It is I whom you have received so well, and to whom you have made presents unequalled by those of kings.’

At these words, Aboulcasem, who was not less troubled than the caliph, whom from respect he had not dared to look at, gazed at him, and recognising him, ‘O my sovereign master!’ he cried; ‘O king of the world, is it you who came to your slave’s house?’

Thus saying, he threw himself face downwards on the ground at the feet of the caliph, who lifted him up and made him seat himself beside him on the sofa.

‘How is it possible,’ he said, ‘that you are still alive?’

Then Aboulcasem related all the cruelties of Aboulfatah, and the chance by which he had been snatched from the fury of the vizir.

Haroun listened very attentively to him, and said: ‘I am the cause of these last misfortunes of yours. Having returned to Bagdad I wished to begin to acquit myself towards you. I sent a courier to the King of Bassora. I informed him that my intention was that he should remit his crown to you. Instead of executing my orders he resolved to take your life, for you must be convinced that Aboulfatah would soon have caused your death. The hope which he had that torture would soon oblige you to discover your treasure to him alone made him delay your death. But you shall be revenged. Giafar, with a great number of troops, has gone to Bassora. I have ordered him to seize your two persecutors and bring them to me. You will remain in my palace, and you will be waited on there by my officers as though you were myself.’

Saying these words, he took the young man by the hand and led him down into a garden filled with the rarest flowers. In it were several basins of marble, porphyry, and jasper, filled with an infinity of beautiful fish. In the middle of the garden, upon twelve very high columns of black marble, was a dome, the roof of which was of sandal and aloe wood. The intervals between the columns were enclosed by a double golden trellis which formed all round an aviary full of thousands and thousands of canaries of different colours, of nightingales, of warblers, and other harmonious birds, who mingled their voices in a charming concert.

The baths of Haroun-al-Raschid were under this dome. The prince and his guest bathed, after which several officers covered them with the finest linen which had never been used before. Aboulcasem was then reclothed in rich garments. Then the caliph led him into a hall where he made him eat with him. They brought them meats and cates. They served to them Turkish and Arabian pomegranates, Syrian apples, grapes of Meccah and Aleppo, and pears from Ispahan. After they had eaten the meat and fruits and drunk a delicious wine, the caliph conducted Aboulcasem to the apartment of Zobeide.

This princess appeared on a golden throne in the midst of all her slaves, who were standing divided into two files. Some had tambourines, others mellow flutes, and others harps. They did not make their instruments heard then. They all listened attentively to a girl more beautiful than the others, who sang a song whose burden was ‘Love not once, but love through life;’ and while she sang, the maiden whom Aboulcasem had given to the caliph played her lute of aloe wood, ivory, sandal wood, and ebony.

As soon as Zobeide perceived the emperor and the son of Abdelaziz, she descended from her throne to receive them.

‘Madam,’ said Haroun to her, ‘let me present to you my host at Bassora.’

The young man immediately prostrated himself with his face to the earth before the princess. But whilst he was in this position a noise was suddenly heard among the slaves. She who had just sung, having cast her eyes on Aboulcasem, gave a great cry, and fainted.

The emperor and Zobeide turned immediately towards the slave, and the son of Abdelaziz, having risen also, looked at her; but he had no sooner seen her than he swooned. His eyes grew dark, a mortal pallor overspread his face. They thought he was going to die. The caliph, prompt to succour him, took him in his arms and restored him by degrees from his swoon.

When Aboulcasem had recovered his senses, he said to the prince: ‘Commander of the Faithful, you know the adventure which I had in Cairo. This slave whom you see is the person who was thrown with me into the Nile; it is Dardané.’

‘Is it possible?’ cried the emperor. ‘Let Heaven be for ever praised for such a marvellous event!’

During this time the slave, with the help of her companions, also recovered her senses. She wished to prostrate herself at the feet of the caliph, who prevented her, and asked her by what miracle she was still alive after being thrown into the Nile.

‘Commander of the Faithful,’ she said, ‘I fell into the nets of a fisher, who by chance drew them in at that moment. He was rather surprised at having made such a haul, and as he perceived that I still breathed, he carried me into his house, where, restored to life through his care, I related my sad story to him. He appeared alarmed; he was afraid lest the Sultan of Egypt should learn that he had saved me. So, fearing to lose his life for having saved mine, he hastened to sell me to a slave-merchant who was leaving for Bagdad. This merchant brought me to this town and presented me shortly afterwards to the Princess Zobeide, who bought me.’

Whilst the slave was speaking, the caliph considered her attentively, and finding her charmingly beautiful, ‘Aboulcasem,’ he cried, as soon as she had finished speaking, ‘I am no longer surprised that you should have always preserved the memory of so beautiful a person. I thank Heaven for having conducted her here to enable me to acquit myself towards you. Dardané is no longer a slave, she is free. I think, madam,’ he added, turning to Zobeide, ‘you will not oppose her liberty.’

‘No, my lord,’ replied the princess, ‘I agree to it with joy, and I hope these two lovers will taste the sweetness of a long and perfect union, after the misfortunes which have separated them.’

‘This is not all,’ replied Haroun. ‘I wish their marriage to be celebrated in my palace, and that there should be public rejoicings for three days in Bagdad. I cannot treat my host of Bassora with too much honour.’

‘Ah, my lord!’ said Aboulcasem, throwing himself at the emperor’s feet, ‘if you are above men in rank you are still more so in generosity. Permit me to discover my treasure to you and abandon the possession of it to you from this moment.’

‘No, no,’ replied the caliph; ‘remain in tranquil enjoyment of your treasure; I even renounce the right that I have over it; and may you live long enough to exhaust it.’

Zobeide begged the son of Abdelaziz and Dardané to relate their adventures to her, and she had them written in letters of gold. After that, the emperor ordered the preparations for their marriage, which was celebrated with much pomp. The public rejoicings which followed it were still continuing when the vizir Giafar returned with the troops, bringing Aboulfatah well bound. As for the King of Bassora, he had died of grief at not having been able to find Aboulcasem.

As soon as Giafar had given an account of his errand to his master, a scaffold was raised before the palace and the wicked Aboulfatah was made to mount it.

All the people, informed of the cruelty of this vizir, instead of being touched by his misfortune expressed impatience to see his execution. Already the executioner had the sabre in his hand, ready to cut off the head of the culprit, when the son of Abdelaziz, prostrating himself before the caliph, said: ‘Commander of the Faithful, grant my prayers for the life of Aboulfatah. Let him live! let him be the witness of my happiness! let him see all the kindness you have for me, will he not be punished enough?’

‘O, too generous Aboulcasem,’ cried the emperor, ‘how well you deserve to reign! How fortunate the people of Bassora will be to have you for their king.’

‘My lord,’ said the young man, ‘I have another favour to ask of you. Give to Prince Aly the throne which you destine for me. Let him reign with the lady who has had the generosity to deliver me from her father’s fury. These two lovers are worthy of this honour. As for me, cherished and protected by the Commander of the Faithful, I have no need of a crown. I am above kings.’

The caliph, to reward the Prince Aly for the service which he had rendered to the son of Abdelaziz, sent him patents and made him King of Bassora. But finding Aboulfatah too culpable to accord him liberty with his life, he ordered him to be shut up in a dark tower for the rest of his days. When the people of Bagdad knew that it was the injured man himself who had asked for the life of his enemy, great praise was given to the young Aboulcasem, who left shortly afterwards for Bassora with his dear Dardané, both escorted by troops of the caliph’s guard, and followed by a great number of officers.

Sutlumemé here finished the story of the strange adventures of Aboulcasem of Bassora. All the women of the Princess of Cashmere applauded her greatly. Some praised the magnificence and generosity of the young man of Bassora, the others maintained that the Caliph Haroun-al-Raschid was not less generous than he. Others, devoted only to constancy, said that Aboulcasem had been a very faithful lover. Then Farrukhnaz said:

‘I do not agree with you: Balkis nearly made him forget Dardané. I wish a lover whom death robs of his mistress, to preserve always such tender remembrance of her as to make him incapable of a new passion, but men do not pride themselves on such great constancy.’

‘Pardon, madam,’ said Sutlumemé, ‘men have been known whose fidelity has never given way. You will be persuaded of it if you will listen to the story of Couloufe and the beautiful Dilara.’

‘Well,’ replied Farrukhnaz, ‘I permit you to relate it to us.’

The nurse immediately began it thus.

ONCE upon a time there was at Damascus an old merchant named Abdallah, who was considered the richest of his colleagues.

But he was unhappy. He had been in all parts of the world, and exposed himself to thousands and thousands of dangers in the amassing of wealth, but he had no children to share his fortune.

He spared, however, nothing to procure the favour of Heaven: he opened his gates to the poor, and exercised endless charity to the dervishes, inviting them at the same time to pray God to grant him a son. He even founded hospitals and convents, and had mosques erected: but all was useless. Abdallah lost all hope of being blessed with a child.

One day he sent for an Indian physician whose capacities were much praised. He seated him at his table and after having well regaled him, he said to him:

‘O doctor, I have long desired passionately to have a son.’

‘My lord,’ replied the Indian, ‘it is a favour that depends on God. It is, however, permitted to man to seek means to obtain it.’

‘Command me to do what is necessary to that end,’ replied Abdallah, ‘and I assure you that I will do it.’

‘Firstly,’ said the physician, ‘buy a young slave, tall and straight as a cypress. She must have an agreeable countenance, red cheeks and bright eyes. Her voice ought to be sweet, her manner animated, and her conversation bright. Before buying this slave, you must pass forty days in retirement, in solitude and in prayer, leaving your mind unoccupied with any business. During all this time, you must only eat the flesh of black sheep and only drink old wine. If you observe all these things exactly, there is reason to hope that Heaven will grant you a son.’

Abdallah did not fail to obey the sage, and in time Heaven heard his prayer and vouchsafed him a son.

To celebrate the birth of the child, who was named Couloufe, Abdallah assembled all his friends, gave them a feast, and gave large alms to return thanks to Heaven for having crowned his wishes.

Couloufe grew up, and in proportion as he grew bigger he was instructed in new matters. He had several masters who found him very well disposed to profit by their lessons. They taught him the Hebrew, Greek, Turkish, and Indian tongues, and to form properly the characters of all these languages.

They were not content with making him learn the Koran, he was made to read the commentaries on it. He understood its mystical meaning. He was above all well instructed in the doctrine of predestination. He also knew that which was lawful and that which was unlawful, as well as the questions of ambiguity and certainty. His teachers did not wish him to be ignorant of the history of the Arab tribes, the history of Persia, as well as the annals of the Kings. Further, he learnt moral philosophy, philosophy, medicine and astronomy. He was not eighteen years of age when, besides all the things I have named, he knew yet others.

He was a good poet and a clever musician. He was, moreover, perfect in all bodily exercises. No one ever drew the bow, nor manipulated the sword and lance with more address and vigour. In fact, he was a young man of accomplished merit.

What a satisfaction for a father to have such a son! Abdallah loved him more than life, and could not live for a moment without him. However, death, who grudges happiness to the dwellers upon earth, soon came to take away the old merchant.

Knowing himself about to die, he made Couloufe sit at the side of his bed, and employed his last moments in giving him wise counsels. After his death and his funeral, his son took possession of all his goods.

But this young man was no sooner master of his riches than he began to dissipate them. He had a palace built, bought beautiful slaves, and chose many friends to be the companions of his debauch. He spent his days in amusing himself with them: there was profusion of the most delicate dishes and the best wines in his house.

Feasts, dances, and concerts were the order of the day. He lived in this way for several years, as if the source of his pleasures were inexhaustible. Nevertheless he consumed all his patrimony. Then he was obliged to sell his palace and his slaves, and he finally found himself without means, which greatly rejoiced his enemies.

He then repented of his prodigality. He went to all the youths who had contributed to his ruin.

‘My friends,’ he said to them, ‘you have seen me in prosperity, and now you see me in want. I appeal to you. Help me to rise from my fall. Remember the offers of help that you made me when you were at my table. I do not doubt that you are touched by the state in which I find myself, and that you will make some efforts to bring me out of it.’

It was thus the unhappy Couloufe endeavoured to excite the gratitude of his friends and to engage their help. But he spoke to deaf ears. Some said they were sorry to see him in such a deplorable situation, and contented themselves with praying Heaven to have pity on him. Others, adding harshness to ingratitude, even refused him the consolation of pity, and turned their backs on him.

‘O false friends,’ he cried, ‘how well your harsh and ungrateful conduct punishes me for having been credulous enough to imagine that you really loved me!’

The son of Abdallah, more grieved at having been the dupe of the false friendship of his companions in riot than at having dissipated all his wealth, resolved to leave Damascus where there were so many witnesses of his misfortune. He took the road to the country of the Tartars, and betook himself to Caracoram, where then reigned Cabal-Kan. He went to lodge in a caravanserai, where, with the money that remained to him, he bought for himself a robe and turban of Indian cloth. He spent whole days in walking about the town. He went into the gardens to see everything that was of interest, and as soon as night approached he retired to his caravanserai.

One day he heard it said that the King of the Tartars was preparing to make war; that two neighbouring kings, who paid him a considerable yearly tribute, would not pay it him any longer, that they had leagued themselves together, and that they had already troops afoot to oppose Cabal-Kan, if he undertook to penetrate into their country. Couloufe, having heard this news, went to offer his services to the king, who enrolled him in his army. The young man distinguished himself in this war by exploits which earned for him the admiration of the soldiers, the esteem of the officers, and the protection of Prince Mirgehan, son of the King of the Tartars. His success did not stop there; as, following the example of those two neighbouring kings, other princes who also paid tribute rose, Cabal-Kan was obliged to turn his arms against these new enemies, whom he reduced to beg for peace. The son of Abdallah showed again so much courage on the occasions given to him to distinguish himself, that Mirgehan wished to have him always with him in close companionship.

Couloufe soon gained the friendship of this prince, who, discovering in him every day more merit, honoured him with all his confidence. Soon after Cabal-Kan died. The prince, his son, succeeded him, and was hardly on the throne before he overwhelmed the son of Abdallah with favours and made him his favourite. Couloufe, seeing that his affairs had entirely changed in character and that he had never been happier, said to himself, all the events of our life must be noted in Heaven. When I lived in pleasure at Damascus, was there any appearance of my possible falling in want, and when I came to Caracoram, could I reasonably have hoped that I should become what I am? No, no, all our prosperity and our misfortunes come to us unsuspected. Let us live then according to our desires, and submit ourselves to the fate which we cannot avoid.

It was thus that the son of Abdallah reasoned, and following this principle, he followed his inclination without constraint.

One day that he was leaving the palace he met an old woman covered with a veil of Indian cloth, tied with ribands and silken bands. She had a great necklace of pearls, a stick in her hand, and five slaves, also veiled, accompanied her.

He approached the old woman and asked her whether these slaves were for sale.

‘Yes,’ replied the old woman.

He then lifted their veils and saw that these slaves were young and beautiful. One particularly he found very charming.

‘Sell me this one,’ he said to the old woman; ‘she pleases me.’

‘No,’ she replied, ‘I do not wish to sell her to you. You appear to me a gallant gentleman. You must have a more beautiful one. I have others in my house. I have Turkish, Greek, Sclavonian, Ionian, Ethiopian, German, Cashmerian, Chinese, Armenian, and Georgian maidens. I will present them all to you, and you will take the one that pleases you most. You have only to follow me.’

Saying these words she preceded Couloufe, who followed her.

When they came opposite to a mosque the old woman said to him:

‘O young man, wait here a moment for me. I am going to return.’

He waited nearly an hour, and began to grow impatient, but she reappeared with a girl bearing a bundle. Inside it was a veil and a woman’s outer garment, with which the old woman clothed Couloufe, saying to him:

‘My lord, we are honourable people and of good family. It would not be seemly to receive a stranger in our house.’

‘My good mother,’ he replied, ‘you have only to command. I will do all that you wish.’

He put on the outer garment and placed the veil on his head. Then he accompanied the old woman, who led him into a quarter unknown to him. They entered a large mansion, or rather a palace, for everything that presented itself to view had an air of grandeur and magnificence.

After having traversed a vast court paved with jasper, they reached a saloon of prodigious extent, in the midst of which there was a porphyry basin filled with water, where several small ducks were disporting themselves, and all around were gilt cages in which were a thousand birds of different species who made the air resound with their song.

Whilst Couloufe was regarding attentively these birds and all the other things which contributed to make this the most diverting room in the world, a young woman entered who approached the young man with a laughing air. She made him a profound reverence, and after he had saluted her, she took his hand and begged him to seat himself on the cushions of gold brocade placed on sofas of the same stuff.

As soon as he was seated, she herself took the trouble to wipe his face and eyes with a handkerchief of the finest linen. Whilst rendering him this agreeable service, she smiled and cast glances at him which soon drove him beside himself. He found her to his liking, and was about to make up his mind to purchase her, when another maiden appeared, whose fair hair floated in curls upon her uncovered shoulders, and who was much more beautiful than the first. She advanced gracefully towards the son of Abdallah, took his hands, kissed them, and was about to lave his feet in a golden basin; but he would not allow it, and struck by her beauty, he rose to throw himself at her knees, resolved to devote himself to this one. But he remained suddenly motionless and like a man who has lost the use of his senses, for he perceived twenty young girls, all more charming the one than the other.

They accompanied a young person still more beautiful and more richly dressed than they, and who seemed to be their mistress. Couloufe seemed to see the moon surrounded by stars, and at the sight of this ravishing vision he fainted.

All the slaves ran immediately to his succour, and having brought him round from his swoon, the lady who had caused it addressed him thus:

‘Be welcome,’ she said, ‘poor bird caught by the legs.’

Couloufe kissed the earth, and uttered a deep sigh.

They seated him on a sofa. A cooling drink was brought in a golden cup enriched with jewels. The lady drank of it, and presented the rest to the young man. Then she seated herself near him and remarking that he was so agitated that he could not utter a word; ‘Whence arises the trouble which agitates you?’ she said to him. ‘Banish this sombre sadness which appears in your eyes. Doubtless you are already wearied with us; our company displeases you——’

‘Ah! beautiful lady,’ he replied, looking at her tenderly; ‘cease, I pray you, cease to insult me. You know too well that one cannot see your charms with impunity. I am, I admit, beside myself; an inconceivable trouble agitates me——’

‘Be cheered,’ interrupted the lady, ‘and remember that you come here to buy a slave. Let us all sit down to table; I hope that we shall be able to divert you.’

Thus saying, she took Couloufe by the hand, and conducted him into a hall where they seated themselves with all the other ladies at a long table covered with baskets of sandal wood filled with sweetmeats and dried preserves; Omani preserves, Shami apples, Osmani quinces, Sultani oranges, and other things beside. After having eaten, they rose. A basin was brought to them, and a golden ewer. The ladies washed their hands in willow-flower water with cakes of almonds, with Bagdad soap, and powder of aloes; then, having dried their hands with rose-coloured silk handkerchiefs, they went to the wine-chamber. It was an agreeable retreat, decorated by several pots of roses and other sweet-smelling flowers, which bordered a marble basin full of delicious water. This basin served to keep the wine cool, and contributed, by mingling its freshness with the odour of the flowers, to make this retreat delicious. All the ladies made Couloufe drink, and drank also themselves; so that the company returned to the first room rather elated.

There, some of these ladies began to dance, and the others to play the harp, the guitar of David called kanoon, the kemangeh viola, and the náy flute. But with all the delicacy with which they played these instruments, they did not approach the lady with whom the son of Abdallah was enchanted. This incomparable person, wishing to show in her turn what she could do, took a lute and, having tuned it, she played in an enchanting fashion. Then, having had a harp brought, she played in the first manner; then they brought her a viola, this she played in the second manner; after that she took a sweet flute, and played in the third manner. In a word, she used the twelve methods one after the other, and the twenty-four branches of music.

She also sang, and her voice gave no less pleasure to the amorous Couloufe than the manner in which she had played the instrument.

He was so charmed by it that, being unable any longer to restrain himself, ‘My queen,’ he cried, ‘you have deprived me of reason. I cannot resist the transports that you have inspired in me. Permit me to kiss one of your beautiful hands and to lay my head at your feet.’

Thus saying, this impassioned lover threw himself to the ground like a madman, and seizing one of the lady’s hands, he kissed it very warmly.

But the fair lady, pained at his boldness, repulsed him proudly and said to him: ‘Whoever you may be, pause and do not overstep the limits of modesty; I am a maiden of quality. It is useless for you to desire my love; you will not gain it; you will see me no more.’

At these words she retired, and all the other ladies at her example did the same.

The son of Abdallah, in despair at having acted so disagreeably towards the woman he loved, remained in the hall agitated by a thousand different thoughts.

The old woman who had brought him thither came to him.

‘What have you done, young man?’ she said to him. ‘Why have you let yourself be carried away by your passion? Although I had made you aware that I have here slaves of every nation, you ought to have judged by the magnificence of this mansion and the manner in which you have been received here, that you were not at a slave-merchant’s. The lady whom you have offended is the daughter of one of the first people of the court. You ought to have been more respectful.’

The speech of the old woman augmented the love of Couloufe and the regret which he experienced at having by an indiscreet outburst obliged the lady to retire.

He was quite mortified by it and despaired of seeing her again. Suddenly she returned to the room with the other ladies, all adorned with other and fairer garments. She began to laugh when she saw the son of Abdallah sad and dreamy.

‘I believe,’ she said, ‘that you repent of your fault, and I willingly pardon you on condition that you will be better behaved for the future, and tell me who you are.’

As he asked nothing better than to reconcile himself with this charming person, he told her with alacrity that his name was Couloufe, and that he was the king’s favourite.

‘My lord,’ she then said, ‘I have long known you by reputation and heard you very advantageously spoken of. I have even sometimes wished to see you. I am delighted to have this satisfaction to-day. Continue our dancing, and our music,’ she continued, turning towards the other women; ‘let us make every effort to divert our guest.’

All the ladies recommenced to dance and to play instruments, and this entertainment lasted till night time.

As soon as night came on a prodigious quantity of candles were lit, and whilst waiting for supper the young dame and the son of Abdallah had much speech together. She asked him news of the King Mirgehan; whether this prince had beautiful people in his seraglio?

‘Yes, madam,’ said Couloufe; ‘he has some rather beautiful slaves. He loves at present one named Ghulendam. She is young, well-made, and I should have said she was the most beautiful girl in the world if I had not seen you; but your charms surpass hers, and she is not worthy to be compared to you.’

These flattering words did not displease Dilara or Heart’s Repose, as the young lady was called. She was the daughter of Boyruc, a great Tartar lord, who was not then at Caracoram. Mirgehan had sent him to Samarcand to congratulate Usbec-Kan on his behalf on his accession to the throne. Dilara during the absence of her father sometimes took pleasure in attracting young men to her house merely for her amusement; for as soon as they wished to express love for her, she well knew how to repress their transports.

She was very pleased to hear Couloufe say that she was more beautiful than the king’s slave. That made her vainer and gayer. She said a thousand delightful things during supper, and by her wit ended by inspiring in her guest all the love of which he was capable. He did not fail in his turn to shine during the repast. Excited by the sight and animation of the young lady, from time to time very pleasing sallies escaped him. When it was time to retire he prostrated himself before Dilara and said to her:

‘Were I to live here a hundred years, I should always feel I had been with you only a moment, but great as is the pleasure I take in your society, I must retire and leave you to rest. To-morrow, if you will permit me, I will return.’

‘I consent,’ replied the lady; ‘you have only to be in the evening at the door of the mosque whence you were fetched to-day, and you will be brought back to this house.’

As she said these words, a slave brought to her a purse of gold and silken threads which was the work of her hands, and in which were jewels of considerable value.

‘Here, Couloufe,’ she said, ‘do not refuse this little present, or you will see me no more.’

The son of Abdallah took the purse, thanked the lady, and left the room. He met the good old woman in the courtyard, she opened the street door and showed him the road to the palace.

As soon as he had arrived thither, he retired to his apartment and went to bed. He passed the rest of the night in recalling to his memory all that he had seen during the day. He was so occupied with Dilara that he could not close his eyes. He rose early and betook himself to the king. This prince, who had not seen him the preceding day, and who had several times asked for him, was much pained.

‘Where do you come from, Couloufe?’ said he as soon as he saw him. ‘What were you doing yesterday? Why did you not appear?’

‘My lord,’ replied the favourite, ‘when your majesty knows the adventure that has befallen me, you will not be surprised at not having seen me.’

At the same time he related all that had passed. When he had finished his story:

‘Is it possible?’ said Mirgehan, ‘that this young lady of whom you tell me, is as beautiful as you say? You speak of her with such animation that I am doubtful about the portrait you draw of her.’

‘My lord,’ replied the son of Abdallah, ‘so far from being a flattering painter, I can assure you that she is still far above what I have said. Yes, if the most famous Chinese painter undertook to paint her, he would fear, with reason, not to be able to equal nature.’

‘That is too much,’ said the king; ‘you make me anxious to see this lady, and I wish absolutely to accompany you presently, since you are to return to her.’

The curiosity of the young king gravely afflicted Couloufe. He was apprehensive of the consequences to his love.

‘What shall I do, my lord?’ he said, ‘to introduce you into this lady’s house? Who shall I tell her you are?’

‘I will disguise myself,’ replied Mirgehan, ‘and I will pass as your slave. I will enter with you and will hide myself in a corner, where I shall observe everything.’

The son of Abdallah did not dare reply to his master, who dressed himself as a slave, and at fall of night they both betook themselves to the gate of the mosque. They were not long there before seeing the old woman appear, she said to Couloufe:

‘There was no need to bring this slave with you. You have only to send him back.’

The king was mortified to hear the old woman speak thus, but Couloufe said:

‘My good mother, permit, I beg you, this slave to follow us. He is an intelligent fellow and has agreeable talents. He makes impromptu verses and sings delightfully. Your mistress will not be angry at my showing him to her.’

The old woman said nothing further. They set forth all three, Couloufe clothed in a woman’s over-garment as on the preceding day, and Mirgehan in a slave’s dress. They entered the courtyard, and from there into the room, which they found lit with an infinity of perfumed candles, which gave out agreeable odours.

Dilara asked the son of Abdallah why he had a slave accompanying him.

‘Madam,’ he said, ‘I thought to bring him for your amusement. He is a buffoon, poet, and musician.’

‘That being so,’ she said, ‘he is welcome. But, my friend,’ she added, addressing the king, ‘don’t show lack of respect to my women, for you might repent it.’

The prince, seeing himself obliged to play the buffoon, began to joke, and acquitted himself so well that the lady said to the favourite:

‘Truly, Couloufe, you have in him a very agreeable and witty fellow. I even notice in his manners something noble and gallant. He must act as cup-bearer to us this evening. I feel well-inclined towards him.’

‘Since he has the happiness to please you,’ replied the favourite, ‘he is mine no longer; he is yours, madam.’

‘Catalpan,’ he said to the king, ‘I am no longer your master; this is your mistress.’

At these words the prince approached the lady, kissed her hand and said to her:

‘Madam, I am now your slave, and I feel myself already disposed to serve you with much zeal.’

She accepted Mirgehan as a slave.

‘My lord,’ she said to Couloufe, ‘I look upon that fellow as a creature of mine; but have the goodness to keep him for me. He will live with you, and you will bring him to me each time you come here. I cannot keep him in my house, because it is known that he is your slave. Everyone knows him as that. If he were seen to pass from your service to mine, people might gossip, and I have to take great precautions.’

After conversing for some time, Couloufe and Dilara sat down to table to sup and the king stood before them. As this prince diverted the lady by a thousand pleasantries, she said to the favourite:

‘My lord, permit this fellow to eat and drink with us.’

‘Madam,’ replied Couloufe, ‘he does not generally eat with me.’

‘Do not be so severe,’ replied the lady; ‘let us drink together, that he may love us the more.’

‘Sit down there, Catalpan,’ said the son of Abdallah, ‘since the lady insists.’

The sham slave did not require to be told twice. He sat between Couloufe and the amiable daughter of Boyruc. He ate, and when wine had been brought, the lady filled a cup to the brim and presenting it to him said: ‘Here, Catalpan, drink this to my health.’

He took the cup, after having kissed the hand which gave it him, and he drank. After that wine was poured out all round and the beautiful Dilara, by her example, incited her guests to enjoy themselves. She stretched out a golden cup quite full, and addressing the son of Abdallah:

‘Couloufe,’ she said, ‘I drink to your infatuation, to the charming Ghulendam, the king’s favourite.’

‘Madam,’ replied the favourite blushing, ‘please God I may never have the audacity to lift my thoughts to the beloved of my prince. I have too much respect for him.’

‘Ah! you wish to play at discretion,’ interrupted the lady laughing. ‘I remember you were speaking to me yesterday of Ghulendam in such an animated manner that you seemed to me to be charmed with her. I am sure you love her. Admit to us frankly that you are not displeasing to her, and that sometimes you give utterance to your love.’

Couloufe was very much alarmed at these words, of which he foresaw the consequences.

‘Pray, madam,’ he said, ‘cease joking on this subject. I have never had a secret meeting with this lady.’

The trouble he evinced redoubled Dilara’s cries. Instead of looking serious, she said: ‘You ought to relate your adventures to us. Catalpan,’ she said, looking at the would-be slave, ‘tell your master to have more confidence in me.’

‘Come, my lord Couloufe,’ said the king, ‘give madam the satisfaction she asks. She asks you so graciously. Relate to her the birth and growth of your love. Tell her how far you have got with Ghulendam, and how you both deceive the king. Madam,’ he added, turning towards Dilara, ‘I am not less curious than yourself to know that, for although I pique myself on being a rather discreet confidant, I assure you that the lord Couloufe has made a mystery to me of his passion for the favourite.’

Mirgehan by this speech succeeded in disconcerting his friend, who perceived that Dilara’s pleasantries had not failed to make a bad impression on the mind of the prince. However, they all three drank, and insensibly the king, heated by the wine, forgot the part he had resolved to play.

‘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.

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.’

‘Oh! if it is only that,’ said Mouzaffer, ‘he shall soon be content. Offer him a hundred gold sequins, and let him leave the town with all the speed and all the secrecy which I exact from him.’

‘No, no, lord Mouzaffer,’ cried Couloufe, hearing him speak thus, ‘you may double the sum in vain, you may give me ten thousand sequins, you may add to it in vain all the richest stuffs in your shops, I shall not break such a sacred engagement.’

‘Young man,’ said Danischemend then to him, ‘you are not acting in good part in this affair. I advise you to take the hundred gold sequins and to repudiate your wife without delay, for if you reduce us to the necessity of making this affair public, you will repent it, on my word.’

‘Your threats,’ replied the son of Abdallah, ‘do not alarm me. You cannot oblige me to destroy a union which the laws protect.’

‘Ah! this is too much,’ interrupted at this juncture the impetuous Taher, who had had much difficulty in restraining himself and remaining silent till then; ‘let us take this miserable fellow to the cadi, and let us have him treated as he deserves. We will see whether honest people are to be abused by vain promises.’

Danischemend and Mouzaffer still tried to persuade Couloufe that he ought to do with a good grace what they wished, but not being successful, they led him before the cadi. They informed this judge of all that had passed, and on their report the cadi, looking at Couloufe, spoke to him thus:

‘Young stranger, whom no one knows in this town, and who lived in a mosque on the alms which our ministers gave you every day, have you lost your judgment so far as to imagine that you will remain in tranquil marriage with a lady who has been the wife of Taher? The son of the richest merchant of Samarcand is to see a wife whom he loves and whom he wishes to take back in the arms of a wretch, whose low birth is perhaps his least fault! Reflect and consider. You are not in a position of equality with your wife, and were you even of higher rank than Taher, it is enough that you are not in a state to bear the expenses suitable to a respectable family for me to withhold you permission to live with your wife. Renounce therefore the foolish hope which you have conceived, and which has made you violate an oath. Accept the offer of the lord Mouzaffer, repudiate your wife and return to your country, or if you persist in not wishing to consent, prepare to receive directly a hundred blows with a stick.’

The speech of the cadi, although spoken with a judicial voice, had not the power to shake the firmness of the son of Abdallah, who received the hundred blows bravely, and without giving way.

‘That is enough for to-day,’ said the cadi. ‘To-morrow we will double the dose, and if it is not strong enough to cure him of his obstinacy, we will have recourse to more violent remedies. Let him pass this night with his wife. I hope we shall see him more reasonable to-morrow.’

Taher would have wished that, without waiting for the following day, they had continued to strike Couloufe, and had it depended on him, it would have been done, but the cadi did not wish it, so that Mouzaffer and his son returned home with Couloufe, who, all broken as he was by the blows he had received, did not fail to look upon the liberty given him to see Dilara again as a sweet panacea for his pains.

Mouzaffer tried to persuade the son of Abdallah with gentleness. He made him fresh promises, he offered him three hundred gold sequins if he would immediately repudiate the daughter of Boyruc, and whilst he spared nothing to win him over, Taher entered the lady’s apartment.

She was in a state of inexpressible agitation. Impatient to learn what had passed at the cadi’s, she awaited Couloufe with all possible anxiety. Although assured of his love, she feared lest his firmness had given way, and she could not help believing it when she saw her first husband appear. She thought, on seeing him, that he had come to announce to her this terrible news. Her face grew deadly pale, and she all but fell in a swoon.

Taher was deceived by these signs of grief. He thought someone had already told the lady that Couloufe refused to repudiate her, and that this refusal was the cause of the profound affliction with which she appeared seized.

‘Madam,’ he said to her, ‘do not abandon yourself to your sadness. It is not yet time to despair. The wretch whom I chose as intermediary does not indeed wish to return you to my love, but don’t let that distress you. He has already received a hundred blows, and to-morrow he will have many more if he persists in not doing what he agreed with us to do. The cadi has even resolved to make him suffer extreme tortures. Console yourself, then, my sultana, you have only this night to pass with the fellow; from to-morrow I shall become your husband again. I come to reassure you myself, and to exhort you to be patient, for I do not doubt that the necessity for enduring that creature is a great mortification for you.’

‘Yes, my lord,’ interrupted Dilara, ‘I admit to you that I am sorely troubled on account of the man. The peace of my life depends on him; alas, I fear this affair will not turn out as I wish.’

‘Pardon me, my queen,’ he rejoined with alacrity; ‘calm an anxiety so flattering to Taher. You may flatter yourself that our union will be re-established to-morrow.’

Thus saying, he left the lady’s apartment, and Couloufe entered it a moment after.

As soon as she saw the son of Abdallah, she passed from grief to joy.

‘Ah! dear spouse,’ she cried, offering him her arm, ‘come and receive the reward of your constancy. Is it possible that you have rather suffered an ignominious treatment than renounce Dilara? Taher himself has told me everything that happened to you at the cadi’s, and if I am charmed with your firmness, I also feel very keenly the barbarity which has been practised on you. I cannot, without alarm, think of the new torments which threaten you.’

‘Madam,’ replied Couloufe, ‘whatever tortures may be prepared for me, my constancy shall not be shaken; they will produce no more effect than the promises which Mouzaffer has just made me, they can neither seduce nor terrify me. I do not know what fate the arbiter of our destinies has in store for me, I do not know whether he wishes me to die or to live for you, but at least I know well that it is not written in the sacred tables of the sky, where the inevitable destination of all things is inscribed, that I shall repudiate you.’

‘No,’ replied the daughter of Boyruc, ‘Heaven has not united us in such a marvellous manner in order to separate us almost immediately. I cannot believe that it will let you perish, and I feel that I am inspired by it with a means of deceiving our enemies.’

‘Have you told the cadi,’ she added, ‘that you have been the favourite of the King Mirgehan?’

‘No,’ replied Couloufe, ‘for the judge closed my mouth at once by saying that he would never allow me to wed you since I was without means, even were I well born.’

‘That being so,’ she said, ‘follow exactly the advice which I am going to give you. To-morrow, when you are before the cadi, do not fail to say that you are the son of Massaoud. He is a merchant of Khokand, who has immense wealth. You have only to maintain that he is your father. Say boldly even that you will soon receive news from him which will make known to everyone that you say nothing that is not true.’

Couloufe promised Dilara to employ this falsehood, to avoid, if possible, the tortures prepared for him, and the hope which they both conceived that by this means they would compel the cadi to let them live together, made them more tranquil. They both yielded insensibly to their hopes, and, turning their thoughts from future troubles, they gave themselves up to the pleasure of the moment. They passed the rest of the day and all the night in delightful conversation; but very soon daylight came to disturb their joy.

The cadi’s people, led by Taher, arrived at the door of the room. They knocked loudly, crying:

‘Come forth, stranger! It is time to appear before the judge; come forth.’

The son of Abdallah sighed deeply at these words, and his wife began to cry.

‘Unfortunate Couloufe,’ she said, ‘how dear your spouse costs you!’

‘My princess,’ he replied, ‘pray dry your tears. They pierce my heart. Do not let us give way to despair; let us rather revive our hope; let us await everything from Heaven; I flatter myself that it will succour me; I even feel already an effect of its kindness—my courage redoubles, and there is no danger that can make me tremble.’

Thus saying, he opened the door, and followed the cadi’s people, who led him to their master.

Mouzaffer and his son accompanied them, and appeared full of uneasiness.

As soon as the judge saw Couloufe: ‘Well, friend!’ he said, ‘what disposition are you in to-day? Are you not more prudent than yesterday? Must you have fresh blows to make you repudiate your wife? I do not think so; you have doubtless made salutary reflections and thought that a nobody, like you, ought not to persist in wishing to preserve a wife who cannot be his.’

‘My lord,’ said Couloufe, ‘may the life of such a judge as yourself endure several centuries, but I am not a nobody. My birth is not at all obscure, as you imagine, and since I must at last make myself known, know that my name is Rukneddin, and that I am the only son of a merchant of Khokand, named Massaoud. My father is richer than Mouzaffer, and did he know the state that I am in, he would soon send me so many camels laden with gold that all the women of Samarcand would envy the happiness of her whom I have married. What! because robbers have despoiled me near this town, and I retired to a mosque to subsist, you conclude from that that I am a nobody! I will show you that you are mistaken. I am going to write to my father this moment, and he will no sooner have received news of me, than he will make me the possessor of infinite riches in this town.’

As soon as Couloufe had said these words, the cadi said to him: ‘You are the only son of a rich merchant of Khokand, and it is only owing to the accident you have just related that you are in want?’

‘Assuredly,’ replied the son of Abdallah. ‘You see, my lord, that I am not a wretch brought up in the gutter.’

‘Why, young man,’ replied the judge, ‘did you not declare that yesterday? I should not have had you ill-treated. My lord,’ he added, turning to Mouzaffer, ‘what the stranger says changes the aspect of affairs. Being the only son of a great merchant, the laws do not permit of forcing him to repudiate his wife.’

‘Good my lord cadi,’ interrupted Taher, ‘do you put faith in this impostor? He calls himself the son of Massaoud, to avoid the blows and gain time.’

‘I do not know what to do,’ said the judge. ‘Whether he lies, or whether he tells the truth, I am forbidden to take further steps. All that I can do most favourable for you is to enjoin the stranger to prove what he advances.’

‘We do not ask better,’ then said Mouzaffer. ‘I wish even that an envoy be sent at my expense to Khokand; I know Massaoud from having seen him here sometimes; I know that he is a very rich merchant; if the stranger is really his son we will give Dilara up to him.’

‘Yes,’ said Taher, ‘but whilst waiting the return of the courier, it would be well, it seems to me, to make the couple live apart.’

‘That is against the law,’ replied the cadi. ‘The wife ought to live with her husband; she cannot be taken from him without doing violence which the law condemns. Send therefore a man to Khokand, which is only seven days from here. In a fortnight we shall know what to think of the stranger. If he is the son of Massaoud, he shall not repudiate the lady; but I swear by the black stone of the sacred temple of Mecca and by the holy thicket of Medina, in which is the tomb of the Prophet, that if he deceives us a cruel and ignominious torture shall be the punishment of the impostor and shall terminate his life.’

This affair decided thus by the cadi, the parties retired. Mouzaffer and his son sent one of their servants to Khokand with the order to get the information they required, and to make all possible haste.

As for Couloufe, he went promptly to give an account to the lady of all that had passed at the judge’s. She was greatly rejoiced.

‘Ah! dear husband,’ she said, ‘all goes well. We need apprehend nothing further. Before the courier has returned from Khokand, even before he has arrived there, we will both take flight. We will leave Samarcand one night, we will betake ourselves to Bokhara as soon as possible, and we will live there on my dowry in peace which our enemies will not be able to disturb.’

Couloufe approved of Dilara’s idea. They resolved to take flight; but they were too closely observed in the house where they lived to be able to carry out their plan with impunity. They thought they had better go and lodge elsewhere, that they must tell this to Mouzaffer, and that if he offered any opposition they would ask permission of the cadi. That being decided between them, the son of Abdallah went immediately to find Mouzaffer and his son. He told them he wished that very day to change his abode; that since the laws made him the master of his wife he proposed to do with her and take her where he wished. Mouzaffer and his son did not fail to oppose this plan; Taher especially protested that he would not allow Dilara to leave his house. Couloufe on his side did not give way, so that it was necessary to have recourse to the cadi.

This judge, informed as to what brought them before him, asked Couloufe why he wished to leave the house of Mouzaffer.

‘My lord,’ replied the son of Abdallah, ‘I have often heard Massaoud, my father, say that when one lives with one’s enemies, one ought to separate from them as soon as possible; so I wish to go and live elsewhere whilst waiting for news from Khokand. My wife wishes it as much as I do.’

‘Ah! the liar!’ cried Taher at this juncture; ‘Dilara laments, Dilara is in tears because this wretch is her husband, and he has the impudence to say she is wearied in my house!’

Yes, I said it,’ replied Couloufe, ‘and I say it again; my wife loves me and desires nothing more ardently than to get away from you. If that is not true, if she has other sentiments, I am ready to repudiate her at once.’

‘Lord cadi,’ said Taher, ‘you hear him, I take him at his word; order Dilara to come here and let her explain herself.’

‘I consent,’ said the judge. ‘Go,’ he added, turning towards Danischemend, who was present; ‘go to Mouzaffer and tell Dilara that I wish to speak to her; bring her here immediately. We shall soon see in what disposition she is, and I declare that if she gives the stranger the lie, she shall be repudiated instantly.’

Danischemend discharged his errand with much speed; he brought the lady to the judge, who no sooner saw her appear than he asked her if she wished to leave Mouzaffer, and if she had more inclination for her husband than for Taher. Taher did not doubt but that she would pronounce in his favour; and yielding to a joyful impulse which he could not control, he spoke before she could reply.

‘Speak, madam,’ he said; ‘you have only to declare your real sentiments and you shall be delivered this very day from what you hate.’

‘Since this assurance is given me,’ said the daughter of Boyruc, ‘I shall disguise nothing from you. My second husband, the son of Massaoud, has all my affection, and I very humbly beg the lord cadi to give us permission to lodge elsewhere than at Mouzaffer’s.’

‘Oh, oh!’ then said the judge, addressing the first husband, ‘you see the stranger has not advanced anything with temerity; he was very sure of the fact.’

‘Ah! the traitress!’ cried Taher, quite stunned by the sincere avowal of the lady; ‘how can she have let herself be won over since yesterday?’

‘I am sorry, for your sake,’ replied the cadi, ‘for I cannot help allowing them to go and lodge where they please.’

‘So you will let this stranger triumph,’ said Taher to him, ‘and without knowing whether he is really the son of Massaoud, you will allow him the tranquil possession of Dilara?’

‘No,’ replied the judge; ‘if what he says is not the case, if he is a wretch, I shall have him put to death for having deceived us.’

‘And you imagine,’ replied the son of Mouzaffer, ‘that if he has cause to fear the punishment with which you threaten him, he will be fool enough to wait in this town till we have received news from Khokand? What an error! Be rather persuaded that he has the intention to leave Samarcand, and that he will perhaps induce the lady to follow him, and they doubtless wish to change their residence in order to easily carry out their resolution.’

‘That is not impossible,’ replied the cadi, ‘but I shall see to that. In whatever part of the town they lodge, I undertake to have them watched by a numerous and vigilant guard who will report to me.’

Couloufe and Dilara were therefore at liberty to leave Mouzaffer’s house. They left it that very day to go and stay in a caravanserai. They bought some slaves to wait on them. They did not lack money, for the lady had a considerable portion, with a somewhat large quantity of precious stones. They only thought at first of enjoying themselves. The pleasure of being able to abandon themselves unrestrainedly to their love prevented them at first from indulging in the sad reflections which the position they were in should inspire in them. They lived as if the cadi had not placed a guard over them and they could easily escape, or as if Couloufe were really the son of Massaoud, and they expected agreeable news from Khokand.

The adventure of Couloufe, in spite of the care Mouzaffer and his son had taken to keep it secret, made so much stir in Samarcand, that several people wished to see the two persons whom love had so strongly united; so that Couloufe and Dilara, exposed to the public curiosity, received fresh visits every day.

One day, a well-to-do looking man came to them, saying he was an officer of the king; that he had heard what had taken place at the cadi’s and that he came to assure them that he was interested in their cause; finally he offered them his services so cordially, and he persuaded them so well of his interest, that they thought they could not show him too much gratitude. They begged him to eat with them, and to show the extreme consideration they had for him, Dilara removed her veil, so that the officer, astonished at the lady’s beauty, could not help exclaiming, ‘Ah! my lord, I am not surprised at the firmness that you showed before the judge.’

They all sat down at a table covered with several dishes. There were all sorts of pilau, of vegetables flavoured with black and white pepper and fresh butter, of stews spiced with saffron, vinegar, and honey, many kinds of fish and a roast lamb, the tail of which stuffed with aromatic herbs made an agreeable dish.

The slaves, after the repast, brought the finest old red wine of Shiraz, and the golden-yellow wine of Kishmish; then perfumes were handed round, and then, the lady having had a viola handed to her, began to play on it, singing a plaintive air. After that she asked for a lute, tuned it and played on it in a way that charmed the king’s officer; then she took a guitar, and played in that manner which is used to lament the absence of lovers.

It was a song she had composed at Caracoram after the disgrace of Couloufe. But she could not sing it without recalling to the mind of her lover scenes which saddened him. The young man fell into a profound reverie and soon began to weep bitterly.

The officer of the king was surprised at this and asked the cause of his tears.

‘Alas!’ replied the son of Abdallah, ‘what will it serve you to know the cause? It is not less useless to you to know it, than for me to tell it. I was just recalling to my memory my past misfortunes, and I cannot think of those which threaten me without being penetrated by the keenest grief.’

This reply did not at all satisfy the king’s officer: ‘Young stranger,’ he said, ‘in God’s name relate your adventures to me. It is not at all from curiosity that I wish to hear them, I feel disposed to help you, and perhaps you will not repent of having made me this confidence. Tell me who you are; I see you are not lacking in birth, speak and hide nothing from me.’

‘My lord,’ replied Couloufe, ‘my history is rather long and may weary you.’

‘No, no,’ said the officer, ‘I even beg you to suppress no detail.’

Then the son of Abdallah began the recital of his adventures; he admitted that he was not the son of Massaoud, and that he had had recourse to imposture to assure the possession of Dilara.

‘But,’ he added, ‘my falsehood has not had the whole effect I expected; they would not believe my word; they have sent a courier to Khokand who will be back in three days; thus the cadi, who is having us watched, will soon discover my deception, and will punish me by an infamous death. Death, however, does not afflict me; it is the approach of the fatal moment which must for ever separate me from the object of my love; this thought alone is the cause of all my grief.’

Whilst he was speaking thus, interrupted with sighs and tears, the lady in her turn melted into tears and sufficiently indicated by the grief which possessed her that her sentiments were the same as those of Couloufe.

The king’s officer did not see this spectacle without compassion.

‘Dear people,’ he said, ‘I am touched at your affliction. I would wish to be able to help you and prevent you both from drinking the poisoned cup of separation. Would to God, young man, that I might save you from the danger you run; but that seems to me very difficult. The cadi is vigilant and inflexible; his vigilance cannot be surprised, and he will not forgive you for having deceived him. All that I can advise you is to put your trust in God who knows how to open the most securely closed doors, and to remove the most insurmountable difficulties. Implore his aid by fervent prayers, and do not despair of coming happily out of this affair, although you see no chance of it.’

At these words the officer took leave of Couloufe and the lady, and retired.

‘It must be owned,’ then said the daughter of Boyruc, ‘that there are in the world some rather peculiar people. They come to offer you their services; if you appear to them distressed, they press you to relate your troubles to them, promising to relieve them, and when by their importunities they have forced you to satisfy their curiosity, all the consolation they give you is to exhort you to take patience. Who would not have thought, seeing this man enter with so much warmth into our interests, that he had the intention to be useful to us and to make at least every effort to serve us? However, after having listened to the tale of our adventures, he leaves us and abandons us to Providence.’

‘Madam,’ said the son of Abdallah, ‘what could he do for us? Let us do him more justice; he looks too like an honest man for it to be possible to suspect him of having from mere curiosity drawn from us the confidence of our misfortunes. No, no, he wanted to please us. I believe in the generous pity he has shown us, and which was apparent even in his silence; but when he saw the evil was irremediable, could he say to us other than what he did? And from whom could we indeed receive help? Heaven alone is capable of delivering me from the danger I am in.’

This unhappy couple harrowed each other in depicting all the horror of their destiny, and passed the next two days in groaning and lamenting. They thought, however, of means of escape; they tested the fidelity of their guards, but found them incorruptible.

Thus the fourth day arrived, the day on which the courier from Khokand was to return, which they feared as much as the son of Mouzaffer ardently wished for it.

As soon as the first rays of that terrible day came to light the apartment of Couloufe, the young man, thinking to see the light for the last time, rose to go to death. He looked at his wife with eyes in which were depicted grief and despair, and said to her in an almost inaudible voice: ‘Farewell, I am going to fulfil my destiny, and carry my head to the cadi. As for you, beautiful Dilara live on, and think sometimes of a man who has so tenderly loved you.’

‘Ah! Couloufe,’ replied the lady, melting into tears, ‘you are going to die, and you exhort me to live! Do you think life can have any charm for me? Cruel man! you wish me then to drag out languishing and deplorable days? No, no, I wish to accompany you and descend with you into the tomb. Taher, the odious Taher, shall see what he loves perish with what he hates; he shall not have occasion to rejoice at your death. Why must you die? It is on me alone that the punishment should fall; it is for me, your wife, who made you a perjurer and suggested to you the lie which they wish your death to expiate, it is for me therefore to serve as victim; it is just at least that I should be punished too. Come, let us go to the place where your torture is prepared; I am going to tell every one that I prefer to perish with you than to survive you.’

The son of Abdallah opposed his wife’s design. He conjured her not to give him so fatal a mark of her affection; and Dilara on her side, persisting in the wish to die with him, begged him not to oppose her resolution.

Whilst they were disagreeing they heard a great noise at the street-door, and soon they saw the cadi, followed by several persons, among whom were Mouzaffer and his son, enter the courtyard. At this sight the daughter of Boyruc fainted; and whilst she was in the arms of slaves who hastened to succour her, Couloufe profited by the moment and ran to meet the cadi. But this judge, far from coming to fetch him to lead him to death, made him an obeisance and said with a smiling air:

‘My lord, the courier sent to Khokand has arrived, accompanied by a servant of Massaoud, your father, who sends you forty camels loaded with stuffs, fine linen, and other merchandise. We no longer doubt you to be the son of this rich merchant, and we beg you to forget the bad treatment we have subjected you to.’

After the judge had made this speech, which caused extreme astonishment to Couloufe, Mouzaffer and his son assured him of their sorrow at the blows he had received.

‘I renounce,’ said Taher, ‘the claims I had on Dilara. I admit she is yours, and I give her up to you on condition that if the fancy takes you to repudiate her soon, and you wish to take her back, you will choose me for friend.’

Couloufe did not know what to think of all he heard. He thought Taher and the cadi were rallying him, and that they were going to speak to him in another tone, when a slave who arrived, kissed his hand and said, presenting a letter to him: ‘My lord, your father and your mother are well; they hope passionately to see you again; their eyes and their ears are on the road.’

Couloufe blushed at this speech, and not knowing what to reply, he took the letter, opened it, and found these words:

‘Praise be to God alone, and his benediction be upon the great Prophet, his family and his friends. My dear son, since you are no more before my eyes, I have no rest. I am on the thorns of disquietude; the poison of your absence fills my heart, and consumes my life little by little. I have heard from the courier whom the lord Mouzaffer has sent me the adventure which has befallen you. I have immediately had forty black camels with round eyes laden with several sorts of merchandise which I send you to Samarcand, under the command of Gisher, captain of my caravans. Inform me as soon as possible how you are, so that our heart may be consoled and recover joy and health.

‘MASSAOUD.’

Hardly had the son of Abdallah read this letter, than he saw enter his courtyard the forty camels which came from Khokand. Then the captain Gisher said to him: ‘My lord my master, have the kindness, I beg you, to order the camels to be unloaded and the bales to be put in some large hall.’

‘What does all this mean?’ said Couloufe to himself. ‘I have seen surprising adventures occur, but, by Allah! this surpasses them all. This Captain Gisher addressed me as if he knew me perfectly. The cadi and Mouzaffer seem to be deceived by the aspect of affairs. Well, although all this passes my comprehension, don’t let us fail to profit by it. Fortune wishes doubtless to save me by one of her capricious strokes, or Heaven has wished to work a miracle in my favour.’

However astonished Couloufe was at this marvellous event, he had the strength to hide his surprise. He put the bales in a room and ordered the camels to be cared for. He even had the assurance to question the camel-driver.

‘Gisher,’ he said, ‘give me news of all my family; have I neither male nor female cousin ill at Khokand?’

‘No, my lord,’ replied Gisher, ‘all your parents, thanks be to God, are in perfect health, excepting your father, who counts the moments of your absence, and who has charged me to tell you that he hopes you will return promptly to Khokand with the lady you have married.’

Whilst the conductor of the camels was speaking thus, the cadi, Taher, and his father took leave of the son of Abdallah and returned home, persuaded that he really was the son of Massaoud; but before going, the judge dismissed the guard he had given the newly-married pair. After they had all retired, Couloufe returned to the apartment where he had left Dilara. This lady, through the care of her slaves, had recovered from her swoon. He related to her what had passed and showed her the letter of Massaoud. She had no sooner read the letter than she cried:

‘Just Heaven! it is you to whom we must return thanks for this astonishing marvel; you have had pity on two faithful lovers whose bonds you have united.’

‘Madam,’ said the son of Abdallah, ‘it is not time yet to give way to joy. Our troubles are not finished. What do I say—finished? I am in greater peril than ever. You have made me take the name of a man who is doubtless in Samarcand. The son of Massaoud must be in this town; his father writes to him and sends him forty camels laden with merchandise, under the conduct of Gisher. This Gisher, who has never apparently seen the son of his master, must have followed the courier of Mouzaffer; it is easy to understand the rest. This mistake, I admit, would be favourable to us if it would last long enough; nothing would prevent our taking flight, as henceforth we shall be watched no more. But the news of the arrival of the camels has perhaps already spread in Samarcand; the real son of Massaoud will hear it and will go and seek the cadi whom he will undeceive. How do I know that this judge will not return to find me and to carry me off to punishment?’

It is thus that Couloufe argued, hovering between fear and hope. He found himself more to be pitied than if he had nothing to hope. He expected every moment to see Taher and the cadi return, undeceived and furious—every moment augmented his anxiety.

Whilst he was thus agitated, the king’s officer, the same man who had been to them two days before, arrived.

‘My lord,’ he said, on entering, ‘I have heard that your misfortunes are over, and that Heaven at last has cast a favourable eye on you. I come to testify my joy to you and to reproach you at the same time. You are not sincere. Why have you deceived me?’

‘My dear lord,’ replied the son of Abdallah, ‘I have told you the truth. I am not from Khokand at all; I am from Damascus, as I told you. My father has been long dead, and the wealth he left me consumed.’

‘Nevertheless,’ replied the officer, ‘they say that forty camels have arrived for you laden with various sorts of stuffs, and that Massaoud writes to you as if you were his own son.’

‘It is true,’ replied Couloufe, ‘that I have received his letter and his merchandise, but I am not his son for all that.’

The officer asked how this had occurred, and when. Couloufe had detailed it, he said: ‘I believe, like you, that it is a mistake and that the son of Massaoud is at Samarcand; therefore I think you had better both escape to-night.’

‘That is our intention,’ replied Couloufe, ‘provided the cadi remains till to-morrow as mistaken as now. We ask nothing better.’

‘You need not be uneasy about that,’ replied the officer. ‘You must hope for the best. Heaven, doubtless, does not wish you to perish, since, by an adventure that savours of the miraculous, it has saved you from the punishment prepared for you.’

To these words he added others to dissipate the fear with which the couple appeared agitated. Then he said farewell to them, wishing them all sorts of prosperity.

When Couloufe and Dilara were alone, they began to talk of their flight, and to prepare for it. They awaited nightfall with much impatience; but before it came they heard a great noise and saw suddenly appear in the courtyard of the caravanserai several cavaliers.

At this sight the couple were seized with fright, and thought it was the cadi who was coming to fetch the son of Abdallah, to put him to death. They soon lost this fear: they were the king’s guards. The captain who led them got off his horse, and, laden with a packet, entered the room where Couloufe was with his wife.

He saluted them both respectfully, and addressing the husband: ‘My lord,’ he said, ‘I come here on behalf of the great Usbec Kan. He wishes to see the son of Massaoud; he knows your adventure, he wishes you to relate it to him yourself, and he sends you this robe of honour to enable you to appear fittingly before him.’

The son of Abdallah could well have dispensed with satisfying the king’s curiosity; however, he was obliged to obey. He clothed himself with the robe of honour, and went out with the captain of the guard, who, showing him a mule with a golden saddle and bridle enriched with precious stones, the stirrup of which was held by a page magnificently attired, said to him: ‘Mount this royal mule, and I will conduct you to the palace.’

Couloufe approached the mule, the page lowered the stirrup and presented it to him; at the same time Couloufe placed his foot in it, jumped lightly into the saddle, and took himself to the palace with the guard.

As soon as he had arrived at the palace, the officers of the king came to receive him, and conducted him to the door of the chamber where the prince was accustomed to receive ambassadors. There the grand vizir took him by the hand and introduced him into a hall, where the king, dressed in garments covered with diamonds, rubies, and emeralds, was seated on an ivory throne, around which stood all the great lords of Tartary.

Couloufe was dazzled by the splendour which surrounded Usbec Kan, and, instead of raising his eyes to the prince, he lowered them and went and prostrated himself at the foot of the throne.

The king, seeing him thus, said: ‘Son of Massaoud, I am told that singular adventures have befallen you. I wish you to relate them to me, and to speak to me without reserve.’

Couloufe, struck by the sound of the voice which thus addressed him, raised his eyes, and recognising in the king the same man who had come to see him, whom he had taken for an officer of Usbec Kan, and to whom he had confided all his secrets, he threw himself face downwards on the ground and began to weep.

The vizir raised him and said: ‘Fear nothing, young man; approach the king and kiss the hem of his robe.’

The son of Abdallah, trembling and confused, advanced to the feet of the king, and after having kissed his robe, retired several paces, and stood with his head bent on his breast.

But Usbec Kan did not leave him long in that position; he descended the throne, took him by the hand and led him into his cabinet, where he said to him:

‘Couloufe, henceforth have peace of mind, and do not fear ill fortune. You will never experience its rigours, you shall not be separated from Dilara, you shall live with her at my court, and you will hold the place with me which you occupied at Caracoram with the King Mirgehan. When, on the report made to me of your fidelity to your wife, I went to see you out of curiosity, you pleased me, and the confidence you had in me finally determined me to save your life, and to leave you united for ever with the object of your love, which I wished to do in the way you have seen. The forty camels you have are taken from my stables. I have had the stuffs bought which they carried, and this Gisher who conducted them is a eunuch who rarely leaves the seraglio. I had the letter which you have received written by my own private secretary, and for fear lest the courier of Mouzaffer should come and give it the lie, I sent yesterday to meet him, on the road to Khokand, one of my officers, who ordered him from me to make to his master such a report as I wished. It is a pleasure I wished to give myself, and I have enjoyed it completely.’

As soon as the king had finished speaking Couloufe prostrated himself at the feet of the prince, thanked him for his kindness, and promised to be keenly grateful for it all his life. That very day the young man took Dilara to the palace. Usbec Kan gave them a magnificent apartment, with a considerable pension, and had the story of their loves told by the best poet in Samarcand.

The nurse of Farrukhnaz, after having thus related the story of Couloufe, stopped to hear what would be said of it by her mistress, who, always prejudiced against men, was not yet of the opinion of her women, who maintained that Abdallah had been a perfect lover.

‘No, no,’ said the princess, ‘when he was banished from the court of the King Mirgehan he left Caracoram without saying farewell to Dilara, without even trying to have speech of her. I admit the king ordered him to leave the town very abruptly, but love is ingenious and should have furnished him with means of speaking to the daughter of Boyruc if he had been very enamoured of her. And that is not the only reproach that I have to make him. Some days after his arrival at Samarcand, had he been so devoted to his lady, he would not so willingly have wedded himself to another. Moreover, as soon as he had recognised his mistress, did he not wish to repudiate her? Was he not prepared to keep his oath, and would he not have done so, if, to turn him from it, she had not had recourse to tears? A very ardent lover is not so scrupulous.’

‘Madam,’ said Sutlumemé, ‘it is true that Couloufe’s first thought was his honour, and I cannot reproach him for it. I admire, on the contrary, a young man who shows horror for perjury even in the midst of his pleasures. I think a lover of such character more estimable than another, and one can rely on his oaths. But, madam,’ she added, ‘since you are so delicate, I must relate you another story, which may put your pride at fault, and which you will perhaps find more interesting than those of Couloufe and Aboulcasem.’

At these words of the nurse, all the princess’s women uttered cries of joy, and appeared very curious to hear this new story.

Sutlumemé began it in these terms as soon as Farrukhnaz had given her permission:

AFTER having heard the story of Couloufe, you are going to hear that of the Prince Calaf, the son of an old khan of the Nogaïs Tartars.

The history of his century makes glorious mention of him. It says that he surpassed all the princes of his time in appearance, in mind, and in valour; that he was as learned as the greatest doctors; that he understood the mystic meaning of the commentaries of the Koran, and knew by heart the sentences of Mahomet. It finally call him the hero of Asia and the phœnix of the East.

Indeed, this prince, from the age of eighteen had perhaps no equal in the world; he was the soul of the councils of his father Timurtasch. I he proffered an advice, the most experienced ministers approved it, and could not enough admire his prudence and sagacity. Beside this, if it were a time of war he was always seen at the head of the troops, seeking out the enemy, fighting and defeating it.

He had already won several victories, and the Nogaïs had become so redoubtable by their fortunate successes, that the neighbouring nations did not dare embroil themselves with them. The affairs of the khan his father were in this condition when there came to his court an ambassador from the Sultan of Carizma, who in the audience given him declared that his master required in future that the Nogaïs Tartars should pay him a yearly tribute, otherwise he would come in person to force them to it with two hundred thousand men, to punish them for not having submitted with a good grace.

The khan thereupon assembled his council. It was discussed whether the tribute should be paid rather than come to blows with so powerful an enemy, or whether his threats should be ignored. Calaf and the majority of those present at the council were of this latter opinion, so that the ambassador was sent back with a refusal.

After that they sent deputies to the neighbouring peoples to represent to them that it would be to their interest to unite with the khan against the Sultan of Carizma, whose ambition was excessive, and who would not fail to exact from them also the same tribute, if he could force the Nogaïs to it. The deputies succeeded in their negotiations; the neighbouring nations, and among others the Circassians, promised to join themselves to the khan, and to furnish him with fifty thousand men.

On this promise, besides the standing army which the prince usually had, he raised new troops.

During these preparations among the Nogaïs, the Sultan of Carizma on his side assembled two hundred thousand combatants and crossed the Jaxartes to Khokand.

He traversed many rich countries, where he found abundance of provision and advanced far on his way before the army of the khan, commanded by Prince Calaf, could be put in the field, because the Circassians and the other auxiliary troops had not been able to join sooner.

As soon as Calaf had received all the aid he expected, he marched straight to meet the enemy. After a few days his outposts reported to him that the enemy had appeared and was coming towards him in battle array. The prince immediately called a halt, and disposed his troops for combat.

The two armies were nearly equal in number, and the peoples composing them were not less bellicose the one than the other. So the combat that ensued was bloody and determined. It began in the morning and lasted till night. On both sides the officers and soldiers did their duty well. The sultan during action did all that a warrior perfected in the art of warfare could do, and the Prince Calaf more than was to be expected of so young a general. Sometimes the Nogaïs Tartars had the advantage, and sometimes they were obliged to yield to the efforts of the Carizmians; so that the two parties, successively conquerors and conquered, sounded the retreat at nightfall, resolved to begin the combat again on the morrow.

But the commander of the Circassians went secretly to the sultan and promised to abandon the Nogaïs, provided that, by a treaty which he would swear to observe religiously, he engaged never to exact tribute from the people of Circassia under any pretext whatever. The sultan consented; the treaty was made, the commander regained his quarters, and the following day, when the battle was about to begin again, the Circassians were seen suddenly to detach themselves from their allies and take the road back to their country.

This treachery caused much chagrin to Prince Calaf, who, seeing himself then much weaker than the sultan, would much have wished to avoid the combat; but it was not possible. The Carizmians attacked suddenly, and, profiting by the ground which permitted them to spread themselves out, they enveloped the Nogaïs on all sides.

The latter, however, although abandoned by their best auxiliary troops, and surrounded by enemies, did not lose courage. Animated by the example of their prince, they formed a square, and sustained for a long time the most formidable charges of the sultan; they were, nevertheless, broken in, and then Calaf, in despair of victory, only thought of escaping the enemy.

He chose several squadrons, and putting himself at their head, he made his way through the Carizmians. The sultan, informed of his retreat, despatched six thousand cavalry to pursue him. But he evaded them by taking roads which were unknown to them; he arrived a few days after the battle at his father’s court, where he spread sadness and terror by informing them of the misfortune which had befallen him.

If this news depressed Timurtasch, that which he received soon after drove him to utter despair. An officer escaped from the battle came to say that the Sultan of Carizma had put almost all the Nogaïs to the sword, and that he was advancing by forced marches, resolved to put all the khan’s family to death and to make the nation subservient to him. The khan then repented having refused to pay tribute; but as the Arab proverb says, ‘What avails repentance after the ruin of the town of Bassora?’

As time pressed and it was necessary to take flight for fear of falling into the power of the sultan, the khan, the Princess Elmaze his wife, and Calaf took all that was most precious in their treasury, and left their capital, accompanied by several officers of the palace who would not abandon them, and the troops which had cut their way through the enemy with the young prince.

They took the road to Greater Bulgaria; their intention was to go and beg a refuge with some sovereign prince. They had been several days on the march and had already gained Mount Caucasus, when a thousand brigands, inhabitants of the mountain, burst suddenly upon them. Although Calaf had hardly four hundred men, he withstood the impetuosity of the brigands; he even killed a large number of them; but he lost all his troops and finally remained at the mercy of these bandits, some of whom seized the riches they found, whilst the others took the life of all those who followed the khan.

They spared only the prince, his wife, and son, whom they left however almost naked in the midst of the mountains.

It is impossible to describe the grief of Timurtasch when he saw himself reduced to this extremity. He envied the fate of those who had just perished before his eyes, and giving himself up to despair, he wished to take his life. The princess burst into tears and made the air resound with cries and groans. Calaf alone had the strength to bear up under the weight of bad fortune; imbued with the maxims of the Koran and the sentences of Mahomet on predestination, he had a strength of soul that was not to be shaken. The extreme grief to which the khan and his wife gave way was his greatest trouble.

‘O my father! O my mother!’ he said to them, ‘do not succumb to your misfortunes. Think that it is God who wishes you to be miserable. Let us submit without murmuring to his decrees. Are we the first princes whom his justice has scourged? How many sovereigns before us have been chased from their dominions, and after having led a wandering life and even being taken for the vilest mortals in foreign lands, have remounted their thrones! If God has power to take away crowns, he can also give them back. Let us hope that he will be touched by our misery, and that he will make prosperity follow the deplorable situation we are in.’

He added several other consoling words, and as he spoke, his father and mother listening attentively, felt a secret consolation. They finally let themselves be persuaded.

‘So be it, my son,’ said the khan, ‘let us abandon ourselves to Providence, and since the evils which surround us are written on the fatal tablet, let us suffer them without complaining.’

At these words the prince, his wife, and son resolved to be brave in their misfortune, continued their way on foot, for the robbers had taken their horses from them. After several days’ march they arrived in the territory of the tribe of Berlas.

The khan was exhausted; he declared he could go no further.

‘My lord,’ said Calaf, ‘do not let us despair of seeing the end of our troubles. Let us go to the principal horde of this tribe, I have a presentiment that our luck may turn.’

They went therefore to the horde where the Khan of Berlas lived. They entered a large tent which served as a hospital for poor strangers, and they slept in a corner, very troubled as to how they would subsist. Calaf left his father and mother in this place and went out and visited the horde, asking charity of the passers by; he received from them a small sum of money, with which he purchased provisions, which he took at the end of the day to his father and mother. They could not help weeping when they knew their son had been soliciting alms.

Calaf shared their distress, and said: ‘Nothing, I admit, appears to me more mortifying than being reduced to beg; however, if I cannot otherwise procure succour for you, I shall do it, whatever shame it costs me. But,’ he added, ‘you have only to sell me as a slave, and with the money you will get, you will have means of living for a long time.’

‘What are you saying, my son?’ cried Timurtasch. ‘You propose to us to live at the expense of your liberty! Ah! rather let the misfortune which overwhelms us endure always! If one of us three must be sold to help the two others, it is I. I am not loth to bear the yoke of servitude for you two.’

‘My lord,’ replied Calaf, ‘a thought occurs to me. To-morrow I shall go and join the porters; some one will employ me, and we shall thus live by my work. They decided on this. The following day the prince placed himself among the porters of the horde, and waited for someone to employ him, but unfortunately it happened that no one employed him, so that half the day had already passed without his having earned anything. That distressed him much. ‘If I do not do better,’ he said to himself, ‘how can I nourish my father and mother?’

He wearied of waiting in vain among the porters until some one should address him, so he left the horde to think more freely of a means of subsistence. He sat under a tree, where, after having implored Heaven to have pity upon him, he fell asleep. On awaking, he perceived a falcon of singular beauty; it had a crest of a thousand colours on its head, and wore round its neck a chain of gold leaves, set with diamonds, topazes, and rubies.

Calaf, who understood falconry, offered it his wrist, and the bird perched on it. The Prince of the Nogaïs was much delighted. ‘Let us see,’ he said to himself, ‘where this will lead us; this bird, according to all appearance, belongs to the king of this horde.’ He was not mistaken; it was the falcon of Alinguer, Khan of Berlas, which the prince had lost at the chase the day before. His huntsmen and falconers were searching the country for it, with all the more ardour and anxiety that their master had threatened them with the extreme penalty if they returned to his court without his bird, which he loved passionately.

Prince Calaf returned to the horde with the falcon. All the people began immediately to cry, ‘There is the khan’s falcon found! Blessed be the young man who is going to rejoice our prince by bringing him his bird!’ When Calaf had arrived at the royal tent, and appeared there with the falcon, the khan, in a transport of joy, ran to his bird and caressed it a thousand times. Then, addressing the Prince of the Nogaïs, he asked him where he had found it. Calaf related what had happened. After that the khan said to him:

‘You seem to me a stranger. What country are you from, and what is your profession?’

‘My lord,’ replied the son of Timurtasch, prostrating himself at his feet, ‘I am the son of a merchant of Bulgaria, who possessed great wealth. I was travelling with my father and mother when we met some robbers, who took from us everything but our lives, and we came to this horde, begging by the way.’

‘Young man,’ replied the khan, ‘I am very glad it is you who have found my falcon, for I have sworn to give to the person who brought it back to me the three things he chose to ask me, so you have only to speak. Tell me what you wish me to give you, and be sure of obtaining it.’

‘Since I am permitted to ask three things,’ replied Calaf, ‘I would wish, firstly, that my father and mother, who are in the hospital, might have a private tent in your majesty’s quarter, be kept at your majesty’s expense the rest of their days, and even served by the officers of your house. Secondly I desire one of the finest horses in your stables, all saddled and bridled; and finally, a complete and magnificent suit with a rich sabre, and a purse full of gold pieces, in order to make with comfort a journey I am meditating.’

‘Your wishes shall be satisfied,’ said Alinguer. ‘Bring your father and mother to me. I will begin from to-day to have them treated as you wish, and to-morrow, dressed in rich clothes, and mounted on the finest horse in my stables, you can go where you wish.’

Calaf prostrated himself a second time before the khan, and after having thanked him for his kindness, he went to the tent where Elmaze and Timurtasch awaited him impatiently.

‘I bring you good news,’ he said; ‘our fate is changed.’ At the same time he related to them all that had happened to him. This adventure pleased them; they looked upon it as an infallible mark that the rigour of their destiny was beginning to be softened. They willingly followed Calaf, who conducted them to the royal tent and presented them to the khan. This prince received them very well, and promised them to keep faithfully the vow he had made their son. He did not fail to do so; he gave them that very day a private tent, had them waited on by the slaves and officers of his house, and ordered them to be treated as himself.

The following day Calaf was clothed in rich garments, he received from the hand of the Prince Alinguer himself a sabre with a diamond hilt, together with a purse filled with gold sequins, and then a very beautiful Turcoman horse was brought to him. He mounted it before all the court, and to show that he knew how to handle a horse, he made it prance in a hundred ways, which charmed the prince and his courtiers.

After having thanked the khan for all his kindness, he took leave of him. He went to find Timurtasch and the Princess Elmaze,

‘I have a great wish,’ he said to them, ‘to see the mighty kingdom of China; permit me to satisfy it. I have a presentiment that I shall distinguish myself by some brilliant action, and that I shall gain the friendship of the monarch who holds under his sway such vast territory. Permit that, leaving you in a place of safety where you want for nothing, I may follow the impulse which animates me, or rather that I may abandon myself to Heaven which guides me.’

‘Go, my son,’ said Timurtasch to him; ‘yield to the noble impulse which animates you. Run to the fate which awaits you; hasten, by your virtue, the slow prosperity which must succeed our misfortune, or, by a gallant death, deserve a dazzling place in the history of unfortunate princes. Depart, we shall await news of you in this tribe, and we will regulate our fortune by yours.’

The young Prince of the Nogaïs embraced his father and mother, and took the road to China.

It is not related by historians that he met with any adventure on the road. They merely say that, having arrived at the great town of Pekin, he alighted near a house which was at the entrance, and where dwelt a little old woman who was a widow.

Calaf presented himself at the door. The old woman immediately appeared. He saluted her and said: ‘My good mother, will you receive a stranger in your house? If you can give me a lodging in your house, I dare assure you that you will not regret it.’

The old woman looked at the young man, and judging by his well-to-do appearance, as well as by his clothes, that he was not a guest to be despised, she made him a profound inclination of the head, and replied: ‘Young stranger of fine appearance, my house is at your service, as well as everything that is in it.’

‘And have you,’ he replied, ‘a fit place in which to put my horse?’

‘Yes,’ she said, ‘I have.’

At the same time she took the horse by the bridle and led it into a little stable at the back of the house.

Then she returned to Calaf, who, feeling very hungry, asked her if she had no one who could go and buy him something in the market.

The widow replied that she had a grandson of twelve who lived with her, and who would acquit himself very well of this commission. Then the prince took from his purse a gold sequin, and put it into the child’s hands, who went off to the market.

In the meanwhile the hostess was much occupied in satisfying the curiosity of Calaf. He asked her a thousand questions: What the customs were of the inhabitants of the town; how many families there were in Pekin; and, finally, the conversation turned to the King of China.

‘Tell me, pray,’ said Calaf, ‘what is the character of this prince? Is he generous, and do you think he would pay any attention to the zeal of a young stranger who offered to serve him against his enemies? In a word, does he deserve that one should attach oneself to his interests?’

‘Without doubt,’ replied the old woman. ‘He is a very good prince, who loves his subjects as much as he is loved by them, and I am very surprised that you have not heard speak of our good King Altoun-Khan, for the reputation of his kindness has spread throughout the world.’

‘By the portrait you have drawn me of him,’ replied Prince Calaf, ‘I gather that he must be the happiest and most contented monarch of the world.’

‘He is not so, however,’ replied the widow. ‘One may even say that he is very unhappy. Firstly, he has no prince to succeed him: he has had no male child, pray and do good works as he will. I must tell you, however, that the sorrow of having no son does not constitute his greatest trouble. What troubles his life is the Princess Tourandot, his only daughter.’

‘And why,’ replied Calaf, ‘is she a trouble to him?’

‘I am going to tell you,’ replied the widow. ‘I can talk of that with authority, because it has often been told me by my daughter, who has the honour to be in the palace, among the slaves of the princess.

‘The Princess Tourandot,’ pursued the old hostess of the Prince of the Nogaïs, ‘is in her nineteenth year. She is so beautiful that the painters who have drawn her portrait, although the most skilful in the East, have all admitted that they were ashamed of their work, and that the brush which best succeeded in doing justice to the charms of a beautiful face could not depict all those of the Princess of China. However, the divers portraits which have been made of her, although inferior to the original, have not failed to produce terrible effects. She unites with her ravishing beauty such a cultivated mind that she not only knows everything which it is customary to teach persons of her rank, but even the sciences which are only learned by men. She knows how to write the different characters of several languages, she knows arithmetic, geography, philosophy, mathematics, and, above all, theology. She has read the laws and precepts of our legislator, Confucius. In fact, she is as clever as all the doctors together. But her fine qualities are effaced by an unexampled harshness of soul. She tarnishes her merits by a detestable cruelty. Two years ago the King of Thibet sent to ask her in marriage for the prince his son, who had become enamoured of her from a portrait he had seen of her. Altoun-Khan, delighted with this alliance, proposed it to Tourandot. This proud princess, to whom all men appear contemptible, so vain has her beauty made her, rejected the proposal with disdain. The king became angry with her, and declared that he would be obeyed. But, instead of submitting with a good grace to the wishes of her father, she wept with rage at the idea of being constrained. She was immoderately incensed, as though they had wished to do her some great wrong. In fact, she fretted so that she became ill. The physicians, knowing the cause of her malady, told the king that all their remedies were useless, and that the princess would inevitably lose her life if he persisted in wishing to make her marry the Prince of Thibet. Then the king, who loved his daughter devotedly, alarmed at the danger she was in, went to see her, and assured her that he would send away the ambassador of Thibet with a refusal.

‘“It is not enough, my lord,” said the princess; “I have resolved to let myself die unless you grant me what I am going to ask you. If you wish me to live, you must take an inviolable oath not to oppose my sentiments, and publish an edict by which you will declare that of all the princes who seek my hand, none shall be able to marry me till he has first replied pertinently to the questions which I shall put to him, before all the legal men in this town; that if he answers well, I consent to take him as my husband, but that if he replies ill, his head shall be cut off in the courtyard of your palace. By this edict,” she added, “which will be made known to the foreign princes who arrive at Pekin, all desire to ask me in marriage will be taken from them, which is what I wish; for I hate men and do not wish to marry.”

‘“But, my daughter,” said the king; “if anyone, despising my edict, presents himself, and answers your questions correctly——”

‘“Oh! I do not fear that,” she interrupted with precipitation. “I know how to frame such difficult ones that I should embarrass the greatest doctors. I willingly run the risk.”

‘Altoun-Khan reflected for some time on what the princess exacted from him. “I quite see,” he said to himself, “that my daughter does not wish to marry, and that this edict will effectually alarm all her lovers; so I hazard nothing in giving her this satisfaction; no harm can come of it. What prince would be fool enough to face such a frightful peril?” Finally the king, persuaded that his edict would have no evil effects, and that the entire recovery of his daughter depended on it, had it published, and swore by the laws of China to observe it exactly. Tourandot, reassured by this sacred oath, which she knew the king, her father, would not dare violate, took strength again and enjoyed perfect health. However, the rumour of her beauty attracted several young foreign princes to Pekin. In vain was the tenour of the edict made known to them. As everyone has a good opinion of his own intelligence, and young people especially, they had the audacity to present themselves to reply to the questions of the princess, and not being able to discover their obscure meaning, they all perished miserably one after the other. The king, to whom this justice must be done, seems much touched by their fate. He repents of having taken an oath which binds him, and with all the affection he has for his daughter he would rather have let her die than have preserved her at that price. He does all that he can to prevent these misfortunes. When a lover whom the edict cannot restrain comes to ask him for the hand of the princess, he tries to deter him from his resolution, and he only consents regretfully to his exposing his life. But it generally happens that he cannot persuade these bold young men. They think only of Tourandot, and the hope of winning her makes them indifferent to the difficulty of obtaining her. But if the king at least appears sensible to the destruction of these unhappy princes, it is not so with his barbaric daughter. She delights in the bloody spectacles which her beauty affords the Chinese. She has so much vanity that the most amiable prince appears not only unworthy of her, but even very insolent to dare to raise his thoughts to alliance with her, and she looks upon his death as a just punishment of his temerity. What is still more deplorable is that Heaven often permits princes to come and sacrifice themselves to this inhuman princess. It is not long since a prince who flattered himself that he was intelligent enough to reply to her questions, lost his life; and to-night another must perish who has, unfortunately for him, come to the court of the King of China in the same hope.’

Calaf was very attentive to what the old woman told him. ‘I do not understand,’ he said, when she had finished speaking, ‘how there are found princes ill-judged enough to go and ask the hand of the Princess of China. What man can be otherwise than alarmed at the condition without which it cannot be obtained! Moreover, whatever the artists who have painted her portrait may say of her, although they assert that their work is only an imperfect reflection of her beauty, I believe they have lent her charms, and that their paintings are flattering, since they have produced such powerful effects. In fact, I cannot think that Tourandot is as beautiful as you say.’

‘My lord,’ replied the widow, ‘she is still more charming than I have told you, and you may believe me, for I have seen her several times in going to see my daughter in the palace. Imagine to yourself what you will, depict in your imagination all that can contribute to form a perfect beauty, and be persuaded that you will not be able to represent to yourself anything approaching to the princess.’

The Prince of the Nogaïs could not credit his hostess’s remarks, so hyperbolical did he find them; he took, however, without knowing why, a secret pleasure in them.

‘But, my mother,’ he replied, ‘are the questions which the king’s daughter puts so difficult that they cannot be answered in a way to satisfy the legal men who judge of them? For myself, I think that the princes who cannot penetrate the meaning of them are all of small genius, or ignorant men.’

‘No, no,’ replied the old woman, ‘there are no enigmas more obscure than the princess’s questions, and it is almost impossible to reply to them well.’

Whilst they were speaking thus of Tourandot and her unfortunate lovers, the little boy who had been sent to the market returned laden with provisions. Calaf seated himself at a table laid for him by the widow, and ate like a man dying of hunger.

In the meanwhile night came on, and soon the kettle-drums of justice were heard in the town. The prince asked what this noise meant.

‘It is,’ said the old woman, ‘to inform the people that someone is about to be executed, and the unfortunate wretch who is going to be immolated is the prince I told you of, who must to-night lose his life for having answered the princess’s questions badly. It is the custom to punish the guilty during the day; but this is a particular case. The king in his heart detests the punishment meted out to his daughter’s suitors, and he does not wish the sun to be the witness of so cruel an action.’

The son of Timurtasch desired to see this execution, the cause of which seemed very singular to him: he left his hostess’s house, and, encountering in the street a large crowd of Chinese animated by the same curiosity, he mingled with them and arrived in the courtyard of the palace where so tragic a scene was to take place.

He saw erected in the middle a very high tower of wood, the outside of which from the top to the bottom was covered with branches of cypress, among which were a large quantity of lamps very well arranged, which spread such a strong light that all the courtyard was lit up by them. Fifteen paces from the tower was raised a scaffold all covered with white satin, and around which were ranged several pavilions of taffetas of the same colour. Behind these tents two thousand soldiers of the guard of Altoun-Khan, with naked swords and axes in their hands, formed a double hedge, which served as a barrier to the people. Calaf was looking attentively at everything, when all of a sudden the sad ceremony, the preparations for which were seen, began by a confused sound of drums and bells from the top of the tower, which were heard afar off; at the same time twenty mandarins, and as many legal men, all clad in long robes of white wool, came out of the palace, advanced towards the scaffold, and, after having walked three times round it, went to seat themselves under the pavilions.

Then appeared the victim, adorned with flowers entwined with cypress leaves, with a blue scarf on his head, and not a red scarf like the criminals whom justice has condemned. He was a young prince hardly eighteen years of age: he was accompanied by a mandarin who held him by the hand, and was followed by the executioner. They all three mounted the scaffold; the sound of the drums and bells immediately ceased.

The mandarin then addressed the prince, in a tone of voice loud enough for half the people to hear. ‘Prince,’ he said to him, ‘is it not true that the tenour of the edict was made known to you as soon as you presented yourself to ask the princess in marriage? Is it not also true that the king made every effort to deter you from your bold resolution?’

The prince replied, ‘Yes.’

‘Recognise, then,’ continued the mandarin, ‘that it is your fault if you lose your life to-day, and that the king and the princess are not guilty of your death.’

‘I pardon it them,’ replied the prince. ‘I impute it to myself only, and I pray Heaven never to call them to account for the blood which is going to be spilled.’

He had hardly finished these words than the executioner cut off his head with one stroke of the sword. The air immediately resounded anew with the sound of the bells and the noise of the drums. Twelve mandarins came to take the body; they enclosed it in a coffin of ivory and ebony, and put it in a small litter which six of them carried on their shoulders into the garden of the palace, under a dome of white marble, which the king had had built expressly to be the place of sepulture of all the unfortunate princes who were to share the same fate. He often went to weep over the tomb of those who were there, and he endeavoured by honouring their ashes, to expiate in a measure the barbarity of his daughter.

As soon as the mandarins had borne off the prince who had just perished, the people and the legal men returned home, blaming the king for having been imprudent enough to consecrate his daughter’s fury by an oath which he could not violate. Calaf remained in the courtyard of the palace, filled with a thousand perplexing thoughts. He saw near him a man who was in tears; he judged him to be someone who was interested in the execution which had just taken place, and hoping to know more about it, he spoke to him. ‘I am touched,’ he said, ‘at the keen grief you display, and I sympathise with your trouble, for I do not doubt but you have known well the prince who has just died.’

‘Ah! my lord,’ replied the afflicted man, whose tears redoubled, ‘I ought to have known him well, since I was his tutor. O unhappy King of Samarcand!’ he added, how great will be your grief when you know the strange death of your son: and what man will dare bring you the news of it?’

Calaf asked how the Prince of Samarcand had become amorous of the Princess of China.

‘I will tell you,’ said the tutor, ‘and you will doubtless be astonished at the story I am going to relate. The Prince of Samarcand,’ he continued, ‘lived happily at his father’s court; the courtiers, looking upon him as a prince who must one day be their sovereign, did not study less to please him than the king himself. He generally spent the day in hunting or throwing the sledge-hammer, and at night he introduced secretly into his apartment the noble youth of the court, with whom he drank all sorts of beverages. He also took pleasure sometimes in seeing beautiful slaves dance and in listening to voices and instruments. In a word, his life was a round of pleasure.

‘Meanwhile, there arrived a famous painter at Samarcand, with several portraits of princesses which he had painted in the different courts he had visited. He came to show them to the prince, who said in looking at the first which he showed him: “These are very fine paintings; I am persuaded that the originals of these portraits are under much obligation to you.”

‘“My lord,” replied the painter, “I admit that these portraits are a little flattered, but I may tell you that I have at the same time one still more beautiful than these, and which, nevertheless, does not approach the original.”

‘Thus speaking he drew from a small case in which were his portraits, that of the Princess of China. Hardly had my master got it in his hands than, not being able to imagine that nature was capable of producing so perfect a beauty, he cried that there was in all the world no woman so charming and that the portrait of the Princess of China must be still more flattered than the others. The painter protested that it was not so, and assured him that no brush could ever render the grace and charm that there was in the face of the Princess Tourandot. Thus assured, my master bought the portrait, which made such an impression on him that, forsaking one day his father’s court, he left Samarcand accompanied only by me; and without telling me his intention he took the road to China and arrived in this town. He proposed serving Altoun-Khan for some time against his enemies, and then to ask his daughter in marriage; but on arriving we learnt the rigour of the edict, and what is most strange is, that my prince, instead of being keenly afflicted by this news, was rejoiced at it.

‘“I am going,” he said, “to present myself to reply to the questions of Tourandot. I am not wanting in intelligence. I shall obtain this princess.”

‘There is no need to tell you the rest, my lord,’ continued the tutor sobbing; ‘you may judge by the sad spectacle which you have just seen that the deplorable Prince of Samarcand was not able to reply, as he hoped, to the fatal questions of this barbaric beauty, who delights in shedding blood and who has already cost the life of several sons of kings. He gave me just now the portrait of this cruel princess when he saw that he must prepare to die. “I entrust to you,” he said, “this rare painting. Take good care of this precious trust; you have only to show it to my father when informing him of my fate, and I do not doubt that on seeing so charming a picture, he will pardon me my temerity.” But,’ added the tutor, ‘let who will go and bear to the king his father such sad news; for myself, absorbed in my grief, I shall go far from here and Samarcand to bemoan one so dear. That is what you wished to know; and here is this dangerous portrait,’ he pursued, taking it from under his robe, and throwing it on the ground with indignation; ‘here is the cause of my prince’s misfortune. Oh, detestable painting! Why had not my master my eyes when you fell into his hands? Oh, inhuman princess! may all the princes of the earth have for you the sentiments which you inspire in me! Instead of being the object of their love, you would inspire them with horror.’

At these words the tutor of the Prince of Samarcand retired full of anger, casting a furious glance at the palace, and without further speech with the Prince of Timurtasch, who promptly picked up the portrait of Tourandot, and, wishing to retire to the old woman’s house, got lost in the darkness and insensibly found himself outside the town. He impatiently awaited the daylight in order to contemplate the beauty of the Princess of China. As soon as it dawned, and he could satisfy his curiosity, he opened the box which contained the portrait.

He hesitated, however, before looking at it. ‘What am I about to do?’ he cried. ‘Ought I to place before my eyes so dangerous an object? Think, Calaf, think of the fatal effects it has had; have you already forgotten what the tutor of the Prince of Samarcand has just told you? Do not look at this painting; resist the impulse which moves you whilst it is still only one of curiosity. Whilst you enjoy your reason, you can prevent your destruction. But what am I saying—prevent? What false reasoning is inspiring in me a timid prudence? If I am to love the princess, is not my love already written in the heavens in ineffaceable characters? Moreover, I believe the finest portrait can be seen with impunity; one must be very weak to be troubled at the sight of a vain mingling of colours. Let us fear nothing; let us calmly consider these conquering and assassinating features. I wish to find defects in them and taste the new pleasure of censuring the charms of this too superb princess; and I would wish, for the mortification of her vanity, that she should know that I have looked upon her face without emotion.’

The son of Timurtasch assured himself that he would look with an indifferent eye on the portrait of Tourandot; he looked at it, examined it, admired the contour of the face, the regularity of the features, the vivacity of the eyes, the mouth, the nose—all seemed perfect to him. He was astonished at so rare a combination, and although on guard against what he saw, he let himself be subject to the charm. An inconceivable trouble agitated him in spite of himself; he knew himself no more. ‘What fire,’ he said, ‘is suddenly animating me?—how is this portrait disordering my senses? Just Heaven! is it the fate of all those who look at this painting to love the inhuman princess it represents? Alas! I feel too well that it is making on me the same impression that it has made on the unhappy Prince of Samarcand. I succumb to the features which were his ruin, and far from being terrified at his pitiable fate I almost envy his misfortune. What a change! Great God! I did not conceive just now how one could be mad enough to despise the rigour of the edict, and at this moment I see nothing to alarm me, all the danger has disappeared. No, incomparable princess,’ he continued, looking at the portrait with a tender air, ‘no obstacle deters me. I love you in spite of your barbarity, and since it is permitted to me to aspire to your hand I wish from to-day to try to obtain you. If I perish in such a fine enterprise, I shall feel in dying only the grief of not being able to win you.’ Calaf, having resolved to ask the princess in marriage, returned to his old widow, whose house he had no little difficulty in finding, for he had wandered far from it in the night.

‘Ah! my son,’ said his hostess as soon as she saw him, ‘I am charmed to see you again. I was very troubled about you, I feared some disastrous accident had happened to you; why did not you return sooner?’

‘My good mother,’ he replied, ‘I am sorry to have caused you anxiety, but I lost my way in the dark.’ Then he related to her how he had met the prince’s tutor, and he did not fail to repeat all he had told him; then, showing the portrait of Tourandot, ‘See,’ he said, ‘whether this painting is merely an imperfect image of the Princess of China; for myself, I cannot imagine that it does not equal the beauty of the original.’

‘By the soul of the Prophet!’ cried the old woman, after having examined the portrait, ‘the princess is a thousand times more beautiful and more charming still than she is represented here. I would you had seen her; you would be persuaded that all the painters of the world who might undertake to paint her as she is would not succeed, I do not except even the most famous.’

‘You give me great pleasure,’ replied Prince Calaf, ‘in assuring me that the beauty of Tourandot is above all efforts of painting. How this assurance flatters me! It strengthens me in my intention, and excites me to attempt at once such a fine enterprise. Were I only now before the princess! I am burning with impatience to try whether I shall be more fortunate than the Prince of Samarcand.’

‘What are you saying, my son?’ replied the widow. ‘What enterprise are you daring to form and think of executing?’

‘My good mother,’ replied Calaf, ‘I propose to-day to present myself to answer the questions of the princess. I only came to China to offer my sword to the great King Altoun-Khan, but it is better to be his son-in-law than an officer of his army.’

At these words the old woman began to cry. ‘Ah, my lord,’ she said, ‘in God’s name do not persist in such a bold resolution. You will perish without doubt if you are bold enough to come forward as a suitor of the princess. Instead of being charmed with her beauty detest her rather, since she is the cause of so many tragic events; represent to yourself that it will cause grief to your parents when they receive news of your death; be touched at the mortal grief in which you are about to plunge them.’

‘Pray, good mother,’ interrupted the son of Timurtasch, ‘cease depicting to me things so calculated to distress me. I know that if I end my life to-day it will be an inexhaustible source of tears to the authors of my being, perhaps even, for I know their love for me, they may die of grief at hearing of my death. However cognisant, nevertheless, I should be, and indeed am, of their sentiments, I must yield to the ardour which dominates me. But what am I saying? Is it not also to make them happier that I wish to expose my life? Yes, doubtless their interest is in accord with the desire which animates me, and if my father were here, so far from opposing my design, he would incite me to execute it promptly. I am resolved upon it; therefore do not waste time in trying to persuade me, for nothing can shake me.’

When the old woman saw that her young guest did not listen to her advice, her grief redoubled. ‘So be it, my lord,’ she said; ‘you cannot be prevented from rushing on to your destruction. Why need you have come to lodge in my house? Why have I spoken to you of Tourandot? You became enamoured of her from the portrait I drew of her. Unhappy woman that I am, it is I who have destroyed you; why must I have your death on my conscience?’

‘No, good mother,’ the Prince Calaf interrupted a second time, ‘it is not you who cause my misfortune. Do not impute to yourself the love I have for the princess, I was bound to love her, and I am fulfilling my destiny. Moreover, who has told you that I shall reply badly to her questions? I am not uneducated, nor without intelligence, and Heaven has perhaps reserved to me the honour of delivering the King of China from the distress which a terrible oath causes him. But,’ he added, drawing out the purse which the Khan of Berlas had given him, and in which there were still a considerable number of gold pieces, ‘my fate is, I admit, uncertain, and I may die, so I make you a present of this purse to console you for my death. You may even also sell my horse and keep the money, for I shall not want it, whether I receive the daughter of Altoun-Khan as the price of my audacity, or whether my death must be the sad reward of it.’

The widow took the proffered purse, saying: ‘O my son! you are much mistaken if you think these gold pieces console me for your loss. I am going to employ them in good works, distributing a part of it in the hospitals for the poor, who suffer their misery in patience and whose prayers in consequence are so agreeable to God. I shall give the rest to the ministers of our religion, so that they may all pray Heaven to inspire you and not permit you to expose yourself to death. All the favour that I ask of you is not to go to-day and present yourself to answer the questions of Tourandot. Wait till to-morrow. The time is not long; give me time to interest good people and Heaven in you. After that you can do as you please. Grant me, I beg, this satisfaction. I venture to say you owe it to a person who has already conceived for you so much friendship that she would be inconsolable were you to perish.’

Certainly, Calaf had an appearance which spoke well in his favour; beside being one of the handsomest and best made princes in the world, he had easy and agreeable manners, so that to see him was to love him. He was touched at the grief and affection which this good old woman displayed.

‘Well, my mother,’ he said, ‘I will grant you the favour you ask me; I will not go and ask the hand of the princess to-day. But to tell you the truth, I do not think anything can make me change my mind.’

He did not leave the widow’s house all day. She went to distribute alms in the hospitals, and bought with good solid cash the intercession of the priests with Heaven; she also had chickens and fish sacrificed to the idols.

The genii were not forgotten either; rice and vegetables were offered them in sacrifice in the places consecrated to this ceremony. But all the prayers of the priests and the ministers of the idols, although well prayed, did not produce the effect which Calaf’s good hostess had expected; for the next morning he seemed more determined than ever to ask the hand of Tourandot.

‘Farewell, my good mother,’ he said to the widow. ‘I am sorry you gave yourself so much trouble for me yesterday; you might have spared yourself, for I assured you that I should not be of a different mind to-day.’

At these words he quitted the old woman, who, overcome by the keenest grief, covered her face with her veil, and remained with her head on her knees, inexpressibly overwhelmed.

The young Prince of the Nogaïs, perfumed with essences and more beautiful than the moon, betook himself to the palace. He saw at the gate five elephants joined together, and on both sides was a hedge of two thousand soldiers with helmets on their heads, armed with bucklers and covered with iron plates. One of the commanding officers, judging by Calaf’s appearance that he was a stranger, stopped him and asked him his business at the palace.

‘I am a foreign prince,’ replied the son of Timurtasch, ‘and I come to present myself to the king to pray him to accord me permission to answer the questions of the princess his daughter.’

The officer at these words, looking at him with astonishment, said to him: ‘Prince, do you know that you come here to seek death? You would have done better to remain in your own country than to form the design which brings you here. Retrace your steps and do not flatter yourself with the false hope that you will obtain the barbarous Tourandot. Were you more learned than a mandarin of science you would never discover the meaning of her ambiguous words.’

‘I thank you for your advice,’ replied Calaf; ‘but I have not come so far to recoil.’

‘Go then to death,’ replied the officer, with a chagrined air, since it is impossible to prevent you.’ At the same time he let him enter the palace, and then turning towards several other officers who had heard their conversation: ‘How beautiful and well made that prince is,’ he said to them. ‘It is a pity he should die so soon.’

Calaf, however, traversed several halls, and at last found himself in the one in which the king was accustomed to give audience to his people. There was in it a throne of steel, made in the form of a dragon about six feet high. Four lofty columns of the same material upheld a vast daïs of yellow satin ornamented with precious stones. Altoun-Khan, dressed in a caftan of gold brocade on a red ground, was seated on the throne with an air of gravity which was marvellously enhanced by a tuft of very long black hair divided into three curls which he had in the middle of his beard.

This monarch after having listened to some of his subjects, cast his eyes by chance on Prince Calaf who was in the crowd. As he seemed to him a stranger, and as he saw by his noble appearance as well as by his magnificent clothes that he was no ordinary person, he called one of his mandarins, and pointing out Calaf, ordered him in a low voice to inform himself as to his station and the object which had brought him to his court.

The mandarin approached the son of Timurtasch and told him that the king wished to know who he was, and whether he had anything to ask him.

‘You may tell the king your master,’ replied the young prince, ‘that I am the only son of a sovereign, and that I have come to endeavour to merit the honour of being his son-in-law.’

Altoun-Khan no sooner heard the answer of the Prince of the Nogaïs than he changed colour: his august countenance became pale as death; he ceased giving audience; he dismissed everybody; then he descended his throne and approached Calaf.

‘Bold young man,’ he said to him, ‘do you know the rigour of my edict, and the unhappy fate of all those who up till now have persisted in wishing to obtain the princess my daughter?’

‘Yes, my lord,’ replied the son of Timurtasch, ‘I know all the danger I run: my eyes have even been the witness of the final and just punishment which your majesty has made the Prince of Samarcand suffer; but the deplorable end of these audacious men who have vainly flattered themselves with the sweet hope of possessing the Princess Tourandot, only stimulates the desire that I have to deserve her.’

‘What madness!’ replied the king; ‘hardly has one prince lost his life than another offers himself for the same fate. It would seem they take pleasure in immolating themselves. What blindness! Consider, prince, and be less prodigal with your blood. You inspire more pity in me than all those who have already come here to seek death, and I feel an inclination for you growing in me, and I wish to do all in my power to prevent your perishing. Return to your father’s states and do not cause him the unhappiness of hearing the report that he will not see his only son again.’

‘My lord,’ replied Calaf, ‘it is very pleasant to me to hear from the lips of your majesty himself that I have the good fortune to please you. It presages well for me. Perhaps, touched by the misfortunes which the beauty of the princess causes, Heaven wishes to make use of me to put a stop to them, and at the same time assure the repose of your life which is troubled by the necessity of authorising such cruel actions. Do you indeed know that I shall reply badly to the questions which will be put to me? What certainty have you that I shall perish? If others have not been able to unravel the meaning of the obscure words of Tourandot, does it follow that I shall not be able to do so? No, my lord, their example cannot make me renounce the dazzling honour of having you for a father-in-law.’

‘Ah! unfortunate prince,’ replied the king, sorrowfully, ‘you wish to end your life; the lovers who presented themselves before you to reply to my daughter’s fatal questions employed the same language. They all hoped they would discover her meaning, and they could not succeed. Once more, my son,’ he continued, ‘let yourself be persuaded. I like you, and wish to save you: do not make my good intention futile by your obstinacy. Place no trust in the intelligence you feel yourself possessed of. You mistake if you think you can answer immediately what the princess will put to you. However, you will not have many minutes to reply; it is the rule. If you do not immediately give an accurate answer, and one approved by all the doctors who will be the judges, you will be immediately declared worthy of death, and will be led to punishment the following night. So, prince, retire. Pass the rest of the day in thinking what you have to do: consult wise people: reflect and come to-morrow and tell me what you have resolved upon.’

Thus saying, he left Calaf, who went from the palace very mortified at what the king had said to him, and returned to his hostess without paying the least attention to the terrible danger to which he wished to expose himself. As soon as he returned to the old woman and had related to her all that had passed at the palace, she began again to harangue him and do all she could to deter him from the undertaking; but she gained nothing by her fresh efforts, except that she irritated her young guest and made him still more determined in his resolution. He returned the following day to the palace and had himself announced to the king, who received him in his cabinet, not wishing anyone to be present at their conversation.

‘Well, prince,’ said Altoun-Khan, ‘am I to rejoice or be afflicted at the sight of you? What are your feelings?’

‘My lord,’ replied Calaf, ‘I am still in the same disposition. When I had the honour yesterday of presenting myself before your majesty, I had already reflected. I am determined to suffer the same punishment as my rivals, if Heaven has not otherwise ordained.’

At this speech, the king smote his breast, tore his necklace and some hairs from his beard.

‘How unhappy I am,’ he cried, ‘to have conceived so much friendship for this man! The death of the others has not caused me such pain as this. Ah! my son,’ he continued, embracing the young prince with an emotion which affected him much, ‘yield to my grief, if my arguments are not enough to shake you. I feel that the stroke which takes your life will inflict a mortal blow on me. Renounce, I beg, the possession of my cruel daughter; you will find in the world other princesses enough whom you can possess. Why persist in the pursuit of an inhuman woman whom you cannot obtain? Live, if you wish, at my court. You shall hold the first place in it after me, you shall have beautiful slaves, pleasure shall pursue you everywhere, in a word, I shall look upon you as my own son. Desist, then, from the pursuit of Tourandot, that I may at least have the satisfaction of snatching one victim from this sanguinary princess.’

The son of Timurtasch was very sensible of the friendship which the King of China displayed towards him, but he replied, ‘My lord, let me, I beg, expose myself to the danger from which you wish to turn me. The greater it is the more it tempts me. I will even admit to you that the cruelty of the princess secretly flatters my love. It is a delightful pleasure to me to think that I am perhaps the happy mortal who is to triumph over this proud woman. In God’s name,’ he continued, ‘let your majesty cease to combat a design which my glory, my repose, and my life require me to execute, for I cannot live if I do not obtain Tourandot.’

Altoun-Khan, seeing Calaf unshakable in his resolution, was keenly afflicted at it. ‘Ah! bold young man,’ he said, ‘your destruction is assured since you persist in asking for my daughter. Heaven is witness that I have done all I can to inspire reasonable sentiments in you; you reject my advice, and prefer to perish to following it. Do not let us speak of it any more. You shall soon receive the reward of your foolish persistency. I consent to your undertaking to answer the questions of Tourandot. But I must first do you the honours which I am accustomed to offer to the princes who seek alliance with me.’

At these words, he called the chief of the first corps of eunuchs; he ordered him to conduct Calaf to the prince’s palace, and to give him two hundred eunuchs to wait upon him.

Hardly had the prince arrived in the palace to which he had been conducted than the principal mandarins came to salute him, that is to say they fell on their knees and lowered their heads to the ground, saying one after another: ‘Prince, the perpetual servant of your illustrious race comes to make reverence to you in that capacity.’ Then they made him presents and retired.

The king, however, who felt a great friendship for the son of Timurtasch and had compassion on him, sent for the most talented, or at least the most famous professor of his royal college, and said to him: ‘Doctor, there is at my court a new prince who asks for my daughter. I have spared nothing to deter him, but in vain. I would wish you to bring him to reason with your eloquence; it is for that I summon you here.’

The doctor obeyed; he went to see Calaf and had a very long conversation with him. Then he returned to Altoun-Khan and said: ‘My lord, it is impossible to persuade this young prince; he is determined to win the princess or die. When I recognised that it was a mistake to attempt to conquer his resolution, I was curious to see whether his obstinacy had any other foundation than his love. I interrogated him on several different matters and I found him so learned that I was surprised. He is a Mussulman, and he seems to me perfectly instructed in all that appertains to his religion. In fact, to tell your majesty what I think, I believe that if any prince is capable of replying well to the princess’s questions, it is he.’

‘O doctor!’ cried the king, ‘what you say delights me. Please Heaven this prince may become my son-in-law. As soon as I saw him, I felt an affection for him: may he be more fortunate than the others who have come to die in this town!’ The good King Altoun-Khan did not content himself with making vows for Calaf, he endeavoured to make propitious to him the spirits who preside in the heavens, in the sun and the moon.

To this end he ordered public prayers, and made solemn sacrifices in the temples. By his order a bullock was sacrificed to Heaven, a goat to the sun, and a sucking-pig to the moon. Moreover, he had it published in Pekin that everyone should appeal to Heaven in favour of the prince who came to ask for the princess.

After the prayers and sacrifices, the Chinese monarch sent his chancellor to Calaf, to warn him to hold himself in readiness to reply on the morrow to the princess’s questions and to tell him that they would not fail to conduct him to the divan, and that the persons who were to compose the assembly had already received the order to appear there.

Determined as was Calaf on the adventure, he did not pass the night without uneasiness. If sometimes he dared to trust to his genius and promise himself a happy success, sometimes, losing this confidence, he represented to himself the shame he would experience if his replies did not please the divan. He also thought sometimes of Elmaze and Timurtasch. ‘Alas!’ he said, ‘if I die, what will become of my father and mother?’

The daylight found him still in this agitated state. He presently heard the sound of several bells and a great noise of drums. He guessed that it was to summon to the council all those who were to appear there. Then, turning his thoughts to Mahomet: ‘O great Prophet!’ he said, ‘you see the state I am in; inspire me. Shall I go to the divan or shall I turn and tell the king that the danger alarms me?’

He had hardly said these words than he felt all his fears melt away and his courage revive; he rose and put on a caftan and a mantle of red silk with gold flowers which Altoun-Khan sent him, with blue silk stockings and shoes.

As he finished dressing six mandarins, with shoes on their feet and dressed in very large robes of a crimson colour, entered his apartment, and after having saluted him in the same manner as those of the preceding day, they told him that they came from the king to conduct him to the divan. He allowed himself to be conducted; they traversed a courtyard, walking through a double line of soldiers, and when they had arrived in the first council-hall they found more than a thousand singers and players on instruments, who, singing and playing in concert, made an astonishing noise. From there they advanced into the hall where the council was held, a hall which communicated with the inner palace. All the persons who were to be present at this assembly were already seated under pavilions of different colours, which were ranged around the hall.

The most prominent mandarins appeared on one side, the chancellor with the professors of the royal college were on the other, and several doctors whose capacity was well known occupied the other places. In the midst were two golden thrones placed on two triangular seats. As soon as Prince Calaf appeared, the noble and learned audience saluted him with every mark of great respect, but without saying a word to him, because everyone, expecting the arrival of the king, kept a profound silence.

The sun was about to rise. As soon as the first rays were seen to shine, two eunuchs opened on both sides the curtains of the door of the inner palace, and immediately the king came out, accompanied by the Princess Tourandot, who wore a long robe of silken tissue of gold, and a veil of the same stuff which covered her face.

They both mounted their thrones by five silver steps.

When they had taken their places, two young girls of perfect beauty appeared, one at the side of the king and the other at the side of the princess. They were palace slaves of Altoun-Khan. Their faces were uncovered, they had great pearls in their ears, and they stood with a pen and paper, ready to write what the king ordered them.

During this time, all the persons in the assembly who had risen at the sight of Altoun-Khan, remained standing with much gravity and half-closed eyes. Calaf alone looked about everywhere, or rather he looked only at the princess, whose majestic bearing he admired.

When the powerful monarch of China had ordered the mandarins and doctors to be seated, one of the six lords who had conducted Calaf, and who were standing with him at fifteen arms’ lengths from the two thrones, knelt and read a notice containing the demand made by this foreign prince for the Princess Tourandot. Then he rose and told Calaf to make three reverences to the king. The Prince of the Nogaïs did so with such grace that Altoun-Khan could not help smiling to show him that he regarded him with pleasure.

Then the chancellor rose from his place and read aloud the fatal edict which condemned to death all the bold lovers who replied ill to the questions of Tourandot. Then addressing Calaf: ‘Prince,’ said he, ‘you have just heard on what conditions the princess can be obtained; if the picture of the present danger makes any impression on your mind, it is still permitted to you to retire.’

‘No,’ replied Prince Calaf; ‘the reward to be gained is too beautiful for me to be cowardly enough to renounce it.’

The king, seeing Calaf resolved to reply to the questions of Tourandot, turned towards the princess, and said to her: ‘My daughter, it is for you to speak; put to this young prince the questions you have prepared, and may it please all the spirits to whom sacrifices were made yesterday, that he may discover the meaning of your words!’

Tourandot at these words said: ‘I call Heaven to witness that it is with regret that I see so many princes die, but why do they persist in wishing me to be theirs, why will they not let me live quietly in my palace, without coming to attack my liberty? Know then, bold young man,’ she added, addressing Calaf, ‘you will have no reproach to make me when, following the example of your rivals, you will have to suffer a cruel death. You alone are the cause of your destruction, since I do not force you to come and ask my hand.’

‘Beautiful princess,’ replied the Prince of the Nogaïs, ‘I know all that can be said on the subject. Put, I pray you, your questions to me, and I am going to try and unravel their meaning.’

‘Well,’ replied Tourandot, ‘tell me what is the creature which belongs to all countries, is beloved by all, and who cannot endure its like?’

‘Madam,’ replied Calaf, ‘it is the sun.’

‘He is right,’ cried the doctors. ‘It is the sun.’

‘Who is the mother,’ asked the princess, ‘who, after having given birth to her children, devours them all when they have grown up?’

‘It is the sea,’ replied the Prince of the Nogaïs, ‘because the rivers which discharge themselves into the sea draw from it their source.’

Tourandot, seeing that the young prince replied correctly to her questions, was so piqued at it that she resolved to spare nothing to bring about his destruction.

‘What is the tree,’ she said, ‘the leaves of which are white on one side and black on the other?’

She did not content herself with proposing this question. The malignant princess, in order to dazzle and confuse Calaf, lifted her veil at the same time and let all the assembly see the beauty of her face, to which rage and shame added fresh charms. Her head was adorned with natural flowers, arranged with infinite art, and her eyes appeared more brilliant than the stars. She was as beautiful as the sun when it shows itself in all its splendour through an opening in a dark cloud.

The amorous son of Timurtasch, at the sight of this incomparable princess, instead of replying to the question put to him, remained silent and immovable.

Immediately the whole divan, which was interested on his behalf, was seized with a mortal terror. The king himself grew pale and thought the young prince was done for.

But Calaf, recovering from the surprise which the beauty of Tourandot had suddenly caused him, soon reassured the assembly by these words: ‘Charming princess, I beg you to pardon me if I have remained confused for a few moments: I thought I saw one of those heavenly objects which form the most beautiful adornment of the abode promised to the faithful after death. I could not see so many attractions without being troubled. Have the kindness to repeat the question you put to me, for I do not remember it. You have made me forget everything.’

‘I asked you,’ said Tourandot, ‘what the tree was, all the leaves of which are white on one side and black on the other?’

‘That tree,’ replied Calaf, ‘represents the year, which is composed of days and nights.’

This answer again received applause in the divan; the mandarins and doctors said it was correct, and bestowed much praise on the young prince.

Then Altoun-Khan said to Tourandot:

‘Come, my daughter, confess yourself conquered, and consent to marry your vanquisher. The others were not able to answer even one of your questions, and he, as you see, explains them all.’

‘He has not yet won the victory,’ replied the princess, putting on her veil again to hide her confusion and the tears she could not help shedding. ‘I have other questions to put to him, but I shall put them to-morrow.’

‘Oh, as for that, certainly not!’ replied the king. ‘I shall not allow you to put questions to him eternally; all that I can allow is that you put another to him presently.’

The princess protested, saying she had only prepared those which had just been interpreted, and she begged the king her father not to refuse her permission to interrogate the prince on the following day.

‘I will not grant it you,’ cried the Chinese monarch in anger. ‘You only seek to put the young prince at fault, and I only think of freeing myself from the frightful oath which I was imprudent enough to make. Ah! cruel woman, you only thirst for blood; the death of your lovers is a pleasant spectacle for you. The queen, your mother, affected by the first misfortunes you caused, died of grief at having given birth to so barbarous a daughter; and, as for myself, as you know, I am plunged in a melancholy nothing can dissipate since I have seen the fatal consequences of my complaisance towards you. But, thanks to the spirits which preside in Heaven, in the sun, and in the moon, and to whom my sacrifices have been agreeable, no more of those horrible executions which make your name execrable shall take place in my palace. Since this prince has replied well to what you have put to him, I ask all this assembly whether it is not just that he should be your husband?’

The mandarins and doctors broke out into murmurs, and the chancellor said: ‘My lord, your majesty is no longer bound by the oath which you took to have this rigorous edict executed. It is for the princess now to perform her part of it. She promised her hand to him who should reply correctly to her questions. A prince has just answered them in a manner which has satisfied all the divan. She must keep her promise, or, without doubt, the spirits charged with the punishment of perjurers will punish her soon.’

Tourandot kept silence during this time. Her head on her knees, she appeared absorbed in deep grief.

Calaf, perceiving it, prostrated himself before Altoun-Khan and said to him: ‘Great king, whose justice and goodness make the vast empire of China to flourish, I ask pardon of your majesty. I see that the princess is in despair at my having had the good fortune to answer her questions. She would doubtless much rather I had merited death. Since she has such an aversion to men that, in spite of her given word, she refuses herself to me, I readily renounce the rights I have over her, on condition that in her turn she replies correctly to a question I am going to put to her.’

The whole assembly was somewhat surprised at this speech. ‘Is this young prince mad?’ they said low to one another, ‘to risk losing what he has just won at the peril of his life? Does he think he can put a question which will embarrass Tourandot? He must have lost his wits.’ Altoun-Khan was also very much astonished at what Calaf dared to ask him.

‘Prince,’ he said, ‘have you well weighed the words you have just spoken?’

‘Yes, my lord,’ replied the Prince of the Nogaïs, ‘and I implore you to grant me this favour.’

‘I will,’ replied the king; ‘but whatever may result from it I declare I am no longer bound by the oath that I have made, and that henceforth I shall have no prince put to death.’

‘Divine Tourandot,’ replied the son of Timurtasch, addressing the princess, ‘you have heard what I have said. Although in the judgment of this learned assembly your hand is due to me; although you belong to me, I give you back to yourself; I abandon marriage with you; I deprive myself of so precious a possession, provided you reply precisely to the question I am going to put to you; but on your side swear that if you do not reply correctly to it, you will consent with a good grace to my happiness and will crown my love.’

‘Yes, prince,’ said Tourandot, ‘I accept the condition. I swear it by all that is most sacred, and call upon this assembly to witness my oath.’

All the divan was in a state of expectancy as to the question Calaf was going to put to the princess, and there was not one of them but blamed the young prince for exposing himself unnecessarily to losing the daughter of Altoun-Khan; they were all shocked at his boldness.

‘Beautiful princess,’ said Calaf, ‘what is the name of the prince, who, after having suffered endless fatigue and begged his bread, is at this moment crowned with glory and joy?’

The princess remained some time reflecting, then she said: ‘It is impossible for me to reply to that immediately, but I promise to tell you to-morrow the name of that prince.’

‘Madam,’ cried Calaf, ‘I did not ask for delay, and it is not just to grant it you; however, I will give you this satisfaction as well; I hope after that you will be too pleased with me to make any difficulty about marrying me.’

‘She must make up her mind to it then,’ said Altoun-Khan, ‘if she does not reply to the question proposed. Let her not attempt, by falling ill, or feigning to do so, to escape her lover; if my oath did not engage me to grant her to him, and if she were not his according to the edict, I would rather let her die than dismiss this young prince. What more amiable man can she ever encounter?’

Thus saying, he rose from his throne and dismissed the assembly. He entered the inner palace with the princess, whence she retired to her own palace.

As soon as the king had left the divan, all the doctors and mandarins complimented Calaf on his intelligence. ‘I admire,’ said one, ‘your prompt and easy conception.’ ‘There is not,’ said another, ‘either a bachelor, master, or even a doctor more penetrating than yourself. All the princes who have presented themselves up till now had nothing like your merit: and we are extremely rejoiced that you have succeeded in your enterprise.’ The Prince of the Nogaïs was not a little occupied in thanking all those who hastened to felicitate him.

Finally the six mandarins who had conducted him to the council led him back to the same palace whence they had fetched him, whilst the others, with the doctors, went away, not without uneasiness as to the answer which the daughter of Altoun-Khan would make to his question.

The Princess Tourandot regained her palace, followed by two young slaves who were in her confidence. As soon as she reached her apartment she removed her veil, and throwing herself on the sofa she gave free vent to the affliction which agitated her. Shame and grief were seen depicted on her countenance; her eyes, already bathed in tears, shed tears afresh; she tore out the flowers which adorned her head, and disordered her beautiful hair. When her two favourite slaves wished to console her, she said to them: ‘Leave me both of you; cease to pay superfluous attentions to me, I listen to nothing but my despair, I wish to weep and grieve. Ah! what will be my confusion to-morrow, when in the midst of the council, before the greatest doctors of China, I have to admit that I cannot answer the proposed question. “Is that,” they will say, “the brilliant princess who prides herself on knowing everything, and to whom the guessing of the most difficult enigma is as nothing!” Alas!’ she continued, ‘they are all on the side of the young prince. I saw them become pale, alarmed, when he appeared embarrassed, and full of joy when he unravelled the meaning of my questions. I shall have the cruel mortification to see them rejoice again in my trouble when I confess myself conquered. What pleasure will not this shameful avowal cause them, and what torture for me to be reduced to to make it!’

‘My princess,’ said one of the slaves to her, ‘instead of grieving beforehand, instead of representing to yourself the shame you must experience to-morrow, would it not be better to think of avoiding it? Is what he has asked you so difficult that you cannot answer it? With your genius and penetration, will you not be able to achieve it?’

‘No,’ replied Tourandot, ‘it is impossible. He asks me what the name is of the prince who, after having suffered endless fatigue, and begged his bread, is at this moment crowned with joy and glory? I know well that he is himself this prince, but, not knowing him, I cannot say his name.’

‘However, madam,’ replied the same slave, ‘you have promised to name this prince to-morrow at the divan. When you made this promise, you doubtless hoped to keep it?’

‘I hoped nothing,’ replied the princess, ‘and I only asked for time in order to let myself die of grief before being obliged to admit my shame and marry the prince.’

‘What a violent resolution!’ then said the other favourite slave. ‘I know well, madam, no man is worthy of you, but it must be admitted that this one is of singular merit; his beauty, his good appearance, and his intelligence, ought to speak to you in his favour.’

‘I do him justice,’ interrupted the princess; ‘if there be in the world a prince who deserves that I should look upon him with a favourable eye, it is he. Just now even, I confess, before interrogating him, I pitied him, I sighed on seeing him, and, as has never happened to me before, I almost hoped he might reply correctly to my questions. It is true that at the moment I blushed at my weakness, but my pride surmounted it, and the correct replies he made me ended by revolting me against him; the applause of the doctors mortified me so much that I felt and still feel only hatred for him. O unhappy Tourandot! die at once of regret and rage at having found a young man who has been able to cover you with shame, and to force you to become his wife.’

At these words her tears fell afresh, and in the violence of her grief she spared neither her hair nor her clothes. More than once she even put her hands to her cheeks, to tear them and punish them as the first indicators of her confusion, but her slaves, who watched over her, saved her countenance. But it was in vain they tried to succour her, they could not calm her agitation. Whilst she was in this frightful state, the Prince of the Nogaïs, charmed at the result of the divan, was overcome with joy, and indulged the hope of winning his love the following day.

The king having returned from the council chamber to his apartment, sent for Calaf to talk in private over what had taken place at the divan. The prince immediately obeyed the summons of the monarch, who said to him, after having embraced him with much tenderness: ‘Ah, my son, come and relieve me from the uneasiness I am in. I fear lest my daughter may reply to the question you have put to her. Why have you run the risk of losing the object of your love?’

‘My lord,’ replied Calaf, ‘let not your majesty be apprehensive. It is impossible for the princess to tell me who is the prince whose name I asked her, since I am that prince, and no one at your court knows me.’

‘You have reassured me,’ cried the delighted king. ‘I was alarmed, I admit. Tourandot is very penetrating, the subtlety of her mind made me tremble for you, but, Heaven be thanked, you have quieted me. Whatever facility she may have in detecting the meaning of enigmas, she cannot guess your name. I do not accuse you any longer of being a bold man, and I perceive that what appeared to me a defect of prudence is an ingenious trick which you have made use of, to remove all pretext from my daughter for refusing herself to you.’

Altoun-Khan, after having laughed with Calaf over the question put to the princess, prepared to amuse himself with hunting. He put on a light and narrow caftan, and enclosed his beard in a black satin bag. He ordered the mandarins to hold themselves in readiness to accompany him, and had hunting clothes given to the Prince of the Nogaïs. They hastily ate some morsels of food, then left the palace. The mandarins, in ivory chairs enriched with gold, and uncovered, were at the head. Each one had six men who carried him, two who walked before him with whips of cord, and two others who followed him with silver tablets, on which were written in large characters all his qualities.

The king and Calaf appeared after the mandarins, borne by twenty military officers in a litter of red sandal wood, also uncovered, on which the first letter of the monarch’s name and several figures of animals were painted in silver characters. Two generals of the armies of Altoun-Khan each held by the side of the litter a large fan, to preserve them from the heat, and three thousand eunuchs who marched behind ended the procession.

When they had arrived at the place where the officers of the hunt awaited the king with falcons, a quail hunt was begun which lasted till sunset. Then the prince and the persons of his suite returned to the palace in the same order as they started. They found in a courtyard, under several pavilions of different coloured taffetas, a quantity of little tables, highly varnished and covered with all sorts of meats. Calaf and the mandarins seated themselves, after the example of the king, each at a little separate table, near which was another which served as a buffet. They began by drinking several draughts of rice wine before touching the meats; then they only ate without drinking.

The repast over, Altoun-Khan conducted the Prince of the Nogaïs into a great hall brilliantly lit, and full of chairs arranged as for a spectacle, and they were followed by all the mandarins. The king arranged the audience and made Calaf seat himself beside him on a great ebony throne ornamented with gold filigree.

As soon as everybody had taken his seat, singers and musicians entered, who began a very pleasant concert. Altoun-Khan was charmed with it. Very fond of Chinese music, he asked the son of Timurtasch from time to time what he thought of it, and the young prince, from complaisance, estimated it above all other music in the world.

The concert over, the singers and players retired to make room for an artificial elephant, which, advancing by means of a spring into the middle of the hall, threw out six acrobats, who indulged in many perilous feats. They were almost naked; they wore only sandals, breeches of Indian cloth, and caps of brocade. After they had shown their suppleness and agility by a thousand surprising tricks, they re-entered the elephant, which went out as it had entered. Then appeared comedians, who represented an impromptu piece, the subject of which was suggested to them by the king.

When all these amusements were over, the night being far advanced, Altoun-Khan and Calaf rose to retire to rest in their apartments and all the mandarins retired.

The young Prince of the Nogaïs, conducted by eunuchs who bore tapers in golden torches, was preparing to taste the sweets of sleep so far as the impatience to return to the divan permitted him, when, on entering his apartment, he found there a young lady clothed in a very full robe of red brocade with silver flowers, over another narrower one of white satin, all embroidered in gold and scattered with rubies and emeralds.

She wore on her head a cap of rose-coloured taffetas, trimmed with pearls and light silver embroidery, which only covered the top of the head, and displayed very beautiful curly hair in which were some artificial flowers. As regards her figure and face, nothing more beautiful nor more perfect, after the Princess of China, could be seen.

The son of Timurtasch was somewhat surprised to see so charming a lady alone in his apartment in the middle of the night. He would not have looked upon her without admiration had he not seen Tourandot, but could a lover of that princess have eyes for another? As soon as the lady perceived Calaf, she rose from the sofa on which she was seated, and on which she had placed her veil, and, after having bowed rather low:

‘Prince,’ she said, ‘I do not doubt but that you are very astonished to find a woman here, for you doubtless know that it is forbidden under pain of very rigorous punishment, to the men and women who inhabit this palace to have any communication with each other, but the importance of what I have to tell you has made me despise all dangers. I have been skilful and fortunate enough to remove all the obstacles which presented themselves to me. I have won over the eunuchs who serve you; finally, I got into your apartment. There only remains for me to tell you what brings me and that is what you are going to hear.’

This preface interested Calaf; he did not doubt but that the lady, since she had taken so dangerous a step, had things to tell him worthy of his attention. He begged her to reseat herself on the sofa; they both sat down, then the lady continued thus:

‘My lord, I think I had better begin by telling you that I am the daughter of a khan, tributary to Altoun-Khan. My father, several years ago, was bold enough to refuse to pay the ordinary tribute; and trusting a little too much to his experience in the art of war as well as to the valour of his soldiers, he put himself on the defensive in case of attack. The attack did not fail to come. The king of China, irritated at his audacity, sent against him the most skilful of his generals with a powerful army; my father, although less strong, went to meet him. After a bloody combat, which took place on the bank of a river, the Chinese general remained victorious. My father, pierced with a thousand wounds, died during the action; but dying, he ordered that his wives and children should be thrown into the river, to preserve them from slavery. Those whom he entrusted with the carrying out of this generous but inhuman order, executed it. They threw me into the water with my mother, my sisters, and two brothers, who were kept with us on account of their youth. The Chinese general arrived at that moment at that part of the river where they had thrown us in, and where we were perishing miserably. This sad and horrible spectacle excited his compassion; he promised a reward to those of his soldiers who should save some remnant of the family of the vanquished khan. Several Chinese horsemen, in spite of the rapidity of the river, immediately entered it and urged their horses in every direction in which they saw our expiring bodies floating. They rescued some of them, but their succour was only of avail to me. I was still breathing when they carried me ashore; the remainder were lifeless. The general took great care of me, as though it were necessary to his glory, and my captivity had given fresh honour to his victory. He brought me to this town and presented me to the king, after having given him an account of his doings. Altoun-Khan placed me about the princess his daughter, who is two or three years younger than I. Although I was little more than a child, I did not cease thinking that I was a slave, and that I ought to behave in accordance with my unfortunate position; so I studied the temper of Tourandot. I set myself to please her, and I was so obliging and attentive that I gained her friendship. Since that time I share her confidence with a young person of illustrious birth, who has been reduced to slavery by the misfortunes attending her birth. Pardon me, my lord,’ she continued, ‘this story, which has nothing to do with the subject of my visit. I thought it my duty to acquaint you with the fact that I am of noble birth, to inspire you with more confidence in me, for the important story I have to tell you is such that, coming from a simple slave, it might find little credit in your mind. I do not know even whether, although a khan’s daughter, I shall be able to persuade you; will a prince, charmed with Tourandot, put faith in what I am going to tell him of her?’

‘Princess,’ interrupted the son of Timurtasch at this moment, ‘do not keep me longer in suspense. Tell me, I beg, what you have to say about the Princess of China.’

‘My lord,’ replied the lady, ‘Tourandot, the barbarous Tourandot, has formed the design of having you assassinated.’

At these words, Calaf, throwing himself back on his sofa, remained in a state of horror and astonishment.

The slave-princess, who had anticipated the surprise of the young prince, said to him: ‘I am not astonished that you have received this terrible news thus, and I see I was right in doubting your willingness to believe it.’

‘Just Heaven!’ cried Calaf, when he had recovered from his prostration, ‘have I heard aright? Can the Princess of China be capable of so sinister an attempt? How can she have conceived it?’

‘Prince,’ said the lady to him, ‘this is how she took this horrible resolution. This morning when she left the divan, where I was behind her throne, she was furious at what had passed; she returned to her apartment, agitated with the most violent rage and hate. She thought for a long time over the question you put to her, and not being able to reply as she wished, she gave way to despair. I and the other favourite slave have spared nothing to calm her violence. We even did all we could to inspire in her feelings favourable to yourself; we praised your beauty and intelligence to her, and we represented to her that instead of grieving immoderately, she should rather resolve to give you her hand. But she silenced us with a torrent of insults against men, of whom the most amiable does not make more impression on her than the ugliest and most deformed. “They are all,” she said, “contemptible objects, for whom I shall never have anything but aversion. As for the one who now presents himself, I hate him more than the others, and since I cannot free myself from him but by an assassination, I shall have him assassinated.” I opposed this hideous design,’ continued the slave; ‘I represented to Tourandot its terrible consequences. I represented to her the wrong she would do herself, and the just horror that future centuries would have of her memory. On her side, the other slave did not fail to add her arguments to mine; but all our talking has been useless, we have not been able to turn her from her enterprise. She has charged some faithful eunuchs to take your life to-morrow morning when you leave your palace to go to the divan.’

‘O inhuman princess, perfidious Tourandot!’ cried the Prince of the Nogaïs. ‘Is it thus you prepare to reward the love of the unhappy son of Timurtasch? Calaf is so horrible to you then that you prefer to rid yourself of him by a crime which will dishonour you, rather than join your destiny to his. Great God! of what strange adventures is my life made up? Sometimes I seem about to enjoy enviable happiness and sometimes I am plunged in an abyss of woe.’

‘My lord,’ said the slave to him, ‘if Heaven sends you misfortunes it does not, at least, wish you to succumb to them, since it warns you of the dangers which threaten you. Yes, prince, it is Heaven who has inspired me with the thought of saving you, for I not only come to reveal to you a plot against your life, I come to give you means of avoiding it. By the agency of some devoted eunuchs I have gained over some soldiers of the guard, who will facilitate for you the exit from the palace. As after your flight they will not fail to make inquiries and learn that I am the author of it, I have resolved to fly with you, to leave this fatal court where I have more than one source of annoyance; my slavery makes me hate it, and you make it more odious to me. There are,’ she continued, ‘in a place in the town horses awaiting us; let us go and reach, if possible, the lands of the tribe of Berlas. I have blood-ties with the Prince Alinguer who is sovereign over them; he will be extremely rejoiced to see his relation escaped from the haughty Altoun-Khan, and he will receive you as my liberator. We will both live beneath his tents more tranquilly and more happily than here; I, freed from the bonds of my captivity, shall enjoy a gentler fate, and you, my lord, you may find there some princess beautiful enough to merit being loved, and who, far from attempting your life to escape being your wife, will only be careful of pleasing you if she can make happy such a prince as you. Let us lose no time, let us go, and may the sun on beginning its course to-morrow find us far from Pekin!’

Calaf replied: ‘Beautiful princess, I have to thank you a thousand times for having wished to deliver me from the danger I am in. Would that I could out of gratitude take you from slavery and conduct you to the horde of the Khan of Berlas, your relation! What pleasure I should have in placing you in his care! Thereby I should acquit myself of some obligations under which I am to him. But tell me, princess, ought I to disappear thus from the eyes of Altoun-Khan? What would he think of me? He would think I had only come to his court to carry you off, and whilst I was only flying to save his daughter from crime, he would accuse me of having violated the laws of hospitality. Moreover, I must confess to you, barbarous as is the Princess of China, my heart will not let me hate her. What am I saying? Hate her? I adore her; I am devoted to her every whim, and since she wishes to sacrifice me, the victim is quite ready.’

The slave seeing the Prince of the Nogaïs resolved to die rather than fly with her, began to cry, saying to him: ‘Is it possible, my lord, that you prefer death to the gratitude of a captive princess whose chains you can break? If Tourandot is more beautiful than I, on the other hand I have a better heart than hers. Alas! when you presented yourself this morning at the divan, I trembled for you. I feared you would not answer the questions of the daughter of Altoun-Khan, and when you replied well to them I felt a fresh trouble arise in me; I felt that without doubt your life would be attempted. Ah! my dear prince,’ she added, ‘I conjure you to reflect and not let yourself be carried away by the passion which makes you face death without flinching. Let not a blind love make you despise a danger which alarms me; yield to the fear which I feel for you, and let us both, without delay, leave this place where I suffer cruel torments.’

‘Fair princess,’ replied the son of Timurtasch at these words, ‘whatever misfortune may befall me, I cannot make up my mind to so sudden a flight. You have, I admit, the means of rewarding your liberator and giving him a future full of charm. But I am not born to be happy; my fate is to love Tourandot, in spite of the horror in which she holds me; far from her, I should drag out languishing days.’

‘Well, ungrateful man, remain!’ abruptly interrupted the lady, rising. ‘Do not leave this place which has such delights for you, even if you must water it with your blood. I do not urge you to leave any longer; flight with a slave does not please you. Whatever ardour the Princess of China inspires in you, you have less love for her than aversion for me.’

Thus saying, she put on her veil again and left Calaf’s apartment.

The young prince, after the departure of the lady, remained on the sofa in great perplexity. ‘Can I believe,’ he said, ‘what I have just heard? Can barbarity be carried to this extent? But, alas! I cannot doubt it: this slave-princess was horrified at the step meditated by Tourandot. She came to warn me of it, and the sentiments alone that she gave expression to are sure guarantees of her sincerity. Ah! cruel daughter of the best of kings, is it thus you abuse the gifts you have received from Heaven? O Heaven! how could you have endowed this inhuman princess with such perfect beauty, or why have you given her so barbarous a soul combined with so much charm?’

Instead of seeking to procure some hours’ sleep, he passed the rest of the night absorbed in the most afflicting reflections. At last the day appeared, the sound of bells and drums was heard, and soon six mandarins came, as on the preceding day, to conduct him to the council. He crossed the courtyard where the soldiers of the king’s guard were drawn up in rows. He feared to lose his life here, thinking that, doubtless, the people chosen to assassinate him awaited him on his way. Far from being on his guard and thinking of defending himself, he walked like a man resolved to die, and even seemed to accuse his assassins of slowness. However, he passed through the courtyard without anyone attacking him, and he arrived in the first hall of the divan. ‘Ah! it is doubtless here,’ he said to himself, ‘that the sanguinary order of the princess is to be carried out.’ At the same time he looked all round, and everyone he saw seemed to him his murderer. He advanced, nevertheless, and entered the council chamber without receiving the mortal blow he expected. All the doctors and mandarins were already under their pavilions, and Altoun-Khan was about to appear. ‘What is the princess’s design?’ he then said to himself. ‘Does she wish to be the witness of my death, and does she wish to have me assassinated before the eyes of her father? Can the king be an accomplice in this? What am I to think? Can her feelings have changed. Can she have revoked my death warrant?’

Whilst in this state of uncertainty, the door of the inner palace opened and the king, accompanied by Tourandot, entered the hall. They placed themselves on their thrones. The Prince of the Nogaïs stood before them, and at the same distance as on the preceding day.

The chancellor, as soon as he saw the king seated, rose and asked the young prince whether he remembered having promised to renounce the princess if she replied correctly to the question which he had put to her. Calaf replied in the affirmative, and protested anew that on that condition he would cease to pretend to the honour of being the king’s son-in-law.

The chancellor then addressed Tourandot: ‘And you, great princess,’ he said, ‘you know the oath that binds you, and to which you have subjected yourself, if you do not to-day name the prince whose name has been asked of you.’

The king, persuaded that she could not reply to the question of Calaf, said to her: ‘My daughter, you have had ample time to reflect upon what has been proposed to you: but were a year given to you to think over it, I am of opinion that, in spite of your penetration, you would be obliged to admit at the end that it is beyond your powers. So, since you cannot guess it, yield with a good grace to the love of this young prince, and satisfy the wish I have to see him as your husband. He is worthy to be it, and to reign with you after me over the peoples of China.’

‘My lord,’ said Tourandot, ‘why do you suppose I cannot reply to this prince’s question? That is not as difficult as you think. If yesterday I suffered the ignominy of being beaten, to-day I aspire to the honour of victory. I am going to defeat this intrepid young man who has had too bad an opinion of my intelligence. Let him put his question to me, and I will answer it.’

‘Madam,’ then said the Prince of the Nogaïs, ‘I ask you the name of the prince who, after having suffered endless fatigue, and begged his bread, is at this moment overwhelmed with joy and glory?’

‘That prince,’ replied Tourandot, ‘is named Calaf, and he is the son of Timurtasch.’

As soon as Calaf heard his name spoken, he changed colour, his sight became obscured and he suddenly fell senseless. The king and the whole assembly, judging by this that Tourandot had really named the prince whose name had been asked her, grew pale and remained in great consternation.

After Prince Calaf had recovered from his swoon, through the attentions of the mandarins and of the king himself, who had descended from his throne to succour him, he addressed Tourandot: ‘Beautiful princess,’ he said to her, ‘you are wrong if you think you have replied well to my question. The son of Timurtasch is not at all overwhelmed with joy and glory, he is rather covered with shame and overwhelmed with grief.’

‘I admit,’ said the princess, ‘that you are not filled with joy and glory at this moment, but you were when you put your question to me. So, prince, instead of having recourse to vain subtleties, admit that you have lost the rights which you had over Tourandot. I can, therefore, refuse you my hand, and abandon you to regret at having lost it. However, I wish you to know, and I declare it publicly here, that I am otherwise disposed towards you. The friendship which the king my father has conceived for you, and your particular merits, determine me to take you as my husband.’

At this speech the hall of the divan resounded with joy. The mandarins and doctors applauded the words of the princess. The king approached her, embraced her, and said: ‘My daughter, you could not take a resolution which would be more agreeable to me; thereby you will efface the bad impression which you have made on the mind of my people, and you will give to a father the satisfaction which he has long expected from you and which he despaired of ever receiving. Yes, the aversion you had for men, this aversion so contrary to nature, made me lose the sweet hope of seeing princes of my blood born to you. Happily this hatred ends to-day, and what crowns my wishes is that you have extinguished it in favour of a young hero who is dear to me. But tell us,’ he added, ‘how you have been able to guess the name of a prince who was unknown to you? By what charm have you discovered it?’

‘My lord,’ replied Tourandot, ‘it is not by enchantment that I have known it, it is by natural means; one of my slaves went last night to find Prince Calaf, and was ingenious enough to draw his secret from him; he ought to pardon me for having availed myself of this treachery, since I do not put it to bad use.’

‘Ah, charming Tourandot,’ cried the Prince of the Nogaïs at that moment, ‘is it possible that your sentiments are so favourable to me? From what a frightful abyss have you rescued me, to put me in the foremost place in the world. Alas! how unjust I was. Whilst you were preparing for me so beautiful a fate, I thought you capable of the blackest perfidy. Deceived by a horrible fable which disturbed my reason, I repaid your goodness with injurious suspicions. I am impatient to expiate my injustice at your feet.’

The amorous son of Timurtasch was continuing to indulge in tender and passionate speeches, when all of a sudden he was obliged to be silent to listen to, and observe a slave who had stood till then behind the Princess of China, and who, advancing now into the midst of the audience, surprised every one by her proceedings. She lifted her veil, and Calaf immediately recognised her as the same person whom he had seen in the night in his apartment; her face was as pale as death, her eyes wandered, and she seemed to be meditating some terrible deed. All the spectators looked at her with astonishment, and Altoun-Khan, like the others, was in a state of expectancy as to what she was going to say, when, turning to Tourandot, she spoke to her thus:

‘Princess, it is time to disabuse you; I did not go to seek the Prince Calaf to get him to reveal his name to me, I did not take this step to serve you; it was in my own interest that I risked it, I wished to free myself from slavery, and take your lover from you. I had arranged everything to fly with him; he rejected my proposal, or rather the ungrateful man despised my affection. I have nevertheless spared nothing to detach him from you. I painted your pride to him in the blackest colours, I even said you were going to have him assassinated to-day, but I charged you in vain with this intended crime. I have not been able to shake his constancy. He knows how I gave way on leaving him, and his eyes have been the witness of my rage and confusion. Jealous and desperate I returned to your apartment, and by a false confidence I earned your approbation by a step which has only led to my shame. It was not in order to relieve your embarrassment that I told you the name you wished to know; it escaped the prince in an outburst he could not restrain, and I thought that, still inimical to men, you would be very glad to be able to dismiss Calaf. In fact, I thought thereby to prevent the tying of the knots which are going to bind you together. But since my artifice has proved futile, and you are determined to marry your lover, I have no other alternative but to do this.’ Saying these words, she drew from beneath her dress a dagger, and plunged it in her breast.

The whole assembly shuddered at this action. Altoun-Khan was seized with horror at it; Calaf felt his joy diminish, and Tourandot, uttering a loud cry, descended from her throne to go to the assistance of her slave and save her if possible from perishing.

The other favourite slave also ran forward with the same intention, as well as the two others who held the ink and paper; but before they reached her, the unhappy woman enamoured of the son of Timurtasch, as though the blow she had given herself had not been sufficient to take her life, withdrew her dagger and stabbed herself again. All that they could do was to receive in their arms her tottering body.

‘Adelmuc,’ said the distressed Princess of China, ‘my dear Adelmuc, what have you done? Why have you gone to this extremity? Why did you not open your heart to me last night? Why did you not say you would take your life if I married Prince Calaf? What efforts would I not have made for a rival such as you?’

At these words the princess’s slave, opening her eyes already closing in death, turned them towards Tourandot and said to her: ‘It is all over, my princess, I am about to cease to live and suffer; do not pity my fate, rather praise my generous resolution. In dying, I free myself from a double slavery; I escape from the chains of Altoun-Khan, and from those of love which are much more rigorous. I imbibed with my mother’s milk the principles of fortitude, so it need not excite surprise that I have been capable of this determination.’ Saying these words, she sighed a deep sigh and died.

The mandarins and doctors were touched at the pitiable end of Adelmuc: Tourandot broke out afresh in tears, and Calaf, looking upon himself as the author of this tragic event, was deeply grieved at it. The good King of China in his turn seemed greatly affected.

‘Ah, unfortunate princess,’ he said, ‘only and precious relic of a celebrated family, what does it avail you now to have been saved from the fury of the waters? Alas! you would have been happier had you achieved your destiny the day that saw that unhappy monarch, your father, and all your family perish. May you at least, after having passed through the nine hells, be born again, the daughter of another sovereign, at the first transmigration.’

Altoun-Khan did not content himself with deploring thus the misfortune of the Princess Adelmuc. He ordered a superb funeral. Her body was borne into a separate palace, where it was clothed with rich white garments, and before placing it in a coffin, the king, with all the officers of his household, went to make reverence and offer perfumes to it: then it was enclosed in a coffin of aloe wood, and it was placed on a sort of throne which had been raised for this purpose in the middle of a great courtyard. It remained there a whole week, and every day the wives of the mandarins, in mourning from head to foot, were obliged to go and visit it and make before it four reverences, each with demonstrations of grief.

After this ceremony, the day which the king had designated for the burial having come, the coffin was placed on a triumphal car, covered with silver plates mingled with figures of animals painted on cardboard; then a sacrifice was made to the genius who guarded the car, so that the funeral might be happily concluded, and after having watered the coffin with scented water, the procession began. It lasted three days, on account of the various ceremonies and the pauses it was necessary to make before arriving at the mountain where the tombs of the Kings of China are; for Altoun-Khan wished that the ashes of the Princess Adelmuc should be mingled with those of the princes of his house. It is true that Tourandot, out of friendship for her favourite slave, had begged the king to do her this honour. When the procession was near the mountain the coffin was removed from the car which had borne it thus far, to be placed on another still richer. Then a bull was sacrificed which was sprinkled with aromatic wine, and the coffin was given to the Earth, that was entreated to receive the body of the princess favourably.

When the obsequies of Adelmuc were over, the aspect of the court of China changed: mourning was put aside and pleasure succeeded the grief which had occupied it. Altoun-Khan ordered preparations to be made for the marriage of Calaf with Tourandot, and whilst they were engaged on them, he sent ambassadors to the tribe of Berlas to inform the Khan of the Nogaïs of all that had passed in China, and to beg him to come thither with the princess his wife.

The preparations being completed, the marriage took place with all the pomp and magnificence due to the quality of the bridal pair. No mandarins were given to Calaf for masters, as is customary in China. Moreover, the king declared publicly that, to mark the particular esteem and consideration he had for his son-in-law, he dispensed him from making the ordinary four daily reverences to his wife that are enjoined upon the husband of the daughter of a king of that land until she has given him children. For a whole month there were nothing but spectacles and feasts at the court, and there were also great rejoicings in the town.

The possession of Tourandot did not at all abate the love of Calaf; and this princess, who had till then looked upon men with so much contempt, could not help loving so perfect a prince. Some time after their marriage the ambassadors whom Altoun-Khan had sent to the country of Berlas returned with a goodly company; they had with them not only the father and mother of their king’s son-in-law, but even prince Alinguer, who, to do greater honour to Elmaze and Timurtasch, had wished to accompany them with the greatest lords of his court, and conduct them as far as Pekin.

The young prince of the Nogaïs, informed of their arrival, hastened to meet them. He met them at the door of the palace. The joy he had in seeing his father and mother again, and the delight they experienced at sight of him, must be imagined, for it is impossible to express it in words.

They embraced each other again and again, and the tears they shed moved the Chinese and Tartars who were present to do likewise.

After such sweet embraces, Calaf saluted the Khan of Berlas: he assured him how deeply he was touched at his kindness, and especially at his having wished to accompany the authors of his being as far as the court of China; to whieh Prince Alinguer replied that, being ignorant of the quality of Timurtasch and Elmaze, he had not paid them all the regard due to them, and so, in order to make reparation for the ill-treatment he might have shown them, he had thought it his duty to take this step.

Thereupon the Khan of the Nogaïs and the Princess his wife complimented the sovereign of Berlas; then they all entered the palace to go and see Altoun-Khan. They found this monarch, who awaited them in the first hall. He embraced them all one after the other, and received them very agreeably; he then conducted them into his cabinet, where, after having expressed to Timurtasch the pleasure he had in seeing him and his sympathy in his misfortunes, he assured him he would do all he could to avenge him upon the Sultan of Carizma; and it was no vain assurance, for that very day orders were sent to the governors of the province to put on the road without delay the soldiers who were in the towns of their jurisdictions, and to make them take the route to that place which had been chosen as the rendezvous of the formidable army which was to be assembled. On his side, the Khan of Berlas, who had foreseen this war, and who hoped to contribute to the re-establishment of Timurtasch in his states, had ordered the commander-in-chief of his troops to hold himself in readiness to commence a campaign of the first order. He commanded him to join the Chinese army as soon as possible.

Whilst the officers and soldiers who were to compose the army of Altoun-Khan, and who were dispersed in the towns of the kingdom, were on the march to assemble all together in the same place, the king spared nothing to receive his new guests well. He gave to each a separate palace with a large number of eunuchs, and a guard of two thousand men. Every day he had some fresh feast for their amusement, and gave all his attention to seeking what could give them pleasure.

Calaf, although occupied with many things, did not forget his old hostess; he remembered with pleasure the part she had played in his destiny; he sent for her to the palace and begged Tourandot to receive her among the persons of her suite.

The hope which Timurtasch and the Princess Elmaze entertained of remounting the throne of the Nogaïs Tartars, with the help of the King of China, made them insensibly forget their past misfortunes, and the beautiful prince to whom Tourandot gave birth in due time overwhelmed them with joy. The birth of this child, who was named Prince of China, was celebrated in all the towns of this vast empire with public rejoicings.

They were still going on when the couriers sent by the officers who had orders to assemble the army announced that all the troops of the kingdom and even those of the Khan of Berlas had arrived at the tryst. Timurtasch, Calaf, and Alinguer immediately departed for the camp, where they found everything in readiness and seven hundred thousand men ready to march. They soon took the road to the enemy’s country, and finally they entered the territory of the Sultan of Carizma.

This prince, warned of their advance and their numbers by couriers sent him by the governors of his frontier, instead of being discouraged, prepared courageously to receive so large an enemy; instead even of intrenching himself he had the audacity to march towards them at the head of four hundred thousand men whom he had hastily got together. They met near Khokand and gave battle. On the side of the Chinese, Timurtasch commanded the right wing, Prince Alinguer the left, and Calaf was in the centre; on the other side the sultan entrusted the command of his right wing to the most skilful of his generals, opposed the Prince of Carizma to the Prince of the Nogaïs, and reserved to himself the left wing, in which was the flower of his cavalry.

The Khan of Berlas began the combat with the soldiers of his tribe, who, fighting like men who had the eyes of their leader upon them, soon made the right wing of the enemy give way, but the officer commanding it brought it into order again.

It was not thus with Timurtasch. The sultan broke his force through at the first onslaught, and the Chinese in disorder were ready to take flight, without the Khan of the Nogaïs being able to restrain them, when Calaf, informed of what was passing, left the care of the centre to an old Chinese general, and ran to the assistance of his father with some selected troops. In a short while the aspect of affairs changed; the left wing of the Carizmians was broken through in its turn; the ranks opened and were then easily broken; the whole wing was put to rout.

The sultan, who wished to conquer or die, made incredible efforts to rally his soldiers, but Timurtasch and Calaf did not give him time, and surrounded him on all sides, so that the Prince Alinguer, having also defeated the right wing, the victory declared itself for the Chinese.

There remained for the Sultan of Carizma only one course to pursue, and that was to make a passage through his enemies and to take refuge with some foreign prince; but this Prince, preferring not to survive his defeat, rather than offer to the nations the spectacle of his head despoiled of all its diadems, threw himself blindly where he saw great carnage going on, and he did not cease fighting until, pierced with a thousand mortal wounds, he fell lifeless amongst the crowd of dead.

The Prince of Carizma, his son, met the same fate; two hundred thousand of their men were killed or made prisoners, the rest sought safety in flight. The Chinese also lost many men; but if the battle had been sanguinary it was decisive. Timurtasch, after having given thanks to Heaven for this happy success, sent an officer to Pekin to give details of it to the King of China; then he advanced into the sultan’s country and took possession of the town of Carizma.

He had it published in this capital that he wished to confiscate neither the riches nor the liberty of the Carizmians; that God having made him master of the throne of his enemy, he proposed preserving it; that henceforth all the countries which had been under the obedience of the sultan would recognise as their sovereign Prince Calaf his son.

The Carizmians, tired of the sway of their master, and persuaded that that of Calaf would be milder, submitted with a good grace, and proclaimed as sultan the young prince, whose merits they knew.

Whilst the new Sultan of Carizma was taking all necessary measures to confirm his power, Timurtasch set out with a part of the Chinese troops, and returned with all possible speed to his territories. The Nogaïs Tartars received him like faithful subjects, charmed to see their legitimate sovereign again; but he did not content himself with remounting his throne: he declared war against the Circassians to revenge himself for the treachery they had shown to Prince Calaf. Instead of seeking to appease him by submission, these people formed in haste an army to resist him; he fought them, cut them almost to pieces, and had himself declared King of Circassia. After that, having returned to Carizma, he found there the princesses Elmaze and Tourandot, whom Altoun-Khan had had escorted to Carizma, with a large following.

Here ended the misfortunes of Prince Calaf, who attracted to himself the love and esteem of the Carizmians by his virtues. He reigned long and peaceably over them, and was always charmed with Tourandot. He had a second son by her, who was Sultan of Carizma after him; for Altoun-Khan had the Prince of China brought up and chose him as his successor.

Timurtasch and the princess his wife went to pass the rest of their days at Astrakan; and the Khan of Berlas, after having received from them and their son all the marks of gratitude that his generosity merited, retired to his tribe with the rest of his troops.

The nurse of the Princess of Cashmere having finished relating the story of Calaf, asked the women of Farrukhnaz what they thought of it. They all said it was very interesting, and that Calaf seemed to them a virtuous prince and a perfect lover.

‘For myself,’ said the princess, ‘I think him more vain than loving, a little thoughtless—in a word, what is called a young man.’

‘Well, my princess,’ said the nurse, ‘since Calaf does not yet satisfy your taste, I will, with your permission, relate to you the story of a King of Damascus and his vizir; perhaps it will please you better.’

‘Very willingly,’ replied Farrukhnaz. ‘My women love your stories too much for me not to give them the pleasure of hearing you. It is true you know how to paint agreeable portraits, but Sutlumemé,’ she added, ‘my dear Sutlumemé, it is in vain you paint men with the loveliest colours; their defects always appear through your painting.

BEDREDDIN-LOLO, King of Damascus, had as his grand vizir a man of wealth —so says the history of his time.

This minister, who was named Atalmulc, which means a Present to the Kingdom, was very worthy of the fine name he bore. His zeal in the king’s service was indefatigable, his vigilance would not be deceived, his genius was penetrating and far-reaching, and with all this his disinterestedness was the admiration of all; but he was surnamed the Sad Vizir, for he usually appeared plunged in profound melancholy.

He was always serious, whatever absurd action he saw take place at court; he never laughed, however amusing a thing was said before him.

One day the king was conversing with him in private, and related to him, laughing heartily, an adventure he had just heard; the vizir listened so seriously that Bedreddin was disconcerted. ‘Atalmulc,’ he said, ‘you are a strange character, you always look sombre and sad; for all the years you have been with me I have never seen on your face the least expression of joy.’

‘My lord,’ replied the vizir, ‘your majesty should not be astonished at it; everyone has his troubles; there is no man on earth who is exempt from grief.’

‘Your answer is not correct,’ replied the king; ‘because you have doubtless some secret trouble, on that account must all men have one too? Do you really believe what you say?’

‘Yes, my lord,’ replied Atalmulc, ‘such is the condition of the children of Adam, our hearts cannot know entire satisfaction. Judge of others by yourself, sire: is your majesty perfectly content?’

‘Oh! as for me,’ cried Bedreddin, ‘I cannot be so. I have enemies. I am bowed down with the weight of an empire, a thousand cares occupy my mind and trouble the tranquillity of my life; but I am persuaded that there are in the world endless private persons whose happy days are spent in pleasure unmixed with bitterness, and at least, if no one is exempt from grief, everyone is not, like you, absorbed in his affliction. You rouse, I admit, in me a keen curiosity to know what makes you so dreamy and sad. Tell me why you are so insensible to smiles, which form the sweetest charm of society.’

‘I will obey you, my lord,’ replied the vizir, ‘and discover to you the cause of my secret troubles by relating to you the story of my life.’

‘I am the only son of a rich jeweller of Bagdad. My father, who was called Coaja-Abdallah, spared nothing for my education; he gave me, almost from my infancy, masters who taught me all sorts of sciences, such as philosophy, law, theology; and, above all, he made me learn all the different languages spoken in Asia, so that if at any time I travelled in that part of the world they might be useful to me on my travels.

‘I had a natural taste for pleasure and expenditure. My father perceived it with grief; he even tried by wise remonstrances to destroy this inclination in me; but what impression can the sensible advice of a father make on a libertine son? I paid no attention to that of Abdallah, and imputed it to the chagrin caused by old age. One day that I was walking with him in the garden of our house and that he, as usual, was chiding my conduct, he said to me: “O, my son ! I have remarked that till now my reprimands have only wearied you; but you will soon be relieved of an importunate censor; the Angel of Death is hovering over me, I am about to descend into the abyss of eternity and leave you great wealth; take care not to put it to a bad use, or, at least, if you are unfortunate enough to dissipate it foolishly, do not fail to have recourse to that tree which you see in the middle of the garden; attach a fatal rope to one of its branches and prevent thereby all the evils which accompany poverty.”

‘He died shortly afterwards, as he had predicted. I gave him a superb funeral and then took possession of all his wealth. I found it so enormous that I thought I could with impunity indulge the inclination I had for pleasure. I increased the number of my servants, I gathered round me all the young men of the town. I kept open table and indulged in every kind of debauch, so that I insensibly consumed my patrimony. My friends immediately abandoned me, and all my servants left me one after the other. What a change in my fortune! my courage was destroyed by it. I remembered then, but too late, the last words of my father. “How fully I deserve the situation in which I am placed,” I said. “Why did I not profit by the advice of Abdallah? It was not without reason that he recommended me to be careful of my wealth. Is any state more terrible than that of a man who experiences want after having known abundance? Ah! at least I will not forget all his counsels. I have not forgotten that he advised me to terminate my life if misery befell me: it has befallen me. I will follow this advice, which is not less wise than the other; for when I shall have sold my house, the only thing remaining to me, and which would only suffice to keep me for a few years, what must become of me? I shall be reduced to beg or die of hunger. What an alternative! I had better immediately hand myself. I cannot too soon free my mind from these cruel ideas.”

‘Thus saying, I went to buy a rope. I entered my garden, and approached the tree my father had indicated to me, and which seemed to me very well fitted for my design. I put two large stones at the foot of this tree, mounted them and proceeded to attach one end of the rope to a large branch; I made of the other a slip-knot, which I passed round my neck; then I sprang into the air from the two stones. The slip-knot, which I had made very well, was about to strangle me, when the branch to which the fatal rope was attached, yielding to the weight, broke off from the trunk, to which it only held feebly, and fell with me.

‘I was at first very mortified at having made a futile effort to hang myself; but, on looking at the branch which had served my despair so ill, I perceived with surprise that some diamonds fell from it, and that it was hollow as well as the whole trunk of the tree. I ran to seek a hatchet in the house, and cut down the tree, which I found full of rubies, emeralds and other precious stones. I quickly removed the slip-knot from my neck, and passed from despair to the keenest joy. Instead of abandoning myself to pleasure, and living as before, I resolved to embrace the profession of my father. I understood about precious stones, and I had reason to hope that I should not do badly in the business. I associated myself with two merchant-jewellers of Bagdad who were friends of Abdallah, and who were going to do business at Ormus.

‘We betook ourselves all three to Bassora. We chartered a vessel there and embarked upon the gulf named after this town. We lived happily together, and our vessel, impelled by a favourable wind, ploughed the waves lightly.

‘We passed our days enjoyably, and our voyage was about to finish as we wished, when my two associates caused me to recognise the fact that I was not in the society of very honest people. We were about to arrive at the head of the gulf and land, which put us in a good humour. In our joy we did not spare the exquisite wines, which we had been careful to make provision of at Bassora.

‘After having drunk well, I fell asleep in the middle of the night, quite dressed, on a sofa. Whilst I was sleeping profoundly my associates took me in their arms and threw me into the sea by a porthole of the vessel.

‘I thought to drown in the depths, and I do not understand how I am still alive after that adventure. But the sea was rough, and the waves, as if Heaven had forbidden them to swallow me up, bore me to the foot of a mountain which bordered the head of the gulf on one side. I even found myself safe and sound on the bank, where I passed the rest of the night in thanking God for my delivery, which I could not be sufficiently grateful for.

‘As soon as the day dawned I climbed with much trouble to the summit of the mountain, which was very jagged. I met several peasants of the neighbourhood, who were occupied in digging for crystal which they afterwards sold at Ormus. I related to them the danger to which my life had been exposed, and it seemed to them, as to me, that I had only escaped by a miracle. These good people took pity on me, they shared their provisions with me, which consisted of millet-seed and rice, and they conducted me to the great town of Ormus as soon as they had their loads of crystal. I went to lodge in a caravanserai, where the first thing I saw was one of my associates.

‘He seemed rather surprised to see a man whom he had thought had already served as prey to some marine monster: he ran to find his companion, to warn him of my arrival and to discuss the reception they should both give me. They had soon formed their decision. I saw them both a moment after: they entered the courtyard where I was, and presented themselves before me, without seeming to recognise me. “Ah! traitors,” I said, “Heaven rendered your treachery futile. I still live in spite of your barbarity; return me promptly all my precious stones. I wish no longer to associate with such bad men.” To this speech, which should have confused them, they had the impudence to reply thus:

‘“Oh, robber! Oh, rogue! who are you and whence do you come? What stones? what effects have we which belong to you?”

‘Thus saying, they struck me several blows with a stick; and as I threatened to go and complain to the cadi, they anticipated me and went to the judge. They made profound reverences to him, and after having presented several stones to him which they had about them, and which were, perhaps, mine, they said to him:

‘“Oh, torch of justice, light which dissipates the darkness of dishonesty, we have recourse to you. We are weak strangers; we come from the ends of the world to traffic here. Is it just that a thief should insult us, and will you permit him to take from us, by an imposture, what we have only acquired after endless labour, and at the risk of our lives?”

‘“Who is the man whom you complain of?” said the cadi to them.

‘“My lord,” they replied, “we do not know him; we have never seen him.”

‘I arrived at the judge’s house at that moment. They cried out as soon as they saw me:

‘“There he is, my lord, this wretch, this thief, who is even bold enough to come to your palace, and to confront your glances, which should terrify the guilty. Great judge, deign to protect us.”

‘I approached the cadi to speak in my turn; but having no presents to offer him, it was impossible to me to make myself heard. The resolute and tranquil manner which the ease of my conscience gave me, passed in his prejudiced mind for a mark of effrontery. He ordered his archers to conduct me to prison, which they did. Whilst they loaded me with chains, my companions went away triumphant, and well persuaded that I should have need of a fresh miracle to escape from the hands of the cadi.

‘I should not indeed have escaped as happily as from the gulf, but for an incident which occurred, which was another visible sign of the goodness of Heaven.

‘The peasants who had brought me to Ormus learnt by chance that I had been imprisoned. Touched with compassion, they went to the cadi; they told him how they had met me and detailed all I had told them on the mountain. The judge, on their report, opened his eyes, repented of not having wished to hear me, and resolved to investigate the matter.

‘He sent for the two merchants at the caravanserai, but they were not there. They had already regained their vessel and set sail; for, in spite of the intervention of the judge, I did not fail to cause them uneasiness.

‘So prompt a flight persuaded the cadi that I was unjustly imprisoned. He set me at liberty, and this was the end of my association with these two dishonest jewellers.

‘Escaped from the sea and justice, I ought to have felt not a little grateful to Heaven; but I was not in a situation calculated to inspire great gratitude at being saved. Without money, without friends, without credit, I saw myself reduced to subsist on charity or die of hunger. I left Ormus without knowing what would become of me, and went towards the country which is between the mountains and the Persian Sea. There I met a caravan of merchants from Hindoostan, who were setting out to take the road to Shiraz. I joined these merchants, and through the little services I rendered them I found means of subsisting. I went with them to Shiraz, where I stopped.

‘The king, Shah Tahmasp, was holding his court in this town.

‘One day that I was returning from the grand mosque to the caravanserai where I was lodged, I perceived an officer of the king of Persia: he was richly dressed and well-built; he looked at me very attentively, approached me and said: “O young man, from what country are you? I see you are a stranger, and I do not think you are in prosperity.”

‘I replied that I was from Bagdad, and that as regarded his conjecture, it was but too true. Then I related my story succinctly to him: he seemed to listen with attention and showed himself sensible to my misfortune.

‘“How old are you?” he said to me.

‘“I am,” I replied, “in my nineteenth year.”

‘He ordered me to follow him. He preceded me and took the road to the king’s palace, which I entered with him. He led me into a very fine apartment, where he said me:

‘“What is your name?”

‘I replied that I was named Hassan. He asked me several other questions, and, satisfied with my replies:

‘“Hassan,” he replied, “I am touched at your misfortune and I am anxious to act as a father to you. Know that I am the captain of the door of the chamber of the King of Persia. There is a vacant place in the king’s chamber. I select you to fill it: you are handsome, young, and well-made. I cannot make a better choice. There are no pages of the king’s chamber at this moment whom you do not surpass in appearance.”

‘I thanked the captain for all the kindness he showed me: he took me under his protection and had a page’s dress given me. I was instructed in all my duties, and I began to acquit myself in a manner which soon attracted to me the esteem of all the officers of the king’s pages and did honour to my patron.

‘It was forbidden, under pain of death, to all the pages of the twelve chambers, as well as to all the officers of the palace and the soldiers of the guard, to remain at night in the gardens of the seraglio after a certain hour indicated, because the women walked here sometimes. I was quite alone there one evening, and was dreaming of my misfortunes. I was so absorbed in my reflections that I let the time prescribed for the men to retire pass. My reverie came to an end, however, and thinking that the moment for retreat could not be far off, I hastened precipitately to re-enter the palace, when a lady, at the turning of an alley, presented herself suddenly before me. She had a majestic bearing, and in spite of the darkness of the night I remarked that she possessed youth and beauty.

‘“You are hurrying very much,” she said to me; “what makes you run thus?”

‘“I have my reasons,” I replied; “if you belong to this palace, as I do not doubt, you cannot be in ignorance of them? You know it is forbidden to men to be seen in these gardens after a certain hour, and that their life is endangered if this order is disobeyed.”

‘“You are rather late in thinking of retiring,” replied the lady, “the hour has passed; but you may thank your stars, for otherwise you would not have met me.”

‘“How unhappy I am!” I cried, heeding nothing but the new danger in which I saw myself placed. Why did I let myself be overtaken by the time?”

‘“Do not grieve,” said the lady, “your grief is an insult to me. Ought you not to be consoled already for your misfortune? Look at me, I am not ill-made; I am only eighteen, and as for my face, I flatter myself it is not disagreeable.”

‘“Beautiful lady, although the night partly conceals your charms from me, I see more than enough to enchant me; but consider my position and admit it is rather an unhappy one.”

‘“It is true,” she replied, “that the danger you are in does not offer a very bright aspect to your mind. Your destruction, however, is perhaps not so assured as you imagine: the king is a good prince who might pardon you. Who are you?

‘“Madam,” I replied, “I am a page.”

‘“Ah !indeed,” she interrupted, “you reason well for a page; the grand vizir could not do better. Believe me, do not fret to-day about what may happen to-morrow. You do not know what may occur: Heaven alone knows and has, perhaps, already prepared a way out of your dilemma: let the future, then, alone, and only occupy yourself with the present. Believe me that if you knew who I am and all the honour done to you by this adventure, instead of poisoning such sweet moments by bitter reflections you would esteem yourself the happiest of men.”

‘The lady, by dint of persuasion, ended by driving away the fear which agitated me. The picture of the punishment which threatened me gradually faded away from my mind, and, yielding myself entirely to the flattering hopes which I had been allowed to conceive, I only thought to profit by the occasion. I embraced the lady enthusiastically; but far from lending herself to my embraces, she uttered a cry, repulsing me the while, and immediately I saw ten or twelve women appear, who were hidden to listen to our conversation.

‘It was not difficult for me to perceive then that the person who had just been so pleasant to me was laughing at me. I imagined her to be some slave of the Princess of Persia, who, for her own amusement, had wished to play the adventuress. All the other women ran promptly to her assistance, laughing heartily: they found her trembling with the fright I had caused her. “Calé-Cairi,” said one of them to her, “do you still wish to play such games again?”

‘“Oh! indeed no,” said Calé-Cairi; “that will never do again. I am well rewarded for my curiosity.”

‘The slaves then began to surround and jest with me. “This page,” said one, “is rather hasty; he is born for fine adventures.” “If ever,” said another, “I walk alone at night, I hope I may not meet a more foolish one.”

‘Although a page, I was very disconcerted by all their pleasantries, which they accompanied by outbursts of laughter. Had they rallied me for being too timid, I should not have been more ashamed.

‘They also joked me about the hour for retiring, which I had let pass; they said it was a pity I should perish, and I deserved to have my life saved, since I was so devoted to the service of the ladies. Then she whom I had heard called Calé-Cairi, addressing another, said: “It is for you, princess, to decide his fate; do you wish him to be abandoned or to be succoured?’

‘“He must be saved from the danger he is in,” replied the princess. “I consent to his living. So that he may ever remember this adventure, it must be made still more agreeable for him. Let us bring him into my apartment, which no man till now can boast of having seen.”

‘Two slaves went immediately to fetch a woman’s dress and brought it to me. I put it on, and, mingling among the persons of the princess’s suite, I accompanied her to her apartment, which was illumined by a large number of perfumed candles. It seemed to me as rich as that of the king: gold and silver glittered everywhere.

‘On entering the chamber of Zelica-Beghume— it was thus the Princess of Persia was named—I remarked that there were in the middle, on the carpet, fifteen or twenty large squares of brocade ranged around. All the ladies threw themselves down on them, and they obliged me to seat myself there too: then Zelica asked for refreshments. Six aged slaves, less richly dressed than those who were seated, instantly appeared; they distributed napkins amongst us, and served shortly afterwards, in a large basin of green porcelain, a salad composed of scalded milk, lemon juice, and slices of cucumber. They brought a spoon made of the beak of a bird to the princess, who first took a spoonful of salad, ate it, and immediately gave the spoon to the first slave who was seated at her right; this slave did the same thing as her mistress, so that the whole company used the same spoon all round till there was nothing left in the basin. Then the three aged slaves presented fresh water to us in crystal cups.

‘After this repast the conversation became as animated as if we had drunk wine or date-brandy. Calé-Cairi, who by chance or otherwise was placed opposite to me, sometimes looked at me and smiled, and seemed to wish me to understand by her glances that she pardoned me the impetuosity I had displayed in the garden. I, on my side, cast my eyes on her from time to time, but I lowered them as soon as I saw she had hers on me. I looked very embarrassed, try as I would to appear self-possessed. The princess and her women, who perceived it, tried to inspire me with boldness. Zelica asked me my name, and how long I had been a page. As soon as I had satisfied her curiosity, she said to me: “Well, Hassan, look less embarrassed; forget that you are in an apartment the entrance to which is forbidden to men; forget that I am Zelica; speak to us as if you were with the young town girls of Shiraz. Look at all these young persons, examine them with attention, and say frankly which is the one amongst us who pleases you most.”

‘The Princess of Persia, instead of reassuring me by this speech, as she imagined, only augmented my confusion. “I see, Hassan,” she said to me, “that I ask of you something that pains you; you are doubtless afraid that in declaring yourself in favour of one you will displease all the others. But do not let this fear stop you; let nothing restrain you; my women are so united that you could not make them disagree. Look at us, there- fore, and tell us which you would choose as a mistress if it were permitted to you to choose.”

‘Although the slaves of Zelica were perfectly beautiful, and the princess herself had reason to flatter herself she would have the preference, my heart immediately decided for Calé-Cairi; but, hiding feelings which seemed insulting to Zelica, I told the princess she ought not to enter into the competition, nor dispute a heart with her slaves, since her beauty was such that, wherever she appeared, it was impossible to have eyes but for her. Saying these words, I could not help looking at Calé-Cairi in a manner for her to judge that flattery alone had dictated them. Zelica perceived it also. “Hassan,” she said to me, “you are too flattering. I wish for more sincerity. I am persuaded you do not say what you think. Give me the satisfaction I ask of you; reveal your innermost soul to us; all my women beg it of you; you cannot give us greater pleasure.” All the slaves pressed me; Calé-Cairi especially showed herself the most ardent in wishing me to speak, as though she had guessed she was most concerned.

‘I yielded at last to their entreaties. I banished my timidity, and, addressing Zelica, “My princess,” I said, “I am going to satisfy you. It would be difficult to decide who is the most beautiful lady, but the amiable Calé-Cairi is the one for whom I feel most inclination.”

‘I had hardly said these words than the slaves began to laugh loudly, without the least annoyance appearing on their faces. “Are these women?” I said to myself. Zelica, instead of showing that my frankness had offended her, said to me:

‘“I am very glad, Hassan, that you have given the preference to Calé-Cairi: she is my favourite, and that shows you have not bad taste. You do not know the entire worth of the person you have chosen; such as you see us, we are all ready to admit that we are not her equal.”

‘The princess and the slaves, with much wit, then bantered Calé-Cairi on the triumph her charms had won.

‘After that Zelica had a lute brought and, putting it in Calé-Cairi’s hands, “Show your lover,” she said, “what you can do.”

‘The slave tuned the lute, and played in a way that charmed me. She accompanied it with her voice, and sang a song whose burden was that, having chosen a lovable object, it should be loved through life. In singing she turned her eyes towards me so tenderly from time to time, that, forgetting in whose presence I was, I threw myself at her feet in a transport of love and pleasure. My actions gave rise to renewed laughter, which lasted until an aged slave came to say that day was about to break, and that if they wished to get me out of the women’s apartment there was no time to lose.

‘Then Zelica, as well as her women, thinking only of resting, bade me follow the old slave, who led me through several galleries, and by many windings brought me to a door of which she had the key. She opened it and I went out, and as soon as it was daylight I perceived that I was beyond the precincts of the palace.

‘It was in this manner that I left the apartment of the Princess Zelica-Beghume and escaped from the new danger in which I had placed myself. I rejoined my comrades some hours after. The master of the pages at once asked me why I had slept out of the palace. I replied that one of my friends, a merchant of Shiraz, who had just left for Bassora with all his family, had kept me with him, and that we had passed the night in drinking. He believed me, and I got off with a reprimand. I was too delighted with my adventure to forget it. I perpetually recalled its smallest details, particularly those which most flattered my vanity, that is to say, those which led me to believe that I had attracted the attention of the favourite slave of the princess.

‘A week after, a eunuch came to the door of the king’s chamber and said he wished to speak to me. I went to ask him what he wanted. “Are you not named Hassan?” he said. I replied in the affirmative. He then put a note in my hand and disappeared immediately. It was intimated to me that if I were inclined to remain the following night in the seraglio gardens, after the time for retiring, in the same place where I had been encountered, I should see a person who was very sensible to the preference I had shown her over all the other women of the princess.

‘Although I had suspected Calé-Cairi of being well inclined towards me, I did not at all expect to receive this letter.

‘Enchanted at my good fortune, I asked the Master’s permission to go and see a dervish of my native land recently arrived at Meccha; this being granted me, I ran—I flew to the seraglio gardens as soon as night fell.

‘If on the first occasion I had let myself be overtaken by the time, now it seemed to me very long to wait for the pleasures I promised myself. I thought the hour for retiring would never come. It came, nevertheless. I perceived a short time afterwards a lady whom I recognised by her figure and her bearing to be Calé-Cairi.

‘I approached her in a transport of pleasure and joy, and, throwing myself at her feet, I remained with face to the ground, unable to say a word, so beside myself was I.

‘“Rise, Hassan,” she said, “I wish to know whether you love me: to persuade me of it, I want other proofs than this tender and passionate silence. Speak to me without restraint; is it possible that you think me more beautiful than all my companions —than the Princess Zelica even? Can I really believe that your eyes are more favourable to me than to her?”

‘“Do not doubt it,” I replied, “too amiable Calé-Cairi. When the princess and her women forced me to decide between you and them, my heart had already long declared itself for you. Since that happy night, I have not been able to turn from your image, and you would always have been present in my mind had you never shown kindness to me.”

‘“I am enchanted,” she replied, “at having inspired so much love in you, for, on my part, I admit I have not been able to prevent myself having a friendly feeling for you. Your youth, your goodly appearance, your quick and brilliant intelligence; and more than all that, perhaps, the preference you have shown for me over very pretty people, made you very pleasing in my eyes: the step I have taken sufficiently proves it; but, alas! my dear Hassan,” she added sighing, “I do not know whether I ought to be pleased at my conquest, or whether I ought not rather to look upon it as the cause of the future unhappiness of my life.”

‘“Ah, madam,” I said, “why, in the midst of the delight which your presence causes me, do you give way to such a gloomy presentiment?”

‘“It is not,” she replied, “a foolish fear which troubles our pleasure at this moment; my fears are but too well justified, and you do not know what causes my trouble: the Princess Zelica loves you, and freeing herself soon from the superb yoke under which she is bowed, she will announce your good fortune to you. When she announces to you that you are pleasing to her, how will you receive so glorious an avowal? Will the love you have for me withstand the honour of having as your mistress the first princess in the world?”

‘“Yes, charming Calé-Cairi,” I interrupted at that moment, “you will triumph over Zelica. Did it please Heaven you should have a still more redoubtable rival, you would see that nothing could shake the constancy of a heart which is devoted to you. If Shah Tahmasp should have no son to succeed him, and he should despoil himself of the kingdom of Persia to give it to his son-in-law, whom it depended on me to become, I would sacrifice for you so great a fortune.”

‘“Ah! unhappy Hassan,” cried the lady, “to what lengths does your love carry you? What dire assurance do you give me of your fidelity. You forget that I am the slave of the Princess of Persia. If you repay her kindness with ingratitude, you will draw down her anger upon us and we shall both perish. It were better I should yield you to such a powerful rival; it is the only way to save ourselves.”

‘“No, no,” I replied abruptly, “there is another which I in my despair would rather choose, and that is to banish myself from the court. My flight will protect you from the vengeance of Zelica, will restore your tranquillity to you; and whilst little by little you will forget the unfortunate Hassan, he will seek in the desert the end of his misfortunes.”

‘I was so overcome with what I was saying that the lady, sympathising with my grief, said, “Cease, Hassan, to abandon yourself to a superfluous distress; you are in error, and you seem to deserve to be undeceived. I am not a slave of the Princess Zelica—I am Zelica herself. The night that you came to my apartment I passed as Calé-Cairi and you took Calé-Cairi for me.”

‘At these words she called one of her women, who, issuing from behind some cypresses where she had remained hidden, came forward quickly, and I recognised the slave whom I had taken for the Princess of Persia.

‘“You see, Hassan,” said Zelica, “there is the real Calé-Cairi. I give her back her name and resume mine. I do not wish to disguise myself any longer, nor conceal from you the importance of the conquest you have made; realise, therefore, all the glory of your triumph. Although you have more love than ambition, I am sure you will not hear without experiencing fresh pleasure that it is a princess who loves you.”

‘I did not fail to tell Zelica that I could not realise the extent of my good fortune, nor how I had deserved that she should descend from the grandeur in which she had been brought up, and seek me out in my nothingness, in order to confer on me a fate worthy of the envoy of the greatest king in the world.

‘Surprised, enchanted, by the kindness of the princess, I began to indulge in expressions of gratitude; but she interrupted me. “Hassan,” she said, “do not be astonished any longer at what I have done for you. Pride has little empire over women who lead enclosed lives. We follow without resistance the movements of our hearts; you are lovable, you have pleased me; that is sufficient to merit my kindness.”

‘We spent all the night walking about and talking, and daylight would have doubtless surprised us in the gardens, if Calé-Cairi, who was with us, had not taken care to warn us that it was time to separate; but before I quitted Zelica, she said: “Farewell, Hassan, always think of me; we shall see each other again, and I promise to show you soon how dear you are to me.” I threw myself at her feet to thank her for so flattering a promise, after which Calé-Cairi made me make the same round that I had made the first time, and then led me beyond the precincts of the seraglio.

‘Loved by the august princess whom I idolised, and indulging my imagination with the charming promise she had made me, I gave myself up the next and following days to the pleasantest ideas imaginable. It might be truly said that there was a happy man upon earth, if the impatience to see Zelica again permitted me to be happy.

‘I was in the position which gives most pleasure to lovers, that is to say, the moment was approaching when my love was to be returned, when an unforeseen event suddenly dispelled my proud hopes. I heard that the Princess Zelica had fallen ill, and, two days after, the rumour of her death spread through the palace, and to confirm it I saw preparations begun for the funeral. My eyes, alas! were the sad witnesses of it, and it was in this order:

‘All the pages of the twelve chambers walked first, naked from head to waist; some scarred their arms to testify to their grief, others marked characters on them, and I, profiting by the occasion to mark the sincere regret, or rather the despair, I felt, tore my body, and covered myself with blood. Our officers followed us with a slow step and a grave air. They had behind them long rolls of Chinese paper, unrolled and attached to their turbans, on which were written various passages of the Alcoran, with some verses in praise of Zelica, which they sang sadly and respectfully. After them appeared the body in a coffin of sandal wood, raised on an ivory bier borne by twelve men of quality; and twenty princes related to Shah-Tahmasp held each the end of a silken cord attached to the coffin. All the women of the palace followed, uttering cries of lament, and when the body had arrived at the place of burial everyone commenced to cry, “There is no God but God!”

‘I did not see the rest of the ceremony, because the excess of my grief and the blood I had lost produced a prolonged swoon. One of our officers had me carried into our room, where great care was taken of me. My body was rubbed with an excellent balm, so that at the end of two days I felt my strength returning; but the remembrance of the princess almost drove me mad. “Oh! Zelica,” I said to myself every moment, is it thus that you keep the promise you made on leaving me? Is this the mark of affection you wished to give me?” I could not console myself, and sojourn in Shiraz becoming insupportable to me, I left the court of Persia secretly three days after the obsequies of the Princess Zelica.

‘Possessed with grief I walked all night without knowing where I was going or where I should go. The following morning, having stopped to rest, a young man passed near me who was extraordinarily attired. He came to me, saluted me, and presented to me a green palm which he held in his hand, and, having obliged me to accept it, he began to recite Persian verses to persuade me to give him alms. As I had nothing I could give him nothing. He thought I did not understand the Persian language; he recited some Arabic verses; but seeing that he did not succeed better one way than another, and that I did not do as he wished, he said to me: “Brother, I cannot believe that you are wanting in charity. I believe rather that you have not the means of exercising it.”

‘“You are right,” I replied, “I have not the smallest coin, and I do not know where to lay my head.”

‘“Ah! unhappy man,” he cried, “what a strange condition is yours! I pity you, I wish to succour you.”

‘I was somewhat surprised to hear a man speak thus who had just asked alms of me, and I believed the help he offered me was nothing else but prayers and vows, when, continuing, he said: “I am one of those good fellows called fakirs. Although we live on charity we live, nevertheless, in abundance, because we know how to excite the pity of men by an air of mortification and penance. There are, indeed, fakirs who are simple enough to be what they appear, who lead so austere a life that they sometimes go ten whole days without taking the least nourishment. We are a little less rigid than those. We do not pride ourselves upon having their virtues, we merely preserve the appearance of them. Will you become one of us? I am going to seek two who are at Bost; if you are inclined to make the fourth you have only to follow me.”

‘“Not very accustomed to your devotional practices, I fear to acquit myself badly—”

‘“You are laughing,” he interrupted. “Practices indeed! I repeat to you we are not rigid fakirs; in a word, we wear their habit only.”

‘Although this fakir by his words made me understand that his two fakirs and himself were three libertines, I did not refuse to join them. Beside finding myself in a deplorable state, I had not learnt amongst the pages to be scrupulous in my connections. As soon as I had told the fakir that I consented to do what he wished, he conducted me to Bost, living on the way on dates, rice, and other provisions given him in the towns and villages through which we passed. As soon as his bell and cry were heard, the good Mussulmans hastened to load him with provisions.

‘We arrived in this way at the town of Bost; we entered a little house situated in the suburbs where the two other fakirs lived. They received us with open arms, and seemed charmed at my resolution to live with them. They soon initiated me into their mysteries, that is to say, they taught me all their grimaces. When I was well instructed in the art of deceiving people, they dressed me like themselves, and required me to go into the town to present flowers and palms to the worthy people and recite verses to them. I always returned home with some pieces of silver, which enabled us to make good cheer.

‘I was still too young, and was naturally too fond of pleasure, to be able to resist the example set by these fakirs. I plunged into all sorts of debauch, and thereby lost insensibly the remembrance of the Princess of Persia. I still thought of her sometimes and sighed for her; but instead of cherishing these poor remains of my grief, I spared nothing to destroy them, and I often said: “Why think of Zelica, since Zelica is no more? Were I to lament her all my life what would my tears avail?”

‘I passed almost two years with these fakirs, and I should have remained there longer if the one who had persuaded me to join them, and whom I loved more than the others, had not proposed to me to travel. “Hassan,” he said one day to me, “I begin to be wearied of this town. I feel a desire to travel. I have heard tell wonders of the town of Candahar, if you wish to accompany me we will see if a faithful picture has been given me of it.” I consented, impelled by curiosity to see new countries; or, rather, carried away by that superior power which forces us to act.

‘We both left Bost, therefore, and after having passed through several towns without stopping, we arrived at the beautiful town of Candahar, which appeared before us enclosed by strong walls.

‘We lodged in a caravanserai, where we were charitably received by reason of the habits we wore, which was about all we had to recommend us. We found all the inhabitants of the town in a state of commotion because the following day the feast of the anniversary of the king’s coronation was to be celebrated. We heard that they were not less occupied at the court, everyone wishing to display his zeal for the King Firouzshah, who was beloved of the good for his equity, and feared of the bad for the rigour with which he treated them.

‘As fakirs enter everywhere without anyone being able to prevent them, we went to the court the following day to see the feast, which had nothing to charm the eyes of a man who had seen the feasts of the kings of Persia. Whilst we were attentively watching all that took place I felt myself touched on the arm. At the same time I turned my head and perceived beside me the eunuch who, in the palace of Shah Tahmasp had given me a letter from Calé-Cairi; or, rather, from Zelica.

‘“My lord Hassan,” he said, “I recognised you in spite of the strange garment which covers you. Although I do not seem to be mistaken, I do not know whether I ought not to mistrust the testimony of my eyes. Is it possible that I meet you here?”

‘“And you,” I replied, “what are you doing at Candahar? Why have you left the court of Persia? Was it, as in my case, because of the death of the Princess Zelica?”

‘“That,” he replied, “I cannot tell you now, but I will satisfy your curiosity fully if you will be here to-morrow at the same time. I will tell you things which will astonish you; they concern you, moreover.”

‘I promised him to return alone to the same place the following day, and I did not fail to keep my promise. The eunuch appeared, he came to me and said, “Let us leave this palace; let us seek a more convenient place for conversation.” We entered the town, traversed several streets, and finally we stopped at the door of a rather large house of which he had the key. We entered, I saw well-furnished apartments, beautiful foot-carpets, rich sofas, also a well-cultivated garden, in the midst of which was a basin full of lovely water and bordered with jasper.

‘“Lord Hassan,” said the eunuch, “do you like this house?”

‘“Very much,” I replied.

‘“I am very glad of it,” he rejoined, “for I hired it yesterday for you, just as you see it. You require slaves to wait on you. I am going to buy some for you whilst you bathe.” Thus saying, he conducted me into a room where there were baths prepared.

‘“In God’s name,” I said, “tell me why you have brought me here, and what you have to tell me.”

‘“You will be told,” he said, “in due time. Suffice it for you to know that your destiny has greatly changed since I met you, and that I have orders to treat you as I am doing.” At the same time he helped me to undress, which was soon done. I entered the bath and the eunuch went out, begging me not to be impatient.

‘The mysterious treatment I was receiving gave me much food for thought, but I wearied my mind in vain in endeavouring to understand it. Schapour left me a long time in the water, and I was beginning to lose patience, when he returned, followed by four slaves, two of whom were laden with linen and clothes and the others with all sorts of provisions. “I beg pardon, my lord,” he said. “I am sorry to have made you wait so long.”

‘The slaves immediately put their packets on the sofa and hastened to wait on me. They rubbed me with fine new linen, then they dressed me in a rich vest with a magnificent robe and a turban. “Where is all this to end?” I said to myself; “by whose order does this eunuch treat me in this manner?” I was consumed with impatience to be enlightened on the subject.

‘Schapour noticed it. “I regret to see you a prey to your anxiety, but I cannot relieve you. Had I not been expressly forbidden to speak, and if betraying my duty I were to inform you of all that I know, I should not make you more tranquil. Other desires still more violent would succeed those which animate you now. You will not know till to-night what you wish to learn.”

‘Although the speech of the eunuch augured well for me, I remained for the rest of the day in a state of cruel suspense. I believe the anticipation of evil causes less suffering than the expectation of a great pleasure.

‘Night came, however; candles were lit everywhere, and particular care was taken to light the finest apartment in the house. I was there with Schapour, who, to relieve my weariness, said every minute: “Have a little more patience, they are coming.” At last we heard knocking at the door: the eunuch went to open it himself, and returned with a lady, who had no sooner lifted her veil than I recognised her to be Calé-Cairi. At sight of her my surprise was extreme, for I thought this lady was at Shiraz. “Lord Hassan,” she said, “however astonished you may be to see me, you will be much more so when you hear what I have to tell you.” At these words Schapour and the slaves went out and left me alone with Calé-Cairi. We both sat on the same sofa and she began thus:

‘“You remember, lord Hassan, the night Zelica chose to discover herself to you, and the promise she made on leaving you cannot yet have faded from your memory.

‘“The following day I asked her what resolution she had taken, and what evidence of affection she proposed giving you. She replied that she wished to make you happy, and often have secret interviews with you, whatever danger she might have to run. I will not deny that, opposed to her sentiments, I spared nothing to dispel them. I represented to her that it was an extravagant idea for a princess of her rank to think of exposing her life for a page. In a word, I combated her love strenuously, and you must forgive me, since all my arguments only served to augment her passion. When I saw that I could not persuade her, ‘Madam,’ I said, ‘I cannot contemplate without a shudder the dangers you are going to expose yourself to, and since nothing can detach you from your lover, you must seek a means of seeing him without compromising your life or his. I know a way which would doubtless flatter your love, but I should not dare propose it to you, so delicate does it seem to me.’

‘“‘Speak, Calé-Cairi,’ said the princess, ‘whatever the means may be do not hide it from me.’ ‘If you employ it,’ I replied, ‘you must resolve to quit the court, to live as though Heaven had caused you to be born in the commonest condition of life. You must renounce all the honours which are attached to your rank; do you love Hassan enough to make so great a sacrifice for him?’

‘“‘Do I love him!’ she replied with a deep sigh. ‘The lowliest lot with him will please me more than all the pomp which surrounds me. Tell me what I ought to do to see him unrestrainedly, and I will do it without hesitation.’ ‘Since it is useless to oppose you, I will yield to your wish,’ I said. ‘I know a herb which has a somewhat singular virtue; if you place but one leaf of it in your ear, you will fall an hour afterwards into a lethargy: you will pass for dead; your funeral will be held, and at night I shall get you out of the tomb’”

‘At these words I interrupted Calé-Cairi. “Oh Heaven!” I cried, “is it possible that the princess Zelica is not dead? What has become of her?”

‘“My lord,” said Calé-Cairi, “she still lives, but I beg you to listen to me; you shall hear all you wish to know. My mistress,” she continued, “embraced me with joy, so ingenious did this project appear to her; but, reflecting upon the difficulty of executing it on account of the ceremonies observed at funerals, she told me what she thought of it. I removed all the difficulties, and this is how we carried out this great enterprise. Zelica complained of a head-ache and went to bed. The following day I spread the rumour that she was dangerously ill. The king’s physician came, allowed himself to be deceived, and ordered remedies which were not taken. The following days the illness increased, and when I thought the time came to announce that the princess was in extremity, I put in her ear a leaf of the herb in question. I then ran to inform Shah Tahmasp that Zelica had only a few more moments to live and wished to speak with him.

‘“He hastened to her side, and remarking, because of the working of the herb, that her face changed every moment, he grew sad and began to weep. ‘My lord,’ said his daughter to him then, ‘I conjure you by the affection you have always had for me, to command that my last wishes shall be exactly carried out. I wish that after my death no other woman but Calé-Cairi shall wash my body and rub it with perfumes; I do not wish my other slaves to share this honour with her; I also ask that she may watch alone with me the first night, and that no one but she shall water my tomb with tears; I wish it to be this zealous slave who shall pray the Prophet to save me from the assaults of the bad angels.’

‘“Shah Tahmasp promised his daughter that I should render her these sad services as she desired. ‘That is not all, my lord,’ she said, ‘I pray you to set Calé-Cairi free as soon as I am no more, and with her liberty give her presents worthy of you and of the attachment she has always had for me.’

‘“‘My daughter,’ replied Shah Tahmasp, ‘set your mind at rest with regard to everything you ask me; if I have the misfortune to lose you, I swear that your favourite slave, laden with presents, shall be able to retire where she pleases.’

‘“Hardly had he finished these words than the herb produced its effect; Zelica lost consciousness, and her father, believing her to be dead, retired weeping to his apartment. He ordered that I alone should wash and perfume the body, which I did. I then wrapped it in a white cloth and put it in a coffin, after which it was borne to the place of burial, where, by order of the king, I was left alone the first night. I looked everywhere to see whether anyone were hidden to observe me, and having found no one, I drew my mistress from the coffin and from her lethargy. I made her put on a robe which I had under mine with a veil, and we both betook ourselves to a place where Schapour awaited us. This faithful eunuch conducted the princess to a little house which he had hired, and I returned to the tomb to pass the rest of the night. I made a bundle of stuff in the form of a corpse; I covered it with the cloth which had served to envelop Zelica and enclosed it in the coffin.

‘“The following morning the other slaves of the princess came to take my place, which I did not leave without making beforehand all the grimaces which usually accompany false grief. They told the king of the evidences of sorrow which I had shown, which would have prompted him to make me presents had he not already been determined to do so. He had ten thousand sequins counted out to me from his treasury, and he granted me the permission I asked of him to retire and take with me the eunuch Schapour; after which I went to find my mistress, to rejoice with her on the happy success of our strategy. The following day we sent the eunuch to the king’s chambers with a note, in which I begged you to come and see me; but one of your companions said you were indisposed, and that you could not be spoken to. Three days after we sent him back; he learned that you were no longer in the seraglio, and that they did not know what had become of you.”

‘I interrupted Calé-Cairi at this juncture. “Ah! why was I not informed of your project? Why did you not let me know of it through Schapour? Ah! what pain one word would have spared me!”

‘“Ah! would to Heaven,” interrupted Calé-Cairi in her turn, “a mystery had not been made of it to you. Zelica would have been living with you now in some part of the world; had it depended on me you would both have been happy. Hardly had we formed our plan than I wished to acquaint you with it; but my mistress did not wish it. ‘No, no,’ she said, ‘he must feel my loss; he will be more sensible to the pleasure of seeing me again, and his surprise will be all the more agreeable for the grief caused him by the idea of my death.’

‘“I could not enjoy this refinement of affection. It seemed to me that I foresaw its sad consequences: and bitterly has Zelica repented of it. I cannot say how grieved she was at your disappearance. ‘Ah! unhappy woman that I am,’ she cried perpetually, ‘what does it avail me to have sacrificed everything to love, if Hassan is to be lost for ever?’ We had you sought for everywhere. Schapour spared nothing to find you; and when we had lost hope of it we left Shiraz. We went towards the Indus, because we imagined you had perhaps wended your steps in that direction; and, stopping at all the towns which are on the banks of that river, we made enquiries for you as searching as they were vain. One day, going from one town to another, although we were with a caravan, a great band of robbers surrounded us, beat the merchants, and pillaged their merchandise. They made themselves our masters, took the gold and jewels they found with us, took us then to Candahar, and sold us to a slave merchant whom they knew.

‘“This merchant had no sooner got possession of Zelica than he resolved to show her to the King of Candahar. Firouzshah was charmed with her as soon as she appeared before him; he asked her whence she came. She replied that Ormus was her birthplace, and did not reply with more truth to the other questions this prince put to her. He bought us, put us in his women’s palace, and gave us the finest apartment in it.”

‘Calé-Cairi ceased speaking; or, rather, I interrupted her. “Oh! Heaven,” I cried, “ought I to rejoice at meeting Zelica? But is it finding her again to learn that a powerful king keeps her enclosed in his seraglio? If, rebellious to the love of Firouzshah, she only drags out languishing days, what grief for me to see her suffer! And if she be contented with her fate, can I be so with mine?”

‘“I am delighted,” said Calé-Cairi, “that your sentiments are so delicate. The princess deserves them. Although passionately beloved by the King of Candahar, she has not been able to forget you; and never was such joy as hers yesterday when Schapour told her he had met you. She was beside herself the rest of the day; she immediately ordered her eunuch to hire a furnished house, to conduct you thither to-day, and not to let you want for anything there.

‘“I come from her to explain everything that I have told you, and to prepare you to see her to-morrow during the night. We shall leave the palace and come here by a little door in the garden, of which we have had a key made to use when we wish.” Saying these words, the favourite slave of the Princess of Persia rose and went out, accompanied by Schapour, to return to her mistress.

‘I did nothing during the night but think of Zelica, for whom I felt all my love rekindle. Sleep could not close my eyes a moment, and the following day seemed to me a century. Finally, after having been the prey to the keenest impatience, I heard knocking at the door of the house.

‘My slaves went to open it, and soon I saw my princess enter my apartment. How her presence moved me! And she, on her side, how overjoyed she was to see me! I threw myself at her feet, I held them in a long embrace, without being able to say a word. She compelled me to rise, and having made me seat myself beside her on the sofa:

‘“Hassan,” she said, “I thank Heaven for having brought us together. Let us hope its kindness will not stop there, and that it will remove the fresh obstacle which prevents our being together. Awaiting that happy time you will live here tranquilly and in abundance. If we do not have the pleasure of meeting without constraint, we shall at least have the consolation of being able to have news of each other every day, and to see each other secretly sometimes. Calé-Cairi,” she continued, “has related my adventures to you; tell me yours.”

‘I depicted to her the grief the belief in her death had caused me, and I told her that it so saddened me that I became a fakir.

‘“Ah! my dear Hassan,” cried Zelica, “can it be for love of me that you lived so long with such austere people? Alas! I am the cause of your having suffered much.”

‘If she had known the life I had led under this religious habit, she would have pitied me a little less; but I took care not to tell her of it, and only thought of paying my passionate addresses to her. How quickly flew the moments of our interview! Although it lasted three hours, we were angry with Schapour and Calé-Cairi when they warned us we must separate. “Ah! how inconsiderate are the people who do not love,” we said to them. “We have only been together a moment; leave us in peace.” However, had we continued talking much longer, daylight would have surprised us, and shortly afterwards the princess retired.

‘In spite of the agreeable thoughts which occupied me, I did not forget the fakir with whom I had come to Candahar, and representing to myself his uneasiness at not knowing what had become of me, I went out to look for him. I met him by chance in the street. We embraced each other.

‘“My friend,” I said, “I was going to your caravanserai to inform you of what had happened to me, and to set your mind at rest. I have doubtless caused you alarm.”

‘“Yes,” he replied, “I was very troubled about you. But what a change! In what clothes do you appear before me? You seem to me to have encountered good fortune. Whilst uncertainty as to your fate was distressing me, you were apparently passing your time agreeably.”

‘“I admit it,” I replied, “my dear friend. I will confess to you that I am a thousand times happier than you can imagine. I wish you to be a witness of my happiness and to profit by it. Leave your caravanserai and come and lodge with me.”

‘Thus saying I conducted him to my house. I showed him all the apartments; I found them beautiful and well-furnished. Every moment he exclaimed, “O Heaven! what has Hassan done more than others to deserve such favours from you?”

‘“But, fakir,” I said to him, “do you look with chagrin upon the state I am in? My prosperity would seem to afflict you.”

‘“No,” he replied; “on the contrary, I am greatly rejoiced at it. Far from envying the happiness of my friends, I am charmed to see them in a flourishing condition.”

‘Saying these words, he pressed me closely in his arms, to better persuade me that he was speaking truly. I thought him sincere, and, acting in good faith with him, I gave myself over unsuspectingly to the most cowardly, the most envious, the most perfidious of men.

‘“We must make merry together to-day,” he said.

‘At the same moment I took him by the hand and led him into a hall where my slaves had arranged a table for two.

‘We both seated ourselves. Several dishes of rice of different colours were brought to us, with dates preserved in syrup. We ate of other dishes too, after which I sent one of my slaves to buy wine at a place in the town where he knew it was sold secretly. He brought back some that was excellent, and we drank of it with so little discretion that we should not have dared appear in public. We would not have shown ourselves there with impunity. In the midst of our debauch the fakir said to me, “Tell me, Hassan, the mysterious adventure that has happened to you; you risk nothing, I am discreet, and your very best friend. You cannot doubt me without insulting me. Open yourself to me, then, and make known all your good fortune to me, so that we may rejoice at it together. Moreover I flatter myself that I am a good counsellor, and you know that such a character is not worthless.”

‘Heated by the wine I had drunk, and deceived by the evidence of friendship which he gave me, I yielded to his entreaties. “I am sure,” I said, “you are not capable of abusing the confidence which I am going to place in you, so I wish to conceal nothing from you. When I met you do you remember that I was very sad? I had just lost at Shiraz a lady whom I loved and by whom I was beloved. I believed her dead, and yet she is still alive. I have found her again at Candahar, and to tell you the truth she is the favourite of the King Firouzshah.”

‘The fakir exhibited extreme astonishment at this speech. “Hassan,” he said, “you give me a charming impression of this lady; she must be marvellously endowed with beauty since the King of Candahar is enamoured of her.”

‘“She is an incomparable person,” I replied. “However advantageously a lover may depict her to you, he could not make a flattering portrait of her. She will not fail to come here soon; you will see her. I wish you to judge of her charms with your own eyes.”

‘At these words the fakir embraced me with fervour, saying I should give him much pleasure if I fulfilled my promise. I gave him renewed assurances, after which we both rose from table to go to rest. One of my slaves led my friend into a room where they had prepared a bed for him.

‘The next morning Schapour brought me a note from Zelica. She informed me she would come the next night to feast with me. I showed the letter to the fakir, who was infinitely delighted at it. He did nothing during the day but talk of the lady whose beauty I had praised to him, and he awaited the night with as much impatience as if he had had the same reasons as I to wish for her arrival. I made preparations to receive Zelica. I sent for the best dishes, and for some of the excellent wine we had tested so well the day before.

‘When night had come I said to the fakir, “When the lady enters my apartment you must not be here. She might think it indiscreet. Let me go and ask her for permission to present you to her as my friend. I am sure I shall obtain it.”

‘We soon heard knocking at the door; it was the princess. The fakir hid himself in a cabinet; I went to meet Zelica. I gave her my hand, and, having conducted her to my apartment, “My princess,” I said, “I beg you to grant me a favour. The fakir with whom I came to Candahar is lodged in this house. I have given him an apartment; he is my friend. Will you allow him to join us?”

‘“Hassan,” she replied, “you do not think what you are asking of me. Instead of exposing me to a man’s glances you should take care to shield me from them.”

‘“Madam,” I cried, “he is a prudent and discreet fellow, whose friendship I can rely upon. I will guarantee that you will have no occasion to regret having given me the satisfaction which I ask of you.”

‘“I can refuse you nothing,” replied Zelica, “but I have a presentiment we shall regret it.”

‘“Oh no, my princess,” I said to her, “do not be uneasy about that. Rely on my word, and let no fear prevent your sharing the pleasure I take in seeing you.”

‘Saying these words, I called the fakir and presented him to Zelica. She received him very graciously to please me, and after many mutual compliments we all three sat down to table with Calé-Cairi. My comrade was a man thirty years of age; he was very intelligent; he soon made known to the ladies by his rallies and witticisms that he was not averse to pleasure, or rather that he dishonoured his habit. As soon as we had eaten of all the dishes which were served to us, wine was brought; the slaves poured it out to us in agate cups. The fakir did not long leave his empty; he had it replenished perpetually, so that by dint of drinking he was soon in a pretty state. He was not very respectful by nature, so that the wine augmented his boldness and made him lose the little restraint he had preserved till then. He was not content with shocking the modesty of the ladies by bold speeches; he threw his arms abruptly round the neck of the Princess of Persia, and insolently snatched a kiss.

‘Zelica was indignant at the boldness of the fakir, and her anger lent her strength to snatch herself from his insolent clutches. “Stop, wretch!” she said, “and do not abuse the kindness shown you in suffering you to be here. You deserve to be punished by the slaves in this house, but the consideration which I have for your friend restrains me.” Thus saying, she took her veil, covered her face, and left my apartment. I ran after her, asking pardon for what had passed; I tried in vain to appease her, she was too irritated. “You now see,” she said, “whether you were wrong in wishing this fakir to join us; it was not without reason that I opposed it. I shall not put my foot here again whilst he is here.” At these words she retired, say what I would to stop her.

‘I returned to my friend in my apartment. “Ah, what have you done?” I said to him; “to show such want of respect to the favourite of Firouzshah! By your indiscreet behaviour you have incurred her hatred, and perhaps she will never forgive me for having let her be seen by you.”

‘“Don’t be afraid, Hassan,” he replied, “you don’t know women well if you think she is really angry; be persuaded rather that at heart she is really delighted; there is not a lady whom such outbursts displease; the anger she gave vent to is feigned. Do you know why she appeared annoyed at my boldness? It is because your eyes were witness to it. If I had been alone with her, I am sure I should have found her more human.”

‘At this speech, which sufficiently indicated that he was intoxicated, I ceased reproaching him. I hoped that the following day he would better listen to reason, and that he would recognise his fault. I ordered one of my slaves to conduct him to his apartment, and I remained in mine, where my reflections on what had passed did not permit me to rest quietly. The following day the fakir had, indeed, adopted another tone; he showed me how mortified he was at having caused me so much annoyance, and as a punishment for his indiscretion he had resolved to retire from Candahar. He spoke to me in a way that touched me. I wrote immediately to the princess that our fakir repented of his audacity, and very humbly begged her and me to forgive it on account of the wine which had been the cause of it.

‘As I finished writing, Schapour arrived; he told me that his mistress was still very irritated; I entrusted my letter to him. He returned, and came back some hours after with an answer. Zelica informed me that she was willing to excuse the insolence of the fakir since he assured her that he repented, but on condition that he did not remain longer in my house, and that he left Candahar in twenty-four hours. I showed the note to my friend, who told me before Schapour that his sentiments were in conformity with those of the lady; that he would not dare appear before her after the bold action he had had the misfortune to commit, and that he proposed leaving Candahar that very hour. The eunuch immediately returned to the palace, and went to inform Zelica of the disposition in which he had left the fakir.

‘I was enchanted to see calm succeed the storm which had alarmed me. I will admit, however, I was sorry to lose my friend, and I kept him that day. “Wait,” I said, “you shall depart to-morrow I wish to rejoice with you another day; perhaps we shall never see each other again. Ah! since we must separate, let us delay at least the sad moment of our separation.”

‘To better celebrate our farewell I ordered a big supper; when it was ready, we sat down to table. We had already tasted several dishes, when we saw Schapour enter, bearing a gold dish in which was a curry.

‘“Lord Hassan,” he said to me, “I bring you a dish which has just been served at the king’s supper. His majesty found it so delicious that he had it taken to his favourite, who sends it to you.”

‘We ate this dish, and it seemed indeed excellent. The fakir during the meal could not tire of praising my good fortune, and he said to me twenty times: “Oh, young man, what a charming fate is yours!”

‘We passed the night in drinking, and as soon as it was day my friend said to me: “Now we must part.” Then I went to fetch a purse full of sequins which Schapour had brought me the day before from his mistress, and, giving it to the fakir:

‘“Take my purse,” I said, “it may be of use to you.” He thanked me; we embraced each other. He left, and after his departure I remained some time feeling sad. “Oh, too imprudent friend,” I said, “it is you who are the cause of our separation; you should have been contented with seeing Zelica and enjoying so beautiful a sight.”

‘As I had need of repose, I threw myself upon a sofa and fell asleep. At the end of several hours I was awoke by a great noise which was heard in my house. I rose to see the cause of it, and I perceived with much alarm that it was a troop of soldiers of Firouzshah’s guard.

‘“Follow us,” said the officer who was at their head. “We have orders to conduct you to the palace.”

‘“What crime have I committed?” I replied. “Of what am I accused?”

‘“We do not know,” replied the officer; “we only have orders to conduct you to the king, we do not know the reason. But I will tell you, to reassure you, that if you are innocent you have nothing to fear. You have to do with a just prince who does not lightly accuse persons of having committed faults; there must be convincing proofs for him to pronounce a fatal sentence. It is true that he punishes the guilty with rigour; if you are among them, I pity you.”

‘I was obliged to follow the officer. On the way to the seraglio I said to myself: “Firouzshah has probably discovered the understanding that I have with Zelica; but how has he learnt it?” When we were in the courtyard of the palace I saw four beams erected; I well knew that that concerned me, and that this kind of death was the least punishment I had to expect from Firouzshah. I raised my eyes to heaven and prayed that the Princess of Persia at least might be saved.

‘We entered the seraglio; the officer who conducted me led me into the king’s apartment. The prince was there with his grand vizir only and the fakir whom I had thought to be already far from Candahar. As soon as I saw this treacherous friend I knew all his perfidy.

‘“It is you, then,” said Firouzshah, “who have secret interviews with my favourite! Oh! rogue. you must be very bold to dare to trifle with me. Speak, and reply precisely to what I have to ask you. When you arrived at Candahar were you not told that I punished criminals severely?’

‘I replied in the affirmative.

‘“Well,” he replied, “since you were warned, why have you committed the greatest of all crimes?”

‘“Sire,” I said to him, “may your majesty’s days endure through all the centuries; but you know that love makes bold the dove; a man possessed by a violent passion fears nothing. I am ready to serve as a victim to your just anger, and torture me as you will, I shall not complain of your rigour if you pardon your favourite slave. Alas! she lived tranquilly in your seraglio before my arrival, and content to make a great king happy, she began to forget an unhappy lover, whom she thought never to see again. She became aware that I was in this town; her first fire became re-kindled; it is I who have snatched her from your love; it is therefore I alone whom you ought to punish.”

‘Whilst I was speaking thus, Zelica, whom they had gone to fetch by order of the king, entered, followed by Schapour and Calé-Cairi; and having heard my last words, she ran to throw herself at the feet of Firouzshah.

‘“My lord,” she said, “pardon this young man; it is upon the guilty slave who has betrayed you that your blows should fall.”

‘“Ah! traitors,” cried the king, “let neither of you expect mercy; you shall perish. The ungrateful woman! she implores my mercy only for the bold fellow who has offended me; and he shows himself sensible only to the loss of her whom he loves; they both dare to display before my eyes their love’s passion. What insolence! Vizir,” he added, turning towards his minister, “conduct them to their punishment; let them be attached to beams, and after their death let them become the prey of dogs and birds.”

‘“Stop! sire,” I then cried; “beware of treating a king’s daughter with so much ignominy. Let your jealous anger respect the august blood which flows in your favourite’s veins!”

‘At these words Firouzshah appeared astonished. “What prince,” he said to Zelica, “is then the author of your being?”

‘The princess looked proudly at me and said: “Indiscreet Hassan, why have you revealed what I would have wished to keep secret? I had in dying the consolation of knowing that they were ignorant of my rank; in making known my identity you cover me with shame. Well, Firouzshah,” she continued, addressing the King of Candahar, “learn, then, who I am. The slave whom you condemn to an infamous death is the daughter of Shah Tahmasp.” At the same time she related to him her whole history, without forgetting a single circumstance of it.

‘After she had finished this story, which increased the astonishment of the king: “That, my lord,” she said, “is a secret which I had not intended to reveal to you, and which the indiscretion of my lover alone has drawn from me. After this avowal, which I do not make without extreme confusion, I pray you to order my life to be taken immediately; it is the only favour which I ask of your majesty.”

‘“Madam,” said the king to her, “I revoke the decree of your death; I am too just not to forgive you your infidelity. What you have just told me makes me look at it differently; I cease to complain of you, and I even give you your liberty. Live for Hassan, and let the happy Hassan live for you. I also give life and liberty to Schapour and your confidant. Go, perfect lovers; go and pass the rest of your days together, and may nothing interrupt the course of your happiness. As for you, traitor,” he continued, turning to the fakir, “you shall be punished for your treachery. Mean and envious-hearted man! you could not endure the happiness of your friend, you have come yourself to give him over to my vengeance. Ah, miserable fellow! it is you who shall serve as a victim to my jealousy.” At these words he ordered the grand vizir to take the fakir away, and to give him over to the executioners.

‘Whilst they were taking this scoundrel to death, Zelica and I threw ourselves at the feet of the King of Candahar. We watered them with our tears in a transport of gratitude and joy, and finally we assured him that, sensible to his generous kindness, we should preserve an eternal remembrance of him. We then left his apartment with Schapour and Calé-Cairi. We took the road to the house where I had been arrested, but we found it razed to the ground; the king had ordered it to be demolished, and the soldiers whom he had charged with this order had executed it so promptly that all the materials had already been removed and carried elsewhere; not a stone remained of it, and the people had pillaged all the furniture.

‘Charmed as we were to see ourselves together once more, the princess and I, although more enamoured of each other than ever, were not a little startled at this spectacle. This house was a hired furnished one, and consequently the furniture did not belong to us, but Zelica had had brought thither by Schapour an infinity of precious objects which had not been respected in the pillage. We had little money; we began to consult the eunuch and Calé-Cairi on the steps which we had to take, and after a long deliberation we thought it best to go and lodge in a caravanserai.

‘We were ready to betake ourselves thither when an officer of the king approached us. “I come,” he said, “on behalf of Firouzshah, my master, to offer you a lodging. The grand vizir lends you a house of his at the gates of the city, which is far more beautiful than that which has just been razed; you will be very comfortably lodged there. I am going, if you will, to conduct you thither; kindly follow me.”

‘We went thither with him. We saw a fine-looking and perfectly well-built house; the interior corresponded to the outside, the whole was magnificent and in good taste. We found more than twenty slaves there, who told us that their master had just sent to order them to furnish us abundantly with everything we wanted, and to wait upon us as upon himself during all the time we chose to stay at his house.

‘Two days after we received a visit from the grand vizir, who brought us, on behalf of the king, a large quantity of presents. There were several packets of silken stuffs and Indian cloths, with twenty purses each full of gold sequins. As we felt ill at ease in a borrowed house, and the presents of the king placed us in a position to establish ourselves elsewhere, we soon joined a large caravan of merchants of Candahar, and arrived happily with them at Bagdad.

‘We went to lodge in my house, where we spent the first days after our arrival in resting and recovering from the fatigue of such a long journey. After that I appeared in the town, and sought out my friends. They were somewhat astonished to see me again. “Is it possible,” said they to me, “that you are still in the flesh? Your associates who returned assured us you were dead.” As soon as I heard that my fellow jewel-merchants were at Bagdad, I ran to the grand vizir, threw myself at his feet, and related their perfidy to him. He sent to have them both arrested at once; he ordered me to interrogate them both in his presence.

‘“Is it not true,” I said to them, “that I awoke when you took me in your arms, that I asked you what you wished to do, and that without answering me you threw me into the sea through a port-hole of the vessel?”

‘They replied that I had dreamt that, and that I must have thrown myself into the gulf when asleep.

‘“But why,” said the vizir then to them, “did you pretend not to know him at Ormus?”

‘They replied that they had not seen me at Ormus.

‘“But what will you say, traitors,” he replied, looking at them with a threatening air, “when I show you a certificate from the cadi of Ormus which proves the contrary?”

‘At these words, which the vizir pronounced to test them, my associates grew pale and were troubled.

‘“You change colour,” he said to them. “Well, admit your crime yourselves; spare yourselves the tortures which are in preparation to draw this confession from you.”

‘Then they confessed everything, and on this confession he had them imprisoned, until the caliph, whom he wished, he said, to inform of this affair, should order what kind of death he wished they should die. But they found means to evade the vigilance of their guards or to corrupt their fidelity. They escaped from prison, and hid themselves so well in Bagdad that they could not be discovered, search as the grand vizir would,

‘All their goods, however, were confiscated and remained with the caliph, with the exception of a small portion which was given me to compensate me for what was stolen from me. After that I thought of nothing but living tranquilly with my princess. We passed our days in perfect unison, and I made vows to Heaven praying only that I might be left the rest of my days in the happy situation in which I found myself. Futile wishes! Can men long enjoy an agreeable fate? Is not their rest unceasingly troubled by misfortunes and annoyances.

‘One evening I was returning from amusing myself with my friends. I knocked at my door; I knocked loudly. In vain, no one came to open it. I was surprised at it, and, without knowing why, it caused me a sad foreboding. I redoubled my knocks. No slave came, my astonishment increased. What must I think of this, I said to myself; is this some new misfortune come to me? At the noise I made, several neighbours came out of their houses and, as astonished as I at my servants not answering, they helped me to break in the door. We entered; we found in the courtyard and in the first hall my slaves with their throats cut. We entered Zelica’s apartment. Oh, shocking sight! I beheld Schapour and Calé-Cairi lifeless and bathed in their blood. I called my princess, she did not reply; I ran through the house, and not finding what I sought, I felt my body fainting and I fell senseless in the arms of my neighbours.

‘Would that the Angel of Death had carried me away at that moment! But no, Heaven willed I should live to see all the horror of my fate. When my neighbours had recalled me to life, I asked them how it was possible that so great a carnage could have taken place in my house without their hearing the least sound. They told me they had heard nothing, and that they were not less surprised at it than I. I ran immediately to the cadi, who sent out his lieutenant with all his archers, but their inquiries were useless.

‘I, like others, thought that my associates might be the cause of this tragic event, and I felt so grieved at it that I fell ill. I passed languishing days at Bagdad. I then sold my house and I went to live at Moussul with all the wealth I had. I took this course because I had a relation whom I loved very much, and who was attached to the first vizir of the King of Moussul. This relation received me very well, and in a little time I was known to the minister, who, thinking to perceive in me a talent for business, gave me occupation. I endeavoured to do the things he entrusted to me well, and I had the good fortune to succeed. He became day by day more pleased with me; I gained his confidence little by little, and I insensibly entered into the most secret affairs of State. I soon helped him to even support its weight. Some years after, this minister died, and the king, too well favoured towards me perhaps, gave me his place. I filled it for two years to the satisfaction of the king and his people. And this monarch, to show me how satisfied he was with me as a minister, called me Atalmulc. I soon saw envy armed against me. Several great lords became my secret enemies and resolved to destroy me. To better succeed, they made me an object of suspicion to the Prince of Moussul, who, allowing himself to be influenced by their bad insinuations, asked my deposition of his father. The king did not wish to consent at first, but he could not resist the pressure put upon him by his son. I left Moussul and came to Damascus, where I soon had the honour of being presented to your majesty.

‘This, sire, is the cause of the profound sadness in which I appear wrapped. The disappearance of Zelica is always present in my thoughts, and makes me insensible to pleasure. If I learnt that this princess were dead, I should perhaps lose remembrance of her, but the uncertainty of her fate makes her ever present in my memory and nourishes my grief.’

When the vizir Atalmulc had finished the story of his adventures, the king said to him: ‘I am no longer surprised that you are sad. You have just cause to be so, but everyone has not, like you, lost a princess, and you are wrong in thinking that there is not a man to be found who is perfectly content. You are greatly mistaken, and without mentioning thousands of others, I am persuaded that the Prince Seyf el Mulouk, my favourite, enjoys perfect happiness.’

‘I do not know, my lord,’ replied Atalmulc. ‘Although he appears very happy, I would not dare say he is really so.’

‘That is a point,’ cried the king, ‘on which I wish to be assured immediately.’ Saying these words, he called the captain of his guard and ordered him to go and fetch the Prince Seyf el Mulouk. The captain of the guard did so immediately. The favourite came to the apartment of the king his master, who said to him: ‘Prince, I wish to know whether you are contented with your lot?’

‘Ah! my lord,’ replied the favourite, ‘how can your majesty put that question to me? Although a stranger, I am respected in the town of Damascus; the great lords seek to please me, others pay court to me; I am the channel through which flow all your favours. In a word, you love me; what more could be wanting to my happiness?’

‘I want you to tell me the truth,’ replied the king. ‘Atalmulc maintains that there is no such thing as a happy man. I think to the contrary, I think you to be one; tell me whether I am mistaken and whether any secret sorrow taints with its bitterness the sweetness of the lot I prescribe for you. Speak, reveal your secret feeling to me here?’

‘My lord,’ then said Seyf el Mulouk, ‘since your majesty orders me to reveal my soul to you, I will tell you that, in spite of all your kindness to me, in spite of the pleasures which follow upon my steps here, I experience an uneasiness which disturbs the peace of my life. I have in my heart an undying worm, and to crown my misfortunes my trouble is without remedy.’

The King of Damascus was somewhat astonished to hear his favourite speak thus, and he imagined some princess had been taken from him too. ‘Relate your history to me,’ he said; ‘some lady is doubtless involved in it, and I am much mistaken if your troubles are not of the same nature as those of Atalmulc.’ The favourite of Bedreddin began the recital of his adventures thus:

I HAVE already had the honour of telling your majesty that I am the son of the late Sultan of Egypt, Asem Ben Sefouan, and brother of the prince who succeeded him. One day, being in my sixteenth year I found the door of my father’s treasury open. I entered, and I began to scrutinise with much attention the things which seemed rarest to me. I lingered particularly over a little box of red sandal wood, strewn with pearls, diamonds, emeralds, and topazes. It opened with a little gold key, which was in the lock. I opened it, and perceived within a ring of marvellous beauty, with a gold box which contained the portrait of a woman.

The features were so regular, the eyes so fine, her appearance so charming, that I thought at first it was a fancy portrait. ‘The works of nature are not so perfect,’ I said. What honour to the brush which produced it does this do!’ I admired the imagination of the painter who had been capable of forming so beautiful an idea to himself

My eyes could not detach themselves from this painting, and, what is most surprising, it inspired me with love. I thought it was perhaps the portrait of some living princess, and the more amorous I became the more I persuaded myself of it. I closed the box and put it in my pocket with the ring; then I left the treasury.

I had a confidant named Saed. He was the son of a great lord of Cairo. I loved him, and he was a few years older than me. I related my adventure to him; he asked me for the portrait and I gave it him. He took it out of the box to see whether there were not some writing at the back which could tell us what I longed passionately to know—that is to say, the name of the person portrayed.

We perceived round the box inside these words in Arabic characters: ‘Bedy-Aljemal, daughter of the King Achahbal.’

This discovery charmed me; I was enchanted to learn that I was not in love with an imaginary person. I bade my confidant discover where King Achahbal reigned.

Saed asked it of the best informed people of Cairo, but no one could tell him, so that I resolved to travel, to scour the world if necessary, and not to return to Egypt until I had seen Bedy-Aljemal. I begged the sultan, my father, to permit me to go to Bagdad to see the court of the caliph and the marvels of that town of which I had heard so much. He granted me this permission. As I wished to travel incognito, I did not make a pompous exit from Cairo; my suite consisted only of Saed and some slaves whose zeal was known to me. I soon put on my finger the beautiful ring which I had taken from my father’s treasury, and the whole way I talked with my confidant only of the Princess Bedy-Aljemal, whose portrait I had always in my hands. When I arrived at Bagdad and had seen all that was curious there, I asked of some wise men if they could not tell me in what part of the world were situated the States of the King Achahbal. They replied in the negative; but if I wished very much to know I had only to take the trouble to go to Bassora and find an old man aged a hundred and seventy, named Padmanaba. This person knew everything, and would doubtless satisfy my curiosity.

I left Bagdad immediately, flew to Bassora, and inquired for the old man. His dwelling was pointed out to me. I went to him. I saw a venerable man still full of vigour, although nearly two centuries had passed over him.

‘My son,’ he said to me, with a laughing air, ‘what can I do for you?’

‘My father,’ I said to him, ‘I would like to know where the King Achahbal reigns. It is of the utmost importance for me to know. Some wise men of Bagdad whom I have consulted, and who have not been able to throw any light upon it, have assured me that you would tell me the name of and the road to the Kingdom of Achahbal.’

‘My son,’ replied the old man, ‘the wise men who have sent you to me think me less ignorant than I am. I do not know exactly where the States of Achahbal are, I only remember to have heard some traveller speak of them. This king reigns, I believe, in a neighbouring island to that of Serendib, but it is only a conjecture, and I am perhaps in error.’

I thanked Padmanaba for having at least indicated a spot where I might hope to be informed of what I wished to know. I formed the resolution to go to the island of Serendib. I embarked with Saed and my slaves on the Gulf of Bassora in a merchant vessel which was going to Surat. From Surat we went to Goa, where we learnt on arrival that a vessel was going to sail in a few days and take the direction of the island of Serendib. We profited by the occasion.

We left Goa with a favourable wind, which took us far on our way the first day; but the second day the wind changed, and towards evening so violent a tempest arose that the sailors, seeing our destruction to be inevitable, abandoned the vessel to the mercy of the wind and sea. Sometimes the waves, opening as if to engulf us, presented frightful abysses to our frightened eyes, and sometimes rising they lifted us to the clouds. The vessel soon filling, we took to the boats. I threw myself into one with Saed. Hardly had we left the vessel than it foundered with a terrible sound, and we lost sight of our companions.

Having drifted all night, we saw at daybreak a little island. We landed on it. Trees, laden with very fine fruit hanging to the ground, first met our view, which rejoiced us all the more that we began to feel very hungry. We picked and ate of them, and found them excellent. When we had taken a little refreshment, we fastened our boat and advanced further into the island. I have never seen a more delightful spot: sandal and aloe woods grew there; there were springs of fresh water, and all sorts of fruits, as well as the most beautiful flowers.

What surprised us most was that this island, although so pleasant to look upon, seemed to be deserted.

‘Whence comes it,’ I said to Saed, ‘that this island is not inhabited? We are not the first to visit it; others before us have doubtless discovered it. Why is it abandoned?’

‘My prince,’ replied my confidant, ‘since no one lives here, it is a sure proof that no one can live here; there is something about it which renders it uninhabitable.’ Alas! when the unfortunate Saed spoke thus, he little knew with what truth he was speaking.

We spent the day in rejoicing, and when night fell we stretched ourselves on the grass, which was sprinkled with a thousand sweet-smelling flowers. We slept deliciously; but on awaking I was very astonished to find myself alone. I called Saed repeatedly. As he did not reply I rose to seek him, and, after having searched a part of the island, I returned to the same place where I had spent the night, thinking he might perhaps be there. I awaited him in vain the whole day and even the following night; then, despairing of seeing him again, I made the air resound with cries and groans. ‘Ah! my dear Saed,’ I cried every minute, ‘what has become of you? Whilst you were with me you helped me to bear the burden of my misfortune; you relieved my troubles in sharing them; by what misfortune or by what enchantment have you been carried off from me? What barbarous power has separated us? It would have been sweeter to die with you than to live quite alone.’

I could not console myself for the loss of my confidant; and what troubled me was that I could not think what could have happened to him. I was in despair and resolved to perish also on that island. I said to myself, ‘I will scour it thoroughly; I will find either Saed or death.’ I walked towards a wood that I saw, and when I had arrived there, I discovered in the middle a very well-built castle, surrounded by a large moat full of water, the drawbridge of which was let down. I entered a large courtyard paved with white marble, and advanced towards the door of a fine block of buildings. It was made of aloe-wood; several figures of birds were represented in relief upon it, and a great padlock of steel, made in the form of a lion, kept it closed. The key was in the padlock; I took hold of it to turn it; the padlock broke like a piece of glass, and the door opened more of itself than from the effort I made to open it, which caused me extreme surprise. I found a staircase of black marble. I ascended, and first entered a great hall ornamented with a gold and silken tapestry with sofas of brocade. From there I entered a room richly furnished, but what I looked at with most attention was a perfectly beautiful young lady. She was reclining on a large sofa, her head resting on a cushion, richly dressed, and beside her was a little jasper table. As her eyes were closed, and I had reason to doubt her being alive, I approached her gently and perceived that she breathed.

I remained for some moments in contemplation of her. She seemed charming to me, and I should have become enamoured of her had I not been so absorbed in Bedy-Aljemal. I was extremely desirous of knowing why I found in a deserted island a young lady alone in a castle where I saw no one. I sincerely hoped she would wake, but she slept so soundly I did not dare disturb her rest. I left the castle, resolved to return some hours later. I walked about the island, and saw with alarm a great number of animals as large as tigers, and formed something like ants. I should have taken them for cruel and ferocious beasts had they not fled at sight of me. I saw other wild animals who seemed to fear me, although they had an alarmingly ferocious appearance. After having eaten several fruits whose beauty charmed me, and having walked for some time, I returned to the castle, where the lady was still asleep. I could no longer resist the desire I had to speak to her. I made a noise in the room and coughed to awake her. As she did not awake, I approached her and touched her arm, but without effect. ‘There is some enchantment here,’ I then said to myself; ‘some talisman keeps this lady asleep, and if this is the case it is not possible to awake her from this slumber.’ I despaired of succeeding, when I perceived on the jasper table of which I have spoken several graven characters; I thought this graving might hold the secret. I was about to study the table, but I had hardly touched it when the lady gave a deep sigh and awoke.

If I had been surprised to find so beautiful a person in this castle, she was not less astonished to see me. ‘Ah! young man,’ she said to me, ‘how did you get in here? What have you done to surmount all the obstacles which should have prevented your entering this castle, and which are beyond the reach of human power? I cannot believe you to be a man. You are doubtless the prophet Elias?’

‘No, madam,’ I said to her, ‘I am only a simple man, and I can assure you I have come here without any difficulty. The door of this castle opened as soon as I had touched the key. I mounted to this apartment without any power resisting me. I have not awakened you with ease; that is what I found most difficult.’

‘I cannot believe what you tell me,’ replied the lady. ‘I am so persuaded that it is impossible to men to do what you have done, that I do not believe, whatever you may say, that you are merely a man.’

‘Madam,’ I said, ‘I am perhaps something more than an ordinary man. A sovereign is the author of my being, but I am only a man for all that. I have much more reason to think that you are a superior being to myself.’

‘No,’ she replied, ‘I am, like you, of the race of Adam. But tell me why you have left your father’s court, and how you came to this island.’

I then satisfied her curiosity. I ingenuously admitted that I had become enamoured of Bedy-Aljemal, daughter of the king Achahbal, on seeing her portrait, which I showed her. The lady took the portrait, looked at it very attentively, and said; ‘I have heard speak of the King Achahbal. He reigns in a neighbouring island to Serendib. If his daughter is as beautiful as her portrait, she indeed deserves that you should love her ardently, but one must not trust in the portraits which are taken of princesses; they are usually painted beautiful. Finish telling me your history,’ she added; ‘after that I will relate mine to you.’

I gave her a long and detailed account of all my adventures, and then I begged her to relate hers to me. She began thus:

‘I am the only daughter of the King of Serendib. One day as I was with my women in a castle of my father’s near the town of Serendib, the fancy took me to bathe in a white marble basin which was in the garden. I was undressed, and entered the basin with my favourite slave. We had hardly entered the water than a wind arose. A whirlwind of dust formed in the air above us, and from the midst of this whirlwind there suddenly flew a great bird who pounced on me, took me in his claws, carried me off and brought me to this castle, where, immediately changing its shape, it appeared before me in the form of a young genie. “Princess,” he said to me, “I am one of the most considerable genii in the world. As I was passing the island of Serendib to-day, I saw you in your bath. You charmed me. ‘There is a beautiful princess,’ I said to myself, ‘it would be a pity she should make the happiness of a son of Adam; she deserves the attachment of a genie. I must carry her off and transport her to a desert island.’ So, princess, forget the king, your father, and think only of responding to my love. You shall want for nothing in this castle. I will take care to provide you with everything you need.”

‘Whilst the genie was speaking thus to me, I only wept and lamented. “Unfortunate Malika,” I said to myself, “is this the fate which was reserved for you? Has the king, my father, brought me up with so much care only to have the sorrow to lose me so miserably? Alas! he does not know what has become of me, and I fear my loss will be fatal to him.” “No, no,” said the genie to me, “your father will not succumb to his grief; and as for you, my princess, I trust you will yield to the evidences of affection which I propose to give you.” “Do not flatter yourself,” I said, “with this false hope. I shall have all my life a mortal aversion to the man who has carried me off.” “You will change your sentiment,” he replied; “you will accustom yourself to me; time will produce this effect.” “It will not work this miracle,” I interrupted with bitterness, “it will rather increase the hatred that I feel for you.” The genie, instead of appearing offended, smiled, and, persuaded that I should accustom myself by degrees to listen to him, he spared nothing to please me. He went, I know not where, to get magnificent clothes which he brought me. He did his best to inspire in me an inclination for him; but, perceiving that far from making any progress in my heart, he became daily more odious to me, he finally lost patience, and resolved to revenge himself for my contempt. He threw me into a magic sleep; he stretched me on the sofa in the attitude in which you have found me, and put beside me this marble table on which he had traced talismanic characters to keep me in a deep sleep through the centuries. He also made two other talismans; one to make this castle invisible, the other to prevent the door being opened. Then he left me in this apartment and quitted the castle. He returns hither from time to time. He wakes me up and asks me whether I wish at last to become sensible to his passion, and as I persist in refusing him, he plunges me anew in the unconsciousness which he has invented for my punishment.

‘Nevertheless, my lord,’ continued the daughter of the King of Serendib, ‘you have awakened me, you have opened the door of this castle which has not remained invisible to you. Have I not reason to doubt your being a man? I will even tell you that it is surprising that you still live; for I have heard the genie say that the wild beasts devour all those who wish to stop in this island, and that it is on that account deserted.’

Whilst the princess Malika was speaking thus, we heard a great noise in the castle. She ceased speaking in order to hear better, and soon terrible cries met our ears.

‘Great Heaven!’ then said the princess, ‘we are lost. It is the genie; I recognise him by his voice. You will perish; nothing can save you from his fury. Ah! unhappy prince; what fatality has brought you to this castle?’

I thought my death inevitable. The genie entered looking furious. He had a steel club in his hand; his body was enormous. He shuddered at the sight of me; but instead of giving me a blow on the head, or adopting a threatening tone, he approached me trembling, threw himself at my feet, and spoke thus:

‘Oh! prince, son of a king, you have only to command me as you please; I am prepared to obey you.’

This speech surprised me. I could not understand why this genie was so grovelling to me, and spoke as a slave. But my surprise vanished when, continuing to speak to me, he said:

‘The ring which you have on your finger is the seal of Solomon; whoever possesses it cannot perish from accident. He can cross the most stormy seas in a simple skiff without fearing that the waves will swallow him up. The most ferocious beasts cannot hurt him, and he has a sovereign power over genii. Talismans and all charms yield to his marvellous seal.’

‘It is then by virtue of this ring that I still live,’ I said to the genie.

‘Yes, my lord,’ he replied, ‘it is that ring which has saved you from the beasts which are on this island.’

‘Tell me,’ I said to him, ‘if you know what has become of the companion I had on arriving?’

‘I know the present and the past,’ replied the genie, ‘and I will tell you that your comrade has been eaten by the ants, who devoured him at night at your side. Those sort of ants are in great numbers and make this island uninhabitable. They do not prevent, however, the neighbouring peoples, and above all the inhabitants of the Maldives, coming here every year to cut sandal-wood; but they do not carry it away without difficulty; they come here during the summer; they have on board their vessels very swift horses, which they disembark, and on which they mount; they gallop in whatever direction they see sandal-wood, and as soon as they see the ants approaching they throw them great pieces of meat with which they are provided for the purpose. Whilst the ants are occupied in eating these pieces of meat, the men mark the trees they wish to cut, after which they return. They come back in the winter and cut the trees without fear of the ants, who do not show themselves at this season.’

I could not hear the strange fate of Saed without feeling grieved. Then I asked the genie where the dominion of the king Achahbal was and if the princess Bedy-Aljemal his daughter still lived.

‘My lord,’ he replied, ‘there is in these seas an island where there reigns a king named Achahbal, but he has no daughter. The princess Bedy-Aljemal of whom you speak, was indeed the daughter of a king called Achahbal, who lived in the time of Solomon.’

‘What!’ I replied, ‘Bedy-Aljemal lives no longer?’

‘No,’ he replied, ‘she was a wife of the great Prophet.’

I was very mortified to hear that I loved some one whose life was long over. ‘Oh! madman that I am!’ I cried, ‘why did I not ask the sultan, my father, whose portrait it was I found in his treasury? He would have told me what I have just heard. What trouble and anxiety I should have spared myself! I should have nipped my love in the bud. It would perhaps not have gained such control over me. I should not have left Cairo; Saed would be still living. Must his death be then the sole outcome of my chimerical sentiments? All that consoles me, beautiful princess,’ I continued, turning to Malika, ‘is having been able to be useful to you: thanks to my ring, I am in the position to give you back to the king your father.’ At the same time I addressed the genie: ‘Since I am happy enough,’ I said, ‘to be the possessor of the seal of Solomon, since I have the right to command genii, obey me. I order you to transport me immediately with the princess Malika, to the kingdom of Serendib, to the gates of the capital.’

‘I am going to obey you, my lord,’ replied the genie, ‘however unhappy the loss of the princess may make me.’

‘It is very fortunate for you,’ I replied, ‘that I content myself with only exacting from you that you should bear us both to the island of Serendib; you deserve, for having carried off Malika, that I should punish you to the full extent of the power which the seal of the Prophet gives me over rebel genii.’

The genie replied nothing; he prepared immediately to do what I had ordered him: he took us in his arms, the princess and myself, and bore us to the gates of Serendib. ‘Is that all,’ then said the genie to me, ‘that you wish me to do? Have you nothing further to command me?’ I replied in the negative, and he immediately disappeared.

We went to lodge at the first caravanserai on entering the town, and there we deliberated whether we would write to the court or whether I should go myself to inform the king of the arrival of the princess. We decided on the latter course. I betook myself to the palace, which seemed to me a singular structure. It was built on a thousand columns of marble, and the ascent to it was by a staircase of three hundred steps of beautiful stone. I passed a guard in the first hall; an officer approached me, asked me whether I had any business at the court, or whether curiosity alone brought me thither. I replied that I wished to speak to the king on an important matter. The officer led me to the grand vizir, who presented me to the king, his master.

‘Young man,’ said the monarch to me, ‘of what country are you, and what do you come to Serendib for?’

‘Sire,’ I replied, ‘Egypt was my birth-place. I have been long absent from my father, and I have experienced all sorts of misfortunes.’ Hardly had I said these words than the king, who was a kind old man, began to weep.

‘Alas!’ he said to me, ‘I am no happier than you. I have lost my only daughter, in a manner which increases my grief at not seeing her again.’

‘My lord,’ I replied, ‘I have come to this palace only to give you news of this princess.’

‘Ah! what news,’ he cried, ‘can you give me of her? You have come to announce her death to me? You have doubtless been the witness of her sad end?’

‘No, no,’ I replied, ‘she still lives, and you will see her to-day.’

‘Ah! where have you found her?’ said the king; ‘where was she hidden?’

Then I related all my adventures to him. I dilated particularly on that of the castle and the genie, which he listened to with all the more attention that he was himself interested in it. As soon as I had finished he embraced me.

‘Prince,’ he said to me, for I had discovered my birth to him in relating my history, ‘what do I not owe to you? I love my daughter dearly: I did not hope to see her again. You have been the cause of my finding her. How can I acquit myself towards you? Let us go together,’ he continued; ‘let us go to the caravanserai where you have left her, I am burning with impatience to embrace my dear Malika.’

Saying these words, he gave the order to his vizir to have a litter prepared, which was promptly executed.

The king then made me enter the litter with him, and followed by several officers on horseback we went to the caravanserai where Malika awaited me impatiently. No words can express the mutual joy which the King of Serendib and the princess his daughter felt on seeing each other again. After their first transport the monarch wished Malika herself to give a detailed account of her being carried off and her rescue, which she did in a way that gave him much satisfaction. He thought how happily she had preserved her life from the power of the genie, and declared that he could not carry his gratitude to her liberator too far. He seemed charmed with my bearing and my courage.

We all returned to the palace, where the king gave me a magnificent apartment. He ordered public prayers to return thanks to Heaven for the return of the princess. The inhabitants celebrated it with endless rejoicing. There was a magnificent feast at the court; all the nobility of the island were invited.

The King of Serendib showed me every attention; he took me hunting with him: I joined in all his pleasure parties. He evinced such friendship for me that he said to me one day: ‘O my son, it is time to reveal to you a plan I have formed. You have brought me back my daughter. You have consoled an afflicted father. I wish to acquit myself towards you. Be my son-in-law and the inheritor of my crown.’

I thanked the king for his kindness, and begged him not to take it ill if I refused the honour he wished to do me. I told him the reasons which had compelled me to leave Cairo. I confessed to him that I could not detach myself from the image of Bedy-Aljemal, nor cease to nourish a futile passion. ‘Would you,’ I added, ‘give your daughter to a man whose heart she cannot possess? Ah! my lord, the Princess Malika deserves a happier fate.’

‘How can I,’ replied the king, ‘recognise the service you have done me?’

‘Sire,’ I replied, ‘I am sufficiently rewarded for it. The reception your majesty has given me—the pleasure alone of having delivered the Princess of Serendib from the hands of the genie who had carried her off, is a sufficient reward for me. All that I ask of your gratitude is a vessel to take me to Bassora.’

The king did as I wished; he ordered a vessel to be filled with provisions and to be held ready to depart when I thought convenient. He kept me, however, some time at his court, and he told me every day that he was sorry that I did not wish to remain at Serendib. Finally the day of my departure arrived. I took leave of the king and the princess, who overwhelmed me with civilities, and I embarked.

We experienced several storms on the way, severe enough to have caused our shipwreck, but the virtue of my ring prevented our being submerged. So, after a long voyage, I arrived happily at Bassora, whence I went to grand Cairo with a caravan of Egyptian merchants.

I found many changes had taken place at the court: my father lived no more, and my brother was on the throne. The new sultan received me at first as a man sensible to the bonds which united us; he assured me he was glad to see me again; he told me that a few days after my departure, my father, being in his treasury, had opened by chance the little coffer which contained the seal of Solomon and the portrait of Bedy-Aljemal; that not seeing them he had suspected me of having taken them. I confessed everything to my brother, and placed the ring in his hands.

He seemed touched at my misfortune, and marvelled at the strangeness of my adventures; he pitied me, and I felt that his sympathy relieved my trouble. All the sensibility that he evinced was, however, only perfidy. The very day of my arrival he had me enclosed in a tower, where he sent at night an officer who had orders to take my life; but this officer had pity on me, and said: ‘Prince, the sultan, your brother, has ordered me to assassinate you; he fears lest a desire to reign may possess you and incite you to make trouble in the state; he thinks your death necessary to his safety. Happily for you he has addressed himself to me, he imagines that I shall execute his barbarous order and he expects to see me return covered with your blood. Ah! rather may my hand shed my own! Escape, prince; the door of your prison is open to you, profit by the darkness of the night; leave Cairo, fly, and do not stop till you are in safety.’

After having thanked this generous officer as he deserved, I took flight, and abandoning myself to Providence, I hastened to leave my brother’s states. I had the good fortune to arrive in yours, my lord, and to find a safe refuge at your court.

The Prince Seyf el Mulouk having finished the story of his adventures, said to the King of Damascus: ‘That, my lord, is what your majesty has wished to know; judge now whether I am perfectly happy. I am more than ever absorbed in Bedy-Aljemal. It is in vain that I constantly represent to myself that it is extravagant on my part to be enamoured of a lady who is no longer alive; it is impossible to rid myself of her image, it reigns always in my heart.’

Bedreddin could not understand so singular a love; he asked his favourite if he still had the portrait of Bedy-Aljemal.

‘Yes, my lord,’ replied Seyf el Mulouk, ‘and I always carry it with me.’ Thus saying he took it from his pocket and showed it to the king.

The monarch admired it. ‘The daughter of Achahbal was,’ he said, ‘a charming princess. I approve of the love that Solomon had for her, but your passion seems to me very extravagant.’

‘Sire,’ then said the Sad Vizir, ‘your majesty can judge by the history of Prince Seyf el Mulouk that all men have their troubles, and that they are not born to be perfectly happy on earth.’

I cannot believe what you tell me,’ replied the king. ‘I have a better opinion of human nature, and I am persuaded that there are people whose peace is disturbed by no trouble.’

The King of Damascus, wishing to show his vizir that there were men very contented with their lot, said to his favourite: ‘Go and walk in the town, pass by the artisans’ shops, and later on bring me the one who seems gayest to you.’

Seyf el Mulouk obeyed, and returned to Bedreddin some hours after.

‘Well,’ said the monarch, ‘have you done what I ordered you?’

‘Yes, sire,’ replied the favourite; ‘I passed by several shops, I saw all sorts of artisans who were singing at their work, and who seemed to me very content with their fate. I remarked amongst others a young weaver named Malek, who was laughing heartily with his neighbours. I stopped to speak to him. “Friend,” I said to him, “you seem very gay.”

‘“It is my nature,” he replied. “I never experience melancholy.”

‘I asked the neighbours whether it were true that he had such a pleasant nature; they all told me that he did nothing but laugh from morning to night. Then I told him to follow me, and I brought him to the palace. He is in your apartment, do you wish me to introduce him into your presence?’

‘Let him enter,’ said the king. ‘I must speak to him here.’

Seyf el Mulouk then left Bedreddin’s cabinet and returned immediately, followed by a young man of pleasant appearance, whom he presented to the king. The weaver prostrated himself before the monarch, who said: ‘Rise, Malek, and confess frankly whether you are as contented as you seem to be. They say you do nothing but laugh and sing every day whilst at your work; you pass for the happiest of my subjects, and there is occasion to think that you are so indeed. Tell me whether they judge ill of you and whether you are satisfied with your condition; it is a matter which it concerns me to know, and I demand of you to speak without reserve.’

‘Great king,’ replied the weaver, after having risen, ‘may the days of your majesty endure for ever, and be showered with pleasure unmixed with sorrow. Dispense me from satisfying your curious desires. If it is forbidden to lie to kings, it must also be admitted that there are truths which one dares not reveal. I can only tell you that they have a false opinion of me. In spite of my singing and laughing, I am perhaps the most unhappy of men. Content yourself with this confession, sire, and do not oblige me to detail my misfortunes to you.’

‘Why,’ replied Bedreddin, ‘do you fear to relate your adventures to me? Is it because they do you no credit?’

‘They would do honour to the greatest prince,’ replied the weaver, ‘but I have resolved to keep them secret.’

‘Malek,’ said the king, ‘you arouse my curiosity, and I order you to satisfy it.’ The weaver did not dare reply to these words, and began the history of his life thus:

‘I am the only son of a rich merchant of Surat. Shortly after his death I dissipated the greater part of the wealth he had left me. I was consuming the rest with my friends, when a stranger who was passing Surat to go to the island of Serendib happened by chance to be at my table.

‘The conversation turned on travelling. Some dwelt upon the utility and pleasure of it, and others dilated upon its dangers. Some persons of the company who had travelled related their travels to us. The curious things they said they had seen secretly excited me to travel, and the dangers they said they had run prevented me from coming to a resolution.

‘After I had heard them all I said, “One cannot hear of the pleasure which travelling through the world gives without feeling extremely desirous to travel, but the perils to which a traveller exposes himself take from me the desire for foreign countries. If it were possible,” I added, smiling, “to go from one end of the earth to the other without having unpleasant encounters on the road, I would leave Surat to-morrow.”

‘At these words, which made all the company laugh, the stranger said to me, “My lord Malek, if you wish to travel and the danger of encountering robbers alone prevents you from determining on it, I will teach you, if you wish, how to travel with impunity from kingdom to kingdom.” I thought he was joking, but after the repast he took me aside and told me that the following morning he would come to my house and show me something rather singular.

‘He came, and said to me, “I wish to keep my word to you, but you will not see the effect of my promise for a few days, for what I have to show is a work which is not made nowadays. Send one of your slaves for a carpenter, and let them return both laden with planks.” That was immediately done.

‘When the carpenter and the slave had arrived, the stranger told the former to make a coffer six feet long and four wide. The workman immediately set to work. The stranger did not remain idle either; he made various parts of the machine, such as bolts and springs. They both worked all day, after which the carpenter was sent away. The stranger spent the following day in fixing the springs and completing the work.

‘The third day, the coffer being finished, it was covered with a Persian carpet and it was carried into the country, whither I went with the stranger, who said to me, “Send away your slaves and let us remain here alone. I do not like to have other persons beside yourself as a witness of what I am going to do.” I ordered my slaves to return home and remained alone with this stranger.

‘I was very curious to know what he would do with this machine, when he entered it; at the same time the coffer rose from the ground and flew through the air at an incredible speed. In a moment he was far from me, and a moment after he descended at my feet. I cannot say how astonished I was at this marvel.

‘“You see,” said the stranger on leaving the machine, “a rather pleasant carriage, and you must be persuaded that travelling thus there is no fear of being robbed on the road. This is the means I wished to give you of travelling with security. I make you a present of this coffer; you will make use of it if some day the desire takes you to travel in foreign countries. Do not imagine,” he continued, “that there is any magic in what you have seen; it is not at all by means of cabalistic words nor by virtue of a talisman that this coffer rises in the air; its movement is produced by the ingenious art which teaches moving forces. I am perfected in mechanics, and I know how to make other machines as surprising as this one.”

‘I thanked the stranger for so rare a present and I gave him out of gratitude a purse full of sequins.

‘“Teach me,” I said, “what I must do to put this coffer in movement.”

‘“You shall soon know that,” he replied. At these words he made me enter the machine with him, then he touched a spring and we were immediately lifted into the air; then he showed me what I must do to steer it straight. “Turning this bolt,” he said, “you will go to the right, and turning this one you will go to the left. Touching this spring you will ascend, touching that you will descend.”

‘I wished to try it myself. I turned the bolts and touched the springs; the coffer, obeying my hand, went as I pleased, and I hastened or slackened its pace as I wished. After making several tours in the clouds we took our flight towards my house, and descended in my garden with ease because we had removed the carpet which covered the machine, in which were several holes, as much for air as for seeing.

‘We were home before my slaves, who were not a little astonished at seeing us back again. I had the coffer enclosed in my apartment, where I guarded it with more care than a treasure, and the stranger went away as pleased with me as I was with him.

‘I continued amusing myself with my friends until I had finished devouring my patrimony. I even began to borrow, so that I insensibly found myself burdened with debts. As soon as it was known in Surat that I was ruined I lost my credit. No one wished to lend to me any longer, and my creditors, impatient to recover their money, summoned me to repay it. Seeing myself without resources, and consequently exposed to troubles and insults, I had recourse to my coffer. I dragged it one night from my apartment into my courtyard. I shut myself up in it with some provisions and the little money that remained to me. I touched the spring which made the machine ascend, then turning one of the bolts I left Surat and my creditors without fear of pursuit.

‘I made the coffer fly as quick as possible during the night and surpassed the wind in swiftness. At daybreak I looked through a hole to observe where I was. I perceived only mountainous precipices an arid country, and a frightful desert. Wherever I looked I saw no trace of a habitation. I continued to go through the air all the day and the night following. The following day I found myself above a very thick wood, near which was a rather beautiful town, situated in a vast plain.

‘I stopped to look at the town as well as at a magnificent palace which appeared before my eyes at the extremity of the plain. I wished ardently to know where I was, and I was thinking how I could satisfy my curiosity when I saw a peasant tilling the ground. I descended into the wood, left my coffer there, and advanced towards the labourer, of whom I asked the name of this town.

‘“Young man,” he replied, “it is easy to see that you are a stranger, since you do not know that this town is called Gazna. The just and brave King Bahaman lives there.”

‘“And who lives,” I said, “in the palace which we see at the end of the plain?”

‘“The King of Gazna,” he replied, “has had it built to enclose the Princess Schirina his daughter, whose horoscope foretells that she will be deceived by a man. Bahaman, to make this prediction vain, has had this palace of marble built, surrounded by deep ditches of water. The door is of Chinese steel, and although the king has the key, there is a numerous guard which watches day and night to defend its entrance from all men. The king goes once a week to see the princess his daughter, then he returns to Gazna. Schirina has for sole companions a governess and some women slaves.”

‘I thanked the peasant for having told me all these things, and turned my steps towards the town. As I was just reaching it I heard a great noise, and soon I saw several magnificently dressed cavaliers appear, all mounted on very fine horses which were richly caparisoned.

‘I perceived in the midst of this superb cavalcade a man wearing on his head a gold crown, whose clothes were strewn with diamonds. I gathered that it was the King of Gazna, who was on his way to see the princess his daughter, and I ascertained in the town that I was not wrong in my conjecture.

‘After having explored the town and satisfied my curiosity a little, I remembered my coffer, and although I had left it in a spot which I thought safe, I became uneasy. I left Gazna and my mind was not at rest until I arrived where I had left it. Then I recovered my tranquillity, I ate with much appetite what remained of my provisions, and, as night fell immediately, I resolved to pass it in the wood. I hoped deep sleep would not delay in overcoming me, for my debts, as well as the plight I was in, caused me some anxiety. I could not sleep, however. What the peasant had told me of the Princess Schirina was constantly in my thoughts. “Is it possible,” I cried, “that Bahaman is alarmed at a frivolous prediction? Is it necessary to have a palace built to enclose his daughter. Would she not have been secure in his? On the other hand, if the astrologers indeed pierce the darkness of the future, if they read in the stars future events, it is useless to wish to elude their predictions, they must of necessity take place. All the precautions that human prudence can take cannot prevent a misfortune traced in the stars from descending upon our heads. Since the Princess of Gazna is destined to have a weakness for a man, it is in vain they try to protect her from it.” By dint of occupying myself with Schirina, whom I depicted as more beautiful than all the ladies I had seen—and I had seen at Surat and at Goa a good number of rather beautiful women, who had contributed not a little to my ruin—the desire seized me to try my fortune.

‘“I must,” I said to myself, “transport myself on to the roof of the princess’s palace, and try to introduce myself into her apartment. I shall perhaps have the good fortune to please her. Perhaps I am the mortal whose audacity the astrologers have seen written in the skies.

‘I was young and consequently hot-headed, I was not wanting in courage; I formed this bold resolution and executed it at once. I rose in the air and guided my coffer in the direction of the palace. The night was as dark as could be desired. I passed unperceived above the heads of the soldiers, who, dispersed around the moat, kept vigilant guard. I descended on the roof near a place where I saw a light. I left my coffer and slipped through a window open to the freshness of the night into an apartment ornamented with rich furniture, where, on a brocade sofa, slept the Princess Schirina, whose beauty seemed to me dazzling. I found her beyond anything I had conceived. I approached to contemplate her, but I could not look unmoved on so much charm. I fell on my knees before her, and kissed one of her beautiful hands. She awoke instantly, and perceiving a man in an attitude calculated to alarm her, she uttered a cry which soon brought to her her governess, who slept in a neighbouring room.

‘“Mahpakar,” said the princess, “come to my aid. Here is a man! How could he get into my apartment? Are you the accomplice of his crime?”

‘“Who? I?” replied the governess. “What an insulting suspicion! I am not less astonished than you to see this bold young fellow here; besides, had I wished to favour his audacity, how should I have deceived the vigilance of the guard which surrounds this castle? You know, moreover, that there are twenty doors of steel to open before reaching this room, that the royal seal is on each lock, and that the king your father has the keys. I do not know how this young man has been able to surmount all these difficulties.”

‘Whilst the governess was speaking thus, I was thinking what I should say to them. It occurred to me to persuade them that I was the Prophet Mahomet.

‘“Beautiful princess,” I said to Schirina, “do not be surprised, nor Mahpakar either, at seeing me appear here. I am not one of those lovers prodigal in gold and every kind of artifice in order to gain their desires. I feel no desire that your virtue need take alarm at; far from me be all criminal thought. I am the Prophet Mahomet. I could not without pity see you condemned to pass your days in prison, and I come to offer you my help in protecting you from the prediction which alarms Bahaman, your father. Henceforth let your mind be at rest as regards your lot, which cannot be otherwise than full of glory and of happiness, since you will be the spouse of Mahomet. As soon as the news of your marriage has spread through the world, all the kings will fear the father-in-law of the great Prophet, and all the princesses will envy your fate!”

‘Schirina and her governess looked at each other at this speech, as if to consult as to what they should think of it. I had occasion to fear, I admit, that it would meet with little credulity from them, but women willingly believe in the marvellous. Mahpakar and her mistress believed in my fable; they believed me to be Mahomet, and I abused their credulity. After having persuaded the Princess of Gazna to believe herself my wife, I left her before daybreak, not without promising to return the following day. I regained my machine with all speed, entered it, and ascended very far in order not to be seen by the soldiers. I descended in the wood, left the coffer there, and went towards the town, where I bought provisions for a week, some magnificent garments, a beautiful turban of Indian cloth striped with gold, and a rich belt. I did not forget to buy essences and the best perfumes. I spent all my money in these purchases without troubling about the future; it seemed to me I could want for nothing after so pleasant an adventure. I remained all day in the wood, where I occupied myself in adorning and perfuming myself. As soon as night had come I entered the box and betook myself to the roof of Schirina’s palace. I introduced myself into her apartment as on the preceding night.

‘The princess gave evidence of awaiting me with much impatience: “O great Prophet,” she said, “I was beginning to get anxious, and I feared lest you had already forgotten your wife.”

‘“Ah! my dear princess,” I replied, “how could you fear that? Since you have my word, ought you not to be certain that I shall always love you?”

‘“But tell me,” she replied, “why you look so young? I thought that the Prophet Mahomet was a venerable old man.”

‘“Do not be mistaken,” I said; “that is the right idea to have of me, and if I appeared before you as I appear sometimes to the Faithful to whom I wish to do honour, you would see me with a long white beard and a bald head; but I thought you would like me to appear less aged, that is why I appear in the form of a young man.” The governess, joining in the conversation, told me that I was very well made, and could not appear more agreeably as a husband.

‘I left the castle again at break of day, for fear lest they should discover that I was a false prophet. I returned the following day, and I conducted myself always so cleverly that Schirina and Mahpakar did not suspect for a moment that there was any deception in the matter. It is true that the princess insensibly became so well inclined towards me that that contributed not a little to make her believe all I had said, for when one is favourably inclined towards anybody, one does not doubt their sincerity.

‘At the end of several days the King of Gazna, followed by his officers, came to the palace of the princess his daughter; and finding the doors well closed and his seal on the locks, he said to the vizirs who accompanied him: “All goes as well as can be. So long as the doors of this palace remain like this, I little fear the misfortune with which my daughter is threatened.” He ascended alone to the apartment of Schirina, who could not help being troubled at sight of him. He perceived it and wished to know the cause. His curiosity increased the anxiety of the princess, who, seeing herself obliged to satisfy it, related to him all that had passed.

‘Your majesty, sire, can imagine the surprise of the King Bahaman when he learnt that he was, without knowing it, the father-in-law of Mahomet.

‘“Ah! what absurdity,” he cried; “how credulous you are, my daughter! O Heaven! I now see that it is useless to try and avoid the misfortunes which you have in store for us. The horoscope of Schirina is fulfilled. A traitor has deceived her.”

‘Thus saying, he left the apartment of the princess much agitated, and searched the palace throughout. But he searched everywhere in vain; he found no trace of the villain. His astonishment redoubled.

‘“How,” he said, “can the bold fellow have entered the castle? That is what I cannot conceive.”

‘Then he called his vizirs and confidants. They all assembled at his call, and seeing him much troubled, they were alarmed.

‘“What is it, sire?” said the first minister to him. “You seem anxious and agitated. What misfortune causes the trouble we see in your face?”

‘The king told them all he had heard, and asked them what they thought of this adventure. The grand vizir spoke first. He said that this pretended marriage might be genuine, although it had all the appearance of a fable; that there were in the world powerful houses who made no difficulty in attributing their origin to such events, and that for his part he thought it quite possible that the princess had been wedded to Mahomet.

‘The other vizirs, out of complaisance perhaps for him who had just spoken, were of the same opinion, but a courtier argued against it thus: “I am surprised to see sensible people give credence to a report so little worthy of belief. Can wise people believe that our great Prophet is capable of coming to earth to wed women, he who in the heavenly place is surrounded by the most beautiful houris? That shocks common sense, and if the king will believe me, instead of lending himself to a ridiculous story, he will investigate this matter. I am certain he will soon discover the rogue who, under a sacred name, has had the audacity to deceive the princess.”

‘Although Bahaman was naturally rather credulous, and held his first minister to be a man of sound judgment, and saw that all his vizirs believed Schirina to be really married to Mahomet, he was inclined to disbelieve it. He resolved to clear up the mystery; but, wishing to do things prudently, and to try and speak himself without witnesses to the would-be Prophet, he dismissed his vizirs and his courtiers.

‘“Retire,” he said; “I wish to stay to-night in this castle with my daughter. Go, and return to-morrow.”

‘They regained the town, and Bahaman questioned his daughter anew, awaiting the night; he asked her if I had eaten with her.

‘“No, my lord,” said his daughter, “I have presented meat and drink to him in vain; he would not have any, and I have not seen him take any nourishment since he came.”

‘“Relate the adventure to me again,” he replied, “and do not conceal any particular from me.”

‘Schirina detailed it to him anew, and the king attentively weighed all the circumstances.

‘Night came, however. Bahaman seated himself on a sofa, and had candles lit, which were placed before him on a marble table. He drew his sword to make use of it if necessary, and avenge with blood the insult to his honour. He expected me every moment, and it was not without agitation that he looked to see me suddenly arrive.

‘That night, by chance, the air was all aflame. A long lightning flash passed before the king’s eyes and made him wince. He approached the window through which Schirina had told him I would enter, and, seeing the sky all aflame, he became very troubled, although he merely witnessed a very natural thing. He did not look upon these meteors as the result of the inflamed atmosphere, he liked better to believe that these fires announced the descent of Mahomet to earth, and that the heavens were so luminous only because its gates were opened to let the Prophet pass out.

‘In the king’s disposition of mind, I could present myself with impunity before him; so that, far from appearing furious when I appeared at the window, he was seized with respect and fear. He let fall his sword, and prostrating himself at my feet, he kissed them, and said: “O great Prophet, who am I and what have I done to deserve the honour of being your father-in-law?”

‘I judged by these words of what had passed between the king and the princess, and I knew that the good Bahaman was not more difficult to deceive than his daughter. I was delighted to discover that I had not to deal with one of those firm individuals who would have subjected the Prophet to an embarrassing examination, and, profiting by his weakness, “O king,” I said, raising him, “you are, of all Mussulman princes, the most attached to my sect, and consequently the one who should be most agreeable to me. It was written on the fatal tablets that your daughter should be deceived by a man, which your astrologers have discovered by the light of astrology. But I have prayed the Most High to spare you this unhappiness, which from love of me he has done on condition that Schirina should become one of my wives, to which I consented in order to reward you for the good actions which you do every day.”

‘The King Bahaman was not at all in a condition to be undeceived. This feeble prince believed all that I told him, and, charmed at the alliance with the great Prophet, he threw himself a second time at my feet to testify his gratitude at my kindness. I raised him again, embraced him, and assured him of my protection. He could not find terms strong enough in which to thank me. After that, thinking it becoming to leave me with his daughter, he retired into another room.

‘I remained with Schirina for some hours, but delighted as I was to be with her I did not forget that the time was passing. I feared lest the daylight should surprise me and my coffer be perceived upon the roof, so I left towards daybreak and regained the wood.

‘The following morning the vizirs and the courtiers betook themselves to the palace of the princess. They asked the king if he had informed himself on the subject that interested him. “Yes,” he said, “I have seen the great Prophet himself and have spoken to him. He is the husband of my daughter; nothing is more certain.”

‘At this speech the vizir and the courtiers turned towards him who had opposed the possibility of this marriage and reproached him for his incredulity, but they found him still of the same opinion. He upheld it with obstinacy, say what the king would to persuade him that Mahomet had married Schirina. Bahaman became almost angry with this incredulous fellow, who became the laughing-stock of the council.

‘A new incident, which took place the same day, finally confirmed the vizirs in their opinion. As they were returning to the town with their master, a storm overtook them in the open plain. Brilliant lightning flashed in their eyes and such terrible thunder was heard that it might have been the last day of the world. It happened by chance that the horse of the incredulous courtier took fright. It reared and threw its rider to the ground, breaking his leg. This accident was looked upon as evidence of the celestial wrath. “O wretched fellow!” cried the king, on seeing the courtier fall, “behold the fruit of your obstinacy. You would not believe me, and the Prophet has punished you.”

‘The wounded man was carried home, and Bahaman had no sooner returned to his palace than he had it published at Gazna that he wished all the inhabitants to celebrate with estivities the marriage of Schirina with Mahomet. I was walking that day in the town. I heard the news as well as the adventure that had befallen the courtier. It is inconceivable how credulous and superstitious those people were. Public rejoicings were held, and everywhere was heard the cry, “Long live Bahaman, the father-in-law of the Prophet!”

‘As soon as night fell I regained the wood and was soon with the princess. “Beautiful Schirina,” I said to her on entering her apartment, “you do not know what has passed to-day in the plain. A courtier who doubted your husband to be Mahomet has expiated the doubt. I raised a storm which alarmed his horse; the courtier fell and broke his leg. I have not judged fit to push vengeance further, but I swear by my tomb at Medina that if anyone has any further doubt of your happiness it shall cost him his life.” After having passed several hours with the princess, I retired.

‘The following day the king assembled his vizirs and his courtiers. “Let us all go together,” he said, and ask pardon of Mahomet for the unfortunate man who has refused to believe me and who has received the punishment of his incredulity.” At the same time they mounted their horses and went to the palace of the princess. The king himself opened the doors he had locked and sealed the preceding day. He ascended, followed by his vizirs, to the apartment of his daughter.

‘“Schirina,” he said, “we come to beg you to intercede with the Prophet for a man who has drawn down his anger upon him.”

‘“I know,” replied the princess; “Mahomet has spoken to me about it.” Then she repeated what I had said to her at night, and told them that I had sworn to exterminate all those who should doubt her marriage with the Prophet.

‘When the good King Bahaman heard this speech, he turned towards his vizirs and courtiers and said, “Had we not already placed our belief in all we have seen, could we now be otherwise than persuaded that Mahomet is my son-in-law. You see he has told my daughter himself that he raised this storm to punish an unbeliever.”

‘All the ministers and the others remained convinced that she was the spouse of the Prophet. They prostrated themselves before her and begged her very humbly to intercede with me in favour of the wounded courtier, which she promised to do.

‘In the meanwhile I had eaten all my provisions, and as I had no money left, the Prophet Mahomet began to be at a loss what to do. I thought of an expedient. “My princess,” I said one night to Schirina, “we have forgotten to observe a formality in our marriage. You have given me no dowry, and this omission distresses me.”

‘“Well, dear husband,” she replied, “I will speak about it to my father to-morrow; he will doubtless send all his riches here.”

‘“No, no,” I replied, “there is no need to speak to him. I care little for treasures; riches are useless to me. It is sufficient for you to give me some of your jewels, it is the only dowry I ask.”

‘Schirina wished to load me with all her precious stones to make a better dowry, but I contented myself with taking two big diamonds, which I sold the following day to a jeweller of Gazna. I was thus enabled to continue to play the part of Mahomet.

‘I had been leading a very agreeable life, passing as the Prophet for nearly a month, when an ambassador arrived in the town of Gazna on behalf of a neighbouring king to ask Schirina in marriage. He was soon received in audience, and as soon as he had revealed the object of his embassy Bahaman said to him, “I am sorry not to be able to give my daughter to the king your master. I have given her in marriage to the Prophet Mahomet.”

‘The ambassador judged from this answer that the King of Gazna had gone mad. He took leave of this prince and returned to his master, who at first thought with him that he had lost his senses, then, imputing the refusal to contempt, he was angry at it. He raised troops, formed a great army, and entered the kingdom of Gazna.

‘The king, called Cassim, was stronger than Bahaman, who, moreover, prepared so slowly to receive his enemy that he could not prevent his making great progress. Cassim defeated several troops who endeavoured to oppose his progress, advanced hastily towards the town of Gazna, and found the army of Bahaman entrenched in the plain before the castle of the Princess Schirina. The design of the irritated lover was to attack him within his entrenchments; but as his troops had need of repose, and as he had arrived in the plain in the evening only, he delayed the attack till the following morning.

‘However, the King of Gazna, informed as to the number and valour of Cassim’s soldiers, began to tremble. He assembled his council, at which the courtier who had been wounded in falling from his horse spoke thus:

‘“I am astonished that the king should appear to be uneasy on this occasion. What alarm can, not Cassim alone, but all the princes of the world, cause the father-in-law of Mahomet? Your Majesty, sire, has only to address himself to his son-in-law. Implore the aid of the great Prophet, he will soon confound your enemies. He should do so, as he is the cause of Cassim’s coming to trouble the peace of your subjects.”

‘Although this speech was only made in derision it did not fail to inspire confidence in Bahaman.

‘“You are right,” he said to the courtier, “I ought to address myself to the Prophet. I am going to beg him to repulse my enemy, and I dare hope he will not refuse my prayer.”

‘At these words he went to find Schirina.

‘“My daughter,” he said to her, “to-morrow at daybreak Cassim will attack us. I fear lest he will force our entrenchments. I come here to pray Mahomet to succour us. Use all your influence with him to get him to take our part.”

‘“My lord,” replied the princess, “it will not be very difficult to interest the Prophet on our behalf; he will soon disperse the enemy’s troops, and all the kings of the world will learn at Cassim’s expense to respect you.”

‘“Nevertheless,” replied the king, “the night advances, and the Prophet does not appear; can he have abandoned us?”

‘“No, father,” replied Schirina. “Do not believe that he will fail us in the moment of need. He sees from the heaven; he dwells in the army which assails us, and he is perhaps preparing to spread disorder and terror amongst them.”

‘It was, indeed, what Mahomet wished to do. I had, during the day, perceived from afar the troops of Cassim. I had remarked the disposition of them, and particularly noticed the whereabouts of the king. I gathered some large and small pebbles; I filled my coffer with them, and in the middle of the night I rose in the air. I advanced towards the tents of Cassim. I detected without difficulty the one in which the king slept. It was a very high pavilion, well gilt, made in the shape of a dome, supported by twelve columns of painted wood. The intervals between the columns were formed of branches of different sorts of trees interlaced. Towards the top were two windows, one looking east and one south.

‘All the soldiers surrounding the tent slept, which enabled me to descend as far as one of the windows without being seen. I saw the king asleep upon a sofa, his head resting upon a satin cushion. I came half out of my coffer, and throwing a large pebble at Cassim, I struck him on the forehead, and wounded him dangerously. He uttered a cry which soon awoke his guards and officers. They hastened to him, and found him covered with blood and almost unconscious. They raised a cry, the alarm spread, everyone asking what had happened. The rumour spread that the king had been wounded by an unknown hand. Whilst the perpetrator was sought for, I rose into the clouds and let fall a shower of stones on the royal tent and its neighbourhood. Some soldiers were wounded, and cried out that it was raining stones. The news spread, and to confirm it I threw pebbles everywhere. Then terror seized the army; officers and soldiers believed that the Prophet was angry with Cassim, and declared his wrath by this miracle.

‘Finally Bahaman’s enemies took flight and fled. They fled with such precipitation that they left everything behind them, crying:

‘“We are lost. Mahomet is going to exterminate us all.”

‘The King of Gazna was somewhat surprised at daybreak when, instead of being attacked, he perceived the enemy retiring. He immediately pursued them with his best soldiers. He made great carnage amongst them, and overtook Cassim, whose wound prevented his going very fast.

‘“Why,” said he, “have you entered my dominions contrary to all right and reason? What occasion have I given you to make war?”

‘“Bahaman,” replied the conquered king, “I thought you had refused me your daughter out of contempt, and I wished to revenge myself. I could not believe that the Prophet was your son-in-law, but I do not doubt it now, since it is he who has wounded me and dispersed my army.”

‘Bahaman ceased to pursue his enemies, and returned to Gazna with Cassim, who died of his wound the same day. They divided the booty, which was considerable, and the soldiers returned home laden with wealth. Prayers were offered in all the mosques to thank Heaven for having confounded the enemies of the State; and when night had come, the king went unaccompanied to the palace of the princess.

‘“My daughter,” he said, “I come to give the thanks to the Prophet that are due to him. You have heard from the courier I sent you all Mahomet has done for us. I am so overwhelmed by it that I die with impatience to kiss his knees.”

‘He soon had the satisfaction he sought. I entered by the usual window into Schirina’s apartment, where I expected he would be. He threw himself at my feet and kissed the earth, saying:

‘“Oh! great Prophet, no words can express to you all I feel. Read for yourself in my heart all its gratitude.”

‘I raised Bahaman and kissed him on the forehead.

‘“Prince,” I said, “could you think I would refuse you my help in the dilemma you were placed for love of me? I punished the proud Cassim, who intended to make himself master over your dominions, and take Schirina to place her among the slaves of his seraglio. Do not fear henceforth that any potentate in the world will dare make war on you. If anyone had the audacity to come and attack you, I should let fall upon the troops a shower of fire which would reduce them to cinders.”

‘Having reassured the King of Gazna that I took his kingdom under my protection, I related to him how the army of the enemy had been terrified on seeing stones rain down on the camp. Bahaman repeated to me what Cassim had said to him, and then he retired to leave Schirina and me at liberty. This princess, who was not less sensible than the king, her father, to the service I had rendered to the State, showed me much gratitude and caressed me a thousand times. I almost forgot the passing of time. Day dawned when I regained my coffer; but I had passed so well as Mahomet in everybody’s mind, that had the soldiers seen me in the air they would not have been disabused. I almost fancied myself to be the Prophet after having put an army to rout.

‘Two days after they had buried Cassim, to whom, although an enemy, they gave a superb funeral, the King of Gazna ordered rejoicings to be held in the town as much for the defeat of the enemy as to celebrate solemnly the marriage of the Princess Schirina with Mahomet. I thought I ought to signalise by some wonder a feast made in my honour. To do so I bought in Gazna some pitch, with some cotton-pods, and a light machine for making fire. I passed the day in the wood preparing a firework. I dipped the pods in the pitch, and at night, whilst the people were rejoicing in the streets, I rose above the town, as high as was possible so that my coffer might not be distinguished by the light of my firework. Then I struck fire, and lit the pitch, which together with the pods made a very fine display. Then I disappeared into the wood. Day having appeared shortly after, I went into the town to have the pleasure of hearing what was said of me. I was not disappointed. The people said a thousand extravagant things about the trick I had played. Some said it was Mahomet who, to show that their feast was agreeable to him, had made celestial fire appear, and others averred they had seen in the midst of these new meteors the Prophet appear with a white beard and a venerable appearance.

‘These remarks amused me infinitely, but alas! whilst I was enjoying them my coffer, my dear coffer, the instrument of my wonders, was burning in the wood. Apparently a spark which I had not seen ignited the machine during my absence and consumed it. I found it reduced to cinders on my return. A father who, returning home, sees his only son pierced by mortal wounds and bathed in his blood, could not be more deeply grieved than was I at that moment. The wood echoed with my cries and regrets, I tore my hair and garments, I do not know how my life was spared in my despair.

‘The misfortune was, however, without remedy. I must decide upon a course to adopt. One only was left to me—that was to go and seek fortune elsewhere. So the Prophet Mahomet, leaving Bahaman and Schirina much troubled, left the town of Gazna.

‘Three days later I met a big caravan of Cairo merchants who were returning to their country. I mingled with them and went to grand Cairo, where I became a weaver. I remained there several years, then I came to Damascus, where I follow the same pursuit. I appear very pleased with my lot, but am not so really. I cannot forget the happiness I formerly enjoyed. Schirina is ever present in my memory. For my peace of mind I would like to banish her from my thoughts; I do all I can, but in vain.

‘That, sire, is what your majesty has ordered me to tell you. I know you will not approve of the deception I have worked upon the King of Gazna and the Princess Schirina; more than once I have perceived that my story repelled you, and that your virtue was shocked at my sacrilegious audacity. But remember, I pray, that you exacted sincerity from me, and deign to pardon the tale of my adventures on account of the necessity of obeying you.’

The King of Damascus dismissed the weaver after having heard his story. Then he said to the vizir, ‘The adventures which this man has just related to us are not less surprising than yours. But although he is no happier than you, do not think that I give in yet, and that I can conclude from that that nobody in the world enjoys perfect happiness. I wish to interrogate my generals, my courtiers, and all the officers of my house. Go vizir,’ he added, ‘and bring them to me one after the other.’

Atalmulc obeyed; he first brought the generals. The king ordered them to say frankly whether any secret trouble poisoned the sweetness of their life, assuring them that this confession should have no ill-consequences. They all said immediately that they had their troubles and were far from tranquil in their minds. One said he was too ambitious, another too avaricious; another admitted that he was jealous of the glory acquired by his equals, and complained that the people did not do justice to his skill in the art of war. Finally, the generals having revealed their innermost souls, Bedreddin, seeing none of them were happy, said to his vizir that the following day he wished to hear all his courtiers speak.

They were interrogated one after the other. Not one of them was found to be contented. ‘I see,’ said one, ‘my credit diminish daily.’ ‘My plans are thwarted,’ said another, ‘and I cannot attain to what I wish.’ ‘I must,’ said another, ‘cajole my enemies and study to please them.’ Another said he had spent all his wealth and even exhausted all his resources.

The King of Damascus, finding neither among his courtiers nor among his generals the man he sought, thought he might be found among the officers of his house. He had the patience to speak to them one by one, and they made him the same reply as the courtiers and the generals, that is to say, that they were not exempt from trouble. One complained of his wife, another of his children; those who were not rich said that poverty made them unhappy, and those who possessed riches lacked health or had some other cause of grief.

Bedreddin, in spite of all that, could not lose hope of meeting some contented man. ‘Provided I find one,’ he said to the vizir, ‘I do not ask more, for you maintain not one exists.’

‘Yes, sire,’ replied Atalmulc, ‘I maintain it, and your majesty seeks in vain.’

‘I am not yet persuaded of it,’ replied the king, ‘and a method occurs to me of soon knowing what I ought to think on the matter.’

At the same time he ordered it to be published in the town that all those who were satisfied with their lot, and whose rest was not disturbed with any trouble, were to appear in three days before his throne. The time expired; no one appeared at the court; it seemed as though all the inhabitants were of the vizir’s way of thinking.

When the King of Damascus saw that no one presented himself, he was very astonished. ‘It is inconceivable,’ he cried. ‘Is it possible that in Damascus, in a town so large and so peopled, there is no happy man?’

‘Sire,’ said Atalmulc, ‘if you were to interrogate all the people of the earth they would tell you they are unhappy. You alone perhaps do not suffer, for you do not seem to know love.’

‘You are greatly mistaken, then,’ said Bedreddin, ‘to think I am not at all amorous because I have no mistress. To disabuse you I will tell you that I love like you, and that love alone prevents my being happy. It is not a princess who reigns in my heart, it is a woman of lowly condition who absorbs me. I will tell this story. I did not intend to make you such a confidence, but you give me an opportunity I cannot let pass.’

SOME years ago there lived at Damascus an old merchant named Banou. He had a very beautiful country house not far from the town, two shops full of Indian cloths, and all sorts of gold and silken stuffs, also a young wife of extraordinary beauty.

Banou was a man of pleasure. He loved spending money, and prided himself on his generosity. He did not content himself with regaling his friends, he lent them money. He assisted those who had need of help. In fact, he would not have been satisfied with himself if he had passed a day without having done someone a service. He found so many occasions of exercising his generous inclinations that he gradually damaged his business. He saw that he was inconvenienced, but he could not resolve to change his line of conduct; so that, hampering himself more and more every day, he was obliged to sell his country house, and gradually he fell in want.

When he saw his fortune consumed, he had recourse to his friends: he received no assistance from them; they all abandoned him. He thought his debtors at least would give him back what he had lent them; but some repudiated the debt, and others found themselves unable to discharge it. This troubled Banou so much that he fell ill.

During his illness he remembered by chance having lent a thousand gold sequins to a doctor of his acquaintance. He called his wife, and said to her: ‘Oh, my dear Arouya, we must not despair yet, I have just remembered one of my debtors whom I had forgotten. I once lent him a thousand gold sequins; it is the doctor Danischmend. I do not think him so dishonest as the others. Go to him, since I cannot go myself, and tell him I beg him to send me the sum he received from me.’

Arouya immediately took her veil and went to the house of Danischmend. She was introduced into the apartment of the doctor, who begged her to sit down and tell him what brought her.

‘My lord doctor,’ replied the young woman, raising her veil, ‘I am the wife of Banou the merchant; he salutes you in wishing you all sorts of prosperity, and begs you to have the kindness to give him back the thousand gold sequins he has lent you.’

At these words, which the beautiful Arouya spoke sweetly and graciously, the doctor, as red as fire, fixed his eyes on the wife of the merchant, and replied; ‘O fairy countenance! I will willingly give you what you ask, not as something due to your husband, but to yourself, for the pleasure you do me in coming to my house. I feel that the sight of you makes me beside myself. You can make me the happiest of doctors. Return, I beg, the sentiments which you inspire in me; the more that your husband is too advanced in age to deserve your affection. If you wish to accept my love instead of one thousand sequins, I will give you two, and I swear by my head and eyes that I will be your slave all my life.’

Thus saying, the too passionate doctor, to prove by his actions that he was not less enamoured than he said, approached the young woman and wished to press her in his arms: but she repulsed him, and said, looking at him with an air which presaged no good: ‘Stop, insolent fellow, and cease to flatter yourself that I shall listen to you. Were you to offer me all the riches of Egypt, if it depended on you to give them me, you could not corrupt my fidelity. Place in my hands the thousand sequins which you owe my husband, and do not waste your time in trying to force my inclinations.’

The doctor was too intelligent not to gather from this speech what he had to expect from the virtuous Arouya. He lost hope of persuading her, and as he was a very brutal man, he soon changed his tone. ‘You must,’ he said, very angrily, ‘be very bold to ask me for money: I owe nothing to Banou your husband, and if the old fool has ruined himself by his extravagance, I am not fool enough to contribute towards reinstating him.’

At these words he had her abruptly put out of the house, and only just refrained from striking her.

The young woman returned quite in tears to her home. ‘My dear Banou,’ she said to her husband, ‘the doctor Danischmend is not a more honest man than your other debtors. He had the audacity to maintain that he owed you nothing.’

‘O, the ungrateful fellow!’ cried the old merchant; ‘is it possible that he abandons me in the hour of need? But what am I saying, abandon me? He is dishonest enough to repudiate having received the sum. The rogue! he appeared to be an honest man. I would have trusted him with all my fortune when he asked me for a thousand sequins. Whom can one trust in nowadays? What shall I do?’ he continued. ‘Must I leave him alone? No, I will have the law on him. Go and find the cadi; he is a severe judge and the sworn enemy of injustice. Relate to him all the doctor’s perfidy. I am sure he will have pity on me and will do me justice.’

The old merchant’s wife went to the cadi. She entered a hall where this judge was giving audience to the people, and stood apart. The majesty of her figure and bearing caused her to be much remarked. The cadi loved the fair sex. As soon as he saw Arouya, he made her a sign to approach, and conducted her himself into his cabinet. He made her sit on a sofa and raise her veil; but he no sooner saw the extreme beauty with which she was endowed than he was as charmed as the doctor.

‘O sugar cane!’ he cried, in a transport of love, ‘beautiful rose of the world’s garden, tell me what you want, and be assured beforehand that I shall do for you all you wish.’

Then she told him of Danischmend’s dishonesty. She begged him very humbly to interpose his authority to oblige the doctor to give back what he owed to her husband.

‘That is just,’ interrupted the cadi, who felt himself becoming more and more enamoured. ‘I shall know how to constrain him. He shall give back the thousand sequins, or I shall have his entrails torn out. But, charming houri,’ he continued, softening, ‘think, I beg, that the bird of my heart is caught in the meshes of your beauty’s net. Grant to me the affection that you refused to the doctor, and I will immediately make you a present of four thousand gold sequins.’

At this speech Arouya melted into tears.

‘O Heaven!’ she cried, ‘is there no virtue among men? I cannot find one who is truly generous. Even those charged with the punishment of the guilty do not scruple to commit crimes.’

The cadi tried in vain to dry the young woman’s tears. As he persisted in courting her, and assured her that otherwise she need not expect any service from him, she rose and went out, deeply wounded.

When Banou saw his wife return, it was not difficult to see that she had no good news to announce to him.

‘I see,’ he said, ‘that you are not very pleased with the cadi. He has refused you his protection. The doctor, Danischmend, is doubtless a friend of his.’

‘Alas!’ she replied, ‘I have taken trouble for nothing. He will not do justice to us. No hope remains for us. What is to become of us?’

‘We must apply to the Governor of Damascus,’ he replied. ‘I have several times sold him stuffs on credit. He even owes me money. Let us implore his support. I believe he would like to serve us.’

The following day Arouya, veiled, did not fail to go to the governor. She asked to speak to him. She was led to his apartment.

He received her with much civility, and begged her to uncover her face. As she knew what the consequences of it would be, she wished to excuse herself, but could not: he pressed her so gallantly to raise her veil that she could not help doing so.

If the sight of her had inflamed the doctor and the cadi, it made no less impression on the governor, who was a most impressionable old man.

‘What charms!’ he cried. ‘I never saw anyone so attractive. Ah! tell me,’ he continued, ‘who you are, and what I can do for you.’

‘My lord,’ she replied, ‘I am the wife of a merchant called Banou, who has sometimes had the honour to sell you stuffs.’

‘Oh! I know him well,’ he interrupted. ‘He is one of the men whom I love and esteem much. How happy he is to have so charming a wife! How enviable is his lot!’

‘He is much more worthy of pity,’ interrupted Arouya, in her turn. ‘You do not know to what a state the unfortunate Banou is reduced.’

At the same time she put before him the bad condition her husband’s affairs were in, and told him the reasons which compelled her to seek him out.

The governor readily promised to exercise his authority in compelling the doctor, Danischmend, to pay what he owed to Banou: but he was not more generous than the cadi.

‘I grant you my protection,’ he said to the young woman. ‘I shall send for the doctor, and if he does not give back the thousand sequins he has received with a good grace he shall repent it. In a word, I undertake to have them given back to you, provided that from this moment you begin to show your gratitude for what I propose to do for you; for we lords like the reward to precede the service.’

As the beautiful Arouya did not wish to return the love of the governor any more than that of the others, she retired in despair.

‘O Banou!’ she said to her husband, ‘we must give up hope. No one sympathises with us in our troubles, nor wishes to help us in any way.’

These words drove the old merchant to despair. He cursed men a thousand times, till his wife said:

‘Cease to curse the authors of our misfortunes. What relief can your vain laments give you? It were better to think of other means of getting your money, and Mahomet himself inspires me with one. Do not ask me,’ she added, ‘what it is. I do not find it desirable to tell you. Be content with the assurance that it will make a great deal of noise, and that we shall be fully revenged upon the doctor, the cadi, and the governor.’

‘Do all you wish,’ said Banou. ‘I trust to you.’

The merchant’s wife immediately left the house, and having passed through two or three streets, she entered a carpenter’s shop. The owner saluted her, and said:

‘Beautiful lady, what do you wish?’

‘I want three coffers,’ she said. ‘I beg you to give them me in a good condition.’

The carpenter showed her several of different sizes. She chose three, which would each, without difficulty, contain a man. She paid for them, and had them sent home immediately. Then she dressed herself in her richest clothes, and adorned herself with all the jewels which her misfortunes had not yet reduced her to sell, not forgetting perfumes.

In such a fitting condition to charm, she went to find the doctor, and employing all the airs and graces of a sham effrontery, she took off her veil without waiting for the doctor to ask her to uncover; then, looking at him with eyes capable of inspiring love in the most insensible of men, ‘Lord doctor,’ she said, ‘I come to beg you again to give back the thousand sequins you owe my husband. If you give them back for love of me, you can count on my gratitude.’

‘Beautiful lady,’ replied the doctor, ‘my feelings are still the same. I have two thousand sequins to give you on the conditions I proposed.’

‘I see,’ replied Arouya, ‘that you will not yield. I must resign myself with a good grace to pleasing you. I expect you to-night,’ she added, putting out one of her beautiful hands, which he kissed with effusion; ‘bring the money you have promised me, and come at ten o’clock precisely, and knock at the door of my house. A faithful slave will open to you and will introduce you into my presence.’

The doctor, at these words, which seemed to promise him all he desired, lost control over himself. He kissed the young woman without her being able to defend herself. But she escaped from his hands promptly, and seeing he was certain to keep the appointment, she left his house to go and play the same part with the cadi.

As soon as she was alone with this judge she said: ‘O my lord, since I left you I have not had a moment’s rest. I have remembered again and again everything you have told me. It seemed to me that I was not displeasing to you, and that it only depended on me to gain your affection. What a satisfaction for a woman of my class to see herself admired by a young and well-made cadi! My heart, I confess, is not proof against such an agreeable prospect.’

The cadi was delighted. ‘Yes, my queen,’ he cried, ‘you shall, if you wish, be the first lady of my seraglio and the sovereign mistress of my wishes. Leave old Banou and come and live with me.’

‘No, my lord,’ replied Arouya, ‘I cannot make up my mind to make him so unhappy. Besides, by so doing I should lose my reputation. I wish to avoid scandal and have secret interviews only with you.’

‘Where,’ replied the cadi, ‘can I meet you?’

‘In my house,’ replied the merchant’s wife; ‘it is the safest spot. Banou can be easily deceived. He is overwhelmed with old age and infirmities. He need cause you no uneasiness. Come to me this very night if you wish,’ she added; ‘be at the door of our house at eleven o’clock, but come alone, for I should be in despair if any of your people knew the weakness I have for you.’

The precautions taken by the young woman, far from making the cadi suspicious, seemed to increase the value of his good fortune. He did not fail to testify to the lady the pleasure it gave him to see her so favourably inclined towards him. He paid her a thousand compliments, and he promised to go to her at the hour indicated. Thereupon they separated very well pleased, although they had each very different thoughts.

Thus were two lovers ready to fall into the trap set for them. There was only the governor left to deceive, which was not very difficult. The young woman was skilful enough to entrap him with the others. He readily believed all she said to him, and the result of their conversation was that she gave him a tryst at her house at midnight, and he swore to come alone, with all the discretion she desired.

‘Great Prophet,’ said Arouya, when she was outside the governor’s palace, ‘protector of faithful Mussulmans! Mahomet, you who from heaven above look down upon my actions, you see the bottom of my soul: let my plan succeed, and do not forsake me in the danger of carrying it out!’

After this apostrophe, which she thought it wiser to make in order to more surely succeed in the object she had in view, she felt full of confidence; and obeying every impulse as so many secret counsels of the Prophet, she went to buy all sorts of fruit and preserves, which she had sent to her house. She had an old slave whose fidelity was known to her: she informed her of her plan, and gave her her orders. They then began to prepare an apartment: they arranged the furniture, and set up a table on which were placed several porcelain dishes filled with fruits and dried sweetmeats. Had the young woman truly wished to make her guests welcome, she could not have made greater preparations to receive them.

She awaited their arrival with extreme impatience; she even feared sometimes they would not come; but her fear was very ill-founded. They had conceived hopes too agreeable to be abandoned. The doctor Danischmend did not fail to be at the door at ten o’clock precisely. He knocked, the old slave opened the door, let him in, and conducted him to her mistress’s apartment, saying quite low: ‘Take care not to make a noise for fear of waking the old merchant, who is sleeping.’

As soon as Danischmend saw Arouya, who had adorned herself with as much care as if it had been a question of receiving a cherished lover, he was dazzled with the brilliancy of her charms, and said to her in an impassioned manner: ‘O, phoenix of the field of beauty! I cannot sufficiently congratulate myself upon my good fortune. There,’ he continued, throwing a purse upon the table, ‘are the two thousand sequins I have promised; it is not too much to pay for such happiness.’

Arouya smiled at this speech; she put out her hand to the doctor, and after having made him seat himself on a sofa, she said to him: ‘My lord doctor, remove your turban and your belt, make yourself at ease. You are here as at home. Dalla Monkhtala,’ she continued, addressing the old slave, ‘come and help me to wait upon my lord, for his turban inconveniences him.’

Thus saying, the lady herself undid Danischmend’s waist-belt. They then both removed his outer robe, and the slave removed his turban, so that he remained with his head bare.

‘Let us begin,’ the young woman said, ‘with the refreshments which I have prepared for you.’ At the same time they set themselves to eat preserves and drink wine.

At the end of the repast, which the lady enlivened with conversation that charmed the doctor, a noise was heard in the house. Arouya appeared alarmed, as though she were unable to account for it. ‘Dalla,’ she said to the old slave with an uneasy air, ‘go and see what can be the cause of the noise which we hear.’

Dalla left the room, and returned a moment afterwards, saying to her mistress with much agitation: ‘Ah, mistress, we are lost! Your brother has just arrived from Cairo. He is at this moment with your husband, who is going to bring him to you here.’

‘O, unfortunate arrival!’ cried the wife of Banou, affecting to be greatly grieved. ‘What an annoying coincidence! It is not enough that they come to interrupt my feast, they must even surprise me with my lord, and I must pass for a false woman in the minds of my neighbours! What is going to become of me? How can I prevent this shame from overtaking me?’

‘You are soon perplexed,’ said the old slave. ‘Let the Lord Danischmend shut himself up in one of the three coffers which your husband has had made to put the merchandise in which he wishes to send to Bagdad. They are in your cabinet and we have the keys of them.’

Dalla’s advice was approved of. The doctor entered the cabinet and got into one of the three coffers, which Arouya herself double-locked, saying to Danischmend: ‘Oh, my dear doctor! do not get impatient. As soon as my brother and my husband have retired I shall come and rejoin you, and we will pass the rest of the night together, all the more agreeably that our feast has been interrupted.’

The promise which Arouya made the doctor to come and take him out of his prison, and the hope she gave him of compensating him for the weary minutes he was to spend in the coffer, prevented his being troubled by an adventure which was to have still more disagreeable consequences for him. Instead of suspecting the sincerity of the lady and imagining that the position he was in might be a trap set for him, he preferred to persuade himself that he was loved, and to yield to the sweetest illusions in which lovers ordinarily indulge who flatter themselves in vain that they are about to find their affection returned.

The young woman left him in her cabinet and returned to her room, saying quite low to her slave: ‘There is one already caught in my net. We shall see whether the others escape.’

‘That we shall soon know,’ replied Dalla; ‘for it is nearly eleven o’clock, and I do not think the cadi will fail to appear at the tryst.’

The old slave was right in thinking that the judge would not be less punctual than the doctor. In fact, knocking was heard at Banou’s door before the hour indicated. Dalla ran to open it, and seeing that it was a man she asked his name.

‘I am the cadi,’ he said.

‘Speak low,’ replied the slave, ‘you might wake the Lord Banou. My mistress, who has a great weakness for you, has ordered me to introduce you into her apartment. Have the kindness to follow me. I am going to conduct you thither.’

The judge felt his joy redouble at these words. He followed Dalla, who conducted him to the apartment of the young woman.

‘Oh, my queen!’ he cried, approaching the beautiful Arouya, ‘I see you at length! With what impatience have I awaited this happy moment! Am I permitted,’ he added, throwing himself at her feet, ‘am I permitted to assure you that no happiness is comparable to mine.’

The young woman, raising the cadi, begged him to seat himself on the sofa, and said: ‘My lord, I am very glad you are pleased with me, since you are the man in the world I like the best, or rather the first person who has attracted my attention. This old slave will tell you that. I have simply languished since the last interview I had with you. I speak of you to her unceasingly, and my passion leaves me no rest.’

When the cadi heard Arouya speak thus, he almost lost his senses. ‘Lofty cypress,’ he said, ‘living image of the houris, you enchant me with such sweet words, sweeter than the song of the nightingale to the rose. Your kindness makes me indeed happier than a king.’

‘I am enchanted,’ replied the lady, ‘to see you so loving. That flatters my affection very pleasantly, and your praise gives me too much pleasure for me to refuse to hear it. I have prepared refreshment for you, and I wish to drink with you. But first remove your turban and lie down on this couch; I am going into my husband’s room to see whether the old man is asleep, and I shall return to you immediately.’

The judge at this speech, imagining that he was about to share a delightful feast, promptly obeyed and sat on the couch. He had hardly done so, when he heard a noise. A moment after Arouya came back much agitated, and said to him: ‘Ah! my lord cadi, you do not know what has just happened. We have here an old slave whom I did not wish to confide in, because he was too attached to my husband: he saw you enter the house, and has warned his master, who has immediately sent for my relations to witness my conduct.’

‘They will all enter my apartment. I am the most unhappy person in the world.’ Saying these words she began to cry, which she did so effectively that the cadi thought she was much afflicted.

‘Console yourself, my angel,’ he said, ‘you have nothing to fear. I am the judge of the Mussulmans, and I shall be able by my authority to impose silence on your parents and your husband. I shall menace them all. I shall forbid them to make any disturbance, and you may be persuaded that they will fear my threats.’

‘I do not doubt it, my lord,’ replied the young woman, ‘so I do not fear the resentment of my husband, nor the anger of my relations. I well know that, supported by you, I am protected from punishment; but, alas! I shall pass for an infamous woman, and I shall be exposed to the opprobrium and contempt of my family. What a cause of grief to a woman whose virtue till now has never been the least open to suspicion! What am I saying, suspicion? I venture to say that I am looked upon as the model of a well-behaved woman. At one blow am I to lose such a splendid reputation?’

At these words she began again to weep and lament so naturally that the judge was grieved.

‘O light of my eyes,’ he cried! ‘I am touched at your grief: but cease abandoning yourself to it, since it is futile. What avails it to weep so much for an inevitable misfortune?’

Dalla Monkhtala interrupted the judge at this moment and said: ‘Great cadi of the faithful, and you, beautiful rose of the garden of beauty, listen to me both of you. I have experience, and it is not the first time that I have assisted embarrassed lovers. Whilst you are distressing yourselves I think of the means of getting you out of your predicament, and if my lord the cadi wishes, we will disappoint the lord Banou and my mistress’s relations.’

‘And how?’ said the judge.

‘You have only,’ replied the old slave, ‘to enclose yourself in a certain coffer which is in Arouya’s cabinet. I am sure no one will think of asking for the key.’

‘Ah! very willingly,’ replied the cadi, ‘I consent to get into the coffer for a few moments if you think it advisable.’

The young woman said it would please her very much, and assured the judge that the moment after her husband and her relations had visited her apartments and had retired, she would not fail to come and take him out of the coffer.

On this assurance, and on the promise which the merchant’s wife made the cadi to repay with usury his affection for her, he let himself be enclosed like the doctor.

There only remained the governor, who also came at midnight to the door. Dalla introduced him as she had done the two others, and Arouya received him in the same way. She greeted him warmly, and when she saw that the old lord was becoming very joyous she made a sign agreed upon with Dalla, who went out. A minute after loud knocking was heard at the street door, and soon after the old slave entered the apartment precipitately, saying in a terrified manner:

‘Ah! madam, what a misfortune! the cadi has just entered. He is being conducted to your husband’s apartment.’

‘O heaven!’ cried the young woman, ‘what a fatal event! My dear Dalla,’ she continued, ‘go gently and listen what the judge is saying to Banou, and come back and tell us.’

The old slave went out a second time, and whilst she was away the governor said to the lady:

‘What can bring the cadi here at this hour? Has Banou got some troublesome affair on hand?’

‘No,’ replied Arouya, ‘and I am not less astonished than you at the arrival of the judge.’

Dalla shortly afterwards returned, and said to her mistress:

‘Madam, I have lent an attentive ear to the conversation which is going on in the Lord Banou’s apartment, and I have heard enough to know what it is about. The cadi has come here to interrogate you in the presence of Danischmend, who accompanies him. The doctor maintains that he has paid you the sequins which your husband lent him. The grand vizir, who has been informed of this affair, has charged the cadi to investigate it this very night, so as to render him an account of it to-morrow morning.’

Thereupon Arouya had recourse to tears, and begged the governor to hide himself, saying, ‘My lord, I beg of you to have pity on me. The cadi, Banou, and Danischmend are coming here. Spare me the shame of passing as a faithless woman. Have some regard to my weakness for you. Enter my cabinet, and permit me to shut you up in a coffer for a few minutes.’ As the old lord evinced some repugnance to what was proposed to him, the lady threw herself at his feet, and at last succeeded in persuading him.

The governor was therefore placed in the third coffer.

The merchant’s wife closed the cabinet, and went and told her husband all that had passed. After having both rejoiced at the expense of the three unfortunate lovers, Banou said:

‘How do you propose ending this adventure?

‘You will know to-morrow,’ replied Arouya. ‘Only remember that I have promised you that we shall be revenged in a startling way, and be assured I shall keep my word to you.’

The following day she came to my palace and slipped into the hall where I was giving audience to my people. As soon as I perceived her, her noble bearing and the beauty of her figure attracted my attention. I remarked upon her to my grand vizir. ‘Do you see that well-built woman?’ I said. ‘Tell her to approach my throne.’ The vizir told her to advance. She pressed through the crowd, and came and prostrated herself before me.

‘What brings you here?’ I asked. ‘Rise and speak.’

‘O! powerful monarch of the world,’ she replied, having risen, ‘may your majesty’s days be everlasting, or at least only end with the centuries! If you will have the kindness to listen to me, I will tell you a story which will surprise you.’

‘Willingly,’ I said. ‘I am disposed to listen to you.’

‘I am,’ she continued, ‘the wife of a merchant named Banou, who has the honour to be your subject, and to live in your capital. Some years ago he lent a thousand sequins to the doctor Danischmend, who maintains that he never received them. I have been to him to ask for them: he replied that he owed nothing to my husband, but that he would give me two thousand sequins if I would return his love for me. I went to complain to the cadi of the doctor’s bad faith. The judge declared he would not render me justice unless I showed him the complacency exacted of me by Danischmend. Confused, and indignant at the cadi’s bad character, I left him abruptly, and addressed myself to the Governor of Damascus, because my husband is known to him. I implored his aid: but I did not find him more generous than the cadi, and he spared no pains to win my love.’

I had much difficulty in believing what Arouya related to me, or rather I suspected her of inventing this fable to do Danischmend, the cadi and the governor a bad turn with me.

‘No, no,’ I said, ‘I cannot believe what you tell me. I cannot persuade myself that a doctor can be capable of denying that he has received a sum lent to him, nor that a man whom I have chosen to distribute justice to the people has made you an insolent proposal.’

‘O! king of the world,’ said the wife of Banou to me, ‘if you refuse to believe my word, you will at least, I hope, believe the irreproachable witnesses I have to all that I tell you.’

‘Where are these witnesses?’ I replied with astonishment.

‘Sire,’ she replied, ‘they are at my house: send for them I beg. Your majesty will not be able to suspect their genuineness.’

I immediately sent guards to the house of Banou, who delivered to them the three coffers containing the lovers.

The guards having brought them into my presence, Arouya said to me:

‘My witnesses are in these.’

Thus saying, she took out three keys and opened the coffers.

Judge of my surprise, as well as that of the whole court, when we perceived the doctor, the governor and the cadi, all three turbanless, pale, confused, and very mortified at the result of the adventure.

I could not help laughing to see them in this situation, which did not fail to excite also the laughter of all the spectators. But I soon assumed a serious demeanour, and reproached the three in well-deserved terms.

After having publicly reproached them, I condemned the doctor, Danischmend, to give four thousand gold sequins to Banou; I deposed the cadi; and I entrusted the government of the town of Damascus to another officer of my court.

Then, having had the coffers removed, I ordered the young woman to raise her veil.

‘Show us,’ I said, ‘those dangerous features, the sight of which has been so fatal to the three persons whom they have charmed.’

The wife of Banou obeyed. She raised her veil, and displayed to us all the beauty of her face. The emotion which the occasion and the necessity of remaining exposed to the glances of all my court caused her, added a fresh brilliancy to her complexion.

I have never seen anything so beautiful as Arouya.

I admired her charms, and cried in the excess of my admiration:

‘Ah! how beautiful she is! The doctor, the cadi, and the governor no longer appear to me so guilty.’

I was not the only one she dazzled. At the sight of her incomparable beauty, a murmur of applause arose in the court. Everyone had eyes only for her. They could not tire of looking at her and praising her. As I expressed a wish to hear a detailed account of the story she had briefly told to us, she related it to us with so much wit that she increased our admiration still further. The audience-hall resounded with her praises, and those who knew Banou, in spite of the bad state of his affairs, thought him only too fortunate to have so charming a wife.

After she had satisfied my curiosity, she thanked me for the justice I had done her, and retired home.

But alas! if she was no longer before my eyes, she was continually in my thoughts. Her image was always before me, I could not for a single moment distract myself from it. And at last, seeing that she troubled my rest, I sent secretly for her husband. I had him shown into my cabinet, and spoke to him thus:

‘Listen, Banou. I know the situation to which your generous heart has reduced you, and I do not doubt that you feel the chagrin at not being able to live as you have lived till now more than your poverty itself.

‘I have resolved to put you again in a position to entertain your friends; you can even spend more than ever without fearing to fall into want again. In a word, I wish to load you with wealth, provided that on your part you are disposed to do what I ask. I have conceived a violent passion for your wife. Divorce her, and send her to me. Make this sacrifice for me, I beg of you, and out of gratitude, beside all the riches which I will give you, I consent for you to choose the most beautiful slave in my seraglio. I am going to conduct you myself into the apartment of my women, and you shall take the one that pleases you best.’

‘Great king,’ replied Banou, ‘the wealth you offer me, considerable as it may be, cannot tempt me if it is to be bought by the loss of my wife. Arouya is a hundred times dearer to me than all the riches in the world. Judge, sire, of my feelings by your own, and you will see whether I can be dazzled by the brilliant fortune which you offer me. Such, however, is the love I have for my wife, that I am capable of preferring her own happiness to mine. I am going now to find her, and to tell her the effect which her beauty has produced on you, and the offers you have made me to induce me to yield her to you. Perhaps, charmed by so glorious a conquest, she will evince a secret desire to be divorced, and if that is so, I swear that I will divorce her without hesitation, in spite of the affection I have for her. I will sacrifice myself to her happiness, whatever grief her loss may cause me.

As soon as he had left me, he went home to tell his wife of the interview he had just had with me.

‘Arouya,’ he said, after having told her everything I had proposed to him, ‘my dear Arouya, since you have charmed the king, profit by your good fortune. Go and live with this young monarch. He is amiable and more worthy than me to possess you. In making the happiness of his life you will enjoy a finer fate than that of being associated with my misfortunes.’

He could not say these words without shedding tears. His wife was much touched by them.

‘O, Banou!’ she replied, ‘do you think you cause me any joy in telling me of the king’s love? Do you think greatness affects me? Ah! undeceive yourself if you have that thought, and believe rather, all unfortunate as you are, that I prefer to live with you rather than with any prince in the world.’

The old merchant was delighted at this speech; he embraced his wife with ecstasy.

‘Phoenix of the century,’ he cried, ‘how you deserve praise! You are worthy to reign over the heart to which you prefer me. It is not just that so charming a wife should belong to a man like me. I am already far advanced in years, and you are only beginning your fair life. I am only an unfortunate man, and you can, in leaving me, enjoy the happiest of destinies. You have remained too long bound to a man who has nothing in his favour but your virtue. Do not refuse the rank to which love calls you, and without reflecting how unhappy I shall be when I shall have lost you, consent to my divorcing you to make your lot more pleasant.’

The more Banou showed that he wished to give up Arouya to me, the more she resisted. Finally, after a long combat, in which conjugal love gained the day, the merchant said to his wife:

‘O, my dear spouse, be content to reign over my heart, since you limit your desires to that; but what shall I tell the king? He awaits my answer, and he doubtless flatters himself it will be such as he would wish. If I go and announce your refusal to him, what have we not to fear from his resentment? Remember that he is a sovereign. You know that he can do everything. Perhaps he will employ violence to obtain you; I cannot defend you against so powerful a rival.’

‘I see,’ replied Arouya, ‘the misfortune which threatens us; but is it not possible to avoid it? Instead of going to the king and irritating him by announcing to him that I decline the honour that he wishes to do me, take all the money which remains to you. Let us take all that we have of value and leave Damascus; let us fly and commend ourselves to the Prophet; he will not abandon us.’ Banou approved of this advice, and resolved to follow it.

They had no sooner formed their resolution than they executed it. They left the town that very day and marched towards Cairo. I learnt all that the next day from Dalla Monkhtala, who had not wished to accompany her mistress, and who was brought to me by a confidential man whom I had sent to Banou in my impatience to see him again. If I had been less master of my passions and had wished absolutely to satisfy myself, I should soon have had Arouya in spite of herself in my seraglio—I had only to pursue her; but that would have been committing an unjust action, and I have never cared to constrain the hearts of others.

I therefore left the merchant’s wife at liberty to flee from me and go where she wished, and I set myself to conquer an unfortunate passion, a task which was not less vain than painful. Arouya, in spite of all the efforts which I made to put her from my mind, was ever present in my thoughts. Her beauty and her virtue were ever before me, and for more than twenty years her memory has made me insensible to the charms of the most beautiful of my slaves; the most attractive amuse me without absorbing me.’

‘You see, my lord,’ then, said the vizir, ‘there is no one who is without trouble. The happiest people are those whose troubles are most supportable. Do not let us lament. If neither your majesty, nor the Prince Seyf-el-Mulouk, nor myself are fully satisfied, let us reflect that there are others more unhappy.’

It was thus that Sutlumemé finished the story of the King of Damascus and his vizir. The women of Farrukhnaz, as usual, applauded her. They praised highly the constancy of the lovers whose adventures they had just heard, and the princess, as was her custom, did not fail to speak against their fidelity.

This did not deter the nurse, who asked permission to relate new stories. She obtained it, and the following day she began thus:

A YOUNG merchant of Bagdad, named Abderrahman, possessed immense wealth and lived in grand style. Every day were seen at his table the chief officers of the caliph; all the good people of the town were well received by him, as well as the strangers who went to see him. It was his nature to please everybody; were there need of his credit or his purse, he could always be had recourse to without fear of refusal; and people whom he had already obliged did not tire his generosity if they demanded fresh assistance; in the town his beneficence and generosity were the general topic of conversation. His physical qualities corresponded to his mental gifts—he was handsome and very well built; in a word, he passed for an accomplished man. One day he entered a merchant’s shop and saw a good-looking young stranger seated alone at a table; he went and sat down beside him, and they began to talk on various subjects. If the stranger pleased Abderrahman, Abderrahman pleased the stranger no less; they were so pleased with one another, that they returned the following day to seek each other on the same spot; they met and had another talk together : they had so much mutual sympathy that from that day they became closely allied. Unfortunately for Abderrahman the stranger was obliged to depart the following day on his return to Moussul, where he said he was born.

‘At least, my lord,’ said Abderrahman, ‘before you depart tell me who you are; I must soon make a journey to Moussul: to whom must I address myself to have news of you?’

‘You have only,’ replied the stranger, ‘to come to the palace of the King of Moussul and you will see me. If you appear there it will give me pleasure to receive you well; you will know who I am, and there we will cement the friendship which we have formed in this country.’

Abderrahman was distressed at the departure of the stranger, and he only consoled himself with the hope of seeing him again at Moussul, where his affairs required his presence shortly afterwards. He did not fail to go at once to the king’s palace; he sought everywhere the features of the unknown whom he loved; when he saw him surrounded by a crowd of eager courtiers, he gathered that it was the sovereign, as indeed it was the King of Moussul, Nasiraddoleh himself. The monarch soon detected him too, and advanced to receive him.

Abderrahman prostrated himself before him, and remained with his face to the ground, until the king, having raised him, embraced him, took him by the hand, and led him into his cabinet.

All the courtiers were very much astonished at the reception which their master gave the young merchant. ‘Who is this stranger?’ they said one to another; ‘he must be a prince, since the king treats him with so much distinction.’ The great lords who chiefly enjoyed the confidence of the king began from that moment to fear and hate him, and the courtiers who wanted favours resolved already to pay court to him.

Nasiraddoleh, however, shut himself up alone with his friend and caressed him many times. ‘Yes, my dear Abderrahman,’ he said, ‘I love you better than all those men whom I have just left to be with you. Ah! have I not reason to cherish you more than them? How do I know that it is not interest or ambition which attaches them to me? There is perhaps not one who loves me for myself. Such is the misfortune of the great, that they cannot be sure they are loved; the good they are capable of doing takes away the pleasure they would have were the recipients disinterested. But I perceive the sincerity of your sentiments; I know their value; you gave me your friendship without knowing who I was; I can boast of having a friend.’

The young merchant of Bagdad replied to the king’s kind words in terms full of affection and gratitude, after which the prince said to him: ‘As long as you remain in Moussul you will lodge in my palace; you will be served by my own officers, and I shall take care to make the time pass as agreeably for you as possible.’ He kept his word, and forgot nothing that he thought capable of diverting him. Sometimes he took him out hunting, sometimes he gave him instrumental and vocal concerts executed to perfection, and almost every day they ended in debauch.

The Bagdad merchant had spent nearly a year in this manner, when a message came to him from Bagdad that his presence there was absolutely necessary if he wished to prevent his affairs getting into disorder. He spoke to the king of the information he had received, and begged him to permit of his return to Bagdad. Nasiraddoleh consented with regret, and at last Abderrahman tore himself away from the delights of the court of Moussul.

As soon as he had returned home he applied himself very seriously to repairing the mischief his absence had done to his business, and when he had put it straight again he began again to entertain his friends, to do service to everybody, and to spend more than ever. He bought new slaves, and delighted in having some from all nations of the world.

A merchant sold him one one day; she was born in Circassia, and she might well be said to be one of the most perfect creatures that could be seen. She was called Zeineb. He bought her for six thousand gold sequins; but had he given ten thousand, he would not have paid dear for her. Her extreme beauty was not her only merit; she had a cultivated mind, a sweet and equable disposition, and a tender, sincere, and faithful heart. So amiable a person did not fail to charm Abderrahman; he conceived a violent love for her, and he had the good fortune to find Zeineb disposed to love him as much as he loved her.

Whilst they were quietly enjoying the sweets of their mutual ardour, the King of Moussul came unaccompanied to Bagdad, and arrived at the young merchant’s house. ‘Abderrahman,’ he said to him, ‘the wish has seized me to see this town and the caliph’s court incognito, or rather I had hoped to see you again. I have come to lodge with you. I flatter myself that you are as pleased to see me as I was to have you in my palace.’

Abderrahman, enchanted with the honour done to him, wished to throw himself at the feet of Nasiraddoleh, to show him how sensible he was of it; but the prince raised him and said: ‘Put aside the respect due to the King of Moussul; see in me only a friend who wishes to rejoice with you; let us live without constraint. Nothing is so sweet as a free life. To taste the charms of it I leave my court from time to time. It pleases me to travel without escort, to mix with private individuals; and I will admit to you, that the days I spend thus are the happiest of my life.’

The young merchant of Bagdad, to obey and please the King of Moussul, adopted a familiar tone with him. They began to live together as if they had been of the same station in life. They made up parties of pleasure every day; and Nasiraddoleh, forgetting where he was, passed the time like a private person.

One evening, whilst they were at table drinking the best of wines, their conversation turned on the beauty of women; the King of Moussul boasted of the charms of some of the slaves of his seraglio, and said there were none to be compared to them in the world. The merchant did not listen quietly to this speech: the love he had for Zeineb and the wine he had drunk did not allow of his agreeing to what he had just heard. ‘My lord,’ he said to his host, ‘I do not doubt that you have very beautiful women, but I do not believe they surpass mine in beauty. I have several slaves who cannot be looked upon without admiration; and amongst others a Circassian whom Nature seems to have delighted to form.’

‘That is to say,’ replied the king, ‘that you love this Circassian. The praise you bestow upon her proves to me that you are much enamoured of her, without persuading me that she is as charming as my slaves.’

‘It is very easy to convince you of it,’ replied Abderrahman.

Thus saying, he sent for a eunuch and said in his ear: ‘Go and tell my slaves to adorn themselves in their richest clothes and assemble in a well-lit apartment.’

The eunuch ran to fulfil his commission, and Abderrahman sat down again to table, saying to the prince: ‘My lord, you will soon see for yourself whether you are right or wrong in thinking that your seraglio contains the most beautiful women of Asia.’

‘I confess,’ replied the king, ‘that I am curious to know whether love does not blind you.’

They continued to enjoy themselves, and they drank until the same eunuch came to say that the slaves had assembled, and that they had forgotten nothing that could accentuate their beauty.

Then the merchant led the King of Moussul into a most magnificent apartment, where there were thirty slaves, young, beautiful, well-made, and all covered with precious stones; they were seated on sofas of rose-coloured stuff with silver flowers; some played the lute, others the tambourine, and the others amused themselves with singing whilst waiting the arrival of their master. They rose as soon as they perceived him, and stood in modest silence. Abderrahman ordered them to be seated and to continue to play their instruments; they obeyed instantly.

The King Nasiraddoleh, great prince that he was, was obliged to admit that he had not more charming women in his seraglio. He began to scrutinise them one after another. He began with the lute-players, who appeared very beautiful to him. He did not find the tambourine-players less agreeable; and when he came to examine the singers, he saw one whose beauty dazzled him. ‘Is that,’ he said to the merchant, ‘the Circassian you have spoken to me about?’

‘Yes, my lord,’ replied Abderrahman, ‘it is she; am I a flatterer? Have you ever seen anything so beautiful?’

The merchant awaited the reply of the King of Moussul, which he did not doubt would be very flattering to Zeineb; but he was very much astonished when he saw that the prince, instead of praising the beauty of this slave, assumed a serious and grieved manner, without saying what he thought of her, from which he gathered that the monarch found Zeineb more beautiful than all the women of his seraglio, and was secretly annoyed at it. ‘My lord,’ he said a moment after, on re-conducting him to his apartment, ‘I see that I have presumed too far upon the charms of Zeineb; I have doubtless over-praised them to you.’

Nasiraddoleh replied not to this speech, and when he reached his bedchamber, he begged his host to leave him alone there, because he wished, he said, to rest. Abderrahman retired immediately.

The next morning the young merchant went to the king. He hoped to find the monarch in a pleasanter frame of mind, but he found him so sad and downcast that he was much touched. ‘What is the matter, my lord?’ he said to him. ‘What dark cloud veils your eyes? What is the cause of the profound melancholy in which you are plunged?’

‘Abderrahman,’ replied the king, ‘I depart to-day for Moussul. I carry with me a grief which time will perhaps only augment; let me go without asking me the reason of it.’

‘No, my lord,’ replied the merchant, ‘you must tell it me; do not hide it from me, I beg of you. I have perhaps been imprudent enough to fail in the respect due to you? I have abused the kindness of a great prince towards me? I have doubtless offended you?’

‘God forbid,’ replied Nasiraddoleh, ‘that I should complain of you! I only lament my evil fate Again,’ he continued, ‘do not ask what troubles me.’

The more the King of Moussul persisted in concealing the cause of his affection, the more the merchant pressed him to reveal it to him. The prince prepared to depart, with the intention of keeping his secret. But at last his host compelled him by his persistence to reveal it to him.

‘Well, Abderrahman,’ said Nasiraddoleh on parting from him, ‘you wish me to speak; I will satisfy you. I love, or rather I adore, Zeineb. I was not able to see her without being inspired with the fatal love which troubles my rest. I wished to depart without making this sad admission to you; you have dragged it from me; do not be so unfriendly as to reproach me with it. Alas! I shall expiate it only too well by all the pain I shall suffer. Farewell!’

At these words he left his friend and took the road to Moussul.

The speech of Nasiraddoleh strangely surprised Abderrahman, who was a long time recovering himself after the prince’s departure. ‘Ah! unhappy man that I am,’ he cried; ‘why did I let the king see Zeineb? Ought I not to have foreseen that he could not look upon her with impunity? He will languish at his court. The women of his seraglio, beautiful as they are, will not be able to make him forget the fatal Circassian who occupies his thoughts. I judge by myself; a heart charmed by her cannot burn with any other love. It will be a reproach to me all my days that I have caused the unhappiness of a king greater by reason of his virtues than by his crown. It is I who have interrupted the course of his life’s happiness. As a price of all the marks of friendship which I have received from him, is it right that I should plunge a dagger in his heart? No! my dear prince, no! Abderrahman will not leave you in the cruel condition he has reduced you to! I am ready to sacrifice myself for you. I will yield Zeineb to you, I am resolved upon it.’

As soon as he had taken this resolution, he called some of his officers and ordered them to prepare a litter. Then he sent for Zeineb and said to her: ‘You are no longer mine, you belong to the King of Moussul; it is he whom you saw last night. He has a violent passion for you; he is amiable. You must submit without reluctance to the gift I make him of your beauty.’

At this speech the slave began to cry: ‘Is it possible,’ she said, ‘that Abderrahman abandons me after having so often sworn immortal love for me? Ah! you love me no longer; a new beauty triumphs doubtless over the power of my eyes, and you send me away only to avoid the secret reproaches which my presence would be to you.’

‘No, beautiful Zeineb,’ replied Abderrahman, quite distressed; ‘you have no rival, and I have never loved you more; I swear it by the tomb of the Great Prophet which is at Medina.’

‘And if that is so,’ interrupted Zeineb, ‘why must we separate?’

‘It makes me very sad,’ he replied; ‘but I cannot allow a prince for whom I have the tenderest friendship, and who has given me so many evidences of his for me, to lead a languishing existence. From the moment that it is a question of his peace of mind, I no longer think of my own. When I measure the distance which Nature has put between this rival and myself, there is no sacrifice that I do not think I ought to make; and, moreover, when I think that it is to make you the favourite of a sovereign, this thought, I admit, softens the blow caused me in giving you up. Go, then, and fulfil the happy destiny which awaits you at Moussul; hasten to join Nasiraddoleh, and let joy succeed grief in his heart.’

At these words, during which he shed tears, he ordered the officers he had selected to conduct Zeineb to Moussul to take her away promptly and remove her from his sight, for she was in tears, and appeared so grieved that it was almost more than he could bear. The officers put her in the litter with an old slave who waited on her, and they took the road which the King of Moussul had taken.

It was in vain that they made haste, the litter went too slowly for it to be possible to overtake Nasiraddoleh, who was mounted on the most vigorous Arab horse. He arrived in his capital several days before Zeineb, who had no sooner arrived there than one of her escort ran to the palace to inform the king that Abderrahman their master had sent him this slave.

It is impossible to describe the surprise and joy of the monarch when he heard this news. ‘O, generous friend!’ he cried, ‘were I not already persuaded that you are the most perfect friend in the world, I could not now doubt it, since you prefer my happiness to your own.’

He sent the chief of his eunuchs to receive her, and had a separate apartment given her, the most comfortable and the most magnificent in the palace. It was not long before she saw the prince appear there. He approached her, and remarking that the expression of her face was sad, ‘Beautifu Zeineb,’ he said, ‘it is not difficult to perceive that your heart does not smile upon the sacrifice which the generous Abderrahman makes me. I see that you come to Moussul rather as a victim who is led to death than as a proud beauty who sees a sovereign at her feet; you think more of the loss of a man whom you love than of the conquest of a king who adores you.’

‘My lord,’ replied Zeineb, ‘I ought to be content with the new lot which has befallen me here. I ought to rejoice at being able to give happiness to a prince such as you. I will say more. I should wish to forget the ungrateful man who abandons me, and give you his place in my heart. Why can I not, in order to revenge myself for his treachery, feel from this moment all the love for you that his deceptive ardour has inspired in me for him. But, alas! unfortunately for me, I think too much of the traitor! As long as I live he will always be present in my mind, and will unceasingly disturb the peace of my life.’ The beautiful slave, saying these words, burst into tears and sobbed so that Nasiraddoleh was deeply touched.

‘Ah, charming Zeineb!’ he cried, ‘moderate your grief, I beg of you, and let me flatter myself at least that time and my solicitude will triumph over it. Do not take from me that hope with which alone I can support life.’

The King of Moussul was not content with saying this to the beautiful slave; he threw himself at her feet, and adding to what he had just said a thousand other tender and passionate things, he made every effort to console her, but could not succeed. He saw, moreover, that the more he combated her grief the more it seemed to increase, so that he retired. He preferred to leave Zeineb to adding to her grief by his presence.

Let us return to the young merchant of Bagdad. After the departure of his beautiful slave he fell into a languor that nothing could dissipate. It was in vain that he joined in pleasure-parties. Zeineb, whom he had always in his mind, would not allow him to be happy. ‘Oh, unhappy fellow that I am!’ he often said to himself. ‘I feel I cannot live without Zeineb: why did I give her up to the King of Moussul? Is it not surpassing the limit of friendship to give up the person one adores to one’s friend? Would Nasiraddoleh have done the same for me? No, without doubt, and I am certain he does not know the value of the sacrifice that I have made for him. He thinks I loved my favourite slave indifferently, since I gave her to him without even his asking me for her. What fortunate lover has ever given up his mistress out of pity for a friend? Yet I love Zeineb as much as one can love. But, alas! what does my grief matter? What is the use of condemning myself? I would do again what I have done, whatever my grief may be at this moment. The prince to whose happiness I immolate my affection is worthy of so great a sacrifice, and he is more worthy than I to possess Zeineb.’

Abderrahman was in this frame of mind: he was in despair at having lost his slave, without repenting of having given her up to the King of Moussul. He had been leading a sad life for three months, when one day they came to arrest him by order of the grand vizir. He was told that he was accused of having spoken disrespectfully of the Commander of the Faithful during a carouse. It was in vain that he protested that not a word that could offend the caliph had escaped his lips: he was conducted to prison. Two lords of the court who were his secret enemies had invented this calumny for his destruction, and on their false evidence the grand vizir had him arrested. It was even ordered that all his goods should be confiscated that very day, his house razed to the ground, and that the following day his head should be cut off upon a scaffold which should be erected for that purpose before the caliph’s palace.

The warder of the prison where he was went during the night to inform him of his sentence. ‘My lord Abderrahman,’ he then said, ‘I sympathise greatly in your misfortune. I am all the more touched by it that I am under an obligation to you. You have twice rendered me assistance when most needed. This is an opportunity for showing my gratitude to you. I have resolved to set you at liberty, and so acquit myself towards you. Leave the prison, the doors are open to you. Fly, and escape the punishment which awaits you.’

At this speech Abderrahman, in a transport of joy, embraced the warder and thanked him for his generosity; then suddenly thinking of the danger which this man ran in setting him at liberty, he said, ‘You do not reflect that in saving my life you expose your own. I do not wish to take advantage of your generous instincts; it is not fair that I should let you perish for me.’

‘Do not trouble yourself about me,’ replied the warder; ‘tell me only whether you are innocent or guilty. Have you really spoken disrespectfully of the caliph? Disguise nothing from me. I must know the truth, and shall act accordingly.’

‘I call Heaven to witness,’ replied the young merchant, ‘that I have never spoken of the Commander of the Faithful but with all the respect due to him.’

‘That being so,’ replied the warder, ‘I know what I shall do. If you were guilty I should fly with you, but since you are not, I shall stay here and spare nothing to make your innocence apparent.’

Abderrahman thanked the warder again, and left the prison. He took refuge with one of his friends, who hid him in a spot in his house where he believed him in safety.

The following day the grand vizir, having heard of the escape of the prisoner, sent for the warder and said: ‘Oh, miserable fellow! is it thus you do your duty? You have let a prisoner escape who was in your charge, or rather you have set him at liberty yourself. If you do not find him in twenty-four hours, you will experience the fate destined for him.’

‘My lord,’ replied the warder, ‘I do not refuse to die for him; I will admit that it was I who released him. I could not endure that he should perish. I have opened his prison doors and advised him to take flight. I confess my crime. I am prepared to expiate it with the death you had prepared for the honestest man in Bagdad, and I venture to say the most innocent.’

‘And what proof,’ said the vizir, ‘have you of his innocence?’

‘The avowal made to me by himself,’ replied the warder. ‘Abderrahman is incapable of lying, but you, my lord, will permit me to say that you allowed yourself to be too easily persuaded. Do you know the young merchant’s accusers? Are you sure of their integrity, so that you can believe their word? Are they not, perhaps, the secret enemies of the accused? Do you know that envy and hatred do not arm them against him? Beware of being led away by impostors, and fear to shed innocent blood, for you will one day be obliged to give an account of the power entrusted to you. You will be rewarded if you make only a good use of it, but you will be punished if you abuse it.’

These words, spoken in a firm tone by the warder, astonished the grand vizir, and made him reflect. He had the warder imprisoned till further orders, and resolved to neglect nothing in order to discover whether the accusers of the young merchant had made their depositions in good faith; however, as he had already razed the house of the accused and confiscated his goods, he did not wish his prudence to be suspected. He ordered the cadi to have Abderrahman sought for in the neighbourhood of Bagdad.

Whilst the cadi’s lieutenant was scouring the country with his archers, the young Bagdad merchant remained hidden at his friend’s house, and, judging by the care taken to hide him that things were not going well, he feared lest the cadi would come and surprise him where he was, so he formed the design of going to Moussul. ‘There,’ he said, ‘I shall be quite safe, provided that I reach the court of Nasiraddoleh; that will soon make me forget my disgrace.’

As soon as he knew that the archers, tired of searching in vain, had returned to Bagdad, he left it one night, mounted on a very fine horse which his friend had given him, and took the road to Moussul. He made such haste that he arrived there in a very short while. He alighted at the first caravanserai, where he left his horse, and then he betook himself to the court All the officers of the king recognised him. ‘There,’ they cried, ‘is the stranger whom our monarch cherishes so much. Welcome to him!’ In a moment the news of his arrival spread in the palace, and reached the ears of Nasiraddoleh.

The prince sent for his treasurer, and said to him, ‘Go and find Abderrahman, and give him from me two hundred gold sequins. Tell him to spend them in his business, to leave my palace, and not to return for six months.’

The treasurer discharged his commission immediately, and the merchant was strangely surprised at it. It was, indeed, a very singular reception to give him, and one he was not prepared for. ‘What,’ he cried, ‘is it thus that the King of Moussul receives a man whom he has not disdained to treat as a friend? Have I done aught to displease him? Alas! I flattered myself that he would always have the same feeling for me, and this hope consoled me for all my misfortunes.’

‘Do not distress yourself,’ said the treasurer. ‘The king still loves you, and if he does not receive you better, he must have reasons for it. Do as he wishes; you will perhaps have no occasion to repent of it.’

Abderrahman left the caravanserai not knowing what to think of Nasiraddoleh. ‘What does he wish me to do,’ he said, ‘with two hundred sequins? I cannot do much business with so modest a sum. Had he given me a thousand gold sequins I might have associated myself with a great merchant and begun a new fortune.’

He took every precaution to make the most of his money; but application does not suffice for merchants to succeed in their business—they must have luck. If fortune does not second their efforts their labour is lost.

It was in vain that Abderrahman applied himself with fervour: he did not get out of his business what he had put in, so that at the end of six months he had only a hundred and fifty sequins left. He then appeared at the court.

The treasurer came to him from the king and asked him if he still had his two hundred sequins. ‘No,’ replied the young merchant, ‘a quarter of them are gone.’

‘Since that is the case,’ replied the treasurer, counting out fifty sequins, ‘here is your sum complete. Go and chance it again, and return in six months.’

The merchant was not less surprised at this speech than he was before. ‘What is Nasiraddoleh thinking of? Is it thus that he acquits himself towards me? Does he think to pay thus the sacrifice I made to him of all that I held most dear in the world? Should I not be ashamed of having fifty sequins given me? Is it a present worthy of him? I wish, however,’ he continued, ‘to do what he orders me. I shall return to this palace at the time indicated; but it will be for the last time if I am not differently received.’

He bought fresh merchandise, and began to traffic, which he did with such good fortune that at the end of six months he found he had gained nearly a hundred sequins. He did not fail to present himself at the king’s palace.

The treasurer came to receive him, and asked whether he had his two hundred sequins.

‘I have nearly three hundred,’ replied the merchant; ‘fortune has been very favourable to me this time.’

‘Since that is so,’ replied the treasurer, ‘I am going to conduct you to the king. He will make no difficulty in seeing you.’

At these words he took the young merchant by the hand, and conducted him to Nasiraddoleh’s cabinet. As soon as the prince perceived Abderrahman he rose to receive him, and after having embraced him repeatedly, ‘Oh, my dear friend!’ he said, ‘I do not doubt your having been very surprised at the reception given to you. You had reason, I confess, to expect a more agreeable one from me; but do not bear me ill-will, I beg of you. You know that misfortunes are contagious. I heard of your disgrace from a merchant of Bagdad from whom I had asked news of you. I did not dare offer you a refuge in my palace, nor even see you, for fear lest I should incur your ill-fortune, and be incapacitated from serving you when your troubles were at an end. Now,’ he continued, ‘that misfortune seems to have deserted you, nothing prevents my following the impulse of my friendship. You will remain, henceforth, at my court. I will make every effort to make you forget the troubles you have suffered.’

Nasiraddoleh had an apartment in his palace given to his friend, and nominated officers to serve him. They passed the first day at table together, and when night had come the king said to the young merchant: ‘I wish to acquit myself towards you for the sacrifice you made me of the young slave you loved. I propose to do the same by you. I am going to give to you the one most dear to me of my women; I propose to send her to you to-night on condition that you marry her.’

‘My lord,’ replied Abderrahman, ‘I thank your majesty for your kindness to me; but permit me to refuse the favour you offer me. I can love no woman after Zeineb, and I beg of you not to force me.’

‘However absorbed you may be in Zeineb,’ replied the king, ‘I doubt very much if you will be able to see the person I destine for you without becoming enamoured of her; all that I ask of you is to have an interview with her. If her intelligence and beauty have no effect upon you, I will not press you to marry her.’

‘My lord,’ replied Abderrahman, ‘I consent to see her, since you wish it. However, be assured that, in spite of all her charms, she will not be able to kindle a fresh flame in my heart.’

At last Abderrahman retired to his apartment, where he had no sooner arrived than the chief eunuch, accompanied by a veiled lady, appeared and said:

‘My lord, here is the person whom the king, my master, wishes to give you. She is the most beautiful of his women. He could not make you a more valuable present.’ Thus saying he made a profound reverence to Abderrahman, left the slave, and went out.

The young Bagdad merchant saluted the lady very politely, and begged her to seat herself on a large fine brocade sofa trimmed with gold embroidery.

She sat down. He placed himself beside her, and said:

‘Oh you, who beneath this veil represent the sun enveloped in a thick cloud, listen to me, I pray. I am certain the king’s project alarms you. You doubtless fear that, prompt to profit by his generosity, I am going to attach your fate to mine by immortal bonds; but cease to fear that I shall do you this violence. I love Nasiraddoleh too much to take from him an object he adores, and moreover, I confess I am little affected by the sacrifice which the prince wishes to make me. As I have not looked upon your charms, this avowal cannot offend you.’

He was silent after having said these words, and he awaited the slave’s reply, when all of a sudden she burst out laughing. Then she raised her veil, and the merchant recognised in her his dear Zeineb.

‘Oh, my princess!’ he cried, in a transport of joy and surprise, ‘it is you whom I see!’

‘Yes, my dear Abderrahman,’ she replied, ‘it is your Zeineb who is given back to you. The King of Moussul has not been less generous than you. As soon as he knew all my love for you, and saw that it did not yield to his attentions, he ceased pursuing me, and he has for a long time kept me here only to give me back to you.’

The beautiful Zeineb and the young merchant passed the night in testifying to each other the mutual joy they had in seeing each other again, and at the manner of their meeting.

The following morning Nasiraddoleh came to their apartment. They both threw themselves at his feet to thank him for his kindness.

He raised them and said, ‘Happy lovers, taste at your ease the pleasures of a perfect union here at my court. To unite your hearts more closely, I am going to command preparations to be made for your marriage. If I cannot cease to love Zeineb, my love shall at least only show itself in the favours I propose heaping upon you.’

He did not content himself with giving them large pensions; he assigned them more than two thousand acres of land exempt from all charges. To crown his happiness, Abderrahman received pleasant news from Bagdad. He learnt that one of his accusers, impelled by remorse, had gone and revealed everything to the grand vizir, who, on his deposition, had had the other accuser put to death, had pardoned the warder, and declared the accused innocent. Hearing this, he journeyed to Bagdad, and went to the vizir, who gave him back a part of his wealth; but he gave it all to the warder who had so generously saved him, and he returned immediately to Moussul, where he passed the rest of his days in peace and happiness.

Sutlumemé here finished the story of Nasiraddoleh, of Abderrahman, and Zeineb. The women of Farrukhnaz praised very highly the generosity of the young merchant and the King of Moussul, but Farrukhnaz remarked that the constancy of the beautiful Circassian was much more meritorious than that of her lover.

‘Oh, my princess!’ said Farrukhnaz, ‘since you seem to love the character of faithful people, I will, with your permission, relate the story of Repsima. I do not think the story will weary you.’

The princess’s women showed such a desire to hear this new story that Farrukhnaz permitted Sutlumemé to relate it.

A MERCHANT of Bassora, named Dukin, abandoned his profession to give himself up entirely to piety. He had always been very scrupulous, and in consequence had amassed very little wealth. He lived in a small house at the extremity of the town, with an only daughter, whom he brought up in the fear of the Most High, and in the practice of Mussulman virtues. They both fasted, not only on the prescribed days, but often on others for the sake of mortification.

All their time was spent in prayer and reading the Koran. They lived contented with their lot, and wanted for nothing because they desired nothing.

Careful as was Repsima (for thus was the daughter of Dukin named) to avoid men and to live regardless of the things of the world, she was, nevertheless, soon troubled in her solitude. Her virtuous reputation attracted many men, who asked her in marriage of her father, and she would have had a greater number of lovers if it had been known that her beauty equalled her virtue.

Dukin, when he reflected upon the meagreness of her fortune, hoped his daughter would marry some rich merchant; but she evinced such aversion to marriage that he did not dare to force it upon her for fear of doing violence to her feelings.

‘No, my father,’ she said, every time a suitor presented himself; ‘I do not wish to leave you. Let me live my tranquil life with you.’

They both lived together for some years in the manner I have described, after which Dukin was summoned by the Angel of Death. Repsima, seeing herself bereft of her father’s support, raised her hands to Heaven and spoke thus: ‘Sole hope of the despairing, unique resource of orphans, Heaven, who dost not abandon the unhappy who implore thy aid with confidence, thou who listenest to the voice of the innocent, do not refuse my prayer! Thou art all-powerful, thou canst preserve me; remove from me all the perils which threaten my innocence.’

After the funeral of Dukin, all the family represented to Repsima that it would be unseemly for her to live alone, and that she must marry. At the same time a young merchant named Temim was proposed to her, whose goodness and honesty they extolled. She could not at first entertain ideas so distasteful to her; but having in prayer consulted the Great Prophet, she believed herself inspired, and nothing further was needed to prevail upon her to marry Temim. The marriage took place shortly afterwards.

She found in her husband, besides the good that had been told her of him, a man disposed to love her passionately. Temim became every day more and more attached to her, and, charmed at having a wife of such rare merit, he considered himself the happiest of men. But, alas! his happiness was not of long duration. Tremble, mortals, when you think your wishes realised! The moment destined to be the last of your happiness is perhaps not far off.

Temim, a year after his marriage, was obliged to make a voyage along the Indian coast. He had a brother, whom he entrusted with the care of his domestic affairs.

‘Revendeh,’ he said to him, ‘my dear brother, keep Repsima good company during my absence, take care of my wealth. I will not say more to you. I judge of you by myself. I believe my interests are not less dear to you than your own.’

‘Yes, my brother,’ replied Revendeh, ‘you are right in having entire confidence in me, and there is no need to recommend your interests to me. Blood and friendship will not admit of my neglecting them.’

On the assurance which Revendeh gave Temim that he would take great care of his house, he departed from Bassora, and embarked on the Gulf in a vessel bound for Surat. As soon as he was gone his brother went to his house and made endless protestations of wishing to serve Repsima, who received him very well.

Revendeh, unfortunately, became desperately enamoured of his sister-in-law. He concealed his love for some time, but gradually he lost control over himself and declared his love. The lady, although incensed at her brother-in-law’s audacity, spoke to him gently and begged him not to speak of it again. She represented to him the insult he did to Temim, and how poor a result he could expect from such guilty sentiments.

Revendeh, seeing that his sister-in-law took the matter so gently, did not despair of influencing her, and became more bold:

‘Oh, my queen!’ he said, ‘all that you can say to me is useless: listen to me rather, and accept my proposals. I will become your slave to death. Let us be in harmony, and our friendship so secret as to shelter us from slander.’ At this speech Repsima could not restrain her anger. ‘Ah, wretch!’ she cried, ‘you only think of hiding your crime from the eyes of the world: you only fear to be dishonoured among the people: you are not at all affected by the wrong you do your brother, and Heaven, who sees into your soul. But cease flattering yourself: I would rather die than satisfy your criminal passion.’

Another, less brutal than Revendeh, would perhaps have reflected at these words, and have esteemed Repsima the more.

But he, seeing that he could not persuade her, resolved to bring about her destruction in revenge. This is how he set about it One night, whilst she was praying, he secretly introduced a man into Temim’s house. This man quietly entered the lady’s room. Then Revendeh, followed by four paid witnesses, broke in the door of the house, and running to where his sister-in-law was, ‘Unhappy woman!’ he cried, ‘I surprise you with a man. Is it thus you dishonour my brother? I have brought witnesses, so that it will avail you nothing to deny your crime. Wretched woman! you affect the appearance of the most austere virtue, whilst you secretly commit the most infamous actions.’ Thus saying he made so much noise that he awoke all the neighbours and made the affront public.

By this sinister artifice Revendeh made his sister-in-law appear unfaithful. He did not content himself with that; he ran to the cadi with his four witnesses, informed him of the adventure, and demanded justice of him. The judge immediately interrogated the witnesses, and on their depositions charged his lieutenant to go and seize Repsima and imprison her till the following day.

The lieutenant carried out the order, and the next day the accused was condemned to be buried alive on the high-road. This rigorous sentence was executed. The victim was conducted to a place outside the town by a great concourse of people, and she was buried up to her breast in a ditch, where she was left.

As the people returned to the town they discussed the wife of Temim. ‘It is a calumny,’ said some; ‘the matter has been judged too quickly: this woman appeared so good and virtuous.’ ‘One must not trust,’ said others, ‘to appearances: this woman has been justly condemned.’ So each one argued according to his character.

Repsima was left in the position I have described on the high-road, when, in the middle of the night, an Arab robber passed near her mounted on a horse. She cried out to him. ‘Passer-by,’ she said, ‘whoever you may be, I beg you to save my life. I have been unjustly buried alive. In the name of God, have pity on me and deliver me from the cruel death which awaits me; this good work shall not go unrewarded.’

The Arab, robber though he was, was touched with compassion. ‘I must,’ he said to himself, ‘save this unhappy creature. I have a thousand crimes on my conscience; this charitable act will perhaps dispose the Most High to pardon me.’

Thus reflecting, he dismounted, approached Repsima, and after having extracted her from the ditch, he remounted his horse and made the lady get up behind him.

‘My lord,’ she said, ‘where are you going to take me?’

‘I am going,’ he replied, ‘to take you to my tent, which is not far from here. You will be in safety there, and my wife, who is the best woman in the world, will receive you well.’

They soon arrived at an Arab encampment. They dismounted at the door of a tent, which was opened by a negro. The robber made the lady enter, and presented her to his wife, whom he told how he had met her. The Arab’s wife was naturally charitable, and it was with regret that she saw her husband pursue his calling as a robber. She received Repsima favourably, and begged her to relate her history.

The wife of Temim told her story so touchingly that she moved her hearers. The robber’s wife was especially affected by it. ‘My beautiful lady,’ she said to Repsima, with tears in her eyes, ‘I feel your troubles as much as you do yourself, and you may depend upon me to render you any service in my power.’

‘My good lady,’ said the wife of Temim, ‘I thank you for your kindness. I see that Heaven does not wish to abandon me, since I am brought in contact with people who sympathise with my misfortunes. Permit me to live with you. Give me shelter, where I may pass my days in praying for you.’

The Arab’s wife led her into a little room and said to her: ‘You will be quite at peace here; no intruders will come and interrupt you at your prayers.’ It was a great consolation to Repsima to have found this retreat. She gave thanks to Heaven without ceasing. But, alas! her troubles were not at an end; many other misfortunes happened to her.

The negro who served in the Arab’s tent, and whose duties were to groom the horses and to lead the cattle to and from the pasture, cast a profane eye upon Repsima. ‘How beautiful she is,’ he said, ‘and how sweet would be my lot if I could make her love me!’

Calid, although he was one of the most frightful monsters of his species, did not despair of becoming a happy lover. This hope and the beauty of the beloved object augmented his love to such a degree that he resolved to declare it on the first favourable opportunity.

It soon offered itself. He seized it one day when the Arab and his wife were out. He entered Repsima’s chamber. ‘I have,’ he said, ‘waited long for the moment in which I might be able to say to you that I am dying for love of you. I am about to die if you do not return my love.’

‘Oh, wretch!’ she replied, ‘how could you think you would attract my attention? Were you the handsomest and best made of men, your mad ardour would meet with no response, and you flatter yourself with the hope of pleasing me! Leave me; I only look with horror upon you. If ever,’ she continued, ‘you speak to me again of love, I shall inform your master, who will punish your insolence.’

She said these words in such a firm tone of voice that he knew he had no chance of making such a conquest. As he was not less malignant than Revendeh, he thought to revenge himself upon the woman who despised his love; but he set about it in a very strange manner. The Arab had a child in the cradle, and this son was the joy of its father and mother. One night Calid went and cut off this child’s head, and carrying the dagger with which he had done this barbarous action into Repsima’s room, he placed it under the bed of the lady whilst she slept. Moreover, he dropped blood from the child’s cradle as far as the innocent woman’s bed, as he wished suspicion to fall on her; and he even sullied her robe with blood.

The following morning, when the Arab and his wife perceived the child in the state in which the negro had left it, they uttered frightful cries, tore their faces, and put cinders on their heads. Calid ran to them and asked the cause of their grief, as if he had not known it. They showed him the cradle bathed in blood and their lifeless son. At this spectacle he feigned an extreme grief, he tore his clothes, uttered wild cries. ‘Oh, unparalleled misfortune! Oh, detestable treachery! If I did but know who had dealt the blow! If at this moment I did but hold in my hand the author of so horrible a crime, I would tear him in pieces. But,’ he added, ‘it can, I think, be discovered. We have only to follow the bloody traces of the murder.’

At these words his master and he followed the drops of blood, which led them to Repsima’s room. The negro drew from under the bed the dagger he had put there, and pointed out to the Arab that the lady’s clothes were all covered with blood. Then he said: ‘Oh, my master! you see in what manner this unhappy woman repays your kindness to her.’

The Arab was extremely amazed when he saw that he had indeed occasion to suspect Repsima of having committed so cruel an action. ‘Oh, wretched woman!’ he said, ‘is it thus that you observe the laws of hospitality? Why have you shed the blood of my son? What had this poor innocent child done to arm your hand against it? Inhuman woman! the services I have rendered you deserved to be rewarded differently.’

Thus saying he melted into tears, and gave way to despair.

‘Oh, my dear lord!’ said Calid to him, ‘should you speak thus to this miserable stranger? Do you content yourself with reproaching her? Plunge rather the fatal dagger into her breast which she has used to destroy your only son. If you do not wish to revenge yourself, let me avenge you. I will punish the wretch who is bathed in a child’s blood.’

Thus saying, he took the dagger and was about to plunge it into the heart of Repsima, who was so amazed that anyone should dare accuse her of so dark a deed that she remained in perfect silence. She had not the strength to speak to justify herself, and the negro was about to strike when the Arab stayed his arm.

‘What are you doing?’ said Calid to him. ‘Would you prevent my punishing a wicked woman, who does not recognise the laws of hospitality? Let me remove from the face of the earth a monster who will commit other crimes if spared now.’

At these words he raised his arm a second time to deliver a mortal blow to Repsima; but the Arab again restrained him and forbad him to kill her. In spite of his despair and that appearances were against the wife of Temim, he could not believe her guilty. He wanted to know what she would say to justify herself. He asked her why she had assassinated the child. She replied that she knew nothing about it, and began to weep so bitterly that the robber had pity on her.

The negro perceived this, and in spite of the prohibition his master had made against his striking the lady, he wanted to stab her. The eagerness he displayed to kill her displeased the Arab, who ordered him to retire.

‘Go, Calid!’ he said to him; ‘your zeal carries you too far: I will not have this woman’s life taken. I believe her innocent in spite of appearances.’

The robber’s wife, deeply as she felt her son’s death, also could not persuade herself that Repsima was guilty of the crime imputed to her. ‘It were better,’ she said to her husband, ‘to send away this woman without harming her than to kill her without being certain of her guilt.’

The Arab agreed, and said to Repsima, ‘Whether you are innocent or guilty, I can no longer shelter you here. Every time my wife and I saw you we should remember our son, and every day the sight of you would renew our grief. Leave this tent, and go and choose a refuge where you wish. You should be thankful to me for my moderation. Instead of taking your life I even wish to give you money to live on.’

Repsima extolled the justice of the Arab, and said to him that Heaven was too just not to reveal to him one day the author of the crime. Then she thanked him for his kindness to her. But when he presented to her a purse containing a hundred gold sequins, she said, ‘Keep your money, and leave me to Providence; it will have care for me.’

‘No, no,’ he replied, ‘I insist on your taking these sequins; they will not be useless to you.’

She accepted them, and after having begged the robber’s wife not to think ill of her, she left the Arab habitation.

She walked all day without resting, and at the beginning of the night she arrived at the gates of a town not far from the sea. She knocked by chance at the door of a small house where a good old woman lived, who opened the door and asked what she wanted.

‘Oh, mother!’ replied Repsima, ‘I am a stranger. I have just arrived in this town; I know no one in it. I beg you to be charitable enough to receive me into your house.’

The old woman consented and gave her a little room.

Then the wife of Temim, taking out of her purse a sequin, gave it to her hostess and said:

‘Here, my good mother, go and get provisions for our supper.’

The old woman went out, and returned shortly afterwards with some dates and preserves, and they both began to eat. After supper Repsima related her story to the old woman, who was much touched by it: then they went to bed.

The following day Temim’s wife wished to bathe: the old woman accompanied her. When they were on their road, they saw a young man whose hands were tied, and who had a rope round his neck: the executioner was leading him to punishment, and a crowd of people were following him. Repsima asked what crime the young man had committed: she was told that he was a debtor, and that the custom of the country was to hang those who did not pay their debts.

‘And how much does he owe?’ said Temim’s wife.

‘He owes sixty sequins,’ they replied; ‘if you pay for him you will save his life.’

‘Very willingly,’ she replied, drawing out her purse. ‘To whom must I give the money?’

The cadi was immediately informed that a young lady offered to pay for the debtor.

The creditor was summoned. Repsima counted out sixty sequins to him, and the young man was immediately set at liberty. All the people, charmed at the stranger’s generosity, were anxious to know who she was, so that instead of going to the public baths she took leave of her old hostess, and left the town to escape the importunate curiosity of the inhabitants.

However, the young man who had just escaped from death sought out his deliverer to thank her. And when told that she had left the town, he inquired what route she had taken, and followed her. He came up with her on the edge of a fountain, where she had stopped to rest; he saluted her very respectfully, and offered to be her slave in order to show his gratitude.

‘No,’ she said, ‘I do not wish you to buy so dearly the service I have done you; you are not so indebted to me as you imagine. It is not out of love for you that I saved you from death; it is solely for the love of the Most High.’

Whilst she was speaking thus the young man had his eyes upon her, and, struck by her great beauty, he became enamoured of her. He declared his love on the spot, and, persuaded that he would not find a better occasion, he threw himself at the feet of Repsima, and conjured her in the most passionate terms to respond to the ardour she inspired in him; but the chaste wife of Temim, instead of seeing with pleasure a lover at her feet, was enraged against him, and treated him with no more favour than the negro: ‘O wretch,’ she said, ‘you know that without me you would not be alive at this moment. Your life would have been taken, and yet you dare attack my fidelity; you are even insolent enough to speak to me of your love.’

‘Beautiful lady,’ replied the young man, ‘I did not think to insult you when I expressed to you all the sentiments which gratitude, and the sight of you aroused in my heart. Is it such a great insult to you to tell you that you have charmed me?’

‘Silence, wretch,’ interrupted Repsima, ‘do not think you can prevail upon me to listen to you; it is in vain that you hide your sinister design under respectful words, I can easily detect it beneath your flattering speech. Go, fly from me, and do not force me to regret the service I have done you.’

The manner in which she spoke made the young man see that he had nothing to hope for. He rose without saying anything, and went towards the sea-shore.

He saw a vessel stop, the crew of which were landing; they were Bassora merchants who were going to Serendib; he approached them and asked for the captain.

‘I have,’ he said, ‘a perfectly beautiful slave whom I wish to sell; she does not love me; I have resolved to get rid of her; I left her at the edge of a fountain near here, buy her, I will sell her to you very cheap. I will give her to you for three hundred sequins.’

‘I take you at your word,’ replied the captain, ‘provided she is young, and as beautiful as you say.’

Thereupon the young man led the captain towards the fountain, where Repsima after her ablution was engaged in prayer. The captain had no sooner seen her than he counted out three hundred sequins to the young man, who took his way back to the town.

The captain who had just bought Repsima approached her, and said, ‘O ravishing beauty, I am enchanted at what I have just done. I have seen many slaves, I have bought more than a thousand in my life-time, but I must admit that you surpass them all. Your eyes are more beautiful than the sun, and your figure is above compare.’

If this speech surprised Repsima, she was much more astonished when the captain put out his hand to her, saying:

‘Come, my princess, I am going to take you on board, and put you in a room on the poop. We shall be setting sail in a minute, we will make the voyage to Serendib together, and on our return to Bassora you shall be the mistress of my wealth and of my house, for I do not propose to sell you. If I have bought you from this young man, whom you do not love, it is in order to make you the happiest person in the world. I shall show you all possible affection and consideration.’

At these words, to which Repsima listened very impatiently, she interrupted the captain:

‘What are you saying?’ she cried, ‘I have never been a slave, I am free, and no one has the right to sell me.’ Thus saying, she abruptly repulsed the captain’s hand.

He was naturally abrupt and violent, he was shocked at the way in which she received the pleasant remarks he thought he was making to her. He suddenly changed his tone.

‘What, little creature,’ he said, ‘is it thus you speak to your master? I have bought you with my money, you are my slave, I shall take you whether you will or no.’ Saying these words, he took her in his arms, and in spite of her resistance, he carried her off as a wolf does a sheep that has wandered from the fold. It was in vain that the air resounded with her cries, he put her on board, and soon the vessel set sail.

The captain left Repsima to herself for some days, but seeing that she regarded him with no more favour however tender he was to her, he lost patience and insisted one day that she should be responsive to his love. She found herself in no way disposed to yield to the entreaties of her master, who, losing patience, was about to treat her very harshly, when a terrible storm arose. In a moment so furious a wind sprung up that the masts, rigging, and sails were carried away.

The sailors did not know what to do, and the pilot, abandoning the ship to the mercy of the wind and waves, cried:

‘O passengers, if any one of you has committed crimes, and violated the laws of the Prophet, let him ask pardon of Heaven; there is no time to lose, we are all about to perish.’ The tempest indeed increased, and the vessel, after fighting for a few moments against the waves, was at last submerged.

All the persons on board perished, excepting Repsima and the captain. They both saved themselves on a plank, and were washed ashore each in a different spot. The wife of Temim was carried by the waves on to the shore of a thickly populated island, governed by a woman.

By chance a great number of the inhabitants were on the sea shore. When they perceived Repsima in the water and saw her cast up on their island they looked upon it as a miracle. They all surrounded her and asked her a thousand questions.

To better satisfy their curiosity she related her adventures to them, and conjured them to grant her a refuge where she could live in peace. The inhabitants, charmed with her beauty, intelligence, and virtue, gave her a refuge where she passed several years in prayer.

The inhabitants of the island admired the austerity of her life exceedingly. They talked only of the stranger and the purity of her life, she even soon became their oracle. When some among them wished to make a long journey, or formed any other enterprise, before executing it they did not fail to go and consult her, and she predicted their fortune. Finally, she gained the esteem of everybody; or, rather, she was looked upon as a divinity. The queen of the island conceived so much friendship for her, that, thinking she could not do better than make her queen over her people, she declared her her heiress with the approval of all the inhabitants. The queen was very advanced in years; she soon died. Repsima was somewhat reluctant to take her place, but the people forced her to it, and they had no occasion to repent of it, for she made them so happy that they afterwards blessed the shipwreck which had cast her on their shores.

As soon as she was on the throne she applied herself entirely to the government of the State. She selected vizirs as upright as they were enlightened, and she took particular care to render justice to every one. She spent in prayer every moment that her duties as queen allowed her. She fasted, and the more she saw herself honoured by men, the more she humiliated herself before the Omnipotent. When anyone fell sick and had recourse to her, begging her to pray Heaven to cure them, she redoubled her prayers and the Lord granted them. The inhabitants of the kingdom could not hold out against the miracles they witnessed. They renounced the worship of the sun and embraced Mahomedanism. She established the sacred laws, and had mosques built on the ruins of idolatry.

She also had hospitals built for the poor, and caravanserais for the strangers who came to the island. She spent great sums in providing these places with every necessary, and soon the sick of all nations were seen arriving on the island, seeking the relief of their ills on the strength of the queen’s reputation.

One day they came to tell Repsima that there were six strangers in a caravanserai, who asked to speak to her, that one of them was blind, another partly paralysed, and another dropsical. She ordered them to be brought to her immediately; at the same time she seated herself on a magnificent throne. She had on her one hand fifty or sixty slaves richly dressed, and on the other all the great people of her court.

When the strangers arrived at the palace two lords conducted them before the queen, whose face as well as those of all her slaves was covered with a thick veil. The strangers prostrated themselves with their faces to the ground until Repsima ordered them to rise. Then she asked them what they wanted of her, and whence they came.

One who spoke for the others replied, ‘O great queen, may God make your armies to triumph, may the earth obey you, and Heaven be favourable to you. We are unfortunate sinners, and we come here to obtain through the intercession of your majesty the pardon of our sins by the Almighty.’

‘Speak more clearly,’ replied the queen, after having scrutinised them. ‘I can do nothing for you unless you publicly relate your adventures without suppressing any detail.’

‘Princess,’ replied one of the strangers, ‘you must be obeyed. I am a merchant from Bassora. I married a girl who was without parallel in the world; she was perfectly beautiful, gentle, and virtuous. Being obliged to travel one day, I left her in my house, mistress of her actions. I begged my brother, the blind man whom you see here, to look after my domestic affairs. On my return he told me that he had detected my wife in sin and that she had been buried alive, that this event had grieved him so much because of me, and that he had wept over it so much that he had lost his sight. That, great queen,’ he added, ‘is my story. I therefore beg you very humbly to give back my brother’s sight. It is to pray this of you that I have come and have brought him here.’

Temim, for it was he who spoke to Repsima without knowing her, here ceased speaking. He awaited the answer of the queen, who was so surprised to see her husband there that she could not immediately reply to him, but having recovered from her agitation she said: ‘Is it true that the woman who was buried alive was unfaithful to you? What do you think?’

‘I cannot believe it,’ replied Temim, ‘when I recall all her virtues. But, alas! I have a great confidence in my brother, and that makes me doubt her innocence.’

When the Bassora merchant had spoken thus, the queen said: ‘That is enough; I know better than you whether your wife has been justly condemned. I will let you know to-morrow and we will see whether your brother can recover his eyesight.’ A man in company with Temim then spoke thus: ‘I have a negro slave whom I bought and have brought up from infancy. He has been partly paralysed for years, no doctor can cure him; I bring him here to recommend him to your majesty’s prayers.’

After the queen had heard this speech, and knew that the man who had addressed her was the Arab robber with whom she had lived, and that the paralytic was the very black slave who had tempted her virtue, she said: ‘That is enough, I am well informed on the subject that brings you, it can be decided to-morrow. And you,’ she said turning towards another, ‘what is your malady?’

‘O queen!’ he replied, ‘I do not know to what to attribute my malady, if it is not to the violence I wished to do to a beautiful slave whom I bought some years ago from a young man who sold her to me on the sea-shore.’

The queen, at these words, recognised him as the captain to whom she had been sold. She did not show that she knew him any more than the others, and she let him continue thus. ‘I look,’ he added, ‘upon my misfortune as a punishment from Heaven.’

‘And I,’ cried one of the strangers, ‘I look upon the fits from which I suffer from time to time as a well-deserved punishment for having sold you the slave whom you took on board against her will. I am still more guilty than you, for she was a free woman to whom I owed my life, and in return I gave her over to you and placed her in slavery.’

From this Repsima knew that the man who had just spoken was he whom she had saved from death for sixty sequins. Then she said to the six strangers, ‘I will pray for your relief. Return to your caravanserai and return to-morrow at the same time. The blind man and the paralytic may be cured provided they make a sincere confession of the crimes they have committed. I know their adventures; but I demand of them to be sincere and not to introduce any false detail into their story, for they will repent it. Instead of interesting myself in them, I shall punish them very rigorously.

‘As for the others,’ she continued, ‘I promise from this moment to pray for them, for they have already told the truth.’

The six strangers returned to their caravanserai. Four were already very pleased. The brother of Temim and the black slave alone were sad. They would have preferred remaining all their lives in the plight they were in, than be obliged to make a public confession of their treachery and their brutality. They tried to conceal their grief from the eyes of those whom they had offended; they passed a sleepless night.

However, the following morning, they were obliged to follow the others. They all went to the palace, and appeared before the queen who was on her throne as on the preceding day. ‘Well!’ she said, as soon as she saw them, ‘are the blind man and the paralytic resolved to disguise nothing? Woe to either of them who does not tell the truth.’ Then the negro advanced full of shame and terror, as he saw it would do him no good to lie, he resolved, at the risk of all that might happen, to make a clean breast of all that had passed with regard to Repsima. He confessed that he had conceived a violent passion for the lady, and that seeing himself rejected, in order to bring about her destruction, he had determined to kill the Arab’s only son.

When the negro had confessed all. ‘This,’ he said, ‘is my crime, and Heaven is witness that I repent.’

‘Ah, traitor,’ cried the Arab robber in a transport of rage, ‘so it is you who robbed me of my only son? O queen,’ he added addressing Repsima, ‘permit me to cut off his head immediately. A wretch who is capable of committing the crime he has confessed, is not fit to live!’

‘No,’ replied the queen, ‘I do not wish you to take his life.’

‘I understand, princess,’ replied the Arab, ‘you justly oppose my rage. It were better this wretch should remain paralytic. Death will end his troubles only too soon.’

‘You are mistaken,’ replied Repsima, ‘it is not in order to prolong his troubles that I wish him to live. Since he repents of his crime, we must pray the Most High to pardon him.’ Then she prostrated herself at the foot of the throne, and the body of the negro was seen immediately to resume its vitality.

All the spectators were surprised at so marvellous a thing, and praised God and the queen a thousand times. She also prayed for the man with dropsy and for the epileptic, and both these men were perfectly cured.

Then Temim, not doubting that his brother would recover his eyesight, said to him: ‘O Revendeh! it is for you to speak; the queen is only waiting for that to work a fresh miracle in your favour.’

‘Yes, but,’ said Repsima, ‘let him relate his story, and beware of saying what is not true, for I know all his adventures, and if I detect the least falsehood, punishment awaits him.’

Revendeh, judging by these words that if he persisted in keeping silence, or if he dared to lie, he would be punished on the spot, resolved at last to confess everything. As he sincerely repented of having betrayed his brother, and believed his sister-in-law to be dead, he gave a very touching story of his treachery without seeking to exculpate himself. When he had finished speaking the queen said:

‘He has been very sincere, and has advanced nothing out of conformity with the truth.’

Temim, at these words, which revealed to him all his brother’s malignity and Repsima’s innocence, uttered a great cry and fell down in a swoon. Some of the queen’s officers ran to his aid, and when he had recovered his senses, he prostrated himself before the throne and said: ‘O my princess! permit me to conduct my treacherous brother back to Bassora. I do not ask for him to be cured, I only desire his death. I wish to conduct him to the very place where my wife has been buried alive and there assassinate him. His crime is too black to be pardoned.’ The queen remained for some time without answering, because she was weeping behind her veil, so touched was she at the state her husband was in. When she had dried her tears, she addressed him thus: ‘O merchant of Bassora! I conjure you to moderate your anger for my sake. Your brother has, indeed, committed a great crime; but since he publicly confesses it, remember you are both of the same blood, and let him off the punishment you wished to inflict on him.’

At these words Temim replied: ‘It is for your majesty to command. You wish me to forgive him. I consent to do so provided that he sincerely repents and never accuses anyone falsely again.’ Hardly had the Bassora merchant told the queen that he forgave Revendeh than the princess, with her face to the ground, prayed Heaven to restore his sight to the blind man. Her prayer was heard; at that moment Revendeh’s sight was restored.

At this spectacle the applause was renewed. All the assembly began again to praise God and the queen, who sent the strangers back to their caravanserai, saying: ‘Return here to-morrow, you may see things which will surprise you more perhaps than those which have astonished you to-day.’ The following day they did not fail to return to the palace. The queen called Temim and made him sit upon a gold chair which she had had placed beside the throne for this purpose. Then she said to him: ‘O merchant of Bassora, you have suffered much grief and pain. I enter into your misfortunes, and in order to help you forget them, I have resolved to give you the most beautiful of my slaves in marriage, and you shall remain at my court, if you wish.’

Instead of accepting the queen’s proposal, Temim began to weep, and said to the queen: ‘Your majesty overwhelms me with favours and I am grateful for all your kindnesses, but I beg you not to be angry with me if I refuse the offer you make me of the hand of one of your slaves; as long as I live no other woman but Repsima can occupy my thoughts. My dear Repsima is ever present in my mind. I cannot console myself for having lost her, and I am resolved to go and spend the rest of my days in lamentation on the spot where she has been so unjustly buried alive.’

Repsima was enchanted to find her husband so faithful, and, charmed at his refusal of the young slave, she said: ‘If I prayed the Almighty to bring back to life the woman whose loss grieves you so, would you be very glad to see her again, and if you saw her would you recognise her?’ Thus saying she lifted her veil and Temim recognised Repsima.

His joy at meeting his wife could only be equalled by the astonishment of the other strangers at recognising in the queen the features of the person they had insulted. The princess embraced Temim, and related her adventures in the presence of all the lords of her court, who wondered at them. Then she had ten thousand ducats, with a rich brocade vest and a magnificent robe for his wife, given to the Arab robber; a thousand ducats to the captain, and as many to the young man who had sold her. After that she rose from her throne, took Temim by the hand and led him into her cabinet, where they both commenced to thank Heaven for having brought them together again. Then Repsima said to her husband: ‘Since the laws of the kingdom do not permit of my despoiling myself of the royal authority to vest you with it, you will, at least, remain in my palace, and will share with me a pleasant life, and we will make your brother as happy as he could wish.’

Revendeh soon became prime minister, and acquitted himself so well of his task that he gained the esteem and friendship of all the inhabitants of the island.

THE following day Sutlumemé said, ‘Allow me to tell you a little story which proves that travelling is not altogether dangerous.’ Farrukhnaz was willing, and the slave began thus:

Salem and Ganem were friends, and were making a several days’ journey together. One day they arrived at a high mountain, and in skirting its base, they found a fountain, the water of which was fresh and excellent. Near the fountain was a canal of water, bordered and shaded by cypresses, pines, and plantains, which flowed in the midst of a meadow strewn with flowers, and which made the place still more agreeable. All these delights invited the two travellers to stop there and take a little rest, in order to recover from the fatigues of crossing a dreary desert. They chose a suitable spot, where they seated themselves on the grass. After they had rested some time, they walked round the fountain and along the canal. They approached the place where the water of the spring fell into a large basin, and on the edge of it they perceived a piece of white marble ornamented with azure characters so well formed that it was easy to judge of the skill of the workman who had carved them.

The inscription ran thus: ‘Traveller, who honour this spot with your presence, we have a magnificent lodging in which to receive you if you will be our guest, but on condition that you swim across this canal, without fearing its depth or the rapidity of the current.

‘When you have reached the further bank, you will take the marble lion which lies at the foot of the mountain upon your shoulder, and, without hesitation, you will carry it without pausing to the summit, without regard to the roaring lions you may meet or the thorns on your path. This done, you will be happy for ever. Without walking, rest is not obtained. He who does not work does not obtain what he wishes. The light of the sun fills the whole universe: the least delicate and the more determined receive and endure its keenest and most ardent rays.’

Having finished reading, Ganem said to Salem, ‘Come, let us surmount the danger put before us. Let us try and see whether the promise of the talisman is genuine: let us see what will happen to us.’

‘Dear friend,’ replied Salem, ‘there would be little sense in exposing oneself to so evident a danger on the strength of a simple writing which promises a very uncertain happiness. A reasonable man would not risk his life for so imaginary an advantage as that, and a wise man would not court present and visible danger for a non-apparent pleasure. Believe me, a thousand years of delight are not worth a moment’s risk of one’s life.’

Ganem was not influenced by these maxims. ‘Comrade,’ he replied, ‘the desire to live at one’s ease without risking anything is the precursor of a contemptible and ignominious life: but the road to glory and happiness is through danger. He who gives way to effeminacy tastes neither the joy nor pleasure of having suffered, and he who fears headache denies himself the sweetness of good wine. He who has courage does not limit his happiness to the leading of a penurious and miserable life.

‘True repose is that which superiority over one’s fellow creatures gives one. Let us deliberate no longer.

‘It is not less to our honour than to our interest not to continue our journey until we have climbed to the summit of this mountain, in spite of the rapid current, in spite of the lions and the thorns. We shall suffer somewhat, but after that we may hope that in reward for our troubles and the deserts we have crossed we shall find beautiful countries.’

‘Do as you wish,’ replied Salem; ‘for myself, I cannot help saying that it is not less foolish to undertake what you propose than to wish to cross a desert, the extremity of which one is not certain to find soon, or to embark on a sea the shores of which are never to be found.

‘In whatever enterprise one undertakes one should always know how one will come out of it, and how to begin so as not to work uselessly and not to expose one’s life, which we ought to cherish more than anything else in the world. Listen to the words of a sage, who says:

‘“Wherever you are about to step never put out your foot without having well tested the spot on which you wish to place it, and seeing that the egress is sufficiently large.”

‘Moreover, perhaps this writing is not very correct, or it has been put there simply for amusement and to take advantage of the simplicity of fools; mayhap, too, the water is not to be passed, and it is not possible to gain the other shore. Even if you could cross, perhaps when you have crossed you will find the stone lion so heavy that you will not be able to even lift it from the ground. But, supposing you can lift it, are you sure of being able to carry it without stopping to the summit of the mountain? And after all you do not know what so many difficulties will lead to. For myself, I declare that I have not joined company with you in order to share a danger of this nature. All I can do is to conjure you to abandon, as I do, so ill-conceived a design.’

Ganem still resisted Salem’s arguments. ‘I cannot,’ he said, ‘listen to your prayer, and nothing can prevent my carrying out the resolution I have taken. Neither demons nor spirits shall deter me by their warnings. I know you did not join me on this journey in order to follow me in this, and I see you do not wish to oblige me so far. Come at least and approach only to see and accompany what I am going to do with your prayers and your vows. Let me remind you of what a poet says: “I know that you are not given to drinking wine; nevertheless, do not mind coming into the wine-shop to see the drinkers with their glasses in their hands.”’

When Salem saw that Ganem was resolved, he said again to him: ‘From this jest which offends me I recognise that you are not affected by my counsels, and that you will not desist from your intention, which has no good foundation. I do not feel equal to witnessing the carrying out of it. Besides, I am not curious to witness a spectacle to which I have a natural repugnance. So I will let you alone and avoid what would give me pain to see.’

So saying, he bade farewell to Ganem and continued his journey.

When Ganem was alone he approached the canal. ‘I must,’ he said, ‘plunge into this sea either to perish in it or to bring out of it the pearl I hope for.’

Thus resolved, he plunged into the water, which was very deep and very rapid; but he acquitted himself so well in this courageous attempt that he landed happily on the other bank. He drew breath, took the marble lion on his shoulders and ascended to the summit of the mountain without pausing, notwithstanding the difficulties he encountered and the weight of his burden, which he put on the ground on reaching the top.

On the other side, at the foot of the mountain, Ganem perceived a beautiful town, the suburbs of which were scattered with well-built country houses with large gardens, which were charming to look upon. The marble lion suddenly uttered so terrible a cry that the mountains shook and the surrounding country re-echoed. At this cry, which was heard in the town, the inhabitants came crowding out and advanced towards the mountain, which caused Ganem no less astonishment than the cry of the lion. The more prominent and distinguished among them advanced at the head of the others and made profound obeisance to Ganem and complimented him highly, wishing him every prosperity. Then they presented to him a beautiful horse richly caparisoned. He mounted it, and they escorted him to the town with all the people who had come to meet him. They conducted him to a magnificent palace, and made him enter a rose-water bath, after which they rubbed him with essence of musk and amber. They finally clothed him with a royal mantle, proclaimed him their king, and did homage to him.

Until now Ganem had not thought anything extraordinary of the honours done to him, he had looked upon them as a result of the singular consideration on the part of this people towards strangers, but when he saw that they proclaimed him king, he asked the reason of the choice which they had made of him to command and reign over them.

‘Sire,’ replied one of the heads of the people, ‘the ancient philosophers of this country have placed a talisman on the fountain which you have seen, drawn up beneath constellations made according to the rules of their art. When any brave man, after having swum across the water, carries the marble lion to the summit of the mountain —which only happens when the king of this town and State is dead—the town, as your majesty has seen, goes out to meet him on the roaring of the lion, and places him on the throne in the place of the deceased. For a number of years and even centuries this custom has been in usage amongst us.’

At this speech Ganem knew that all the troubles and difficulties he had encountered had been so many steps to arrive at this great good fortune, and that when fine actions have glory for their object, glory on its side takes all the steps necessary for their reward.

‘From this adventure,’ added the slave, ‘you can easily conclude that pleasure is only enjoyed after hardship. It is a maxim as old as the world, and you will find it in every book on morals.’

THE nurse related many other stories, doubtless less memorable than those we have chronicled, since the memory of them has not come down to us.

She had been amusing the princess for a thousand and one days when Farrukrouz fell ill. The king, Togrul Bey, who loved his son tenderly, sent for the most skilful physicians in Hindostan, but they could not cure him. The consternation which his dangerous malady spread at court suspended all amusements. The Princess of Cashmere would hear no more stories. Togrul Bey ceased hunting. The prince alone occupied their thoughts, everyone trembled for his life.

One day the king, who often went to see the high priest of the temple, said to him: ‘You know that I love my son better than life. The doctors have exhausted all their art without being able to restore his health. I expect nothing from their remedies, and I have recourse to your prayers. I flatter myself with the hope that through your intercession I shall obtain what I desire.’

‘Everything is to be hoped for,’ replied the priest, ‘when one implores the mercy of Heaven. I am going to pass the night in the temple, I shall pray Heaven to intercede for the prince, and to-morrow I will tell you whether my prayers have been granted.’

The following day the priest went to Togrul Bey, who, full of impatience, advanced to meet him. ‘Well, holy dervish,’ he said, ‘have you obtained the recovery of my son?’

‘Yes, sire,’ replied the priest. ‘The Prophet has asked it of the Lord, who has been gracious enough to grant it.’

At this answer the king, seized with joy, embraced the holy man, and conducted him himself to the apartment of the prince Farrukrouz.

The dervish sat down beside the bed of the sick man, and said a prayer in a voice full of mystery.

He had barely finished than the prince, who had long lost the power of speech, uttered a cry and said: ‘O my father, be consoled, I am cured!’ At these words he rose, and in the town of Cashmere they spoke only of the holiness of the high priest.

Farrukhnaz could not hear the praises of so devout a person without wishing to see him and converse with him. To do this, she left the palace accompanied by her eunuchs and her women, and went to the monastery of the priest; but she was very surprised when they came to tell her that the high priest forbad her to enter. The princess, annoyed at this rebuff, went immediately to complain to the king, who wished to know the cause of it. He went to the chief priest, and asked him why he had made a difficulty about receiving a visit from Farrukhnaz.

‘My lord,’ replied the dervish, ‘it is because the princess is not obedient to the Most High; she flies from men, she looks upon them as her enemies and lives in idleness. Unless she changes her views it is not permitted to me to speak to her. Heaven has forbidden me to do so, but,’ he added, ‘if she corrects herself I will do her every service in my power.’ The king, having nothing to reply to this speech, returned to his seraglio.

Some days after, Togrul Bey went again to visit the dervish, who said, ‘I have at last obtained from Heaven permission to speak to the princess. I wish to exhort her; perhaps I may put her in the way of salvation.’ The king, enchanted that the holy man had taken this resolution, informed Farrukhnaz, who the very next day did not fail to present herself at the gate of the monastery and ask for the holy dervish. The porter made her enter, and conducted her by order of the high priest into a great hall, where he begged her to wait a moment.

On the wall in three different places were seen painted a doe caught in a trap and a stag who was making every effort to deliver her, and in one place only was represented a stag caught, and a doe who looked at it in the trap without troubling to help it. The princess looked upon these pictures with astonishment.

‘What do I see?’ she said. ‘Just Heaven, here is the opposite to my dream! These three stags make every effort to deliver the does, and I perceive a doe forsaking a stag. What am I to think of these? Ah! I am doubtless mistaken in my estimate of men! They are more grateful than I thought. How sorry I am to have done them this injustice.’

Whilst the princess was reflecting thus, the high priest entered the hall gravely. She wished to throw herself at his feet; but he prevented her, and having made her sit down, he said, ‘O Farrukhnaz, the king your father is very distressed to see you influenced by sentiments so contrary to nature and the laws of the Lord. You are in the power of the demon; it is he who has prejudiced you against men. I have prayed the great Prophet to have pity on you; but in spite of his power, do not think that he can extract you from the abyss you have fallen into if you do not make some effort on your part to get out of it.’

The dervish perceiving that the princess now began to weep, so frightened was she at this speech, said to her: ‘My daughter, dry your tears! I see your heart is changed. I promise to snatch you from the demon, provided that you yield to my advice.’

Farrukhnaz promised to do all that he prescribed for her, then she kissed the holy man’s hand and returned to the palace.

The following day she returned to the monastery, and when she was alone with the dervish, he said: ‘Princess, I have seen the great Prophet to-night in a dream. He said to me: “O religious man, Farrukhnaz is no longer hated by the Most High; she has no longer a bad opinion of men. But she must have pity on a young prince who burns and languishes for her night and day; for the Almighty has written on the tablet of predestination that she shall be his spouse.”’

The princess was astonished at these words. ‘How can I,’ she said, ‘relieve the young prince if I do not know who he is?’

‘The Prophet,’ replied the high priest, ‘tells me that he is the Prince of Persia; that he is called Farrukschad; that he is so handsome, so charming, that no mother ever gave birth to so perfect a man.’

‘Oh, my father,’ replied Farrukhnaz, ‘what you say surprises me. Can a young prince who has never seen me be enamoured of me?’

‘I will tell you,’ replied the dervish, ‘how that is; for the Prophet, who foresaw all the questions you would ask me, took care to instruct me in all the details; so that, to satisfy your curiosity fully, I will tell you that the Prince Farrukhschad dreamt that he saw you in a meadow. Charmed with your beauty, he wished to declare his love to you; but you left him abruptly, saying that all men were but traitors. The pain your disappearance caused him awoke him; but far from seeking to put this sad dream from him, he took pleasure in dwelling upon it. It was always in his thoughts, and although hopeless of possessing your charms he cherishes the memory of them.’

At this speech of the high priest the Cashmerian princess sighed deeply, and raising her eyes to heaven: ‘O God,’ she cried, ‘is it possible this prince can have dreamt the same dream as myself! Holy dervish,’ she continued, ‘the Prophet has not told you everything. I also dreamt that I saw, in a meadow scattered with every kind of flower, the handsomest prince in the world; that he made me a declaration of love which I received ill. But whilst ill-treating him I felt that my heart began to interest itself in him, and I was obliged to fly precipitately from him for fear lest his good looks and flattering speeches triumphed over the hatred I had for men. This hatred was the effect of another dream, to which these pictures give the lie. I recognise my mistake; I think better of men. I believe them capable of friendship; and if it is the will of Heaven that I marry the Prince of Persia, I submit without repugnance.’

The high priest was charmed to hear the princess speak thus, and, profiting by her present disposition: ‘My daughter,’ he said, ‘I wish to pass the night in the temple, and consult Heaven as to what you must do to obtain the realisation of your wishes; I will tell you his answer to-morrow.’

Farrukhnaz retired, thinking much of the Prince Farrukhschad. She recalled perpetually to her memory the dream in which he had appeared before her so amorously; and the more inclined she felt towards him the more charming she depicted him to herself. She was very uneasy the rest of the day, and she could not sleep a wink all night.

As soon as the day dawned she rose to go and find the dervish, who saw immediately that she was somewhat disturbed. She did not wait for him to tell her Heaven’s answer. ‘Well, my father,’ she said; ‘has Heaven ruled my destiny? Has it made known to you what is exacted of my obedience?’

‘Yes, my daughter,’ replied the holy man; ‘the great Prophet has spoken to me. He wishes you to take an oath to do all that I am going to order you.’

The princess swore that she would execute his orders exactly.

‘We must,’ he said, ‘depart to-night. I will lead you to the State of the prince who loves you, and who will endow you with a crown richer than that of Cashmere. You are doubtless astonished that I should propose an elopement, but the Prophet wishes it.’

‘What!’ interrupted Farrukhnaz, very surprised; ‘he orders me, without telling the king, my father, to leave the court of Cashmere to go and seek a prince who is not yet my husband!’

‘I do not say that,’ replied the high priest; ‘Togrul-Bey will know of your departure. I undertake to get his consent; but the Prophet thinks it expedient that things should be done thus in order to make you expiate your pride.’

‘This step,’ replied the princess, ‘is not to my taste, I confess; however, I am ready to follow you, provided that my father consents.’

‘I answer for his consent,’ replied the dervish; rely on me for that. Return to the palace and prepare to depart.

Farrukhnaz did what the holy man prescribed, and he went shortly afterwards to the king. He found Togrul Bey talking to the princess’s nurse. As soon as the king saw him appear, he said to him: ‘Approach, holy dervish, you are welcome! We were speaking of the quick change that has taken place in the heart of my daughter: you are responsible for this wonder. She hated men: you have in a moment triumphed over this hatred. One conversation with you has done more than all the stories of Sutlumemé.’

‘Sire,’ replied the high priest, ‘I have gone further; Farrukhnaz not only no longer hates men, she is even enamoured of the Prince of Persia.’

Then the dervish related all that had passed between the princess and himself, and declared the wishes of the Prophet.

Togrul Bey, after having reflected some time, said to the high priest: ‘I regret to see my daughter obliged to depart thus, but since the Prophet commands, I shall take care not to oppose it. Moreover, she will be under your escort; I need fear nothing.’

The king consented to the departure of Farrukhnaz, who left Cashmere that very night, with her nurse and the dervish only; for the holy man assured the princess that the Prophet wished her to make the journey unaccompanied.

They were all three on horseback. They travelled all night without stopping; they arrived at daybreak in a meadow where a thousand varieties of sweet-smelling flowers rejoiced the eye. The meadow bordered on a garden, the walls of which were of white marble. At one end of the wall rose a cabinet of red sandal-wood, with a gilt balcony, and below flowed a stream of the finest water in the world, which ran through the meadow and watered the flowers. The beauty of the place inviting them to stop, they dismounted, and seated themselves on the bank of the stream.

They were charmed with such a delicious spot; but whilst they were admiring it the dervish suddenly changed colour. His face became deadly pale, and his body trembled. Farrukhnaz and her nurse, alarmed at this change, asked the reason of it.

‘O my princess,’ replied the dervish, casting terrified glances on the daughter of Togrul Bey, ‘what demon has brought us here? This cabinet above us, this meadow, the walls of this garden all announce to me that this is the redoubtable dwelling of the magician Mehrefza. If she sees us, we are lost. Alas! I call Heaven to witness that I tremble only for you: if I were alone, I would form a great project, and I feel courageous enough to carry it out.’

‘Do,’ said Farrukhnaz, ‘as if we were not with you. If our evil destiny is to perish here, at least I will fulfil it with firmness worthy of my noble blood.’

‘Ah, beautiful princess,’ cried the dervish, ‘your firmness dissipates all my fear. I am going to acquire immortal glory or die. Remain here; if I do not return in an hour, it will be a certain sign that I have not succeeded in my project.’

Saying these words, he drew his sword and entered the magician’s garden. After his departure, Farrukhnaz and her nurse felt terribly agitated.

‘Ah! unhappy dervish,’ said Farrukhnaz, ‘what will become of you? I fear lest you lose your life.’

‘My princess,’ said Sutlumemé, ‘fear nothing. Can a priest of the temple succumb beneath a magician’s blow? No; however perilous may be the enterprise he has formed, do not doubt but that he will come out of it happily.’

Indeed, at the end of an hour they saw him return. He approached them laughing, and said:

‘Thanks to the Almighty, Mehrefza can hurt us no longer, and our sojourn here, which the cruel woman made terrible by her magic, has nothing but pleasures to offer us. But it is time, beautiful princess, to let you know who I am. Do not look upon me any longer as a dervish, as the head of the temple of Cashmere; see in me the confidant of the Prince Farrukhschad. I will tell you his story and mine in a few words; after that we will enter Mehrefza’s palace, where you will be received as you deserve, and where you will see things which will surprise you.

‘The great king who to-day rules over Persia, and whose court is at Shiraz, has as his heir an only son named Farrukhschad. One day this young prince fell ill. His father, who loves him tenderly, was alarmed at it; he sent for skilful physicians, who all said, after having observed Farrukhschad closely, that his illness was such as he himself alone could explain.

‘The king pressed him to tell the cause of it, but not being able to drag his secret from him, he sent for me.

‘“Symorgue,” he said, “I know my son hides nothing from you; go and see him, get him to open his soul to you, and do not scruple to come and tell me afterwards what he has said to you.”

‘“No, sire,” I replied, “as he is ill only because he persists in silence as to the subject of his trouble, I shall take care not to tell it to you. I am too interested in him to betray him thus.”

‘“Go and speak to him, then,” replied the king, “I await your return with much impatience.”

‘I ran to the prince’s apartment. He evinced much pleasure at the sight of me, and reproached me saying:

‘“O my dear friend, I have a complaint against you. Since I have been ill, I have not seen you; why have you delayed so long in coming to see me? I have received endless importunate visits; alas! yours alone could be agreeable to me in my present condition.”

‘“I was out hunting,” I said to him, “and I have only just arrived. But what ails you, prince? How is it that your complexion has partly lost its brilliancy?”

‘“Symorgue,” replied the prince, after having sent all the officers out of his room, “I have never had a secret from you; far from wishing to conceal the cause of my illness from you, I was only waiting to tell it you. Would you believe, my friend, that the condition in which you see me is caused by a dream?”

‘“Heavens! what are you saying?” I cried in surprise. “Can a dream have made so much impression on so reasonable a mind?”

‘“I foresaw your astonishment,” replied Farrukhschad, “but I confess my weakness to you. I hide it with care from everyone, and it is to you alone that I can make such a confidence. Listen, then, to the strange cause of my trouble. I dreamt I was in a meadow all strewn with flowers; there appeared a young lady more beautiful than a houri. I could not resist her charms, I prostrated myself at her feet, I confessed my love to her; but, instead of listening to me, the inhuman creature said to me in a contemptuous manner: ‘Go your way, men are traitors; for I saw in a dream a doe who, after having by her efforts disentangled a stag from a snare, herself fell into another, and the stag, far from helping her in his turn, was ungrateful enough to abandon her. I judge by that of the hearts of men; I believe them all to be ungrateful, and I have renounced their love.’”

‘“I wished,” pursued the prince, “to take up the cudgels for men and to undeceive her; but the cruel woman left me. ‘Ah! my goddess,’ I cried out, ‘say rather that it is the doe who abandons the stag.’ Saying these words, I lost sight of her, and awoke. This, dear friend, is the fatal dream which troubles the repose of my life. I know that were I reasonable I should dwell no longer upon this dream.”

‘“No, my lord,” I interrupted, “you must not efface it from your mind. I, like you, begin to lend myself to these agreeable phantoms; I believe them to be less formed by sleep than by some favourable genie who has wished to put before you the features of the princess whom Heaven destines to be your wife. Come, my prince, let us wander from kingdom to kingdom in search of this person; we may be able to find her, and see her more really than you have done. I shall tell your father that your trouble comes only from a violent desire to travel, and I am sure he will permit you to satisfy your desire.”

‘Farrukhschad, enchanted by this speech, embraced me, and I left him to go and give the king an account of this interview. I repeated to him word for word all that the prince had said to me. Then I added: “I did not combat the illusions which trouble him: I flattered them rather, and I perceived that my sympathy relieved him much. To complete his cure, your majesty must permit him and me to travel; it is the way to banish Farrukhschad’s melancholy, and make him forget the chimera which occupies him.” The king agreed with me, and ordered a magnificent equipage for the prince his son, who, followed by a large number of officers, soon left Shiraz with me.

‘After a somewhat long and uncertain journey we arrived at the town of Gazuine, where there reigns an old king who loves his subjects as much as they love him. This good old man sent the captain of his guards to meet Farrukhschad to testify to him the joy his happy arrival caused him, and to beg him to excuse him at the same time for not being able to leave his palace to go and receive him.

‘My prince received the captain very graciously, and asked him for news of the king’s health.

‘“My lord,” said the officer to him, “the king my master is sick with grief. He has recently lost his only son, who was a prince of great promise; he has not yet consoled himself for the loss.”

‘We were much touched, and we went to the king’s palace. He paid every imaginable honour to Farrukhschad, and, seeing in him some resemblance to his son, he could not help shedding tears.

‘“What do I see, my lord?” said my prince to him. “Does the sight of me draw tears from you? Am I unfortunate enough to recall a sad memory to you?”

‘“Yes, my prince,” replied the king; “the likeness between you and my son renews my grief; but I look upon you as another child whom Heaven has sent me to console me for the loss of the other. I begin already to feel for you part of the love I had for him. Stay, I beg, with me; hold the rank he held at my court, and you shall be my heir.”

‘Farrukhschad thanked the king for his kindness, and resolved to make a long stay at Gazuine, more out of sympathy for the old monarch than to assure to himself the throne which he offered him.

Every day the grief of the old king was seen to diminish; he became every day insensibly more attached to the Prince of Persia, who could not live without him. One day, whilst they were both talking, Farrukhschad asked of what malady the Prince of Gazuine had died.

‘“Alas,” said the king, “the cause of his death is very extraordinary; it is love which laid him in the tomb. Listen. My son had heard tell of the Princess of Cashmere, and from the portrait given him of her he became enamoured of her.

‘“I immediately sent rich presents to the King Togrul Bey by an ambassador, who asked for the princess his daughter for my son. The King of Cashmere replied that he held my alliance in great honour, but he had sworn by Heaven that he would not marry his daughter against her will; that this princess hated men mortally, and that this aversion was the result of a dream; that one night she had dreamt that a doe, after having delivered a stag from a snare in which he was caught, had got herself caught, and that the stag had been ungrateful enough to refuse to help her; that since this dream she looked upon men as so many monsters whom women should avoid. My ambassador brought me back this answer, and my unhappy son, losing hope of marrying the Cashmerian princess, fell into a decline, which carried him off in spite of the remedies my doctors gave him.”

‘Farrukhschad did not hear this story without agitation. If he had the consolation of thinking that his dream was not a delusion, on the other hand the rigour of the princess made him fear the fate of the Prince of Gazuine. The king perceived his agitation. “O my son,” he said; “why are you troubled? You seem to me quite beside yourself.”

‘“My lord,” replied the prince, “I have left my country only because of this inhuman princess.”

‘Then he related his dream, and the king having listened said, sighing: “Just Heaven! why must my life be a tissue of troubles and annoyances? I brought up my son with extreme care; I lost him, and when I begin to console myself for his loss a new trouble comes to me. O strange fate! But, my dear Farrukhschad,” he continued, “take courage, do not give way to your melancholy; it is not impossible to conquer the aversion which the Princess of Cashmere has for men. Alas! my son’s trouble was not without remedy! If he had had the patience to await the result of the stratagems which might have been employed he would not now be dead.”

‘The King of Gazuine, after having given some hope to the Prince of Persia, went to find his vizirs who awaited him in the council; and Farrukhschad, impatient to see me, sent for me, and related all he had just heard.

‘“Oh! my dear prince,” I then said, “your happiness is assured, since we know the name of the princess. If the king will permit me, I will go to the kingdom of Cashmere. I undertake to bring you the object of your desires. Do not ask me how I propose to succeed, for I do not know myself; I shall act as it seems best.”

‘The prince, enchanted to see with what confidence I promised to make him happy, embraced me, and we passed the rest of the day in rejoicing.

‘The following morning I took leave of my prince, and, with the permission of the King of Gazuine, I departed for the kingdom of Cashmere, well-armed and mounted on a very fine horse. After several days’ march I found myself in this meadow, on the side from which one sees the palace whither I am soon going to conduct you. Charmed with the beauty of the place, I dismounted, I let my horse graze, and I sat down under a leafy tree, on the border of a fountain, the pure and transparent water of which invited refreshment. I could not help drinking it, and I then sat down on the grass and fell asleep.

‘On awaking I perceived five or six white does with saddle-cloths of blue satin and gold rings on their feet. They came to me; I began to caress them, but in doing so I noticed that they shed great tears. That surprised me, and I did not know what to think of it, when, turning my eyes towards the palace, I saw at a window a charming lady who made a sign to me to approach. I immediately left my horse in the field, and I advanced to join her, although the does seemed to wish to prevent me by biting the edge of my robe and even putting themselves in front of me.

‘Astonished by the action and tears of these animals, I reflected at the time that there was perhaps some underlying mystery, but the pleasurable anticipation overruled my prudence and carried me away. I arrived at the palace gate, I entered. The lady, who seemed to me far more beautiful near than from afar off, received me with favour, took me by the hand, conducted me to a superb apartment, and made me sit down with her on a sofa. After the first compliments several slaves brought fruit in a porcelain basin. The lady took the finest, which she presented to me. But hardly had I tasted it than her face changed suddenly and she said to me: “Bold stranger, experience the punishment meted out to all those who like you are bold enough to enter the palace of Mehrefza. Leave your natural form and take that of a stag: lose the use of speech, but retain human understanding in order to feel your misfortune for ever.”

‘She had not finished these words before I found myself changed into a stag. At the same time a green satin saddle-cloth was brought which she herself placed on my back. Then I was led into a great park where there were more than two hundred other stags, or rather men whose misfortune it had been to be attracted to this spot and whom the cruel Mehrefza had also changed into stags.

‘I had leisure to reflect upon my misfortune which I felt less for my sake than because of Farrukhschad. “Alas!” I said to myself every moment, “what will become of my dear prince? How can he obtain the accomplishment of his desires? He is waiting for me to bring him the princess whom he adores, and he will never see me again.” I was continually absorbed in this reflection, which caused me great grief.

‘One day I saw eight or ten ladies enter the park, amongst whom was a perfectly beautiful young person, who, by the wealth of her attire, seemed to be the mistress of the others. She had with her a governess, to whom she said, on seeing all the stags: “Indeed I pity all these unfortunate creatures very much. How inhuman is the Princess Mehrefza, my sister! Heaven has given us both very different inclinations. Unceasingly engaged in tormenting the human species, she seems to have learnt magic only to make people miserable, and I, if I possess any secret powers, I have never put them to any bad use, I only employ them to secure the welfare of others. It pleases me to do charitable actions, and I feel inclined to do one to-day since my sister is absent. Go, my good mother,” she added, “and fetch me one of those stags and bring it to me in my apartment.” Saying these words, she re-entered the palace.

‘The governess took me by chance and led me to her mistress, who ordered one of her women to go and pick a certain herb which she named and bring it to her. The girl promptly executed the commission and returned with a great handful of this herb. The lady took half of it, which she crushed herself, and made me swallow the juice of it. Then she said these words: “O young man, forsake the form of a stag and resume your natural shape.” I immediately became what I was before. I threw myself at the feet of the lady to thank her. She asked me my name and my country, and what had brought me to the kingdom of Cashmere. I answered all her questions without reserve.

‘When I had finished speaking, she said to me: “I am the daughter of a prince of the court to which you wish to go. I am called the Princess Ghulnaze; she who has changed you into a stag is my eldest sister and is called Mehrefza; she is a magician of redoubtable power. I alone could deliver you out of her power, and although I am her sister, if she perceives what I have just done I fear I shall experience her anger; but, happen what may, I shall never repent of having released you from your position. I intend you to be still further under obligation to me; I wish to help you make the prince your friend happy. I admit it is very difficult to secure his happiness, because, in order to do that, you must gain the confidence of the princess whom he loves, which you can only do by passing as a holy person at the court of Cashmere.”

‘“What are you saying, my princess?” I cried. “How am I to get that reputation?”

‘“You have only to follow exactly the instructions I give you,” she replied. Thus saying she went to a wardrobe, whence she brought out a dervish’s dress, a girdle, and a little ebony box. “This,” she said, “is all that is necessary for you to succeed in your enterprise. Take these and go towards the town of Cashmere, which is not very far from here; but before entering, stop, remove your garments and rub your body all over with the grease which is in this box. Then you will take this dervish’s dress, and this magic girdle with which you will bind your loins, after which present yourself at the gates of the town. You will find guards there who will say to you, ‘O venerable religious, whence do you come?’ Answer, ‘I am a priest and I come from the extremities of the West on a pilgrimage to Cashmere to see the great temple.’ You know,” she added, “that this temple is a celebrated building revered by the people of that kingdom. As soon as you have told them that you have come from so far to see this temple, they will throw themselves at your feet, and will conduct you with respect to the king, Togrul Bey, who will place you in the hands of the chief priest, Ahran, head of the temple of Cashmere. This high priest and all the other ministers of the idol will conduct you to the temple, which for beauty and magnificence is above all the palaces in the world, but it is surrounded by a ditch twenty feet deep, filled with water which boils without the aid of fire, and beyond the ditch there is a border of steel blades, red-hot, so that the temple seems inaccessible. Then Ahran will say to you: ‘O phœnix of the century, you have passed through many dangers and fatigues before arriving here. The great temple, for which you have made so long and painful a journey, lies before you. But you cannot enter the sanctuary. You have only to offer your adorations from here, and then you will return to your country.’ You will reply to this speech that you have come to see the temple and that you wish to visit it. But the chief priest will tell you that in order to have that honour you must pass through the boiling water and cross the border. You will then utter a cry of joy and will go forward boldly. The grease with which you have rubbed yourself has the virtue of making the water harder than stone, and will prevent your being burnt. When you have entered the temple you will worship Heaven therein for a whole day; then you will rejoin Ahran, who will adopt you as a son. You will spend fourteen days with him, and the fifteenth, whilst he is asleep, you will rub his nose with a white powder I am going to give you. He will no sooner have smelt it than he will die, and the king will make you chief priest in his place. When you have attained this dignity, you will go and see the Prince of Cashmere, who has been ill for some time, and given over by the doctors. You will breathe a prayer over him, and he will be immediately cured. The rumour of his cure will be spread throughout the peoples of Hindostan, who will look upon you as a saint, and Farrukhnaz, the Princess of Cashmere, charmed with your reputation, will wish to see you. I do not tell you the rest, it depends upon your skill.”

‘I promised to follow accurately the instructions of Ghulnaze, who put in my hands another little box containing the white powder, and a folded paper on which was written the prayer which I was to say over the Prince of Cashmere.

“Depart, my lord,” she said to me; “leave this palace immediately. I fear my sister may return. Alas!” she added, sighing, “the harm she may do me for having destroyed her magic is not what I most fear!”

‘I thanked Ghulnaze again in terms of deep gratitude. We were both very pleased with each other, and we would have wished to be longer together, but as we feared Mehrefza might come and surprise us, we were obliged to separate. I then took the road to Cashmere. As soon as I was near this town I dressed myself in the dervish’s costume, after having rubbed my body with the grease which I had in the ebony box. I then presented myself at the gates; the guards led me to the king, who put me in the hands of the chief priest. I crossed the water and the border of steel blades without harm to myself; then I entered the temple, where I saw the Sanctuary and worshipped Heaven therein.

‘I stayed in the temple until the following day. Then I went to seek out the head of the temple priests, who adopted me as his son and kept me about him. Finally, for fear of losing the fruit of all my pains by omitting any detail, I got rid of Ahran in the manner prescribed by Ghulnaze, and became high priest in his place. I shortly afterwards cured the Prince Farrukhrouz, which gave me such a high reputation that you wished to see me. You know the rest, and what impression the pictures had on you which I had had painted in the hall where I received you. I watched you before showing myself, and I perceived that they gave you much to think about. This, charming Farrukhnaz,’ added Symorgue, ‘is what I thought I ought no longer to leave you in ignorance of. Forgive the artifice I have had recourse to in order to remove from you the false opinion you had of men, and in order to bind your lot with that of the most amiable of princes.’

The Princess of Cashmere blushed at this story, which showed her how deceived she had been, but the love she felt for the Prince of Persia prevented her being angry with the false dervish.

‘Finish telling us what you have done,’ she said. ‘What have you just been doing in the magician’s palace?’

‘Beautiful Farrukhnaz,’ he replied, ‘after having left you, I advanced towards the palace. I found the door open, I entered and saw no one, I only heard a plaintive voice, the sad accents of which drew me into a chamber whence it came. I found there, on a large sofa, a young lady having a yoke round her neck and iron chains on her feet; her arms were enclosed in a leather sack bound with ropes. The unhappy woman, bowed down under the weight of destiny, let her head fall sadly on her knees. I approached her out of pity, with the intention of comforting her. She raised her head, and I recognised in this unfortunate woman my liberator, the amiable Ghulnaze. I burst out into a fury at this touching sight. “O my queen,” I cried, “in what state do I find you? What barbarous hands can have laden you with irons?”

‘“O my dear Symorgue,” she replied, “is it you that I see? What evil genius brings you back hither? Alas! you will soon be the victim of my cruel sister. She discovered that I had saved you, and to punish me she keeps me in chains. I have been in them for a long time, but what distresses me more than all the rest is the danger to which you expose yourself. Fly at once; try to escape the inhuman Mehrefza.”

‘“What! my sultana,” I replied, “you wish me to fly and abandon you! Do you think me capable of such black ingratitude? Ah! I would a hundred times rather experience your sister’s anger. The most terrible death cannot terrify me when it is a question of extricating you from the situation in which I see you. Tell me, I pray you, what I must do to save you, and if the thing is possible I hope to succeed in it.”

‘“Since you are so courageous,” replied Ghulnaze, “my liberty depends on you. Go to the west side of the garden; you will find my sister there, asleep on the flower-strewn grass. She has under her head a satin pillow. If you can take this pillow from her without awaking her, the key of my chains is in it, you will save me; but if you wake Mehrefza you are lost. There is no other means of breaking my chains; no human effort can effect it.”

‘“Trust to me,” I then said to Ghulnaze; “I am going to bring you the key.”

‘I immediately left the palace and went to the western side of the garden, and perceived the magician asleep on the grass, her head resting on the cushion. I remained for some time uncertain what step to take, but the fear of awaking Mehrefza determined me to cut off her head with a sword. I killed the magician and brought the pillow to her sister, who awaited me with much impatience. I related to her what I had just done, and she appeared delighted. After that I took the key out of the bag and set my princess at liberty.

‘Thus,’ continued Symorgue, ‘I have rid myself of the wickedest woman in the world. We can presently, divine Farrukhnaz, enter the palace. We shall find Ghulnaze, who is preparing to receive us there; she is as rejoiced at your arrival here as at her own deliverance.’

At these words he offered his hand to the Princess of Cashmere and conducted her to the palace. They met Ghulnaze, who came to meet them. She prostrated herself at the feet of the daughter of her king, but Farrukhnaz raised her, kissed her tenderly, and showed her a thousand attentions.

‘Beautiful Ghulnaze,’ she said, ‘I am charmed that the brave and generous Symorgue has served you so well. It is true,’ she added smiling, ‘that he was under too much obligation to you not to expose himself to the greatest dangers rather than leave you in chains.’

‘O my princess,’ replied Ghulnaze in the same tone, ‘you see the stag does not forsake the doe when she is in need of his help.’

After talking a little while they entered the palace, which Farrukhnaz thought beautiful. Then they left it to go into the park, in which were more than three hundred stags. The magician’s sister restored them to their natural form in the same way as she had done to Symorgue.

As they became men again, they threw themselves at the feet of their charming liberator to give her the thanks due to her. They were all, for the most part, young and well made. Some were Tartars, others Chinese, and others Carizmians. There were some from all parts of Asia; but Farrukhnaz’s conductor was very surprised, and caused extreme astonishment to the princesses when, suddenly detecting Prince Farrukhschad amongst the crowd of men, he ran and threw himself at his feet, saying: ‘O my dear prince, is it possible that I find you here?’

‘O my friend,’ replied the Prince of Persia, ‘is it Symorgue who presents himself before my eyes?’

‘Yes, my lord,’ replied the confidant, ‘it is he himself, and to crown everything, he brings to you the Princess of Cashmere.’

At these words he conducted his master to Farrukhnaz, who recognised in the prince the features she had seen in her dream, as, on his part, Farrukhschad knew at once that it was the princess whose image he cherished in his memory.

Whilst the Prince of Persia endeavoured to express to his mistress all the joy which animated him, Ghulnaze went into the meadow where the white does were. She also restored them to their original form, and they turned out to be very charming young ladies whom the magician her sister had changed. She led them before Farrukhnaz, who made them tell their stories. All these ladies had their lovers there, who were enchanted to see them once more released like them from the magic power which had kept them in animal forms. As additional good fortune, every cavalier who had been changed into a stag found his horse again in the stables of the palace.

Thus, after having once more thanked Ghulnaze a thousand times, all the men whom she had delivered took leave of her, and returned with their ladies, each to their own country.

There only remained in the palace, Farrukhnaz, Ghulnaze, Sutlumemé, the Prince of Persia and his confidant. They remained there several days; then they all departed for the court of Gazuine, where they arrived safely. The King of Gazuine, in order to celebrate the return of Farrukhschad, had the town decorated, and ordered public rejoicings. He married the prince to the Princess of Cashmere, and Symorgue to Ghulnaze.

Whilst the court of Gazuine was rejoicing over these marriages, the old monarch wished to hear the story of Farrukhnaz. Symorgue related how he had succeeded in gaining the confidence of the princess, and when he had finished his story, Farrukhschad related how he had fallen into the hands of Mehrefza.

Shortly afterwards the King of Gazuine fell ill, and seeing himself on the point of being carried off by the Angel of Death, he named as his successor to the crown the Prince Farrukhschad, who mounted the throne as soon as the old king was dead; but, wishing to return to Persia, he gave the sceptre of Gazuine to Symorgue, to the satisfaction of the people. Symorgue reigned with the Princess Ghulnaze, and Farrukhschad conducted Farrukhnaz to the court of Persia, where he soon succeeded the king his father, who seemed only to wait for the return of his son to die.