I apologise, my dear Louis, for having left you a month without a letter from me, as you reproach me somewhat severely. You are not afraid, I should hope, that my friendship for you has cooled. The real cause of my silence is that I have had nothing to tell you. The even tenor of my existence permits only of daily repetitions of the same very simple events. My affections being divided between my harem and my uncle Barbassou, I revel in the tranquillity of the fields and woods, which afford to my mind that quiet freedom which is always more or less disturbed by the excited atmosphere of city life.

Do not imagine, however, that we have been living like monastics, disdaining all worldly distractions: the governor is not the man to lead the existence of a Carthusian monk. He is as much on horseback as on foot. In the daytime we make hunting excursions; he visits his “god-children” and my estates: you may rely upon it, I have got an active steward in him! In the evening we receive our friends at the chateau the vicar, the Morands, father and son, and, twice a week, the notary. We play whist at penny points, and very lively games of piquet only the latter not so often, as my uncle cheats at it. About eleven o’clock the carriages are got ready to take these people home. I then accompany my uncle to his room, and we talk over business matters, and about my fiancee; for, of course, my marriage with his “god-daughter” is an understood thing, and we have not even a notion of discussing the question. Finally, when he gets sleepy, he goes to bed, and I go off to El-Nouzha.

Besides these occupations we have another very serious one, namely, rummaging among the mass of curios which he heaped up together in the lumber-room of the chateau.

“Ah, Andre!” my uncle said to me one day, with the reproachful accent of a faithful steward, “you have a lot of fine things up there which you are very foolish to leave in that lumber-hole. If I were you, I would have them all out!”

“Let us get them all out then at once, uncle,” I answered.

Thereupon we set to work sorting them out, and you have no idea of the things we found valuable paintings, works of art, rare old furniture, and arms of all countries. You will see what a museum they constitute, if you make an excursion down here, as you have promised. Really, for an artist of your genius, this alone would be worth the journey.

We also pay visits at the two neighbouring chateaux of the Montanbecs and the Camboulions; but confine ourselves strictly to the customary conventionalities between neighbours, the female element which we encounter at these places belonging, as my uncle puts it, to the very lowest zoological order of beings.

Once a week we dine at Doctor Morand’s. He is a man of great ability, who has only missed making his mark through want of a wider field. He is the one mortal capable of exercising an influence over Captain Barbassou, if the character of the latter did not place him out of reach of all external control. In this home family life reigns in its happiest and most charming simplicity, represented by a goodly quiver-full of children. I have already told you about young Morand, the spahi, and his cousin Genevieve.

Genevieve, with her nineteen summers, is the eldest, by several years, of a prolific brood, the offspring of her mother’s second marriage. The doctor, who is a rich man for his district, took them all to live with him after his sister’s death. A more delightful and refreshing place cannot be found than this heaven-blest home, the very atmosphere of which breathes the odour of peaceful happiness and honest purity. You should see Genevieve, la grande, surrounded by her four petits, her brothers and sisters, with their chubby faces, all neat and clean, obedient and cheeky at the same time, and kept in order by her with a youthful discipline, flavoured now and then with a spice of playfulness. Is she really pretty? I confess I cannot decide. The question of beauty in her case is so completely put out of mind by a certain charm of manner, that one forgets to analyse it. She has certainly fine eyes, for they hold you spell-bound by the soul shining through them. George Morand, her fiance, adores her, and, headstrong Africain though he is, even he feels an influence within her which subjugates his fiery spirit. They could not be a better match for each other, and will live happily together. She will chasten the exuberant ardour of the Provencal warrior.

My uncle professes to detest “the brats;” it is needless, perhaps, to add that, directly he arrives, the whole of them rush to him, climb on his knees, and stay there for the rest of his visit. He is their horse; he makes boats for them, and all the rest of it. The other day you might have seen him grumbling as he sewed a button on Toto’s drawers (which he had torn off by turning him head over heels), fearing lest Genevieve should scold him.

I am very cordially welcomed by the whole house, and you may imagine what interminable discussions the doctor and I carry on. Having been formerly a professor in the School of Medicine at Montpellier, he was led by his researches in physiology to a very pronounced materialism. Now that he has read my spiritualistic articles, he tries hard to break down my arguments. On the third side, my uncle, as a Mahometan, wants to convert him to deism; you may judge from this how much harmony there is between us; you might take us for an Academy!

At El-Nouzha the same life goes on still; but I must take this opportunity of correcting a dangerous mistake you appear to have fallen into, to judge from the tone of your letters. In everything that concerns my harem, you really speak as if you had in mind the fantastic and tantalising experiences of a second blessed Saint Anthony, exposed to the continual provocations of the most voluptuous beauties of the Court of Satan. Indeed, one might say (between you and me and the post), that your Holiness was less scared than inquisitive regarding these terrible scorchings. You old sinner! The real truth is that everything becomes a habit after a while, and that, now the first effervescence of passion is over, this life grows much more simple than you imagine. You must not believe that we lead a riotous existence of continual lusts and orgies. Such notions, my dear fellow, are only the fruit of ignorance and of prejudice.

Let me tell you that my harem is to me at the present time a most tranquil home, and that, but for the fact that I have four wives, everything about it has permanently assumed the every-day aspect of a simple household. Our evenings are spent in conversation round the drawing-room table with music and dancing, conducted in a thoroughly amiable and cheerful spirit, and all set off by the accomplishments of my sultanas. I combine in my conjugal relations the dignified oriental bearing of a vizir with the tender sentimentalities of a Galaor, and in this I have really attained to an exquisite perfection.

In fact, it would be the Country of Love in the Paradise of Mahomet, but for a few clouds which, since my uncle’s return, have obscured the bright rays of my honeymoon. I have had some trouble with Hadidje and Nazli, who seem determined to make a trip over to the chateau as Kondje-Gul had done; for, as might have been foreseen, as soon as her alarms had subsided, this silly creature, with the view no doubt of exciting their jealousy, and posing as the favourite, had taken care to relate to them all the wonders of this, to them, forbidden place. Of course I refused at once to permit such an irregularity, contrary as it was to all harem traditions. This refusal was the signal for a scene of tears and jealous passions, which I subdued, but which only gave way to the tender reproaches of slighted affections. Well, I try to jog along as well as I can, as all husbands have to do, but I have a vague presentiment of troubles still in the air.

I have reopened my letter.

I hope you won’t be astonished, my dear fellow, but I have another piece of news relating to Barbassou-Pasha.

The day before yesterday, while my uncle and I were chatting together, as is our custom, before he went to bed, I observed that he yawned in an unusual manner. I had remarked this symptom before, and I drew my own conclusion from it, which was that overtaken once more by his adventurous instincts, he was beginning to find life tedious in the department of Le Gard, he was longing for something or other, that was certain! And I began ransacking my mind to find some new food upon which he might exercise his all-devouring energy, when he said to me, just before I left him

“By the bye, Andre, I have written to your aunt that I am returned. She will probably arrive some time between now and the end of the week.”

“Ah!” I replied; “well, uncle, that’s capital! I shall be delighted to have our family life back again.”

“Yes, the house will seem really furnished then,” he continued. “Well, good night, my boy!”

“Good night, uncle.”

Then I left him.

Now, although this legitimate conjugal desire of my uncle’s was quite rational on his part, you may nevertheless imagine that I went to bed rather puzzled. Which of my aunts should I see arrive? My uncle had acquainted me with this design in such an artless manner that it never occurred to me to venture any question on the subject. I began therefore to form conjectures based upon his present frame of mind, as to which of his wives he had probably selected.

I commenced by setting aside my aunt Cora, of the Isle of Bourbon. It was not very likely that the Pasha wanted to add to his past ontological researches upon the coloured races. Excluding also my aunt Christina de Posterò, whose adventure with Jean Bonaffe had brought her into disgrace, there remained only my aunt Lia Ben Levy, my aunt Gretchen Van Cloth, and my aunt Eudoxie de Cornalis, so that the question was now considerably narrowed. Still I must confess that it was not much use my setting all my powers of induction to work, taking as my premises the captain’s age, his present tastes, his plans, &c. All I succeeded in doing was to lose myself in a maze of affirmations and contradictions from which I could find no way out. The best thing to be done was to wait. So I waited.

I had not long to wait for that matter. Two days after, while I was in my room, I saw a carriage drive up. Its only occupant was a lady, who seemed to me to be very handsome and very elegantly dressed. On the box, by the coachman’s side, sat a lady’s maid; behind were two men-servants of superior style in their travelling livery. The carriage stopped. At the sound of the wheels on the gravel, my uncle’s window opened.

“Hoi! is that you?” he shouted. “How are you, my dear!”

“How are you, captain!” replied the lady. “You see you have not been forgotten, you ungrateful wretch!”

“Thanks for that. Nor am I any more forgetful on my side.”

“That’s all right,” replied the lady; “but why don’t you come down and give me a hand? You’re very gallant!”

“Well, my dear, I’m coming as fast as I can!” said my uncle.

I must confess I still remained somewhat puzzled at the sight of this fair traveller, whose appearance did not recall to me any of my aunts. Could Barbassou-Pasha have contracted another marriage since the date of his will? Out of delicacy I kept out of the way, in order not to disturb their affectionate greetings, but as my uncle passed my door on his way out, he said to me,

“Andre, aren’t you coming?” I followed him. We arrived just as the lady was stepping briskly up the doorsteps.

“Too late, captain!” she said, “I could not stay there, penned up in that carriage.”

This reproach did not prevent them from shaking hands very heartily. Then as I came up, my uncle said in his quick way,

“Kiss your aunt Eudoxia!”

At this injunction I forthwith embraced my aunt, and I must admit that as I kissed her I could not repress a smile, recollecting this sacramental phrase of my uncle’s.

“My goodness! is that Andre?” she exclaimed, “Oh! excuse me, sir,” she continued rapidly; “this familiar name slipped from my tongue, at remembrance of the bonny boy of old times.”

“Pray take it for granted, madam!” I answered.

“Then don’t call me madam!”

“What does that matter, my aunt; to obey you I shall be delighted to return to old times.”

“Very well then, my nephew,” she added; “see that my servants are looked after, and then let us come in!”

All this was said in that free-and-easy tone which denotes aristocratic breeding, and with so much of the assurance of a woman accustomed to the best society, that I was for a moment almost taken aback by it. My early impressions of her had only left in my mind confused recollections of an amiable and fascinating young woman (so far as I could judge at that age), and now my aunt suddenly appeared in a character which I had not at all anticipated. Assuredly I should never have recognised her, although time had not at all impaired the beauty of her face.

I will therefore draw her portrait afresh. Picture to yourself a woman of about thirty-five, although her real age is forty-two. Her figure exhibits a decided embonpoint, but this detracts not in the least from its gracefulness, for she is a tall woman, and has also quite a patrician style about her. Her erect head, and the profound dignity of her expression everything about her in fact might be taken to denote a haughty nature, were it not for that extreme simplicity of manner which appears natural to her. Notwithstanding the firmness of her language, the tone in which it is uttered is as soft as velvet, and her light, musical accent suggests the frank and easy bearing of a Russian lady of high rank.

Such is the description of my aunt.

My uncle had offered her his arm. As soon as we entered the drawing-room, she said, while taking off her hat:

“Ah, now you must at once explain to me this story of your death, which I received from a notary. For six months I have been fancying myself a widow!”

“You can see that there’s nothing in it,” replied my uncle.

“That’s nice!” she exclaimed, laughing and holding her hand out to him a second time. “Another of your eccentricities, I suppose!”

“Not in the least, my dear; Andre here can tell you that I positively passed for a dead man, and that he went into mourning for me. He has even entered into the possession of my property as my heir.”

“It’s an ill wind that blows nobody any good,” she answered; “but how was it that they put you in the grave by mistake? I am curious to know.”

“I was in Abyssinia.”

“Close by, is it?” asked she, interrupting him.

“Yes,” continued my uncle. “A friend who was travelling with me, stayed behind at a place on our way, while I went forward, and he managed to die in such a stupid and ill-timed manner that, as my baggage was with him, it was from my papers that his certificate of death was made out. It was only on my return here, five months later, that I learnt that I had been taken for dead. You see what a simple story it is.”

“Well, of course,” said my aunt, “such things are quite a common occurrence! That will teach you the result of not taking me with you on your travels. Was it also on account of this trip in Abyssinia that I have not seen you for two years? Oh stop, my dear nephew!” she added in an engaging tone, “a family scene is an instructive event; it forms . Go on, captain, answer me.”

“Two years?” replied my uncle. “Is it really two years?”

“Consult your log-books, if they have not been buried with your friend.”

“Ah! forgive me, dear Eudoxia, I have had during all this time most important business.”

“Yes,” continued my aunt, “we all know what important business you have; I’ve heard some fine accounts of you. Do you know what Lord Clifden told me at St. Petersburg three months ago, while complimenting me upon my widow’s mourning, which, by the way, suited me extremely well? He told me that during your lifetime you had been a bigamist.”

“What a likely story!” exclaimed my uncle, boldly.

“He assured me that he had seen you at Madras with a Spanish woman, you old traitor! She was young and pretty, and passed openly by the name of Senora Barbassou. It was surely not worth while making me elope with you, in order that you might treat me in this fashion!”

“Lord Clifden told you a story, my dear, and a very silly story too. I hope you did not believe a word of it?”

“Upon my word, you are such an eccentric character, you know!” she answered, with a laugh.

“And what have you been doing yourself?” continued my uncle, whose coolness had not deserted him for an instant; “where have you been?”

“Oh, if I were to reckon back to the day you left me, I should lose myself!” replied my aunt. “A year ago, at this season, I was on my estate in the Crimea, where I vegetated for five months; then I spent the winter at St. Petersburg, and the spring at my chateau in Corfu, where I had the advantage of a comfortable place in which to mourn over you. Finally I had been two months at Vienna, when I received from my steward eight days ago the letter in which you did me the honour of informing me both of your resurrection and of your desire to see me. I quickly made my farewell calls, started off, and here I am! Now,” she added, holding out a plaid to him, “if you will kindly allow me to change these travelling clothes, you will make my happiness complete.”

“I am waiting to take you to your room,” replied my uncle.

“Nephew,” she said to me with a curtsey, “prepare to minister to my caprices; I have plenty of them when I love. In return let me say to you, Take it for granted.”

They left the room, and I felt quite astonished at the way they greeted each other. You can already understand the effect which my aunt must have produced on me, and I was no less surprised at the new traits which I discovered in my uncle’s character. A complete revolution had been effected. He became all at once very natty in his dress. His rough straggling beard was trimmed in the Henri IVth style, and his moustaches were twirled up at the ends. He left off swearing; his language and his manners at once assumed the most correct tone, without constraint or embarrassment, and with a modulation so natural, that it seemed really to indicate a very long familiarity with fashionable practice. He had not made a single slip. His frank gallantry had nothing artificial about it; he was another man, and it was quite evident this was the only man that Eudoxie de Cornalis had ever known him to be.

“Well! what do you think of your aunt?” he asked me as he came in after five minutes’ absence.

“She is charming, uncle, and as gracious as possible!”

“Did you expect to find her a monkey, then?” he exclaimed.

“Certainly not!” I replied. “But my aunt might have been beauty itself, and still have lacked the character and the intellectual qualities which I observe in her.”

“Oh, you can’t at all judge of her yet!” continued he, in a careless tone. “You’ll see what I mean later on. She’s a real woman!”

My aunt did not come down again until luncheon-time. Her appearance created quite an atmosphere of cheerful society in the dining-room, usually occupied only by my uncle and his nephew. My uncle was no doubt conscious of the same impression, for leaning towards me, he said to me in his inimitably cool manner, and in a low voice,

“Don’t you see how everything brightens up already?”

My aunt sat down, and as she took off her gloves, cast her eyes over the table, the sideboards, the servants in waiting, and the general arrangements of the dining-room.

“Francois,” she said to my uncle’s old man-servant, “please send the gardener to me at four o’clock.”

“Yes, Madame la Comtesse.”

“And then send the steward, whom I do not see here.”

“Oh, I am the steward!” replied my uncle.

“That’s capital! My compliments to you,” she continued; “I might have known it.”

“All the same, I fancy I perform my duties very well: is not this new furniture to your taste?”

“Not only so, but I find it very handsome, and I appreciate your antiquarian passion for rare and choice objects; only there is a want of life about it. What are those great vases, may I ask, whose enormous mouths stand empty to receive the dust?”

“Those Mandarins!” said my uncle; “they come from the palace of the Emperor of China.”

“Oh, the men, the men!” exclaimed my aunt with a laugh: “if they were in Paradise they would forget to contemplate the Eternal! Now, captain, my lord and spouse, pray tell me of what use to you are beds full of flowers, if you never rejoice your eyes with the sight of them?”

The luncheon went off charmingly and merrily. As she chatted with us, my aunt signalled to Francis and gave him her instructions for those innumerable comforts which a woman only can think of. My uncle, as if by enchantment, found everything ready to hand; before he had time to ask for anything to drink, he found his glass filled. We had not been accustomed to this kind of service. When we left the table my aunt said,

“Let us take a turn in the grounds.”

She took my arm and we started off. I won’t trouble you with a description of this walk, in the course of which my aunt and I succeeded in improving our acquaintance. We soon grew to understand each other thoroughly. With supreme tact, and without apparent design on her part, she had led me on by discreet questions to give her, before a quarter of an hour had passed, a complete catalogue from A. to Z. of all my studies, my tastes, and my pursuits, including of course my youthful escapades, which made her smile more than once.

In this outpouring I excepted, as you may be sure, the revelations of my career as a pasha. My uncle walked close to us, but left us to talk together. One might have thought that he was resuming his marital duties, interrupted only the evening before, without their course having been disturbed by any appreciable incident. All at once, we arrived at the foot-path which leads to the Turkish house.

“Ah! let us go into Kasre-El-Nouzha!” said my aunt.

At this I glanced at my uncle with an air of distress; he, without wincing in the least, said:

“The communicating door is walled up. Kasre-El-Nouzha is let.”

“Let!” she exclaimed; “To whom?”

“To an important personage, Mohammed-Azis, a friend of mine from Constantinople. You do not know him.”

“You ungrateful wretch!” she continued with a laugh: “that’s the way you observe my memory, is it?”

She did not press the subject. You may guess what a relief that was to me.

After we had strolled about the grounds for an hour, my aunt Eudoxia had made a complete conquest of me. But although everything about her excited my curiosity, I had put very few questions to her, not wishing from motives of delicacy to appear entirely ignorant of her history; such ignorance, indeed, would have appeared strange in a nephew. She seemed quite disposed, however, to answer all my questions without any fencing, and to treat me as an intimate friend. What I felt most surprised at was the attitude of my uncle, who had never said any more to me about her than about my aunt Cora of Les Grands Palmiers. There reigned betwixt them the affectionate manners of the happiest possible couple; they discussed the past, and I could see that their union had never been weakened or affected, notwithstanding my uncle’s Mahometan proceedings, which she really appears never to have suspected. I discovered that she had accompanied him on board his ship, during several of his voyages, and that two years back he had stayed six months with her at Corfu. As for him, he talked in such a completely innocent manner, betokening such a pure conscience, that I came to the conclusion he was probably on just as good a footing with all his other spouses, and that he would not have been the least bit more embarrassed with my aunt Van Cloth, had she chanced to turn up.

When we returned to the chateau, my aunt asked me to have some letters posted for her. I went to her room to take them from her; she had found time to write half-a-dozen for all parts of the world. While she was sealing them, I had a look at the numerous articles with which she had filled and garnished her boudoir. There were on the table flowers in vases, books and albums; on the mantelpiece, several portraits arranged on little gilt easels, among which was a splendid miniature of a young, handsome man, in Turkish costume embroidered with gold, and having on his head a fez ornamented with an egret of precious stones.

“Do you recognise this gentleman,” said my aunt, as I was stooping to look at it more closely.

“What!” I exclaimed; “Can that be my uncle?”

“The very man, dressed up as a great mamamouchi. It is a great curiosity, for you are aware of his Turkish notions on the subject. According to these, one ought not to have one’s image made.”

“Upon my word, that’s quite true,” I said; “it is the first portrait I have seen of him.”

“I have every reason for believing that it is the only one,” she replied with a smile; “this was the most difficult victory I ever won over him.”

We then began to discuss my uncle and his eccentricities, combined with his remarkable talents. She related to me some events and features in his life which would not be out of place in the legend of a hero of antiquity; amongst other matters she told me the story of their marriage, which runs briefly as follows:

My aunt, a daughter of one of the richest and noblest Greek families, lived with her father at a castle in Thessaly, a country which is partly Mahometan. During the feast of Bairam, the Turks commenced a massacre of Christians, which lasted three days. Several families, taking refuge in a church, had fortified themselves there, and with their servants were defending themselves desperately against their assailants. The assassins had already broken open the door of the sanctuary, and were about to cut all their throats, when suddenly a man came galloping up, followed by a few soldiers. He struck right and left with his scimitar in the thick of the crowd outside, and reached the doorway, causing his horse to rear up on the pavement. He slays some, and terrifies all. The Christians are saved!

This cavalier with his scimitar was my uncle, who was then in command of the province. The unhappy wretches who had escaped assassination pressed about him, and surrounded him; the girls and the women threw themselves at his feet. My aunt was one of these unfortunates; she was then fifteen years old, and as beautiful as noonday. You may guess how her imagination was wrought on by the sight of this noble saviour. My uncle on his side was thunderstruck by the contemplation of so much beauty. Having to judge and punish the rebels, he established his head-quarters in the castle of the Cornalis. He sentenced twenty persons to death, and demanded Eudoxia’s hand in marriage. This, notwithstanding his gratitude, the father refused to grant to a Turkish general.

The lovers were desperate, and separated, exchanging vows of eternal fidelity. Finally, after three months of correspondence and clandestine meetings, an elopement ensued, followed up quickly by marriage. It was as the sequence of this event that my uncle, induced by love, and moreover disgraced again for having exercised too much justice in favour of the Christians, finally quitted the service of the Sultan. His pardon by the Cornalis followed, and it was at this time that he obtained from the Pope the title of Count of the Holy Empire.

All this will serve to explain to you how it is that my aunt, as an heiress of great wealth, possesses in her own right a very large independent fortune in the Crimea.

We have now been living together for a fortnight, and during this time Ferouzat has been completely transformed. My aunt Eudoxia is certainly very meublante, as my uncle calls it, and she has brought into the house quite an attractive element of brightness. She has naturally introduced into our circle a certain amount of etiquette, which does not, however, encroach upon the liberties of country life, or disturb that easy-going elegance which forms one of the charms of existence among well-bred people. The Countess of Monteclaro, as might well have been foreseen, having already been intimately acquainted with Doctor Morand, begins to take a most friendly interest in Mademoiselle Genevieve. As a consequence, Genevieve and the children spend almost all their time at the chateau. In the evenings we have gatherings to which all the young people of the neighbourhood are invited; my aunt, who is an excellent musician, organises concerts, and we generally finish up with a dance.

These worldly recreations afford me a clearer insight into the analytical details of my oriental life, which is now more than ever enveloped in the profoundest mystery. I have invented a story of important botanical studies upon the flora of Provence, in order to justify certain daily excursions which naturally terminate in El-Nouzha. It is well-known, moreover, that I sometimes visit His Excellency Mohammed-Azis, but with the discretion which respect for a great misfortune naturally entails. The exiled minister is no longer even discussed among us; everybody knows that “he shuts himself up like a bear in his den,” and there is an end of it.

My aunt is the perfection of a woman. Nothing can be more delightful than our conversations. Her manner partakes both of the indulgence of a mother and of the unrestrained intimacy of a friend. She still remembers the child she used to dance upon her knees; and, although I had for a long while forgotten her very existence, my present affection for her is none the less sincere because it is of such recent growth. I must confess that, after my confined existence at school and college, I am delighted with these pleasures of home life, to which I was until lately quite a stranger.

My aunt, as you may guess, is acquainted with my uncle’s famous plan for the future, and knows Anna Campbell, the Pasha’s god-daughter. You should hear her chaff him anent this god-fathership, on the strength of which she claims that the captain has returned to the bosom of the Church without knowing it. She tells me that Anna is a charming girl. Thus petted and entertained, I live in other respects very much as I like, and sometimes pass the whole day in the library. I should add that my aunt, who is as sharp as a weasel, makes her own comments upon my frequent absences from the chateau.

“Andre,” she asked me the other day with a smile, “is your ‘Botany’ dark or fair?”

“Fair, my dear aunt,” I answered, laughing as she did.

In the midst of all this the Pasha, still emulating one of the Olympian gods, proceeds on his course with that tranquillity of spirit which never forsakes him. Two days ago, who should come down upon us but Rabassu, his lieutenant, the Rabassu whom my uncle has always called his “murderer.” He has brought home “La Belle Virginie” from Zanzibar with a cargo of cinnamon; for, as you are aware, we (or rather I) still trade in spices. Being now the head of the firm, I have to sell off the last consignments. Rabassu heard of the resurrection of Barbassou-Pasha directly he arrived at Toulon. He hurried off to us quite crestfallen, and when he met the captain literally trembled at the thought of the hurricane he would now have to face. But everything passed off very satisfactorily. My uncle interrupted his first mutterings of apology with a gentle growl, and contented himself with chaffing him for his infantine credulity.

However, this incident has revived the vexed question of the camels. “Where are they?” asks the captain. Having promised to send them to the Zoological Gardens at Marseilles, he feels his honour is at stake; they must be found. I support him in this view; my inherited property is of course incomplete without them. Urgent letters on the subject have just been despatched to his friend Picklock, and to the officer in command at Aden. If necessary, a claim will be lodged against England; she is undoubtedly responsible for them.

In my next letter I will tell you all the news relating to El-Nouzha from the time when I last interrupted this interesting part of my narrative. My houris are making progress, and their education is improving. We are going on swimmingly.