My uncle is going to send for another of my aunts to come to Paris.

Well! what of that? My uncle is a Mussulman, you know; and, being a man of principle, his duties are more onerous than yours, that’s all!

My services were required to take a little house at Passy, where she is to live. I wonder whether it is my aunt Gretchen, my aunt Euphrosine, or my aunt Cora? He has not given me the slightest hint on this point.

While awaiting this addition to our family, Barbassou-Pasha pursues his eccentric career in a manner that beats description. This visit to Paris has brought out more than ever the quaint independence of his character. One is reminded of a man who stands on a bridge watching the river flow by, but now and then takes a header into it to cool himself. The other day at the club, he lost sixty-three thousand francs to me at baccarat, just for a little distraction. The evening after, he was entertaining at our house his late Lieutenant Rabassu, whom he always speaks of as “the cause of his death,” and who has come here upon some business. He won eleven francs from him at piquet, playing for a franc the hundred points. For the moment I felt quite alarmed for the poor victim! But my mind was soon set at ease; for Rabassu, who is used to his captain’s play, knows how to cheat as cleverly as his master. Their losses soon balanced each other.

Putting aside little dissipations of this kind, I should add that “the late Barbassou” is really very steady-going for a man of his temperament. He takes everything which comes in the routine of our fashionable life so naturally, that nobody would imagine he had spent several years at the hulks in Turkey.

My aunt Eudoxia, of whom he stands in wholesome awe, and who keeps him in check, forces him to cultivate the vanities of this world. He escorts her to balls and fêtes with all that ceremony with which you are familiar; and quitting the lofty regions of his own philosophical existence, without however permitting anything to disturb his self-possession, he goes forth into the gay and hurried throngs of Paris with as little concern as he would into any village street. In short, he is in exquisite form, and but for the legal disabilities which deprive him of his rights of citizenship you would find him still exactly what he was when you knew him five years ago.

However, the other day he received a little shock in connection with a very simple incident, which might have been perfectly anticipated.

We were in my aunt’s box at the Opera. The pasha, seated by her side, was listening to a singer who was rather more buxom than elegant; and he appeared to be calculating what her nett weight would be, after making deduction for her queen’s crown and robes of state. After a minute or so, he seemed to have solved this equation and lost all further interest in the problem, for he began to examine the audience. All of a sudden he shouted out, quite forgetting himself, in his Provencal brogue:

“Te! What’s that I see?”

“Hush!” said my aunt, nudging him with her elbow, without turning round.

“But, bagasse! it’s Mohammed!” he added, in a lower tone.

It was indeed Mohammed, who attracted some attention as he walked with my houris into their famous box.

“Well, you’re right,” replied my aunt. “I recognise his charming daughters.”

You may be sure my uncle put up his glasses. When all my people were settled down in their box, he surveyed them carefully, interrupting his examination occasionally in order to take a furtive scowl at me. But my aunt’s presence kept him quiet. His composure was perfect for that matter, except that he seemed extremely puzzled. There were only three of them that evidently was not the right number for him. As for me, prudence dictated that I should get out of the way as quickly as possible, leaving him to make what observations he pleased.

As I was slipping away quietly to the back of the box, I heard my aunt saying:

“Are you going to speak to him?”

“No; we have had a quarrel!” he growled, looking again for me at his side.

But slam went the door, and I was out in the passage, whence I escaped to the back of the scenes and to the green-room. There he joined me during the entr’acte. But, as you are aware, “Turks do not discuss harem matters.” All I could see clearly was that he was in a fury with me.

To turn, however, to other things, my perseverance on behalf of Kondje-Gul is at last rewarded with complete success.

After I had spent a whole week in looking about, I found, in the Beaujou district, an institution for young ladies presided over by a Madame Montier, a kind woman of polished manners. She had suffered a reverse of fortune, which seems to have prepared her for the express purpose of civilizing my Kondje-Gul. There are never more than three or four boarders in the house: at the present moment two American girls, daughters of a commodore who is on a mission to the King of Siam, are finishing their education there. Nothing could suit my purpose better.

When the time arrived, however, for putting my plan into execution, I must confess that I could not help feeling considerable embarrassment. I could certainly have introduced Kondje-Gul as a young foreign lady, prematurely widowed, who was anxious to qualify herself for French society; but I soon found that this would create an unnecessary complication. Decidedly the better course would be for Mahommed to introduce her either as his ward or his daughter. Under any circumstances it was desirable that I should explain to her the necessity of extreme prudence.

At last, one evening, when I thought she was about to revert to this great object of her ambition, I started the subject myself.

“I am going to announce an important piece of news,” I said to her; “I have found a convent for you where you can stay pending your mother’s arrival.”

“Really!” she exclaimed, kissing me. “Oh, my dear Andre, how kind you are!”

“Yes; but I must warn you. This realisation of your dream is only possible at the cost of sacrifices, which will perhaps be hard for you to make.”

“What sacrifices? Tell me, quick!”

“First, assiduous work, and next, the sacrifice of your liberty; for during the whole time you remain at this establishment, you won’t be able to leave the place.”

“What does that matter?” she exclaimed, “provided I can see you every day!”

“But that’s exactly what will be impossible.”

“Why?” she asked, in her simplicity.

“Because, according to our customs, bachelors are never admitted into young ladies’ schools,” I replied, with a laugh.

“But as I belong to you,” she continued, with an astonished look, “they will not be surprised at your coming; are not you my master?”

“This reason, my dear, although a convincing one for you, would constitute the greatest obstacle; for they must not be allowed on any account to suspect that you are my wife. Mohammed alone will introduce you either as his daughter or as a young lady under his charge, and, for conventional reasons, which you will understand later on, this period of study will be a period of separation for us.”

I then let her know the whole truth about certain of our social conventionalities, concerning which she was still in ignorance. When she learned that our laws declared her free, and the equal of any Frenchwoman, and that I had no longer any rights over her, she looked inexpressibly pained.

“Good heavens!” she exclaimed, throwing herself into my arms, “what do you mean? Am I free, and my own mistress, and not yours for ever?”

“You are mine, because I love you,” I said to her very quickly, seeing her agitation; “and so long as you do not want to leave me ”

“Leave you! But what would become of me, then, without you?”

And her eyes filled with tears.

“What a foolish girl you are!” I replied, quite touched at her evident pain; “you are exaggerating the significance of my words: your liberty will make no difference in our relations.”

“Why did you tell me this cruel truth, then? I was so happy in the belief that I was your slave, and in obeying and loving you at the same time.”

“Still it was necessary for me to tell you, as you wish to learn our ideas and customs. Your ignorance was a source of danger, for even your questions might lead to the betrayal of relations which must remain a mystery for the rest of the world, and, above all, in the ‘pension,’ where you are about to live with companions.”

I had some difficulty in consoling her for this terrible discovery that our laws do not recognise slavery. Nevertheless, her desire for further instruction remained very keen.

Finally, two days afterwards, Mademoiselle Kondje-Gul entered Madame Montier’s institution, having been presented by her guardian, the worthy Omer-Rashid-Effendi, who made all the necessary arrangements with the majestic dignity which he displays on every occasion.

Although I have kept myself carefully in the background in all this matter, I watch its progress just the same, and superintend everything. Every evening Kondje-Gul writes to her guardian, and I get her letters at once: I can assure you they constitute quite an interesting romance. For a whole week Kondje-Gul, who had been rather overawed at first and astonished at all her new surroundings, seemed to live like one dazed. She would not trust herself to speak, fearing to appear uncultivated; but she observed, and the results of her observations were most curious. After that I perceived that she was gradually trying her wings; for when she had been initiated a few days into her new life, she soon abandoned her reserve, and has by this time passed the first step in her emancipation. Her simplicity of character, and her quaint Oriental manners, have secured her some very cordial friendships; and nothing can be more charming than the accounts she gives me of her devotion for her friends, Maud and Suzannah Montague, who are the realisation of perfection in her eyes.

Of course Kondje-Gul’s educational programme, as fixed by me, is confined within very modest limits. It consists of music, history, and a slight and general acquaintance with literature. But above all she is expected to acquire that indispensable familiarity with our ideas, and those feminine graces and refinements which can only be learnt by contact with women and girls brought up in good society. A few months at Madame Montier’s will be sufficient for this purpose, and the cultivation of her mind can be completed later on by private lessons.

My harem in the Faubourg St. Germain retains its Oriental aspect; it is a corner of the world described in the “Arabian Nights,” where I indulge from time to time, in the midst of Paris, in the distractions of a vizier of Samarcand or Bagdad. There, when the shutters are closed, in my gynaeceum (or women’s apartment), illuminated by lamps which shed a soft lustre upon us, while the bluish-grey smoke from my narguilé perfumes the atmosphere, my houris lull me to sleep to the music of their taraboucks.

With all this I am not quite so satisfied, as I would have liked to describe myself, with certain incidents which have occurred in connection with my harem. Certainly, they are all the natural consequences of our life in Paris; for I don’t suppose you imagine that I had not foreseen the psychological effect which entirely new ideas would unavoidably produce upon the profoundly ignorant minds of my houris. Besides, a progressive and judicious emancipation from their previous restraints formed part of my programme for them. But the introduction into the harem of certain high-class lady’s-maids, indispensable for initiating my little animals into the subtle mysteries of Parisian toilets, has of necessity led to their making a number of discoveries, which have contributed in a remarkable degree to their civilization: hardly, however, in those elements which I could have most desired. They have all of them got to know a great deal more than was necessary for them about those famous “customs of our harems in France,” the principles of which I had endeavoured to teach them. Thus I even noticed the other day that I set Zouhra and Nazli laughing when I reminded them of some point of etiquette. Although they are still imbued with the good principles of their native education, it is evident they are being corrupted by the poison of Liberalism. This I am convinced of by certain airs of assurance which they have put on, by their coquetries, and by novel and unexpected caprices which they now display.

The “Rights of Woman” have clearly been divulged to them. They talk of walking out by themselves, of visiting the popular theatres and music-halls, and even Mabille, the illuminations of which struck their fancy very much the other night, as we were passing the Avenue Montaigne in the carriage, on our way back from the Bois. One little instance will illustrate the situation for you. Mohammed’s rank and titles have ceased to impress them with any respect; and the day before yesterday Zouhra actually had the impudence to say “Chut!” to him.

This expression will clearly indicate to you an astonishing progress in the refinements of our language; but it will also, no doubt, afford you a text upon which to declaim in that cruelly sarcastic style which your Philistine genius revels in. I will, therefore, anticipate you by replying:

In the first place, that Mohammed does not understand French a fact which considerably diminishes the gravity of Zouhra’s disrespect;

In the second, that I never doubted but what their stay in Paris would open my houris’ minds to new ideas;

And in the third, that neither did I doubt but what they would acquire, in consequence, more precise notions upon the extent of their rights.

Woman, like any other animal susceptible of education, possesses the most subtle faculties of imitation. Now if, her weak nature being overcome by those impulses towards mischief and malice with which she is peculiarly endowed, she is tempted to commit trivial dérélictions of conduct dérélictions which, after all, are but faults of discernment is there any reason why we should make such a fuss about it?

In the midst of the supremely refined existence which my sultanas lead, I seem to discover in these innocent little vagaries a frank simplicity of character, more nearly related to purity of conscience than are the accomplished manners of our most polished coquettes.

While on this subject I must reply to the sarcasms contained in your last letter.

Let me tell you first of all that I have never laid claim to the character of a superior being inaccessible to human vanities, as you are trying to make out. I am quite willing to admit with you that I, like any other man, am possessed by “the stupid satisfaction which every man experiences in watching the success of the woman he loves.” It is quite possible that the effect produced by my odalisques upon the idle crowd (or as you term it la haute badauderie) of Paris, has suddenly invested them with new charms in my eyes. You say that the mystery with which they are enshrouded, and the silly conjectures which I hear people make about them as they pass by, have excited me and turned my head like that of a simpleton.

Well, I suppose you will hardly expect me to account for the human weakness which leads us to measure our own happiness by the degree of envy which it excites in others? Besides, what is the good of sifting my passion or testing my love in a crucible in order to estimate its value?

In the midst of my pagan indulgences, you ask me if I really love, in the usual sense of that word. This very reasonable question was at any rate worth asking, however simple it may seem. It is concerned with the great problem in psychology which I undertook to solve, namely, as to which predominates in love, the heart or the senses, and whether true love is possible when one loves four women at the same time?

It is clear that in the restricted limits of our ideas, and under the yoke of our customs and prejudices, we can only conceive of passion as concentrated upon a single object. Too far removed from our primitive origin and from the patriarchal age, and moulded by the influences of more refined customs, our minds have been stimulated to the contemplation of a certain recognized ideal. Still, as moralists and philosophers, we must admit that among Orientals there is, doubtless, another conception and another ideal of love, the character of which we cannot grasp. It is only by divesting ourselves of our moral clogs, or the restraints of our social conventionalities, that we can attain to the understanding of this lofty psychological problem. Indeed, no one has ever been able to say what love consists in. “Attraction of two hearts,” say some, and “mutual exchange of fancies;” but these are nothing but words depending upon the particular instance in which they are employed.

The truth is that we are full of inconsistencies in all our definitions. From a purely sentimental point of view, we start by laying down, as an absolute axiom, that the human heart can only embrace one object of love, and that man can only fall truly in love once in his life. Yet if we abstract from love the distinct element which our senses contribute to it, it is seen to consist of nothing but a form of affection an expansion of the soul analogous to friendship and to paternal or filial love, sentiments equally powerful, but which we recognize the duty of distributing between several objects.

Whence arises this strange contradiction?

Do not declare that it is a paradox, for our ideas on the subject proceed entirely from our education and from the influence of custom upon our minds. If we had been bred on the banks of the Ganges, of the Nile, or of the Hellespont, our school of aesthetics would have been different. The most romantic Turkish or Persian poet could not understand the vain subtleties of our emotions. Since his laws permit him several wives, it is his duty to love them all, and his heart rises to the occasion. Do you mean to tell me that his is a different love to ours? Upon what grounds? What do you know about it? Cannot you understand the charms of the obligation he is under to protect them all, in this equal distribution of his affections? It comes to this, in fact, that our ideas on the point are simply and always a question of latitude and of climate. We love like poor helpless creatures of circumstances.

It is these very psychological considerations which form the basis of the social argument which I intend to demonstrate in the important work which I am preparing for the Academy of Science, and which I introduce as follows:

“Revered Mother,

“Among the learned and celebrated members of whom your illustrious Society so justly boasts, the most competent have already determined to their satisfaction the general principles which should regulate the study of biology. It would be the height of presumption on my part to set up my unworthy opinion against theirs, were it not for the fact that I can adduce, as a justification for doing so, certain data in my own possession which very few, probably, of these highly-respected authorities could have procured under such favourable conditions as I have been enabled to do. As the nephew of a Pasha I have, &c.”

As you perceive, this modest preface is well calculated to soothe the delicate susceptibilities of the Institute.

The civilization of my Kondje-Gul has become quite the most delightful subject of study for me. It presents a complete romance in itself, and the denial which I have imposed upon myself adds a certain charm to it. I must tell you that her stay with Madame Montier has gradually produced a number of unforeseen complications. Commodore Montague has returned; one of the consequences of which is that the intimacy between the Misses Maud and Suzannah Montague and the ward of worthy Omer-Rashid-Effendi, which has seemed to him a most desirable one, has been so much encouraged that they have become inseparable, and Kondje-Gul has of course been invited by her young friends to entertainments given by their father invitations which she has been unable to decline for fear, thereby, of arousing suspicions.

Discretion on my part, you will thus perceive, has become more than ever necessary, so long as Kondje-Gul remains with Madame Montier. Our amorous relations are absolutely reduced to epistolary effusions, and to clandestine meetings, to bring about which we have recourse to all the stratagems employed by separated lovers. There is a certain piquancy in these adventures which affords us much delight so true is it that the deprivation of a pleasure enhances its value. In the morning Kondje-Gul takes riding-lessons in the Bois with Maud and Suzannah, who are accompanied by their father. I sometimes take a canter that way, in order to watch their party ride by. She looks charming in her riding-habit, and the Montague girls are really very pretty, especially Maud, who has a pert little playful expression which is very fascinating.

I forgot to tell you that Kondje-Gul’s mother, Murrah-Hanum, has arrived. She is a woman of forty-five, tall, with a distinguished bearing, and rather handsome still. Yet although she has been Europeanized by her residence at the French consul’s at Smyrna, and speaks our language almost with fluency, she retains in her manners all the peculiarities of the Circassian and the Asiatic; she has an easy-going and indolent temperament, and in her large dark eyes you can read the stern resignation of the fatalist races. When she appeared before me, she lavished upon me, in Oriental fashion, the most ardent expressions of devotion. I assured her of my desire to secure to her a share in all the advantages which I wished to confer upon Kondje-Gul. She expressed her gratitude with calmness and dignity, and swore to observe towards me the submissive obedience which she owed to her daughter’s husband. In short, you can picture the interview for yourself; it was characterized by all the florid effusiveness of Mahommedan greetings.