But the most delightful of all these marvels is certainly Kasre-el-Nouzha, my neighbouring property. Kasre-el-Nouzha was a Turkish fancy of my uncle's. These three Arabic words correspond to the Spanish Buen-Retiro; or, literally translated, they signify "Castle of Pleasures." This was the retreat, separated only by a party-wall from Ferouzat, that was formerly inhabited by the exiled minister who had fled from the persecutions of the Sultan. Picture to yourself, hidden in a great park whose umbrageous foliage concealed it from view, a delightful palace of the purest Oriental architecture, surrounded by gardens, with flowering shrubs covered with a wealth of blossoms, standing in the midst of green lawns, a sort of Vale of Tempe transplanted, one might imagine, from the East. My uncle Barbassou, conscientious architect that he was, had copied the plan from one of the residences of the King of Kashmir. In the interior of the Kasre you might fancy yourself in the house of some grandee of Stamboul or of Bagdad. Luxuries, ornaments, furniture, and general domestic arrangements, have all been studied with the taste of an artist and the exactitude of an archaeologist. At the same time European comforts are gratefully mingled with Turkish simplicity. The silken tapestries of Persia, the carpets of Smyrna with those harmonious hues which seem to be borrowed from the sun, the capacious divans, the bath-rooms, and the stores, all contribute in short to the completeness of an establishment, suitable to a Pasha residing under the sky of Provence. A little door in the park-wall gives access to this oasis. As you may guess, I passed many an hour there, and I dreamt dreams of "The Thousand and One Nights." All this time I had never interrupted my labours; for you need not suppose that my nabob's fortune could make me forgetful of my inclinations towards science. In the midst of my numerous follies, as you know very well, and in spite of the distractions of the more or less dissipated life which I have led up to my present happy age of twenty-six, I have always preserved my love of study, which fills up those hours of forced respite that even the pleasures of the world leave to every man who is conscious of a brain. The Polytechnic School, and the search for _x_, in which my uncle trained me, developed very inquisitive instincts in me. I ended by acquiring a taste for transcendental ideas. This taste is at least worth as much as that for angling. For my part, I confess that I class among the molluscs men who, being their own masters, content themselves with eating, drinking, and sleeping, without performing any intellectual labour. This is why you call me "the _savant_." I worked away, then, at my book with a veritable enthusiasm, and my "Essay upon the Origin of Sensation" had extended to several long chapters, when the critical event occurred which I have undertaken to relate to you.