You may guess how successful this was, and with what shouts of joy it was received. Of course there followed a little make-believe scene of jealousy on the part of the others. "Kianet! ah, Kianet!" they repeated, laughing, and threatening me with uplifted fingers. This expression signifies "ungrateful." When evening arrived I took them into the park to calm the warmth of their emotions down a little. It was a splendid moonlight night, and the long black shadows of the trees stretched over the walk. As we passed these dark places the timid creatures pressed close about me. Ah! well, you don't expect me, I suppose, to tell you how this day was concluded? Affairs of the harem, my dear fellow!--affairs of the harem! As to my other news, I hardly need tell you that nobody in this neighbourhood has a suspicion of the secrets of El-Nouzha. In my external life I conform to all the social requirements of my position. I visit my uncle's old friends, Feraudet the notary, and the good old vicar, who calls me the Providence of the place. Once a week I dine with the doctor, Morand; who has a son, George Morand, an officer in the Spahis, on leave for the present at Ferouzat; and an orphan niece, a young lady of nineteen, lively and sympathetic. She is engaged to her cousin the captain, who is a regular _Africain_, a fire-eater you may call him, but a good fellow in the full sense of that word--one of those open natures made for devotion, like a Newfoundland dog, or a poodle. He is both formidable and patient. Such is my friend! We were playmates as children, and he would not brook the slightest insult to me in his presence. He wonders very much at my anchorite's life, and in order to divert me from it, endeavours to draw me into the hidden current of rustic gallantries which he indulges in while awaiting the day of Hymen. [Illustration] [Illustration] CHAPTER III. In the detailed account which I gave you, my dear Louis, of my honeymoon, I described pretty nearly the history of every day which has passed since I last wrote. "Happy nations have no history," said a wise man; happiness requires no description. First then, you must understand that I am now writing after recovery from the natural excitement into which my strange adventures had plunged me. Three months have passed; I am now enjoying my life like a refined vizir, and no longer like a simple troubadour of Provence, transported of a sudden into the Caliph's harem. I have recovered my analytical composure.