The other evening, I was in the harem, and Nazli and Zouhra were playing Turkish airs on the zither, while Hadidje, seated at my feet, with her head resting upon her hands, which were crossed on my knees, was singing in a low murmur the words of each tune. Kondje-Gul stayed near the verandah, looking cool and dignified, and smoking a cigarette in the defiant, and at the same time resigned attitude of a hardened rebel; but the furtive glances which she cast at Hadidje gave the lie to her affected calmness. For two evenings past we had not exchanged a word with each other. She had dressed herself that day with remarkable care, as if to impress me with the splendours of the paradise I had lost: her glorious hair streamed down in long tresses, somewhat disorderly, from under her pearl-embroidered cap. Notwithstanding a great gauze veil with which she pretended to enshroud herself in order to conceal her charms from my profane eyes, her bodice was so slightly fastened that it dropped down just low enough to expose to view the charming little pits under her arms and the snowy-whiteness of her breasts. Like a wrathful Venus, the expression on her face was both mutinous and resolute. She had put _kohl_ under her eyes (a thing which I forbid), and had blackened and lengthened her eyebrows so that they met together, in Turkish fashion. In this get-up the little sinner looked ravishing! Now you can picture to yourself the scene, and guess my state of mind. The weird tones of the zither, with their penetrating and singularly melancholy vibrations, the strange yet graceful costumes, the scent of those flowers with which the daughters of the East always adorn themselves, the all-pervading voluptuous atmosphere the enchantment of which I cannot explain to you; finally, the fair rebel gloomy and jealous, in the corner of the picture! All this, without my being any longer surprised by it, kept me in a sort of happy contentment, like that of a well satisfied vizir, which defies all analysis, but which you will understand. All at once the music ceased. "Andre," said Hadidje to me, "won't you come into the garden for a little while?" "Come along!" I replied, and rose up to go. She took my arm. Zouhra and Nazli followed us. As I went out by the verandah, I passed close to Kondje-Gul; she drew back with a superb air of dignity, as if she feared lest her dress should be ruffled by me. Then darting a look of withering scorn at Hadidje, she wrapped herself up in her veil and leant against the balustrade, watching us go off. It was a delicious autumn evening, the air was soft and the sky clear and starry. Under our feet the dry leaves crackled. Hadidje wanted to have a row in the boat, so we went towards the lake. As we rowed along we caught glimpses of Kondje-Gul from time to time, through the openings between the trees; her motionless figure stood out like a solitary shadow in front of the illuminated window of the drawing-room.