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 fetes 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.