One day I had gone to the Minister for War to tell him of a new desire of Hairiee's, when he begged me to be the bearer myself of a letter to the Prince Halim.
"I advise you not to lose it," he said as he gave it to me, and I felt a sort of tremor as I met his eyes.
When I reached the palace they told me the Prince was absent. With a sadness that I could not explain I sat down, and my slave, having waited some time in front of me with crossed arms, seeing that I asked for nothing, retired silently. I took my guitar and began playing almost unconsciously, watching meanwhile through the open windows the boats floating on the calm waters of the Bosphorus.
A great silence lay over the sea, and a delicious fragrance on the evening air, but somehow I could not shake off the vague feeling of melancholy which oppressed me.
The sudden rush of oars through the water made me lean out, and I saw the caïq of the Prince glide up along the landing-stage, and stop suddenly at the white marble steps with a sureness and precision which is a great art amongst the boatmen.
All the blood in my heart seemed to surge up to my head. I drew a hand-mirror from the cushions of the divan, and looked at myself critically; then quickly passing between my eyelids a tortoise-shell pin, arranged the folds of my rose-coloured intari, and slipped on my slippers which I had left at the foot of the divan, felt for the letter which I had hidden in my breast, and then I went out.
I was obliged to pass right through the harem. It was the hour for food, and the slaves were passing with large covered silver dishes on their heads, whilst the eunuch who was on duty called repeatedly "Destour!" ("attention"). On all sides I heard the light laughter of the women, who were playing tric-trac, which was the last new game in the harem, and which, like all other games, had its short reign and then vanished. I passed through the long bare corridors, where a soft, warm wind floated in through the open doors, and up the matting-covered stairs, and past the big room reserved for the children who were being taught to sing the Koran, and crossing the garden I went towards the kiosque which the Prince had had built, and which he only quitted in the great heat of summer.
The slaves on duty were sitting in a large circle on the ground, awaiting the arrival of the Prince, who had not yet come in. I sat down on one of the violet satin divans, and listened to the adventures of Nasreddin Hodja, that a lady secretary was reading aloud to the women. One of them respectfully begged the reader if she would stop the reading, and write a letter for her to her sister, who was one of the coffee-bearers to the Khedive. The secretary drew from her sash the case containing the Chinese ink and a pen, and immediately wrote down the long list of compliments which it is the custom to begin a letter with, and then asked the girl if there were anything she particularly wished to say. "No," said the slave, "so long as it is a letter; that is all I wish to send her."
The whole group was much interested in the lette, which, when finished, was handed to a eunuch, who passed it on to a messenger, who in his turn gave it to another of lower degree, who put it in the folds of his sash - the invariable destiny of the rare letters that were written in the harem.
The Prince entered, and two slaves immediately preceded His Highness to the entrance of his room, where they stood before the door which he left half open behind him. I glided into the room, and Halim turning swiftly round, threw his arms about me and kissed my eyes, holding me in a close embrace. On hearing the steps of two slaves who were on duty approaching, he went and sat down, and asked for a cigar from one of them. I then drew from my dress the letter of the Ministerr of War, and laid it on his knees, feeling not unmoved, as I always did, in his presence. He read it through several times, whilst the slaves, bearing heavy silver torches stood near him, holding their burdens first in one hand, and then in the other, for their weight was so great that it made them tremble.
Suddenly he held the letter to one of the flames and watched it slowly burn.
"There was enough in it to cause one to be taken to the Place d'Acq Meiden" (the place of execution), he said to me in French, in a voice so shaken by emotion that I felt as if I had suddenly received a wound.
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The next day I was summoned to the presence of His Highness, who gave me a small bag of grey cloth tied with string and sealed with red wax.
"You must take this to the harem of the Minister of War. To-day being Friday, he will go out very late, and you will give it him with your own hands," he said.
On arriving at the house, I was so early that the Minister received me with a fur cloak thrown over his sleeping-clothes, and who cried when he saw me, "Thanks be to Allah! what news?"
Whilst his wife said: "Well, my child, the flowers are still red with the dawn, and you are already here."
"Don't talk, my wife," said he, "but order some fruits for the child," and then he examined closely the seals on the package.
"More surprises from Paris?" She asked.
"What is there in the bag - money? - or some new French inventions? - tell me, Pasha, what is it?"
Then understanding that she would learn nothing, she laughed, the rather loud laugh of a somewhat vulgar woman.
Hussein Avni had married her when he was a sous-officier, and since that time he had never even dreamt of making her unhappy by choosing another and perhaps more refined wife.
Two slaves brought in a Roman salad, cherries, strawberries, cooked beans, and boiled maize, which we all three tranquilly ate with all the enjoyment of real Turks, for these plain repasts are much appreciated by the simple-minded Mussulman. The Minister was much amused at the way his wife teased me with a hundred questions, and naturally taking advantage of my presence, led the conversation on to the subject of dresses from Paris, pretending to hesitate concerning the respective merits of Laferrière and Soinard.
Suddenly the Minister said to me with a kindly smile: "Ela, my child, write to Laferrière to send a dress for my child, only write quickly, my lamb."
"Certainly," I answered, "only you must bear in mind that she is more expensive than Soinard."
"But much more chic," interrupted Madame Hussein Avni, and at the use of this French word we all laughed.
" You may write," said the Pasha. "I will pay, for the Sultan is very generous to me - and at this moment, when I am Grand Vizier and the Minister of War, everything is in my hands; there is nothing that I need refuse, and I shall do as others do. Fortune at last opens the door that I had double-locked. An honest man! - what is that? No one believes or gives one credit for being it. Hitherto I have deprived Hairiee of many things; now she shall have all she wishes-nothing shall be too good or expensive for her. Allons! Hairiee, my sweet-eyed one, my treasure," he continued, laying aside his chibouk and drawing towards him this ungrateful child, who was later to cause him such great misfortunes, "what do you wish now? - what is the desire of your heart?"
She only smiled, and as the Minister was now due at the War Office, he put on his coat, and whilst the slaves were drawing on his boots, his wife seized this unexpected opportunity to give him a list of all the things he was to buy in the town - a ruby and diamond tiara for Hairiee - who was going to the wedding of one of the ladies of the palace - a coupé with English horses for their son, a hundred pieces of Indian muslin for their slaves, six Japanese dishes big enough to hold a roast sheep, white tortoise-shell spoons, and innumerable packets of wax candles.
The Pasha listened patiently. He had always done the commissions for his wife, and he had no idea of changing the customs of his life, which was entirely sacrificed to the happiness of his family. Then looking at the clock, and seeing how late it was, he hurriedly left.
On quitting the palace, I saw the Minister outside in conversation with General Ignatiev, the Russian Ambassador. Hussein Avni was very calm, and, I saw, refused to speak French.
The Ambassador was talking much and excitedly, and I could not help thinking of what I once heard old Mehmet Ruchtu Pasha say: "For each step the Russian takes, he tells ten lies."
