The deed is done! We managed everything without the slightest hitch. I

write to you from Paris, from our house in the Rue de Varennes; it seems

like years since I was last there, so many things have happened during

the six months since I left it. All my surroundings belong to a life so

different from my present one, that it requires an exertion of thought

to identify myself and realise my position here.

My harem is established in the Rue de Monsieur--in the former "Parc aux

Cerfs" of my uncle--a splendid mansion, the gardens of which reach to

the Boulevard des Invalides. My uncle has absolutely the genius of an

ancient Epicurean transferred by accident into our own century. To look

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at the street, with its cold and deserted aspect, one might imagine

oneself in a corner of aristocratic Versailles. My mystery is safely

hidden away there. Mohammed while at Paris is no longer an exiled

Minister, but simply a rich Turk who has acquired a taste for European

civilisation. His name is Omer-Rashid-Effendi, a name under which he has

already passed here twice.

My houris are astonished with all they see, and their pleasure is

indescribable. Of course my first care was to Europeanise their

toilettes. In pursuance of my orders (for, as you may be sure, I do not

appear in such matters) a fashionable dressmaker was sent for by

Mohammed. What a business it was! The difficulty was to avoid making

them, with their oriental styles and deportments, look stiff and awkward

when confined for the first time in the garb of our civilised

torture-house.

By a happy compromise between fashion and fancy, the clever artiste

has contrived for them costumes which are marvels of good taste and

simplicity. Nothing could be more successful than this metamorphosis;

their coiffures complete the picture, and I can hardly recognise my

almées under the bewitching little hats worn by our Parisian women. I

assure you it is a transfiguration replete with surprises and unexpected

charms. Attired like our women of fashion, their striking and original

beauty, which was my admiration at El-Nouzha, impresses me in quite a

novel manner, which I seem to understand better as I compare them by the

side of our own women. Like young foreign ladies of distinction habited

in the costumes of our civilisation, they seem to shed around them

wherever they go a sort of exotic fragrance.

Everything, of course, had to be changed now that they are in Paris;

they could no longer follow the routine of their former existence within

the four walls of the harem. They were now at liberty to go out walking,

and take little trips; but here at once appeared a most serious

difficulty for them to overcome. How could they show themselves in the

streets, the Champs Elysées, or the Bois, without their veils just like

infidels? That was a serious question! It was impossible for them to

make up their minds to such a shameful breach of Mussulman law; and, if

I must admit it, I myself experienced a strange sort of revulsion at the

thought of it. Yes, to this have I come! Nevertheless, on the other

hand, it was quite out of the question for them to shew themselves out

of doors enshrouded in their triple veils, attracting wherever they went

the remarks of the idle crowd.




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