The other day Kondjé-Gul and I were talking together about a little

house which I had discovered in the upper part of the Champs Elysées,

and of an English governess, who seemed to me to possess the right

qualifications for a pretended mother: "If you like," said Kondjé-Gul, "I can tell you a much simpler

arrangement."

"Well?" I replied.

"Instead of this governess whom I don't know, I would much rather have

my mother. I should be so happy at seeing her again!"

"Your mother?" I exclaimed with surprise; "do you know where she is

then?"

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"Oh, yes! for I often write to her."

She then told me all her past history, which I had never before thought

of asking her, believing that she had been left alone in the world. It

afforded me a complete revelation of those Turkish customs which seem so

strange to us. Kondjé-Gul's mother, as I have told you, was a

Circassian, who came to Constantinople to enter the service of a cadine

of the Sultan. Kondjé-Gul being a very pretty child, her mother had, in

her ambitious fancy, anticipated from her beauty a brilliant career for

her. In order to realise this expectation, she left her at twelve years

old with a family who were instructed to bring her up better than she

could have done herself, until Kondjé-Gul was old enough to be sought

after as a cadine or a wife.

This hope on the part of her mother was accomplished, as you know, for

the girl was purchased for a good round sum by Mohammed. Thus poor

Kondjé-Gul fulfilled her destiny. Then she related to me how her mother,

several years ago, had found a better situation for herself with a

French consul at Smyrna, and had learnt French there.

Kondjé-Gul's idea was a happy one, and I was inclined to entertain it. I

consented to her writing to Smyrna, and some days later she received an

answer to the effect that in about a couple of months her mother would

be able to join her providing the requisite means were sent her for this

purpose. I have a house in view where they can live together. It is a

little house belonging to Count de Téral, who is on his way back to

Lisbon: one might really fancy he had got it ready on purpose for me.

What have you to say to this, you profound moralist?




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