Once a week we dine at Doctor Morand's. He is a man of great ability, who has only missed making his mark through want of a wider field. He is the one mortal capable of exercising an influence over Captain Barbassou, if the character of the latter did not place him out of reach of all external control. In this home family life reigns in its happiest and most charming simplicity, represented by a goodly quiver-full of children. I have already told you about young Morand, the spahi, and his cousin Genevieve.
Genevieve, with her nineteen summers, is the eldest, by several years, of a prolific brood, the offspring of her mother's second marriage. The doctor, who is a rich man for his district, took them all to live with him after his sister's death. A more delightful and refreshing place cannot be found than this heaven-blest home, the very atmosphere of which breathes the odour of peaceful happiness and honest purity. You should see Genevieve, _la grande_, surrounded by her four _petits_, her brothers and sisters, with their chubby faces, all neat and clean, obedient and cheeky at the same time, and kept in order by her with a youthful discipline, flavoured now and then with a spice of playfulness.
Is she really pretty? I confess I cannot decide. The question of beauty in her case is so completely put out of mind by a certain charm of manner, that one forgets to analyse it. She has certainly fine eyes, for they hold you spell-bound by the soul shining through them. George Morand, her _fiance_, adores her, and, headstrong _Africain_ though he is, even he feels an influence within her which subjugates his fiery spirit. They could not be a better match for each other, and will live happily together. She will chasten the exuberant ardour of the Provencal warrior.
My uncle professes to detest "the brats;" it is needless, perhaps, to add that, directly he arrives, the whole of them rush to him, climb on his knees, and stay there for the rest of his visit. He is their horse; he makes boats for them, and all the rest of it. The other day you might have seen him grumbling as he sewed a button on Toto's drawers (which he had torn off by turning him head over heels), fearing lest Genevieve should scold him.
I am very cordially welcomed by the whole house, and you may imagine what interminable discussions the doctor and I carry on. Having been formerly a professor in the School of Medicine at Montpellier, he was led by his researches in physiology to a very pronounced materialism.
Now that he has read my spiritualistic articles, he tries hard to break down my arguments. On the third side, my uncle, as a Mahometan, wants to convert him to deism; you may judge from this how much harmony there is between us; you might take us for an Academy!
At El-Nouzha the same life goes on still; but I must take this opportunity of correcting a dangerous mistake you appear to have fallen into, to judge from the tone of your letters. In everything that concerns my harem, you really speak as if you had in mind the fantastic and tantalising experiences of a second blessed Saint Anthony, exposed to the continual provocations of the most voluptuous beauties of the Court of Satan. Indeed, one might say (between you and me and the post), that your Holiness was less scared than inquisitive regarding these terrible scorchings. You old sinner! The real truth is that everything becomes a habit after a while, and that, now the first effervescence of passion is over, this life grows much more simple than you imagine. You must not believe that we lead a riotous existence of continual lusts and orgies. Such notions, my dear fellow, are only the fruit of ignorance and of prejudice.
Let me tell you that my harem is to me at the present time a most tranquil home, and that, but for the fact that I have four wives, everything about it has permanently assumed the every-day aspect of a simple household. Our evenings are spent in conversation round the drawing-room table with music and dancing, conducted in a thoroughly amiable and cheerful spirit, and all set off by the accomplishments of my sultanas. I combine in my conjugal relations the dignified oriental bearing of a vizir with the tender sentimentalities of a Galaor, and in this I have really attained to an exquisite perfection.
In fact, it would be the Country of Love in the Paradise of Mahomet, but for a few clouds which, since my uncle's return, have obscured the bright rays of my honeymoon. I have had some trouble with Hadidje and Nazli, who seem determined to make a trip over to the chateau as Kondje-Gul had done; for, as might have been foreseen, as soon as her alarms had subsided, this silly creature, with the view no doubt of exciting their jealousy, and posing as the favourite, had taken care to relate to them all the wonders of this, to them, forbidden place. Of course I refused at once to permit such an irregularity, contrary as it was to all harem traditions. This refusal was the signal for a scene of tears and jealous passions, which I subdued, but which only gave way to the tender reproaches of slighted affections. Well, I try to jog along as well as I can, as all husbands have to do, but I have a vague presentiment of troubles still in the air.
I have reopened my letter.
I hope you won't be astonished, my dear fellow, but--I have another piece of news relating to Barbassou-Pasha.
The day before yesterday, while my uncle and I were chatting together, as is our custom, before he went to bed, I observed that he yawned in an unusual manner. I had remarked this symptom before, and I drew my own conclusion from it, which was that overtaken once more by his adventurous instincts, he was beginning to find life tedious in the department of Le Gard,--he was longing for something or other, that was certain! And I began ransacking my mind to find some new food upon which he might exercise his all-devouring energy, when he said to me, just before I left him--
"By the bye, Andre, I have written to your aunt that I am returned. She will probably arrive some time between now and the end of the week."
"Ah!" I replied; "well, uncle, that's capital! I shall be delighted to have our family life back again."
"Yes, the house will seem really furnished then," he continued. "Well, good night, my boy!"
"Good night, uncle."
Then I left him.
Now, although this legitimate conjugal desire of my uncle's was quite rational on his part, you may nevertheless imagine that I went to bed rather puzzled. Which of my aunts should I see arrive? My uncle had acquainted me with this design in such an artless manner that it never occurred to me to venture any question on the subject. I began therefore to form conjectures based upon his present frame of mind, as to which of his wives he had probably selected.
I commenced by setting aside my aunt Cora, of the Isle of Bourbon. It was not very likely that the Pasha wanted to add to his past ontological researches upon the coloured races. Excluding also my aunt Christina de Postero, whose adventure with Jean Bonaffe had brought her into disgrace, there remained only my aunt Lia Ben Levy, my aunt Gretchen Van Cloth, and my aunt Eudoxie de Cornalis, so that the question was now considerably narrowed. Still I must confess that it was not much use my setting all my powers of induction to work, taking as my premises the captain's age, his present tastes, his plans, &c. All I succeeded in doing was to lose myself in a maze of affirmations and contradictions from which I could find no way out. The best thing to be done was to wait. So I waited.
I had not long to wait for that matter. Two days after, while I was in my room, I saw a carriage drive up. Its only occupant was a lady, who seemed to me to be very handsome and very elegantly dressed. On the box, by the coachman's side, sat a lady's maid; behind were two men-servants of superior style in their travelling livery. The carriage stopped. At the sound of the wheels on the gravel, my uncle's window opened.
"Hoi! is that you?" he shouted. "How are you, my dear!"
"How are you, captain!" replied the lady. "You see you have not been forgotten, you ungrateful wretch!"
"Thanks for that. Nor am I any more forgetful on my side."
"That's all right," replied the lady; "but why don't you come down and give me a hand? You're very gallant!"
"Well, my dear, I'm coming as fast as I can!" said my uncle.
I must confess I still remained somewhat puzzled at the sight of this fair traveller, whose appearance did not recall to me any of my aunts.
Could Barbassou-Pasha have contracted another marriage since the date of his will? Out of delicacy I kept out of the way, in order not to disturb their affectionate greetings, but as my uncle passed my door on his way out, he said to me,
"Andre, aren't you coming?" I followed him. We arrived just as the lady was stepping briskly up the doorsteps.
"Too late, captain!" she said, "I could not stay there, penned up in that carriage."
This reproach did not prevent them from shaking hands very heartily.
Then as I came up, my uncle said in his quick way,
"Kiss your aunt Eudoxia!"
At this injunction I forthwith embraced my aunt, and I must admit that as I kissed her I could not repress a smile, recollecting this sacramental phrase of my uncle's.
"My goodness! is that Andre?" she exclaimed, "Oh! excuse me, sir," she continued rapidly; "this familiar name slipped from my tongue, at remembrance of the bonny boy of old times."
"Pray take it for granted, madam!" I answered.
"Then don't call me madam!"
"What does that matter, _my aunt_; to obey you I shall be delighted to return to old times."
"Very well then, _my nephew_," she added; "see that my servants are looked after, and then let us come in!"
All this was said in that free-and-easy tone which denotes aristocratic breeding, and with so much of the assurance of a woman accustomed to the best society, that I was for a moment almost taken aback by it. My early impressions of her had only left in my mind confused recollections of an amiable and fascinating young woman (so far as I could judge at that age), and now my aunt suddenly appeared in a character which I had not at all anticipated. Assuredly I should never have recognised her, although time had not at all impaired the beauty of her face.
I will therefore draw her portrait afresh. Picture to yourself a woman of about thirty-five, although her real age is forty-two. Her figure exhibits a decided _embonpoint_, but this detracts not in the least from its gracefulness, for she is a tall woman, and has also quite a patrician style about her. Her erect head, and the profound dignity of her expression--everything about her in fact--might be taken to denote a haughty nature, were it not for that extreme simplicity of manner which appears natural to her. Notwithstanding the firmness of her language, the tone in which it is uttered is as soft as velvet, and her light, musical accent suggests the frank and easy bearing of a Russian lady of high rank.
Such is the description of my aunt.
My uncle had offered her his arm. As soon as we entered the drawing-room, she said, while taking off her hat:
"Ah, now you must at once explain to me this story of your death, which I received from a notary. For six months I have been fancying myself a widow!"
"You can see that there's nothing in it," replied my uncle.
"That's nice!" she exclaimed, laughing and holding her hand out to him a second time. "Another of your eccentricities, I suppose!"
"Not in the least, my dear; Andre here can tell you that I positively passed for a dead man, and that he went into mourning for me. He has even entered into the possession of my property as my heir."
"It's an ill wind that blows nobody any good," she answered; "but how was it that they put you in the grave by mistake? I am curious to know."
"I was in Abyssinia."
"Close by, is it?" asked she, interrupting him.
"Yes," continued my uncle. "A friend who was travelling with me, stayed behind at a place on our way, while I went forward, and he managed to die in such a stupid and ill-timed manner that, as my baggage was with him, it was from my papers that his certificate of death was made out.
It was only on my return here, five months later, that I learnt that I had been taken for dead. You see what a simple story it is."
"Well, of course," said my aunt, "such things are quite a common occurrence! That will teach you the result of not taking me with you on your travels. Was it also on account of this trip in Abyssinia that I have not seen you for two years? Oh stop, my dear nephew!" she added in an engaging tone, "a family scene is an instructive event; it forms----.