interest in Mademoiselle
Genevieve. As a consequence, Genevieve and the children spend almost all
their time at the chateau. In the evenings we have gatherings to which
all the young people of the neighbourhood are invited; my aunt, who is
an excellent musician, organises concerts, and we generally finish up
with a dance.

These worldly recreations afford me a clearer insight into the
analytical details of my oriental life, which is now more than ever
enveloped in the profoundest mystery. I have invented a story of
important botanical studies upon the flora of Provence, in order to
justify certain daily excursions which naturally terminate in El-Nouzha.
It is well-known, moreover, that I sometimes visit His Excellency
Mohammed-Azis, but with the discretion which respect for a great
misfortune naturally entails. The exiled minister is no longer even
discussed among us; everybody knows that "he shuts himself up like a
bear in his den," and there is an end of it.

My aunt is the perfection of a woman. Nothing can be more delightful
than our conversations. Her manner partakes both of the indulgence of a
mother and of the unrestrained intimacy of a friend. She still remembers
the child she used to dance upon her knees; and, although I had for a
long while forgotten her very existence, my present affection for her is
none the less sincere because it is of such recent growth. I must
confess that, after my confined existence at school and college, I am
delighted with these pleasures of home life, to which I was until lately
quite a stranger.

My aunt, as you may guess, is acquainted with my uncle's famous plan for
the future, and knows Anna Campbell, the Pasha's _god-daughter_. You
should hear her chaff him anent this god-fathership, on the strength of
which she claims that the captain has returned to the bosom of the
Church without knowing it. She tells me that Anna is a charming girl.
Thus petted and entertained, I live in other respects very much as I
like, and sometimes pass the whole day in the library. I should add that
my aunt, who is as sharp as a weasel, makes her own comments upon my
frequent absences from the chateau.

"Andre," she asked me the other day with a smile, "is your 'Botany' dark
or fair?"

"Fair, my dear aunt," I answered, laughing as she did.

In the midst of all this the Pasha, still emulating one of the Olympian
gods, proceeds on his course with that tranquillity of spirit which
never forsak