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
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.