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?"
"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?