“And so you are going to be married?” asked the duchess of the author
who had read his manuscript to her.
She was one of those ladies to whom the author has already paid his
respects in the introduction of this work.
“Certainly, madame,” I replied. “To meet a woman who has courage enough
to become mine, would satisfy the wildest of my hopes.”
“Is this resignation or infatuation?”
“That is my affair.”
“Well, sir, as you are doctor of conjugal arts and sciences, allow me to
tell you a little Oriental fable, that I read in a certain sheet, which
is published annually in the form of an almanac. At the beginning of the
Empire ladies used to play at a game in which no one accepted a
present from his or her partner in the game, without saying the word,
_Diadeste_. A game lasted, as you may well suppose, during a week, and
the point was to catch some one receiving some trifle or other without
pronouncing the sacramental word.”
“Even a kiss?”
“Oh, I have won the _Diadeste_ twenty times in that way,” she laughingly
replied.
“It was, I believe, from the playing of this game, whose origin is
Arabian or Chinese, that my apologue takes its point. But if I tell
you,” she went on, putting her finger to her nose, with a charming air
of coquetry, “let me contribute it as a finale to your work.”
“This would indeed enrich me. You have done me so many favors already,
that I cannot repay--”
She smiled slyly, and replied as follows:
A philosopher had compiled a full account of all the tricks that women
could possibly play, and in order to verify it, he always carried it
about with him. One day he found himself in the course of his travels
near an encampment of Arabs. A young woman, who had seated herself under
the shade of a palm tree, rose on his approach. She kindly asked him to
rest himself in her tent, and he could not refuse. Her husband was then
absent. Scarcely had the traveler seated himself on a soft rug, when the
graceful hostess offered him fresh dates, and a cup of milk; he could
not help observing the rare beauty of her hands as she did so. But, in
order to distract his mind from the sensations roused in him by the fair
young Arabian girl, whose charms were most formidable, the sage took his
book, and began to read.
The seductive creature piqued by this slight said to him in a melodious
voice:
“That book must be very interesting since it seems to be the sole object
worthy of your attention. Would it be taking a liberty to ask what
science it treats of?”
The philosopher kept his eyes lowered as he replied:
“The subject of this book is beyond the comprehension of ladies.”
This rebuff excited more than ever the curiosity of the young Arabian
woman. She put out the prettiest little foot that had ever left its
fleeting imprint on the shifting sands of the desert. The philosopher
was perturbed, and his eyes were too powerfully tempted to resist
wandering from these feet, which betokened so much, up to the bosom,
which was still more ravishingly fair; and soon the flame of his
admiring glance was mingled with the fire that sparkled in the pupils
of the young Asiatic. She asked again the name of the book in tones so
sweet that the philosopher yielded to the fascination, and replied:
“I am the author of the book; but the substance of it is not mine: it
contains an account of all the ruses and stratagems of women.”
“What! Absolutely all?” said the daughter of the desert.
“Yes, all! And it has been only by a constant study of womankind that I
have come to regard them without fear.”
“Ah!” said the young Arabian girl, lowering the long lashes of her white
eyelids.
Then, suddenly darting the keenest of her glances at the pretended sage,
she made him in one instant forget the book and all its contents. And
now our philosopher was changed to the most passionate of men. Thinking
he saw in the bearing of the young woman a faint trace of coquetry, the
stranger was emboldened to make an avowal. How could he resist doing
so? The sky was blue, the sand blazed in the distance like a scimitar
of gold, the wind of the desert breathed love, and the woman of Arabia
seemed to reflect all the fire with which she was surrounded; her
piercing eyes were suffused with a mist; and by a slight nod of the head
she seemed to make the luminous atmosphere undulate, as she consented
to listen to the stranger’s words of love. The sage was intoxicated
with delirious hopes, when the young woman, hearing in the distance the
gallop of a horse which seemed to fly, exclaimed:
“We are lost! My husband is sure to catch us. He is jealous as a tiger,
and more pitiless than one. In the name of the prophet, if you love your
life, conceal yourself in this chest!”
The author, frightened out of his wits, seeing no other way of getting
out of a terrible fix, jumped into the box, and crouched down there. The
woman closed down the lid, locked it, and took the key. She ran to meet
her husband, and after some caresses which put him into a good humor,
she said:
“I must relate to you a very singular adventure I have just had.”
“I am listening, my gazelle,” replied the Arab, who sat down on a rug
and crossed his feet after the Oriental manner.
“There arrived here to-day a kind of philosopher,” she began, “he
professes to have compiled a book which describes all the wiles of which
my sex is capable; and then this sham sage made love to me.”
“Well, go on!” cried the Arab.
“I listened to his avowal. He was young, ardent--and you came just in
time to save my tottering virtue.”
The Arab leaped to his feet like a lion, and drew his scimitar with a
shout of fury. The philosopher heard all from the depths of the chest
and consigned to Hades his book, and all the men and women of Arabia
Petraea.
“Fatima!” cried the husband, “if you would save your life, answer
me--Where is the traitor?”
Terrified at the tempest which she had roused, Fatima threw herself at
her husband’s feet, and trembling beneath the point of his sword, she
pointed out the chest with a prompt though timid glance of her eye. Then
she rose to her feet, as if in shame, and taking the key from her girdle
presented it to the jealous Arab; but, just as he was about to open the
chest, the sly creature burst into a peal of laughter. Faroun stopped
with a puzzled expression, and looked at his wife in amazement.
“So I shall have my fine chain of gold, after all!” she cried, dancing
for joy. “You have lost the _Diadeste_. Be more mindful next time.”
The husband, thunderstruck, let fall the key, and offered her the
longed-for chain on bended knee, and promised to bring to his darling
Fatima all the jewels brought by the caravan in a year, if she would
refrain from winning the _Diadeste_ by such cruel stratagems. Then, as
he was an Arab, and did not like forfeiting a chain of gold, although
his wife had fairly won it, he mounted his horse again, and galloped
off, to complain at his will, in the desert, for he loved Fatima too
well to let her see his annoyance. The young woman then drew forth the
philosopher from the chest, and gravely said to him, “Do not forget,
Master Doctor, to put this feminine trick into your collection.”
“Madame,” said I to the duchess, “I understand! If I marry, I am bound
to be unexpectedly outwitted by some infernal trick or other; but I
shall in that case, you may be quite sure, furnish a model household for
the admiration of my contemporaries.”