“Exactly twelve months—I am thirteen; my husband is a year older.”
“Did you expect us earlier?”
“Expect you!” echoed the fair Turk, opening her deep eyes in wonder: “Mashallah! how could I expect that two Frank ladies would come to visit me?”
This was inexplicable!
“I trust that the Pasha has quite recovered his late indisposition,” pursued my companion after a moment’s silence.
“I did not know that he was unwell; we have not heard from him lately.”
“Heard from him?” echoed Madame——in her turn; “my husband had a long conversation with him yesterday.”
Again the beauty dilated her large eyes in wonder. “Impossible! He is in Albania.” Here was the solution of the enigma. We were bound on a visit to Mustapha Pasha, the rebel—and we were under the roof of Omer Pasha, his present successor!
After a hearty laugh on all sides, we were quite at our ease; the young beauty handed scented conserves and coffee to us with her own pretty, plump, henna-tipped fingers; and informed us that her mother-in-law, the Buyuk Hanoum, and herself, were occupying a house lent to them by a friend, for the few weeks which they found it expedient to pass in Constantinople, while making their arrangements for Albania, where they were shortly to join the Pasha.
After passing half an hour in chatting on various subjects, we rose to take our leave, and to profit by the polite offer of our new acquaintance to send a servant to point out to us the palace of Mustapha Pasha. As we were making our parting compliments, a slave came in to request that we would pay a visit to the Buyuk Hanoum in her apartment, whither she had just returned from the bath.