At these words Zobeidè, in the most haughty and fierce manner, turned to the caliph and the calenders. “Is it true, gentlemen,” she asked, “that you have commissioned this man to require this information of me?” They all answered it was, except the vizier Giafar, who did not open his lips. Upon this she replied to them, in a tone which showed how much she was offended; “Because we granted you the favour you requested of us, and in order to prevent any cause of discontent or dissatisfaction on your parts as we were alone, we made our acquiescence subject to one positive condition, that you should not speak about what did not concern you, lest you should hear what would not please you. After having both received and entertained you as well as we possibly could, you do not scruple to break your word. This probably arises from the facility with which we agreed to receive you; but that surely is no excuse; and your conduct, therefore, cannot be considered as honourable.” Having concluded her speech, she struck the floor with her foot, and clapped her hand three times, and called out, “Enter quickly!” A door immediately opened, and seven strong powerful black slaves rushed in, with scimitars in their hands, and each seized one of the company. They threw them to the ground, drew them into the middle of the hall, and were preparing to take off their heads.
We may easily conceive what was the alarm of the caliph. He repented, but too late, at not having followed the advice of his vizier. In the mean time this unfortunate prince, Giafar, Mesrour, the porter, and the three calenders, were about to pay with their lives for their indiscreet curiosity; but before they received the fatal stroke, one of the slaves said to Zobeidè and her sisters, “High, powerful, and respectable mistresses, do you command us to cut their throats?”—“Stop,” answered Zobeidè, “it is necessary first to interrogate them.”—“Madam,” cried the affrighted porter, “in the name of God do not make me die for the crime of another. I am innocent, and they only are guilty. Alas!” he continued, weeping, “we were passing the time so agreeably. These one-eyed calenders are the cause of this misfortune; there is not even a city that would not be ruined by men of such ill-favoured countenances. I entreat you, madam, not to confound the first with the last; and remember, it is much more commendable to pardon a miserable wretch like me, deprived of all assistance, than to overwhelm him with your power, and sacrifice him to your resentment.”
Zobeidè, in spite of her anger, could not help laughing inwardly at the lamentations of the porter. But without paying any attention to him, she addressed herself again to the others. “Answer me,” said she, “and tell me who you are, if not, you have only an instant to live. I cannot believe that you are honourable men, or persons of authority or distinction in whatever country you call your own. If that had been the case, you would have paid more attention and more respect to us.”
The caliph, being naturally impatient, suffered infinitely more than the rest at finding his life depended upon the commands of an offended and justly irritated woman; but he began to conceive there were some hopes when he found, that she wished to know who they all were; as he imagined she would by no means take away his life, when she should be informed of his rank. It was for this reason that he whispered to his vizier, who was near him, instantly to declare who he was. But this wise and prudent minister, wishing to preserve the honour of his master, and being unwilling to make public the great affront he had brought upon himself, answered, “We suffer only what we deserve.” When, however, in obedience to the caliph, he wished to speak, Zobeidè would not give them time. She immediately addressed herself to the three calenders, and observing that they were all three blind with one eye, she asked if they were brothers. “No, madam,” answered one of them for the rest, “we are not brothers by blood, but only in consequence of being calenders; that is, in pursuing and observing the same kind of life.”—“Have you,” said she, “speaking to one of them in particular, “lost the sight of one eye from your birth?”—“No, indeed, madam,” he answered, “I became so through a most surprising adventure, by the recital or perusal of which, were it written, every one must derive advantage. After this misfortune, I shaved my beard and eyebrows, and in taking up the habit I wear, became a calender.”
Zobeidè put the same question to the others, who returned her the same answer as the first. But the last who spoke, added, “To inform you, madam, that we are not common persons, and in order that you should have some pity for us, we must tell you, that we are all the sons of kings. Although we have never seen each other before this evening, we have had sufficient time to become acquainted with this circumstance; and I can assure you, that the kings who have given us birth have made some noise in the world!”
During this speech Zobeidè became less angry, and told the slaves to set them at liberty, but at the same time to remain where they were. “They,” said she, “who shall recount their history to me, and explain the motives which brought them to this house, shall suffer no harm, but shall have permission to go where they please; but such as shall refuse to give us that satisfaction, shall not be spared.” The three calenders, the caliph, the grand vizier Giafar, the eunuch Mesrour, and the porter, were all on the carpet in the middle of the hall before the three ladies, who sat on a sofa, with the slaves behind them, ready to execute any orders they might receive.
The porter, understanding that he had only to relate his history in order to be delivered from so great a danger, spoke first. “You are already acquainted, madam,” he said, “with my history and what brought me to your house. What I have to relate, therefore, will soon be finished. Your sister engaged me this morning at the place where I take my stand in quality of a porter, by which I endeavour to gain a living. I followed her to a wine-merchant’s, to an herbseller’s, to an orange-merchant’s, and to those who sell almonds, nuts, and other dried fruits. We then went to a confectioner’s, and to a druggist’s, from thence with my basket on my head as full as it well could be, I came here, where you had the goodness to suffer me to remain till now, a favor I shall never forget. This is the whole of my history.”
When the porter had concluded, Zobeidè, very well satisfied with him, said, “Save thyself and begone, nor ever let us see thee again.”—“I beg of you, madam,” replied he, “to let me remain a little longer. It would be unfair that I should not hear their histories after they have had the pleasure of hearing mine.” In saying this, he took his place at the end of the sofa, truly delighted at finding himself free from the danger which so much alarmed him. One of the calenders next spoke, and addressing himself to Zobeidè, as the principal person who had commanded them to give an account of themselves, began his history as follows.