“Truly. You now discover that you are no diviner. The alledged confectioner, the lemonade seller, is no other than my friend, Ferdinand Laperre, our Christian martyr; and his companion, by you so lightly qualified as a chambermaid, or a countess without prejudices, is Baïla, the ex-favorite of Djezzar, the pacha of Shivas; Baïla, the Mingrelian, the rose of Incour, the dove in the talons of the hawk.”
After having inflicted this mockery upon me, which was doubtless well merited, my friend determined finally to finish the story.
“Having arrived in Paris, events of a more vulgar nature than those which had signalized their sojourn in Shivas, proved the young Frenchman and the Mingrelian. Their money gave out. The ornaments, presents from Djezzar, which the odalisk had carried off in her flight, were, most of them, false. Pachas even are no longer to be trusted. Ferdinand must, above every thing, seek for a lucrative employment. He entered the royal printing office as a proof-reader of Oriental works. This resource being insufficient for the wants of the household, Baïla sought also to be useful. Having never handled a needle, she could not become a seamstress or an embroideress, or a dressing-maid, or a female companion. She has a charming voice, and might, at a pinch, challenge all the Italian, French, and other singers, in warbling and trilling; but understanding none of the European languages, she could only sing Arabian mouals or Turkish gazels. Fortunately she dances also; and dancing is a language spoken and understood in all countries. She now figures in the ballet corps of the opera, where she is remarkable for her lightness, her mildness, and her modesty.”
As my illustrious friend finished his recital, we saw Ferdinand Laperre and his handsome companion walking arm-in-arm toward the Butard. Now, better informed, I admired the rare beauty of the Mingrelian, and the wonderful and graceful suppleness of her figure. My eyes were directed curiously toward the lower extremities of the ex-consular cadet, to examine the form and dimensions of his feet, so as to verify one of the details of this history. I found them much as usual. He had doubtless confided to Baïla the connection of friendship existing between him and my companion, for when we again met, she made him a slight wave of the hand, saying, “Bojour mocha.”
“Salem-Alai-k,” replied my illustrious traveler.
I saluted her profoundly.
A NIGHT AT THE BLACK SIGN.
———
BY THOMAS BUCHANAN READ.