CHAPTER IX
RECOGNITION
There is nothing very remarkable about the incident I am about to relate, but I am very curious and excited.
A Russian frigate has just come in from Constantinople; fearing bad weather, she has put into Khios, instead of going on to Smyrna, or the Oulach Islands.
That frigate fired a cannon-shot for a pilot, and that was the salute I heard this morning.
Who is that lady who, in spite of the high wind, came on shore as soon as the vessel was anchored? The sight of that simple little blue bonnet, the cashmere shawl drawn snugly over the shoulders, that little foot so well shod, that little hand so well gloved, has operated a retrograde movement in regard to my ideas of beauty.
From the antique Greek I have passed to the Parisian type. I would now give all the Noémis, the Anathasias, and the Daphnés in the world, with all their fezzes, their yellaks, and embroidered belts, to be able to offer my arm to that pretty stranger; for she is pretty, I could see that much from the trellis of my kiosk. She is tall and slender, and has beautiful blue eyes, which is something very charming in a fair-skinned brunette.
The gentleman whose arm she leans on is middle-aged, and has a fine, intelligent face.
Who can these strangers be?
KHIOS, October, 18—.
What a strange meeting! Events are so strange that it is well worth while to continue my journal.
Yesterday I sent my old Cypriote to find a Calabrian, who fills the position of port-warden, and attends to the Marquis Justiniani's business, and ask him who were the travellers on the frigate.
That ship is commanded by the Duke of Fersen, ex-ambassador of Russia to the Sublime Porte; he is on his way to Toulon, with the princess, his wife, and several distinguished persons. It was Madame de Fersen that I saw yesterday on the landing.
This morning, about one o'clock, I was lazily stretched on my divan, smoking my Turkish pipe, whose bowl Noémi held, while Anathasia was burning some perfumes in a silver pan, when the curtains of my apartments were suddenly thrust aside, and Daphné entered triumphantly, leading a party of strangers, among whom were M. and Madame de Fersen.
I could have strangled Daphné, for I was furious to be caught in my Oriental costume.
My hair and beard had grown quite long, and my neck was bare. I wore the long, white skirt of the Albanians, a cherry-coloured jacket embroidered with orange silk, red morocco gaiters, embroidered with silver, and an orange-coloured sash.
It was probably very picturesque, but it seemed terribly ridiculous, and so like a masquerade, that I grew red with shame, as a young lady might do if she were caught playing with a doll. (The comparison is silly, but it expresses how I felt.)
Hoping to be mistaken for a real Albanian, I remained very serious, to complete the deception.
The prince, accompanied by his Greek interpreter, stepped forward and excused himself for his indiscretion, asking me to pardon his wife's curiosity, but that she had found the palace so beautiful, and the gardens so enchanting, that she asked permission to visit them, while the ship waited for a favourable wind.
I replied by a low bow, putting my left hand on my breast, and my right hand on my forehead, as the Albanians do; then I bowed my head to the princess, without getting up from the divan.
I was about to say a few polite words to the interpreter, when I heard a shrill voice, and at the same time I saw,—whom do you suppose?—Du Pluvier!
I was stunned.
It was he, as ridiculous as ever, decked out in gold chains and an embroidered waistcoat, noisy, talkative, and never still for a moment. The little man was redder and fatter than ever. He was evidently a member of the French legation at Constantinople, for he wore a blue coat with buttons bearing the king's initials.
That infernal bore held one of my dwarfs by the ear, and, showing him to Madame de Fersen, said, "Here, madame, is one of the monsters of the Middle Ages."
Then, on a sign from the prince that the master of the house was present, Du Pluvier turned around, and looked at me.
I trembled, for I knew that he recognised me.
It would be impossible to depict Du Pluvier's astonishment; his eyes rolled in his head, he stretched forward his arms, and, stepping towards me, cried out:
"What! are you here, my dear Arthur? You! disguised as a Mamamouchi! This is a strange meeting! Why, I have not seen you since the first representation of 'The Comte d'Ory' at the Opéra. You were there with Madame de Pënâfiel."
The prince, his wife, the interpreter, and some Russian officers who accompanied the ambassador, all of whom understood French perfectly well, were quite as much surprised as Du Pluvier. Madame de Fersen looked at me curiously, but could not refrain from smiling.
I bit my lips, cursing my costume, Daphné, and, above all, Du Pluvier, whom I wished the devil might take. He kept on with his protestations of friendship, while all eyes were fixed on us.
I had either to stick to my rôle of Albanian, and let Du Pluvier pass for a fool, or to admit my foolish disguisement.
I bravely chose the latter course.
I rose, and went respectfully to bow to Madame de Fersen, and beg her pardon for having for an instant deceived her. I frankly admitted that, caught in the act of playing the Oriental, I had preferred to be taken for an Albanian, than for a silly Frenchman.
She received my excuses with charming grace, which was, however, a little sarcastic, when she expressed her astonishment at finding a man of the world under the garb of an Oriental.
It is useless to say that Madame de Fersen speaks French like a Russian, that is to say, perfectly.