drew it a little open; the sunlight streamed in the room and an accusing ray fell upon the face of the spurious young Turk....  It was Edgar de Meilhan!  A little cup filled with a greenish conserve rested on a cushion near by.  I remembered that he had often spoken to me of the wonderful effects of hashish, and of the violent desire he had of experiencing this fascinating stupefaction; he had also told me of one of his college friends who had been living in Smyrna for some years; an original, who had taken upon himself the mission of re-barbarizing the East.  This friend had sent him a number of Indian poinards and Turkish pipes, and had promised him some tobacco and hashish.  This modern and amateur Turk was named Arthur Granson....  I asked the innkeeper’s little daughter if she knew the name of the man who had hired the saloon?  She said yes, that he was named Monsieur Granson....  This name and this meeting explained everything.

O Valentine!  I will be sincere to the end, ... and confess that Edgar was wonderfully handsome in this costume!... the magnificent oriental stuff, the Turkish vest, embroidered in gold and silver, the yatagans, pistols and poinards studded with jewels, the turban draped with inimitable art—­all these things gave him a majestic, superb, imposing aspect!... which at first astonished me, ... for we are all children when we first see beautiful objects, ... but he had a stupid look....  No, never did a sultan of the opera, throwing his handkerchief to his bayadere ... a German prince of the gymnasium complimented by his court—­a provincial Bajazet listening to the threatening declarations of Roxana—­never did they display in the awkwardness of their roles, in the stiffness of their movements, an attitude more absurdly ridiculous, an expression of countenance more ideally stupid.  It is difficult to comprehend how a brilliant mind could so completely absent itself from its dwelling-place without leaving on the face it was wont to animate, a single trace, a faint ray of intelligence!  Edgar had his eyes raised to the ceiling, ... and for an instant I think I caught his look, ... but Heavens! what a look!  May I never meet such another!  I shall add one more incident to my recital—­important in itself but distasteful to me to relate—­I will tell it in as few words as possible:  Edgar was leaning on two piles of cushions; he seemed to be absorbed in the contemplation of invisible stars; he was awake, but a beautiful African slave, dressed like an Indian queen, was sleeping at his feet!

This strange spectacle filled my heart with joy.  Instead of being indignant, I was delighted at this insult to myself.  Edgar evidently forgot me, and truly he had a right to forget me; I was not engaged to him as I had been to Roger.  A young poet has a right to dress like a Turk, and amuse himself with his friends, to suit his own fancy; but a noble prince has no right to scandalize the public when the dignity of his rank has to be striven after and recovered; when the glory of his name is to be kept untarnished.  Oh! this disgusting sight gave rise to no angry feeling in my bosom, I at once comprehended the advantages of the situation.  No more sacrifice, no more remorse, no more hypocrisy!  I was free; my future was restored to me.  Oh, the good Edgar!  Oh, the dear poet!  How I loved him ... for not loving me!!