As all my life I have never been able to comprehend the division of time, and it’s a toss-up whether I distinguish day from night, I turned my back on the best hotel in Havre, and stopped at one nearest the wharf, from whence I could see the smoke-stacks of the Ontario, about to sail for New York.  I was leaning on the balcony, in the melancholy attitude of Raphael’s portrait, gazing at the swell of the ocean, with that feeling of infinite sadness which the strongest heart must yield to in the presence of that immensity formed of drops of bitter water, like human tears.  I followed, listlessly, with my eyes the movements of a strange group which had just landed from the Portsmouth packet.  They were richly-dressed Orientals, followed by negro servants and women enveloped in long veils.

One of these Turks looked up as he passed under my window, saw me, and exclaimed in very correct French, with a decided Parisian accent:  “Why, it’s Edgar de Meilhan!” and, regardless of Oriental dignity, he dashed into the inn, bounded into my room, rubbed my face against his crisp black beard, punched me in the stomach with the carved hilts of a complete collection of yataghans and kandjars, and finally said, seeing my uncertainty:  “Why! don’t you know me, your old college chum, your playmate in childhood, Arthur Granson!  Does my turban make such a change in me?  So much the better!  Or are you mean enough to stick to the letter of the proverb which pretends that friends are not Turks?  By Allah and his prophet Mahomet, I shall prove to you that Turks are friends.”

During this flood of words I had in truth recognised Arthur Granson, a good and odd young fellow, whom I am very fond of, and who would surely please you, for he is the most paradoxical youth to be found in the five divisions of the globe.  And, what is very rare, he acts out his paradoxes, a whim which his great independence of character and above all a large fortune permit him to indulge, for gold is liberty; the only slaves are the poor.

“This much is settled, I will install myself here with my living palette of local colors;” and without giving me time to answer him, he left me to give the necessary orders for lodging his suite.

When he returned, I said to him:  “What does this strange masquerade mean?  The carnival has been over for some time, and will not return immediately, as we are hardly through the summer.”  “It is not a masquerade,” replied Arthur, with a dogmatic coolness and transcendental gravity which at any other time would have made me laugh.  “It is a complete system, which I shall unfold to you.”

Whereupon my friend, taking off his Turkish slippers, crossed his legs on the divan in the approved classic attitude of the Osmanli, and running his fingers through his beard, spoke as follows: