When I had finished my narrative, he observed, “Now, Francois, there will be some risk of proving your identity in a court of justice, which the other parties will insist upon.  What I should advise you to do, is, to compromise with the party that employs me.  Make over to him a conveyance of all the property, on condition of your receiving one half, or more if we can get it.  I will represent you as a careless young man, anxious to obtain money and spend it.  If he agrees, you will obtain a good round sum without risk, and I shall oblige both my clients, which is always my endeavour.”

I agreed to the good sense of the proposal, and my old friend advanced me some louis to enable me to improve my appearance.  Advising me not to show myself too much, he offered me a bed at his house.  I left him to procure a more decent wardrobe; and for better disguise, fitted myself with an officer’s undress suit, and having purchased a few other necessaries, returned to his house.

“Well, upon my honour, you do justice to your dress.  I don’t wonder at Mademoiselle de Fonseca falling in love with you.  That is a sad story though—­I don’t know whether I ought to trust you with my housekeeper, for she is very young and very pretty.  Promise me, on your honour, that you will not make love to the poor girl, for I have an affection for her, and will not have her added to your list of broken hearts.”

“Mention it not, I beg, sir,” replied I, mournfully; “my heart is dead and buried with her whose name I have just mentioned.”

“Well, then, go up stairs and introduce yourself.  I have people waiting in the next room.”

I obeyed his directions, and when I entered the parlour above, perceived a youthful figure working at her needle, with her back towards me.  She turned her head at my approach—­what was my amazement, what was my delight, when I beheld Cerise!

* * * * *

“Holy prophet,” exclaimed the pacha, “is that woman come to life again?”

“She was never dead, your highness, and will occupy your attention more than once, if I am to proceed with my voyages.”

“But I hope there will be no more love scenes.”

“Only the present one, your highness:  for after that we were married.”

* * * * *

Cerise looked at me for one moment, screamed, and fell lifeless on the floor.  I caught her in my arms, and as she lay senseless, called her by her name, and imprinted a hundred kisses on her lips.

The noise had alarmed the old gentleman, who unobserved by me, came in, and witnessed the scene.  “Upon my honour, sir, considering your promise to me just now, you are making rather free.”

“’Tis Cerise, my dear sir—­Cerise!”

“Cerise de Fonseca?”

“Yes, the same, the dear girl whom I have ever lamented.”

“Upon my soul, Mr Francois, you’ve a talent for adventures,” said the old gentleman, leaving the room, and returning with a tumbler of water.  Cerise was soon restored, and lay trembling in my arms.  Our old friend, who considered that he was ‘de trop,’ quitted the room, and left us together.