“One evening, at the beginning of summer, as I was going home, after going over the farm, as I wanted Mohammed, I went into his tent without calling him, as I frequently did, and there I saw a woman, a girl, sleeping almost naked, with her arms crossed under her head, on one of those thick, red carpets, made of the fine wool of Djebel-Amour, and which are as soft and as thick as a feather bed.  Her body, which was beautifully white under the ray of light that came in through the raised covering of the tent, appeared to me to be one of the most perfect specimens of the human race that I had ever seen, and most of the women about here are beautiful and tall, and are a rare combination of features and shape.  I let the edge of the tent fall in some confusion, and returned home.

“I love women!  The sudden flash of this vision had penetrated and scorched me, and had rekindled in my veins that old, formidable ardor to which I owe my being here.  It was very hot for it was July, and I spent nearly the whole night at my window, with my eyes fixed on the black Mohammed’s tent made on the ground.

“When he came into my room the next morning, I looked him closely in the face, and he hung his head, like a man who was guilty and in confusion.  Did he guess that I knew?  I, however, asked him, suddenly: 

“‘So you are married, Mohammed?’ and I saw that he got red, and he stammered out:  ‘No, mo’ssieuia!’

“I used to make him speak French to me, and to give me Arabic lessons, which was often productive of a most incoherent mixture of languages; however, I went on: 

“‘Then why is there a woman in your tent?’

“‘She comes from the South,’ he said, in a low, apologetic voice.

“’Oh!  So she comes from the South?  But that does not explain to me how she comes to be in your tent.’

“Without answering my question, he continued: 

“‘She is very pretty.’

“’Oh!  Indeed.  Another time, please, when you happen to receive a pretty woman from the South, you will take care that she comes to my gourbi, and not to yours.  You understand me, Mohammed?’

“‘Yes, mo’ssieuia,’ he repeated, seriously.

“I must acknowledge that during the whole day I was in a state of aggressive excitement at the recollection of that Arab girl lying on the red carpet, and when I went in at dinner time, I felt very strongly inclined to go to Mohammed’s tent again.  During the evening, he waited on me just as usual, and hovered round me with his impassive face, and several times I was very nearly asking him whether he intended to keep that girl from the South, who was very pretty, in his camel skin tent for a long time.