The oars were shipped and the caïque drifted up to the jetty. Marianne was ushered from her awning into a kind of flat-bottomed egg-shaped container, hung with brocaded curtains and smelling strongly of sandalwood.

Borne on the shoulders of half a dozen black slaves, the litter passed through the guard of janissaries, armed to the teeth, outside the gates and entered the scented, humid atmosphere of the gardens. Here were roses and jasmine in abundance. The salty sea smell was lost in that of thousands of flowers, and the slap of the waters was drowned in the music of the fountains and streams that cascaded over steps of porphyry and pink marble.

Marianne stared about her, abandoning herself to the rhythm of the bearers. Very soon a fragile building appeared at the far end of an alley. It was surmounted by a translucent dome that shone like a huge, multicolored lantern in the darkness. This was a kiosk, one of the delicate, precious little pavilions with which the sultans loved to dot their gardens, each bringing to them something of his own life and tastes. This one, standing at the highest point of the gardens, was silhouetted against the dark background of the Asian shore and seemed to tremble on the brink of the Bosporus as if it feared to lean too far and fall to meet its reflection in the water. Around it was a little secret garden planted with tall cypresses and a carpet of pale blue hyacinths which the Bostanji Bashi, the head gardener whose dominion extended over all the gardens of the empire, kept in flower all the year round because they were the Sultan-Mother's favorite flowers.

The delightful retreat, set apart from the somewhat forbidding mass of the seraglio as a whole, had a private, festive air with the rose-colored lanterns hung about it. Fragrant shrubs that looked as if they were covered with snow crowded up against its slender columns, and the exotic, turbanned shadows of the eunuchs of the guard passed to and fro against the blue-green and violet-tinted glass of the windows.

As the slaves set down the litter a gigantic figure surged forward from between the pillars and bowed low to the visitor. Marianne beheld a round, smiling face, as black and shiny as if it had been well polished, under a tall, snow-white headdress in which gleamed a brooch of blood-red rubies. A magnificent robe, sable lined and covered with silver embroideries, fell majestically to his feet, covering a royal stomach which did honor to the palace kitchens.

Speaking in a soft voice, in impeccable French, this imposing person introduced himself as the Khislar Aga, chief of the Black Eunuchs, at the visitor's service. Then he informed her with another bow that he had the honor to present the "noble lady come from Frankish lands to Her Highness and Sultan Valideh, most revered mother of the Omnipotent Padishah."

Marianne thanked him briefly and with a little kick sent the long train of the green satin dress shimmering behind her like a changeable river of crystal and pearls. Instinctively she lifted her head, suddenly conscious that she was at that moment the representative of the greatest empire in the world. Then, gripping the slender sticks of her matching fan between nervous fingers to give herself confidence, she stepped forward onto the great blue silken carpet which flowed down into the gardens.

In another moment she had paused, holding her breath to listen to the strains of a guitar, light and melancholy as they came to her, the strains of a guitar playing:


Nous n'irons plus aux bois,

Les lauriers sont coupés;

La belle que voilà

Ira les ramasser…


Marianne felt the tears prick her eyelids, and there was something sticking in her throat, something that might have been pity. Here, in this eastern palace, the simple song sung by children at play in France had the plaintive sound of a lament. And she wondered suddenly what kind of woman this was who lived here guarded by an ageless ritual. What was she going to find within those translucent walls? A fat woman, stuffed with sweets and self-pity? A little dried-up old woman cut off from the world? The sultana was roughly of an age with her cousin Josephine and so must be nearing fifty, which seemed a great age to the nineteen-year-old Marianne. Or a creature of exaggeratedly girlish ways, a superannuated school girl? No one had been able to give her even the faintest picture of the Creole girl who had risen to such a fabulous position, because not one of the people who had described her had ever set eyes on her. A woman might have told her more, but no European woman, to her knowledge, had passed the threshold of the seraglio since the death of Fanny Sebastiani. And all at once Marianne was afraid of what she was going to find, dearly though she had longed for this moment.

The delicate notes of the song floated on the air. The Khislar Aga had paused, realizing that he was not being followed, and was waiting.

"Our mistress likes to listen to the songs of her own land," he said pleasantly, "but she does not like to be kept waiting."

The spell was broken. Thus recalled, Marianne smiled in apology.

"Forgive me. It was so unexpected and so charming."

"The songs of their native land are always charming to those who journey far from it. Do not apologize."

They went forward again and the sounds of the guitar grew stronger, together with the scent of flowers which surrounded Marianne as soon as she entered the carved cedarwood doorway set with a multitude of tiny mirrors. Then, without warning, the vast form of the Khislar Aga which had blocked her view had stepped aside and she found herself on the threshold of a blue world…

Marianne felt as if she were stepping inside the heart of a great turquoise. Everything was blue, from the huge carpets on the floor to the flowered tiles on the walls, and including the fountain that played in the center of the room, the countless gold and silver embroidered cushions strewn about it and the dresses of the women sitting looking at her.

Blue also, of a luminous intensity, were the eyes of the woman squatting in the Oriental fashion with a guitar in her lap among the cushions of a broad golden throne raised up on two steps, and which, owing to the gilded rail that enclosed it, had about it something at once of the divan, the throne and the veranda. And Marianne thought that she had never seen a more beautiful woman.

The years seemed scarcely to have touched the woman who had once been the Creole girl, Aimée Dubucq de Rivery, from Martinique, educated in the Convent of the Ladies of the Visitation at Nantes and who, as she was on her way home to her native isle, had been seized in the Bay of Biscay by the pirates of Baba Mohammed ben Osman, the aged master of Algiers. Her grace and charm were as vivid as ever.

Dressed in a long azure gown cut low over her breast, she was so covered by pearls that she seemed like a very creature of the sea. The sequestered life of the harem had preserved the pearly transparency of her skin, and her long silken hair, its silvery locks threaded with pearls, framed a youthful face that still dimpled when she smiled. A tiny pillbox hat tipped saucily to one side was perched on her head, and set in this minuscule headgear was a single rose diamond of immense size cut to the shape of a heart and glittering with all the colors of the rainbow.

With Marianne's entrance a silence fell. The birdlike chatter of the women died away and the strains of the guitar were silenced by the swift pressure of their mistress's hand on the strings. Conscious that she was the focus of at least a dozen pairs of eyes and more impressed than she cared to admit, Marianne stepped across the threshold and sank at once into a deep curtsy. Rising, she advanced the statutory three paces and curtsied again; three more paces and she dropped into the third curtsy, which brought her to the foot of the throne while the measured voice of the Khislar Aga was still declaiming her various names and titles in Turkish. This took some time, but before he could finish Nakshidil was laughing.

"Very impressive," she said, "and I knew, of course, that you were a very great lady, my dear, but to me, if you will, you are my cousin and as such I am pleased to receive you. Come and sit here by me."

She put down the guitar and moved to one side, holding out a small hand sparkling with diamonds to draw her visitor onto the cushions at her side.

"Your Highness," Marianne said, taken aback by this simple, unceremonious welcome, "you are too kind. I hardly like—"

The delicate laugh trilled out again.

"You hardly like to obey? Come here, I say, so that I may see you better. My eyes, alas, are not what they were, and since I refuse to wear those horrid spectacles you will have to come very close to me so that I can see your face clearly. There, that's better!" she added, as Marianne nerved herself to sit down timidly just inside the gilded balustrade. "I want to have a good look at you. I can make out your figure well enough. When you came in in that blue dress, I thought a wave of my beloved sea had remembered me and come to visit me. Now I can see it again in your eyes. I was told that you were beautiful, my dear, but indeed the word does not do you justice."

The warmth and gaiety of her smile were quickly putting Marianne at her ease. She smiled back, still with a touch of nervousness, "It is Your Majesty who is—oh, infinitely beautiful! And I beg you will forgive me if I seem bewildered. It is not often one meets a legendary ruler. And then to find how much the reality surpasses what one has imagined!"

"Well, well! The Orient has nothing to teach you in the matter of courtesy, Princess! But we have much to say to one another. Let us begin by securing ourselves a little privacy."

A word or two was enough to scatter the women who sat about the throne devouring the visitor with their eyes. Without a word they rose and, bowing silently, they hurried out in a flurry of blue veils, but their disappointment showed clearly in their faces.

The Khislar Aga brought up the rear, as grave as ever, shepherding them with his silver staff. At the same time, black slaves entered by another door, dressed in silvery robes and bearing gold trays set with diamonds on which was the traditional coffee and the no less traditional conserve of roses which they offered to the two women.

In spite of herself, Marianne could not help staring as she took the cup from the kneeling woman before her. Accustomed to the comfort of wealthy English homes, to the luxury of the French imperial court and the refinements practiced by such men as Talleyrand, even she was not prepared for what confronted her now. Not merely the trays, but every single item of this fabulous service was made of solid gold, encrusted with such masses of diamonds that the metal itself was almost invisible. The little spoon with which she stirred her coffee was alone worth a fortune.

The two women drank in silence while, over the rims of their glittering cups, the green eyes and the blue met and studied one another discreetly. For behind the spontaneous friendliness of her welcome, Marianne was conscious of an alertness in her hostess. The coffee-drinking ritual allowed them both a precious moment's respite before continuing an interview whose outcome neither could predict.

Marianne politely swallowed a spoonful of rose jam. She was not particularly fond of this Turkish national delicacy, disliking its rather scented sweetness. It made her feel slightly sick and gave her the feeling that she was eating some of her friend Fortunée Hamelin's cosmetics, for the Creole girl had attar of roses put into everything that went on her skin. But she drank the coffee with enjoyment. It was scalding hot and fragrant, and not too sweet. It was certainly the best that she had ever tasted.

Nakshidil was regarding her with amused curiosity.

"You seem to like coffee?" she said.

"There's nothing I like better—especially when it is as good as this. It's both a luxury and the friendliest of comforts."

"Perhaps you would not say as much about the rose jam?" the sultana said mischievously. "I don't think you care for it."

Marianne reddened like a child caught out.

"Forgive me, Your Highness, but—you are right. I do not like it very much."

"And I hate it!" Nakshidil cried, laughing. "I've never been able to get used to it. Give me a nice strawberry jam now, or rhubarb, as they used to make it in my convent at Nantes. But try some of this halva with almonds and sesame seeds, or the baklava with nuts, which is something of a national dish with us," she added, pointing out these items on the dish of sweetmeats. The first looked like a rather solid kind of blancmange of a fine cherry red color, while the second was a cake layered with nuts.