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:

"During my travels I have observed that no people appreciate the
peculiar beauties of the country they inhabit. No one admires his own
physiognomy; every one would like to resemble some one else. Spaniards
and Turks make endless excuses for being handsome and picturesque. The
Andalusian apologizes to you for not wearing a coat and round hat. The
Arnaout, whose costume is the most gorgeous and elegant that has ever
been worn by the human form divine, sighs as he gazes at your overcoat,
and consults with himself upon the advisability of shooting you to