'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, Aimee 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 Fortunee 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.
Marianne was not in the least hungry but she forced herself to taste the things her royal hostess offered. More cups of coffee were brought.
Setting down the precious cup, she saw that the other woman was looking at her intently and realized that the difficult moment had arrived. She knew that she must prove herself worthy of the high trust reposed in her and she was eager now to enter the lists. But protocol demanded that she wait to be questioned. The question was not long in coming.
The sultana's slender fingers strayed to the mouthpiece of a blue enameled nargileh and she took a few reflective puffs before remarking in a light, conversational tone: 'It would seem that your journey here was a great deal more eventful and considerably less pleasant than you might have wished. Everyone has been talking about the great lady from France on whose account the English sent a squadron out off Corfu and who vanished in the Greek islands.'
