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THE MAN WHO KILLED





me
MAN WHO KILLED
BY
CLAUDE FARRERE
TRANSLATED BY
M. c. ' SCHUYLER
NEW YORK
BRENTANO’S
1918


CONTENTS
I I Í

CHAPTER PAGE
XXVII . . . . . . . . 215
XXVIII . . . . . . . . 224
XXIX . . . . . . . . 233
XXXI . . . . . . . . 243
XXXII . . . . . . . . 247
XXXIII . . . . . . . . 250
XXXIV . . . . . . . . 254
XXXV . . . . . . . . 264
XXXVI . . . . . . . . 276
XXXVII . . . . . . . . 282
XXXVIII . . . . . . . . 284
XXXIX . . . . . . . . 286
XL . . . . . . . . 295
XLI . . . . . . . . 297
XLII . . . . . . . . 304
Notes . ,3 . . . . . . . . 313



THE MAN WHO KILLED
BY CLAUDE FARRERE
“I heard him roll upon the stones with a sinister
sound and a sigh.”
. Pram LOTI.
CHAPTER I
AUGUST 13, 19—
ESTERDAY, Friday, the ninth 'day of
my new era—a Turkish era—I was pre-
sented, after the Sélamluk, to His Imperial
Majesty, the Sultan.
There was nothing noteworthy in this cere-
mony. In the course of my career, more diplo-
matic, alas! than soldierly, not a few majesti-es
have already received me, with identical smiles,
in rooms identically arranged. The Emperor
of the Ottomans differs little from any of his
fellow-monarchs; he appears more intelligent
and less ordinary than the majority of them.
In other respects a similar ceremonial and regu-
lation conversation, according to immutable,
international rite. I might, without effort,
have imagined myself in Rome or St. Peters-
burg.
On the other hand, before the presentation,
a rather curious incident occurred. We—the
u


THE MAN WHO KILLED 13


The Ambassador, with deference, completed
the identification: ‘
“His Excellency Marshal Mehmed Jaledin
Pasha, Chief of the Political Cabinet of His
Majesty.”
Chief of the Political Cabinet, alias Prince
of the palace spies! No, that awakened abso-
lutely nothing in my mind. The Turk smiled:
“Remember—the yacht of the Duke d’Ep-
ernon, the Rose Leaf!”
Ah! I remember instantly! but the meeting
in this imperial salon was an unexpected one.
The story was ten years old; my first voyage
on the Rose Leaf, destroyed years ago!
We had him for eight days before Stamboul
and, on the eve of our departure, d’Epernon,
in the most mysterious fashion, had sneaked on
board a sort of beggar, marvellously disguised.
It was Mehmed Bey, upon whom His Majesty
had cast the eye of his displeasure and who
thought it prudent to absent himself from Tur-
key. Mehmed Bey, whom I find restored to
high favor, Pasha, Marshal and Grand-Master
of the secret police! What a comedy!
In fact he had changed but little and I ended
by recognizing him completely. Besides, s01-
diers of his type do not abound in the streets,
tall as lances, strong and supple as tigers and


THE MAN WHO KILLED 15


is about to leave Yildiz and I must be at the
door of his carriage. But au revoir.”
He made two steps toward the door, then came
back.
“I was forgetting the principal thing. Twelve
years ago you saved my life, or something very
near to that, you and your friends. The debt
is still to pay whenever you will, Colonel.”
And he turned on his heel.
A quarter of an hour later I recognized him
in the imperial cortége. Between the regiments
drawn up in line of battle, between the bowing
crimson banners, the flags of Plevna, of the
Caucasus, of Thessaly, passed the Sultan; and
his magnificent horses, tightly reined, danced
as they were forced to a walk. The carriage
was surrounded by some hundred Pashas of
the red or green ribbon and all this crowd,
trotted somewhat, not to be distanced. Only
Mehmed Jaledin, his left hand resting on the
carriage door, did not run; it was enough for
him merely to lengthen his step.
After this came the imperial prayer, the
muezzin crying from his minaret, the retreat
of the regiments reéntering their barracks.
Then the return of the Sultan, at a swift pace,


16 THE MAN W'HO KILLED


without an escort or almost so. Then the audi-
ence, entirely similar——
At the door of Yildiz stood the Ambassador’s
carriage, but I could not find mine; it had gone
astray.
Quite indifferent to this detail Narcisse
Boucher held out his hand.
“Good-bye, Colonel. What! You haven’t
your carriage? Don’t be uneasy, it will come
along presently. We’ll meet soon, eh?”
And off with a crack of the whip.
It is a comfort to remember that we were once
the most delicately courteous nation in Europe
——and not so very long ago; in the time of my
great aunt! _
The excuse of this boor is that he does not
go in exactly the same direction as I. He goes
to Top-Hane, where his boat awaits him, to
return to the Bosphorus. For six weeks longer
the embassy is at the summer palace of The-
rapia. I—I live in the city, in the street of
Brousa; diplomatic tradition requires that the
military attaché reside at Pera, in summer as
in winter. But the street of Brousa is only a
step from Top-Hane and the a'étour would not
have been too trying.
In any case there I was, on foot, in full dress
uniform, a good two hours’ walk from home.


THE MAN WHO KILLED l7



Noon was striking, five o’clock Turkish time.
The sun beat down like a salamander and not
the most rickety cab in sight. Gay!
Suddenly a hand on my shoulder.
“How is this, Colonel? Stranded? 'And
your, Ambassador?”
“My Ambassador has returned to Therapia,
hiarshal.”
“Ah! that’s so!”
A Russian or a German would not have lost
so good an opportunity to “rub it in” a little,
but the Turks are Asiatics and their rigid polite-
ness quite equals the correctness of the English.
Mehmed Pasha, who understood perfectly, did
not flicker an eyelash.
“You shall ride my horse, Colonel.”
“Your Excellency is mocking me.”
“You shall ride my horse; I have two others
at the palace.” '
He turned to a soldier and gave an order.
“I will ride the horse that is coming, Mar-
shal.”
“No; you will do me the honor of riding this
one. In remembrance of the Rose Leaf.
Come, Monsieur de Sévigné.” Q“
It was the first time during these nine days in
Turkey that I had been called by my name,
without having my marquisate flung at me!


18 THE MAN WHO KILLED


We galloped, boot to boot, across N ichantach,
as far as the Taxim quarter. In front of the
artillery barracks Mehmed Pasha paid me two
compliments, short and sharp as blows, which,
in truth, reached the tenderest spot of my little
vanity.
One:
“Do all French colonels ride as well as you
do?”
Two:
“Are you over or under thirty-five?”
It is an incontestable fact that I look well in
the saddle and that, at first sight, I am consid-
ered ten years younger than I am. But to hear
these things from this big cen'taur with eyes as
sharp as gimlets—that was not unpleasant.
At the end of the Taxim is Pera;—Pera, the
city of embassies, of clubs, of hotels, of hubbub;
the only fraction of Constantinople which, al-
ready, I find objeCtionable. It is there that I
must live, alas! By good luck it happens that
my street, the street of Brousa, is about the least
ridiculous in Pera.
“Come with me as far as the bridge,” said
Mehmed Pasha, without slackening his pace.
In a Tartar gallop we had eaten up the steep
zig-zag which avoids that indescribable break-
neck stair called a street, the street of Yuksek


THE MAN WHO KILLED 19




Kaldirim. Below, the square of Kadikeui is
forever teeming with a bright colored crowd,
like a corso in carnival time. The soldiers of
[the bodyguard presented arms in our honor.
“Salaam—door!” and the wooden bridge, the
legendary bridge which straddles the Golden
Horn and which forever herds in the hurried
passers by, the bridge stretched before us to
Stamboul.
A third of the way over the bridge Mehmed
Jaledin Pasha stopped his horse short; and
behind him, the soldier in his astrachan fez,
who galloped with bent head and an inattentive
air, followed suit with so instant a precision that
he did not shorten his distance by a hand-
breadth.
Mehmed Pasha extended his hand toward
the Turkish city, a pale buff under the vertical
sun.
“This is for you, Colonel. I suppose‘ you
have come to our country to see things. Yes,
you haven’t the air of one who will be content
to adjust the trousers of little Greek and Ar-
menian girls. Well, the things to see in Con-
stantinople are on this side of the water, in
Stamboul. Behind you lie Galata, Pera, Ta-
tavla, Taxim—filthl But ahead, there is Stam-
boul.”


20 THE MAN WHO KILLED


I saluted:
“Byzantium!”
“N0, Colonel! Not Byzantium! Our five
Ottoman centuries have buried that; and do not
regret it; it was ugly. Look at what is left of
it—that gaunt amazon of a Saint Sophia,
mottled with red and yellow, like a Cossack
peasant who does not know how to use paint and
powder. Byzantium was rich, heavy and over-
dressed; it was an old city of an old empire,
rotten, ridiculous. But our Stamboul—we built
it with enthusiasm, for we were then a young
and healthy people; look at its beautiful out-
lines, grave and gracious, like the profile of a
Turkish lady veiled with the yarhmak! Look,
Colonel; it is five hundred years since we came
through down there, by Top-Kapou, “the Gate
of the Cannon,” beside that high mosque in
ruins that looks from here like a cloud of fog
resting on the horizon of the roofs, the Mah-
rima Jamy, built by the Princess of the Sun and
of the Moon, in the time of the great Suleiman.
'And immediately we planted our victorious
minarets, like glorified lances, throughout By-
zantium. Everywhere—look—to the right,
those of Sultan Selim, to the left, those of Sul-
tan Ahmed, straight ahead those of Valideh,
the Sultana and above, those of Sultan Sulei-


22 THE MAN WHO KILLED


You understand; between the Debt and the
Bank the Golden Horn is strangled. Think
of that when you hear that Turkey is dying.
Till we meet again, Inrhallah!”
And off at a gallop. In the closing of an eye
I see nothing but a back crossed by the red and
green ribbon, the chestnut croup and the four
iron shoes, four carbuncles in the sunlight.
As for me, I went back at a walk, dawdling
intentionally among the ant-like crowd of peo-
ple who cross over the water. I never weary
of admiring it, this bridge of the Golden Horn.
It is certainly the most portentous bridge on the
whole round world. What fantastic people!
what strange races! what religions jostle one
another here incessantly, going from Stamboul
to Pera and from Pera to Stamboul!
The fez, the turban, the tarbouch, the cap,
the hat, the toque with feathers, the tcharaf are
as so many cards of identification on the heads
of all these men and all these women, come from
the most unlikely countries. In the span of a
single arch I pass soldiers on horseback, soldiers
on foot, porters bent under their burdens, eu-
nuchs in fitted redingotes, a bewildered band of
pilgrims from Bokhara, who open wide their
Mongolian eyes, a harem carriage, closed tight
as a coffin, four Persians in astrachan caps, two


THE MAN WHO KILLED 23


. fire engines on the gallop, twelve Turkish ladies,
veiled to the point of absurdity, six policemen,
five Imams, three dervishes, a Bulgarian bishop,
two Little Sisters of the Poor and some two
hundred people in civil life whose exact descrip-
tion escapes me. I am forgetting the tohu-bohu
of impossible merchants with their goods piled
upon the roadway and who recommend, at the
top of their lungs, most impossible merchandise:
loukoum (2 la rose, simites flavored with anise,
Angora honey, pastilles for the seraglio, checked
handkerchiefs, English pins, Damascus apricots,
postal cards, obscene photographs and real eau
de cerises. All for a penny, for a half-penny:
“On karat, beck Auras, bech parayah!"


CHAPTER II
AUGUST 16TH.
Y birthday! I am forty-six years old
M today!
A little while ago I made a detailed
inspection of myself, face to face with my larg-
est mirror. It seemed to me that it must be ter-
ribly apparent, this additional year that has just
been marked by my calendar. Oh, well! it is
not too apparent.
My hair is turning grey, it is true, and yet, not
so much so as with others. Above all it is curly
and abundant enough to make many a captain -
envious, not to mention the lieutenants. As to
the rest, uncorseted, I measure twenty-five inches
around the waist and although I am short I
look tall, because I hold myself straight as a
ramrod. And then, among other coquetries, I
have the habit of shaving both beard and mous-
tache and of going my way as smooth-faced as
a portrait of the days of my great aunt. Faith!
=4


THE MAN WHO KILLED 25


if one be named Sévigne' he cannot appear like
any chance Ramollot! In short, those shaven
checks are still fresh and, on my word, I look
more like a youthful beau than a blue chin.
Nevertheless, forty-six years! A youthful
beau of forty-six! That is something to laugh
at! Alas! I cling to my vanishing youth and
that cannot fail to be properly ridiculous.
Those who will one day read these memoirs that
I pile, book upon book, in the very desk that
sheltered the letters of Madame de Grignan,
will be sure to mock the old beau that I am.
And yet, it seems to me that my sadness in aging
is more exalted than the vulgar distress of those
who merely regret Margot, with her easily lifted
skirts. What I regret is to have worn out in
vain, without grandeur or beauty, the blooded
beast that I was, that I am still, for two or three
springtimes at most! and to have consumed in
the same way, without leaving a trace for his-
tory, the noble and fairly clever brain that ani-
mated that beast!
This is the fault of the twentieth century. I
was born for more adventurous times. It was
worth while, when I was a lad, to fill my head
with fine heroic nonsense, as my parents took
care to do! At twelve years of age my com-
rades were the heroes of Plutarch and the Bussy


26 THE MAN WHO KILLED


d’Amboise of Dumas pere. And what since
then? I have been a hussar and I am a colonel.
:But I "have never even seen gun fire and my
twenty-five years in uniform have been divided
between garrison quarters and embassy draw-
ing-rooms. My unlucky star has given me in-
stead of battlefields tournaments, instead of
charges cotillions. Deplorable exchange! And
when, as today, I see that my hair has whitened
from tournaments and cotillions instead of
through charges and battles—pouah! it brings
my heart into my mouth.


CHAPTER- III
N .the street of Brousa I live on the first floor
of an old house loaded down with iron
ornaments.
The street of Brousa, steep as a ladder, re-
sembles in each and every feature those Genoese
alleys that fall, end on, into the Via Balbi. It
is narrow, it is high, it is dark. The sun does
not seem comfortable there, the crowd passes
elsewhere; and when it rains hard the street
immediately becomes a torrent.
My apartment—my apartments! the aparti
ments of the Colonel, Military Attaché of the
Republic 1 my apartment is composed of two par-
lors, each as big as a church and for good meas-
ure, of certain smaller rooms, rather inconven-
ient. The two parlors are connected by an
arched doorway, with Turkish carvings, which,
in my eyes, are the chief attraction of the house.
Unhappily, diplomatic decorum requires that
my parlors remain parlors, in view of future
17


28 THE MAN WHO KILLED


receptions, and I may not install my bed or my
writing table beneath this little arch of ebony
and fa'ience. I take an instant dislike to the
street of Brousa.
Besides, it is right in the centre of Pera and
I have still in my ears the verdict of Marshal
Mehmed Pasha, prancing on the bridge of Ka-
dikeui: “Pera, Galata, Tatavla, the Taxim—
filth l”
Pera, Galata, Tatavla, the Taxim! Indeed
no, it is not pretty! I do not yet know much
about it, for Constantinople is a world. But,
grorso mode, this world is divided by the Gold-
en Horn into two continents, differing even
more than Europe and America. On one side
the Turkish city sung by Loti: Stamboul; on
the other the parasite levantine boroughs: Ga-
lata, Pera, Tatavla and the rest. Now, all these
boroughs are displeasing. Greek, Armenian or
cosmopolitan, Christian in any case, they sym-
bolize only too well the paltry Christianity of
the Orient. The Perote streets where, whether
or no, I must walk every day, overflow with a
crowd that is objectionable above all crowds and
that bears no resemblance to the dazzling co-
horts of the beautiful bridge across the Golden
'Horn.


THE MAN W'HO KILLED 29


The Grand Rue of Pera, in particular, a hor-
rible and pretentious caricature of the least
.Parisian of our boulevards, has the knack of
exasperating me.
Everything there mimics the Occident; the
five-story houses, the streets with tramways, the
shops with English signs, the men in Derby
hats, the women in dresses of provincial style.
The levantine exterior is not artistic and I
greatly fear that what is hidden under it is even
less elegant—an underneath of other Occidental
mimicry much more base; little snobberies, little
gauds, little pruderies, little cowardices, little
betrayals, little profits.
My Turkish Marshal’s words are golden. In
Constantinople there is only Stamboul. Every
evening from the end of the great bridge, I
contemplate that Turkey of minarets which are
outlined so well against the crimson of the sun-
set sky. But I have not had time, as yet, to put
my foot there; for the six embassies are, for two
months longer, at Therapia or at Buyukdereh
on the upper Bosphorus, fifteen miles away.
And I, a newcomer in this outfit, I must perforce
go down there every afternoon to make formal
visits to the entire diplomatic corps, secretary
after secretary, and must turn down the corner


30 THE MAN WHO KILLED


of cards upon cards for the people called “of
the world,” of the world of Constantinople, the
characteristic trait of which is a nationality al-
most always enigmatic.


32 THE MAN \VHO KILLED


end of a mile and a half I am sure to climb an
almost-perpendicular stairway which ends in the
principal street of Galata. Galata is the mari-
time quarter of Constantinople, the port, the
arsenal and the quays—a quarter that is noisy,
very dirty and ill-famed, but, to my taste, far
preferable to the pretentious snobbery of Pera!
And at the extreme end of Galata I find again
the square of Kadikeui and the great wooden
dock from which the boats start.
It would be fully three times shorter, and I
know not how many times more simple, for me
to go up the street of Brousa instead of down it
and then to follow the Grand’ Rue of Pera as
far as the railway, which would put me in one
minute exactly where I want to go. But—the
Grand’ Rue of Pera! Never!
At the dock the second stage begins. I em-
bark on a big side-wheel steamer, wreathed in
an abundance of black smoke. Heaven blast
the awful coal of this country! I have never
seen any other which can smudge the sky so
tenaciously. Six o’clock Turkish time—fifty
minutes after noon, the departure as exact as
that of a train. Whistles, cascades raised by the
paddles, polyglot cries from all sides, and a
confusion of kayikr and boats before the moving
hull; this Golden Horn is forever groaning with


THE MAN WHO KILLED 33
I


such a crowd of boats that one is forced to won-
der how it is that these shells are not crushed
against one another. The side-wheel steamer,
Chirket Hairie, according to the name of its
company, does not, however, touch a single one
and is not five minutes in getting out of the
tangle; it is like the touch of a magic wand.
And the panorama unrolls: at the left Pera,
much embellished by distance; at the right Stam-
boul, splendid; before us is Skutari in Asia, a
veritable forest of maples, figs and acacias, with
numbers of little violet houses which are buried
among the foliage. The Chirket Hairie rounds
the point of Pera and—here is the Bosphorus.
The Bosphorus, yes? We all know what that
is; water the color of lapis lazuli, sky of sap-
phire and sultanas like unto pearls, bending over
this gulf into which, sooner or later, they will
be thrown. Yes? Well, it is not like that, not
at all like.
The water is not the color of lapis lazuli and
the sky is not of sapphire. Grey and buff pre-
dominate everywhere, with a sort of mauve film
which floats around every line and pales every
color. There are marble palaces, but very few;
eight or ten scattered along the two shores, each
some good six miles long, The Bosphorus is
much longer than is generally imagined. It is


34 THE MAN WHO KILLED


a beautiful river, sinuous, bordered by pretty
wooded hills, which clasp it and shut it in. At
the foot of these hills many villages are stretched
out along the banks in rows of little Turkish
houses, half on the land and half on the water,
for there are many wooden terraces built upon.
piles. Here and there is a bit of an old stone
pier, a large villa, a yali of pink stones or of
old purple wood; a white mosque with a cupola,
its minaret like a candle; and sometimes a Turk-
ish cemetery which descends in terraces down
to the very water—a cemetery planted with tall
cypresses and transparent willows, thickly stud-
ded with little Mussulman colu’mns, either blue
or green, bearing epitaphs in letters of gold.
The charm of all this is gentle and soothing, a
charm of harmony, of true proportion and
peace. The hills of medium height and rounded
outlines, the houses low and spreading, the trees
with the sombre green of Europe, the diapha-
nous mist thrown over all this scenery, like a
bloom on a plum, and the sun which gilds with-
out blinding, all combine to form a delicious and
tempered whole, which does not assert itself vio-
lently, but which is insinuating, possessive and
profound.
The pity is that Europeans have meddled with
it and have built upon the shores of the Bos-


THE MAN WHO KILLED 35

phorus. So much so that, like Stamboul, the
Bosphorus has its Pera, some thirty horrible
facades, higher than the hill which they hide
and resembling sometimes school buildings and
sometimes the fancy pastry of the baker; houses
and palaces. How I should love to camp in
one of them with my hussars the night before a
battle! We would restore everything so easily
with just a few fagots and a little petroleum!
Seven-thirty Turkish time, a quarter past two
European. On the left the big village of Yeni-
keui; on the right the little village of Beikos.
Behind us, on an Asiatic headland, Kanlijah,
the most exquisite of the hamlets of the Bos-
phorus; before us, on the European side, The-
rapia and Buyukdereh, the “select” localities
chosen by the six embassies for their summer
quarters. It is not ugly; there are superb trees.
The Chirket Hairie nears an admirable yali,
red, of the color of dried blood, which stands
out from a park in terraces, planted with lin-
dens, beeches, chestnuts and cedars, the most
beautiful I have ever dreamed of—the palace
of France. It is here that I must go first.
Ashore. The quay is encumbered with equi-
pages, footmen and kavasses. (The ka'vasses
are servants under a certain oath, with the right
a


36 THE MAN WHO KILLED


to carry arms; which they abuse). All this out-
fit rushes at me:
“Monsieur le Marquis. . .
Zut! Let us stop laughing.
”


38 THE MAN WHO KILLED


it is night. There are scarcely any boats at the
Golden Horn. And the great bridge, groan-
ing so a little while ago, appears almost deserted,
its irregular and confused form enlarged out of
all proportion in the obscurity. I always stop
then and lean against the railing of the bridge
and stay a long time contemplating the prodig-
ious vision of Stamboul by night.
It begins quite close to me, at the end of the
bridge where I stand. The city comes down
right into the sea. I do not even know where
the sea ends and the city begins, for many of
the houses have their supports in the water and
innumerable boats press against the houses; a
pell-mell entangled with piles and masts, with
decks and keels. _
A very dark pell-mell; few or no lights ap-
parent in that gigantic mass which extends, un-
defined, from the east to the west. The city de-
scends even into the sea and climbs up very high
toward the heavens.
I see as it were a cliff composed of houses
massed one upon another. On the crest, rounded
mosques and pointed minarets emerge here and
there, mingling with the stars. No contour is
plain because of the uniform bluish light, a
foggy, milky blue, exactly like the blue of the
starry heavens.


THE MAN WHO KILLED 39
I think of the etchings of the subjects of the
Middle Ages, of pointed castles, of crenelated
towers, turrets, sentry boxes, of drawbridges,
chains, gibbets, sentinels with halberds and in
the moat, besiegers bristling with steel. But this
etching is more extraordinary than all the others.
The Bosphorus, pastel—Stamboul, etching.
What a background for a splendid tragedy
in the antique style, very mawkish and very
bloody, with tender duos and copious massacres!
Alas! Alas! the times of massacres and of duos
are no more.


CHAPTER VI
AUGUST 24TH.
BREAKFASTED this morning at The-
rapia, at the palace of France, téte-Zz-téte
with the ambassador, His Excellency N ar-
cisse Boucher.
Heavens! During the fifteen days that I
have been making my salaam and drinking tea
in all the diplomatic drawing-rooms of Pera
and the Bosphorus I have, perforce, seen many
people of many species and among the number
a few who are not wanting in personality.
Nevertheless, it is still to this old man, corrupt,
dull, peevish, that I give the palm, in spite of
his sorry appearance and of his age, which cuts
him ofi‘ from the present century.
Narcisse Boucherl {What Hoffmannesque
contrasts in this old man, with the appearance of
a peasant barely free from the soil and yet Who
is the extraordinary man whose name everyone
knows, the milliardaire French rival of the
14°!


THE MAN WHO KILLED 41


Vanderbilts and the Rockefellers. Son of a
farmer of F ranche-Comté, an orphan at ten years
of age, without money or goods, choreboy of
the farm, then stable boy; this was his entry into
life. By what sorcery can he shake loose the
soil in which his feet already seem embedded?
N o somnambulist would ever guess it. But, at
twenty yea-rs of age, N arcisse Boucher is in
Paris, pupil of the Conservatory, and, from his
first trial, first prize for the violin/ Behold
him consecrated a great artist and perhaps he
really is one. In any event his career is marked
out, his success certain. N 0. Public concerts,
worldly hearings are not his idea. He is too
boorish, too much encrusted with the soil from
which he sprang. He fails. He renounces his
art. He disappears. A long eclipse. A re-
appearance and second avatar more mysterious
than the first; Narcisse Boucher reappears-—
suddenly—a millionaire. He is forty years old.
He is a manufacturer, a merchant, a financier,
all—and all together. In his home he gives en-
tertainments that are insolent; and sometimes,
before three hundred guests, he scoflingly picks
up his violin of other days and, rich, enjoys be-
ing applauded by the same Paris that hissed him,
poor. Politics calls him. Parties seek him.
Cleverly he eludes them. He holds back, he


'42 THE MAN WHO KILLED

awaits his hour. It is by terrorizing the stock
market that he overthrows ministries when min-
istries have displeased him. Up to the day of
the famous African litigation, of German men-
aces and mobilizations brusquely decreed—and
brusquely stopped; for in twenty-four hours
Narcisse Boucher threw into the balance for
France the weight of his financial omnipotence
and held, suspended above Germany, bank-
ruptcy and famine ready to descend. It is a
forced peace and Narcisse Boucher, an irresist-
ible diplomat, has won his title of Ambassador,
the pompous title craved by his ambition.
He reigns here in a story-book palace in the
midst of a fairy-tale park. Here he is, in his
great room hung with antique Persian draperies,
presents from viziers or sultans. This is he;
everywhere and always he has been the same—
long, thin, flabby, his Jewish nose coming far
down toward his hard chin, his black redingote
too shiny and his shoestring tie completing the
pitiful silhouette of a retired college professor.
In addition, age has bent him into the form of
a “Z” as gout bent Scarron. He walks from
the door to the armchair grumbling, limping,
grunting. But once seated he looks at you and
not a painter of any age could reproduce that
glance, hard and cunning, brutal and mistrust-


THE MAN WHO KILLED 43

L
ful, imperious and sagacious. He speaks: a
fresh surprise; a provincial tone, heavy with the
accent of F ranche-Comté, which drags, gibbers,
almost like a peasant, in clumsy, good-natured
phrases to which deceit seems stitched with
white thread. Nevertheless it was this rustic
voice which dictated the retreat of the German
regiments already in battle array.
Strange, strange personage, disconcerting, dis-
quieting. .
So many mean appearances, so many mediocre
and grotesque angles. His ways of the old man
with small income, his respect, 6 la Jourdain,
for particules and titles, his natural triviality,
which he exaggerates with a sort of ostentation.
No philosophic intelligence, no geometric wit,
no finesse and yet what a precise brain, swept
clear of the dust which obscures human under-
standing.
Swept clear of many scruples also. But, the
reason of state, “the act of the prince” demands
it. One did not pry so deeply in the days of
my great aunt.
And then, the violin is there, the Ingres violin,
to enshroud everything, diplomacy, finance, in
an unlooked-for harmony more paradoxical than
all the rest. N arcisse Boucher is, first of all,
dilettante.


44 THE MAN WHO KILLED


We breakfasted alone. Narcisse Boucher
never had wife, nor child, nor anything that
could, under any conditions, weigh down his
bark and offer a vulnerable point to his enemies.
He has not even a nephew, a rare marvel for
one of the kings of our republic, where united
families are held in honor.
I had been warned that once the ice was
broken his Excellency spoke willingly of him-
self and rarely of anything else. No doubt it
was my quality of newcomer that caused him
to diverge from his usual habit. Whatever the
reason, from the appetizers t0 the dessert, Nar-
cisse did not mention a word of his biography
and did not cease to comment, copiously and
not without enthusiasm, on the Turkish country
and its inhabitants.
His preamble was not lacking in originality.
We had just seated ourselves at table and through
the wide open Window I was admiring the Bos-
phorus and the hills of Asia. He was fasten-
ing his napkin around his neck.
“Colonel,” he said of a sudden, “I see in your
eyes that already you love Turkey. Yes, yes,
it is not too ugly to the sight. Well, if you
love it, look well at it and profit by it, for you
will not see it long; it is a doomed country.”
I don’t know why the words of Marshal Meh-


THE MAN WHO KILLED 45


med Jaledin Pasha came suddenly to my mind:
“Between the Debt and the Bank the Golden
Horn is strangled. Think of that when they
tell you Turkey is dying.” I was tempted to
repeat this to Boucher. But he had already
resumed in his rough, drawling voice:
“Doomed. As I tell you. You have not yet
noticed that. ‘Perhaps, even, you will have dif-
ficulty in noticing it, since it is not in the prov-
ince of a soldier. But you, you are not a dumb
beast. Therefore if I explain it to you it is not
impossible that you will understand.
“Listen well. These Turks are a people who
are behind the times. They live as we lived be-
fore ’89; they have an army, a monarch, a Pope,
a God, and they believe in all that with a belief
as strong as iron. As a climax their Prophet
forbade them to lend at interest. Therefore our
entire commercial and industrial life is forbid-
den them. They cultivate the earth and they
follow small callings. One point, that is all.
In other ways they are fine dogs, honest, frank
as gold, wholesome as bread. Wait, you will
see for yourself in going about Stamboul: a
Turk never strikes a woman, not a child, nor a
slave, nor a dog, nor a eat. And I think this
is the only place in the world where that can
be said of the people.


46 THE MAN WHO KILLED


“But, you understand, it is not by such quali-
ties that a modern nation can live. In these days
a people that does not wish to perish must get
in step with the epoch. Things have changed
in the last hundred years. I do not say that
we are better than our great grandfathers, nor
happier, it is rather the contrary. There are
plenty of vicious people today and plenty of
starving. But, what is certain is that we are
stronger and more subtle. Formerly for the
cut-purse there was only plain simple robbery
and the rich defended their pockets with musket
shots. It was the time of wars and conquests,
the reign of soldiers. Today we have pro-
gressed. One no longer robs, one manipulates
the Exchange and inaugurates stock companies.
It is the period of premiums and dividends, the
reign of business men. Against business men,
Colonel, soldiers are not very powerful. That
is why Turkey is a doomed country.”
I listen to him and look at him. What he says
is a commonplace. But he seasons it with his
stubborn conviction and his heavy malice.
There is not the slightest doubt that he finds an
unmixed joy in giving me, a soldier, this blow
with which he would destroy all of my caste.
'Poor old man! If he knew how little I care!
He continues; he speaks freely.


THE MAN WHO KILLED 47


“Doomed, the Turks! Condemned to death.
Dying already. So surely that around them the
carrion birds are swarming. You know how it
is, as soon as the wounded bleed, the ravens rain
from the skies. For the wounded Turk the first
ravens to come were the Greeks. Then came
the Syrians and then the Armenians, the Per-
sians and the Jews. All fought as best they
could with beak and claws. And the Turkish
flesh will be torn and will be snatched away
shred by shred.
“Little shred by little shred; the ravens did
not lack appetite, they lacked breadth of grasp.
They practised usury in a small way, the short
week, mortgage and seizure. But nothing more.
Great. measures frightened them. However,
the victim became clamorous; the sound was
heard afar off. One fine day Europe began to
be disturbed. Europe today, Colonel, is a very
voracious bird; more voracious, hang it, than a
raven; bigger, too, much bigger. Something
like a strong vulture or the condor of the Andes.
And that condor which, for a hundred years,
hovered above the Turk, suddenly swooped
down upon him. Then things did not drag.
Loans, guaranties, conversions, concessions, rev-
enues ceded, the Debt, the Bank, the Regency—
j'fuz'tt—no more Turkey. There remains only


48 THE MAN WHO KILLED


the carcass. Oh! be easy; everything was done
regularly, correctly, honestly. They even began
by closing the beaks of the ravens, as I tell you!
In ’75 a group of bankers of Galata had lent
the Sultan I don’t know how many millions of
pounds at I don’t know just what rather steep
interest. We!!! in ’81 Europe joined the fray;
the loan was consolidated, but converted and
reduced. It is because we are fair men in busi-
ness! We pay to the last farthing and we do
not take more than five per cent. Only, com-
merce and industry must be favored, isn’t it so?
Then we require railroads, we sell armor-clads,
we civilize Macedonia. To pay the bill for all
that, the Sultan must needs make new loans.
New loans, new securities. ‘And the water re-
turns to the river. The Turkey of today is
hardly Turkish any longer. *Does that astonish
you? It is this way: stamps, salt, silk, fish and
alcohol are in the Debt. Also in the Debt are
the Bulgarian tribute and the contributions of
Cyprus and Roumelia. In the Customs all the
tobacco. In special companies the quays of
Constantinople and of Smyrna. In stock com-
panies all the railroads, enriched by kilometric
guaranties, of which you will hear more. What
else? Ah! the annual indemnity to Russia, joy-
ous souvenir of 1879. 'And, well understood,


CHAPTER .V II
GOD! I shall not be too much bored
here!
The other night I dreamed of a trag-
edy in the antique style which would unfold it-
self from the protasis to the catastrophe in this
unequalled setting: Stamboul and the Bos-
phorus. I do not know if I shall ever find the
great, indispensable principals. But the prop-
erties and the minor actors are not wanting, and
from one end of the scene to the other the pic-
turesque abounds. All this land is privileged.
Yesterday I made my first incursion among
the upper middle class of people, the Christian
middle class, be it understood. I have inspected
a Greek household at Yenikeui, where I was in-
troduced by the Austrian military attaché, an
old friend of London days. And there I found
some good comic elements.
It was the general visiting hour; we had met
in Therapia and had walked together along the
50


THE MAN WHO KILLED 51


,_
Bosphorus, on the quay which encircles the bay
of Kalendar and passes before the old imperial
kiosk, where one of the Russo-Turkish treaties,
I know not which, was signed. A little further
on Armenian and Greek palaces were aligned
behind very imposing railings. Hum! Nar-
cisse Boucher spoke of the crows fattened on
Turkish game—these palaces seem to support
his idea very well. Yes, they are rich, rich with
an insolent and suspicious riches, all these Chris-
tians of the Orient, whom Europe, tender heart,
pities so openly for nearly a century past.
A hundred steps beyond, Yenikeui begins; a
big populous quarter, cut up with gardens
planted with big trees. The‘street leaves the
water to pass between two rows of houses.
As we reach a fagade painted in Greek style,
with horizontal strips of wood, yellow and cream
v(vanilla and lemon), my Austrian nodded his
head familiarly.
“The hospitable abode of the Kolouris, you
know ”
“I do not know.”
“What? Ah! no, now, please don’t string
me!”
All the Slavs and all the Germans here talk
slang much better than I do.

4


52 THE MAN WHO KILLED


“I assure you that I do not know the people
you mention.”
“You do not know Madame Kolouri? You
do not know the Misses Kolouri? The fair
Calliope? The beautiful Christine? Really,
you don’t know them? But then, my dear good
sir, what have you been about during the month
that you have been here?”
And on the spot he drags me through the door
which was opened instantly.
Inside it resembled any house in Smyrna or
Saloniki. There was not the'triumphant opu-
lence of the bankers or the munition makers who
had their gables on the Bosphorus, but a striking
demi-luxury to which comfort was sacrificed.
An antechamber bare as a cloister, a wooden
stairway, shaky and dusty; and the drawing-
room! The drawing-room as sumptuous as they
could make it, cluttered with knick-knacks, three
stands, five tea tables, fourteen consols or
etagéres, all overloaded with artistic curiosities
of pretended antiquity. But the originality of
the place is not in this; the knick-knacks are
nothing to the screens.
The screens, in the Kolouri drawing-room,
constitute the alpha and omega of the furnish-
ings. From one wall to the other I counted
eight. Eight screens, Turkish, Persian, Chi-


THE MAN WHO KILLED 53


nese, Japanese, French, even; eight screens, all
of a good height, creating behind their zig-zag
leaves, eight little supplementary corners, which
are added to the four natural corners of the
room to make twelve admirably adjusted hiding
places. So admirably adjusted that, enteiing
this room, full of visitors, I thought it empty!
The impression of a second; the twelve nooks
already mentioned were all chattering as if to
outdo one another. '
Regulation presentation. 'At the word “Mar-
quis” the mistress of the house, at first very
indolent in the depths of her armchair, rises
automatically. I expected it; we are in Con-
stantinople.
“Calliope! Christine!”
The third and seventh screens quiver. Cal-
liope and Christine come forth.
“My daughters, Monsieur le Marquis.”
A surprise; Calliope and Christine are so
alike that never, never, never shall I be able to
recognize them and not mistake one for the
other. The same features, regular, firm, a little
heavy; the same handsome black eyes, very long
in shape; the same dull, warm complexion, the
same full lips. And, naturally, toilettes exactly
alike. They are over twenty and under thirty
years of ,age. Absolutely impossible to be more


54 THE MAN WHO KILLED


precise. Twins, probably, but how can their
admirers avoid confusing them?
However, Madame Kolouri takes possession
of me. The armchair is abandoned and there
we are, the two of us seated on the sofa of the
shahnichir—shahnichirs, little balconies en-
closed and glazed, are found in all Oriental
houses. In the Kolouri house the shahnichir
makes a thirteenth padded corner, which the
row of plants makes as discreet as the other
twelve.
No more Calliope nor Christine; they have
retired to the shelter of their respective screens.
N o doubt they were awaited there impatiently.
The drawing-room again seems deserted, despite
the muffled murmuring of twelve hidden groups.
Behind our green plants Madame Kolouri and
I are quite alone. Madame Kolouri smiles at
me with extreme languor. She has turned to-
ward me in such a way that her right leg touches
my left one from the ankle to the knee and as
she talks her hand touches my trousers more of-
ten than it does her dress. I do not flinch; one
must conform to the customs of the country in
which one travels. And anyhow, Madame Ko-
louri is not at all ugly; she has more than hand-
some remains and seen thus, in the shaded light,


THE MAN WHO-KILLED ’ 55
/


I would give her at most thirty-nine spring-
times. ’
She speaks. Her words are less expressive
than her gestures. Her voice is very Greek, as
harsh as may be.
“And so, Monsieur 1e Marquis, you have just ,
come from France? Did you pass well?”
“Pass well?” I translate this at hazard, “Did
you have a pleasant journey?” and I answer yes.
I think I guessed aright.
“I knew of your arrival from the papers and
I was very anxious to know you. But I was
sure that some of our friends would bring you
to see me at last, so I made patience.”
“Made patience?” They speak a very pecu-
liar French here.
Just at that moment I have another proof of
this. The seventh screen grumbles impetuously.
Miss Calliope—or Miss Christine? which—has
just risen with loud laughter:
“Fancy, mother, Madame Philemon has
divorced her green dress!”
“Her husband will burn!” replied Madame
Kolouri, rising.
She goes toward the seventh screen and there
is an instantaneous exchange; Miss Calliope
takes her place in the shahnichir. Calliope,


56 THE MAN WHO KILLED


not Christine; I asked this question shamelessly
and she smiled.
“Yes; my sister and I are very much alike——
sometimes it is amusing. So, you have just
come from France; did you pass well?”
The same thing again. To avoid laughing
I look at the hand which, no doubt from a fam-
ily feeling, is laid upon my knee. It is a pretty
hand, well cared for, a little large; larger than
my own hand; it is true, however, that many
women would be glad to have my hand.
Mademoiselle Calliope has followed my
glance.
“Oh, shut your eyes quickly; I have an atro-
cious paw. But my arm is shapely enough, is it
not?”
She pokes it under my nose that I may appre-
ciate it. I cannot well avoid touching my lips ,
to it, discreetly. She is wearing a wide sleeve
and has pushed it up to the elbow.
A brief kiss. Behind I know not which
screen the tumult recommences. 'Across the
hedge of plants Miss Calliope sees what it all is.
“Oh, excuse me! the Emir Chekib is leaving;
I must say good-bye to him.”
She hurries away. I, who do not know the
Emir, turn toward the window. Through the


THE MAN WHO KILLED 57


lace border of the curtain I see a bit of the street,
a wall, a garden. »
Already here is my young person of the de-
lectable arms. She sits down again, rests her
hand upon my knee. I finish the gesture and
resume the interview where we left it-—a little
higher up than the elbow. There is no resist-
ance, there is a sigh.
“Miss Calliope ”
“N 0, not Calliope, Christine. Calliope is my
sister, who was here with you a moment since.”
Fichtre! it is even funnier than I thought.


CHAPTER VIII
EOPLE are beginning to return my calls.
Every day from five to seven there is an
international procession beneath the little
arch of carved ebony which connects my two
drawing rooms. I receive in the less enormous
of the two and to reach it one must cross the
other.
Therefore, attachés, secretaries, councillors
and ministers, men of the Debt, men of the Bank,
men of the Regency and financiers, the gilt
edged of every race, crows, no, vultures of every
dimension, come to make their salaam. My
Croatian valet, bedizened with gold as fashion
requires, serves them a very costly Turkish cof-
fee, not as good as what is bought for ten paras—
two cents—at the cafeji: of the villages of the
Bosphorus.
Well, every visit brings me a fresh disillusion;
really, yes, I am entirely deceived and my de-
ception is just a little comic.
58


THE MAN WHO KILLED 59


This is what it is: in a word, I am here in a
country carved up in a set fashion, a country
skinned, shaved to the bone, squeezed and dis-
membered. And I live in the very centre of
this clan of exploiters—an exploiter myself, since
I am a European functionary. In virtue of
which I had hoped that these men of beaks and
claws would differ somewhat from my connec-
tion in Paris. Oh! I did not expect the man-
ners and costumes of the corsair. Today, from
the North Cape to Cape Horn, men, Patago-
nians, Latins, Scandinavians, as soon as their
purse is fat enough, put on at eventide the same
identical swallowtail coats and kiss the hands of
women in the same identical way. But under
the coat and the pearl buttoned shirt front I
thought I should see the stigmata of the terrible
profession of all these people, placed here by
Europe to suck the blood of Turkey. Devil
take it, the end of a tentacle ought to stick out!
Now there is nothing of this. On the con-
trary. My visitors, men of finance, executioners
of Turkey, men from the embassies, watch-dogs
of the men of finance, are uniformly nice, well
bred, well born, even. Some are Witty, others
intelligent, all cultured. Their wives are ami-
able and sometimes good. In short, my hooked
and taloned vultures are attractive from head to


60 THE MAN WHO KILLED

foot and present the appearance of men who are
honorable; delicate, in this century of uncouth-
ness.
This is my grievance! Instead of pirates I
find men of the world, just about as picturesque
as an asphalt road. It is sad! And in Con-
stantinople—Stamboul, etching and the Bos-
phorus, pastel—and among that motley crowd
which swarms on the great bridge, that tohu-
bohu of fifteen odd races and of twenty fanatic
religions! This makes a spot, a pallid spot.
Excepti: exceptionibus, as the casuist confes-
sor of my great aunt used to say.


CHAPTER IX
SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 4TH.
XCEPT the exceptions; yes! I apologize
to the diplomatic corps and to the finan-
, ciers. The couple just leaving make, per-
haps, a spot upon the Oriental scene, but a bril-
liant spot, as might two portraits of the Venetian
school in the midst of a tapestry, even a silken
one.
I use couple in the masculine sense. It is
not, however, one family—prob pudor! But
I have just looked in the dictionary which de-
crees “couple” in the masculine “when this word
adds to the idea of the number two that of a
reciprocal affection or of a community of ac-
tion.” Now, this seems to me to be the case.
The couple, then—two men—rang awhile ago
at my door, just when, secure in the truce of
Sunday, I was deep in the pages of Bajazet, the
Turkish tragedy of M. Racine.
I had reached my best beloved distich:
6:


62 THE MAN \VHO KILLED


“Ne désesperez point une amante en furie,
S’il m’e'chappait un mot, c’est fait de votre vie!” 1
when my Croat, gilded in layers, interposed the
card tray between M.. Racine and me. I read:
SIR ARCHIBALD, FALKLAND,
English Director of the Ottoman Debt.
PRINCE STANISLAUS CERNUWICZ,
Second Secretary of the Embassy of Russia.
The two cards were engraved in identical type
on identical bits of parchment. (Parchment
visiting cards are very fashionable here.)
I was a trifle astonished; England and Rus-
sia are not such good friends, above all in Levan-
tine countries, that their leading functionaries
are accustomed to associate in pairs for their
social duties. But, after all, that was not my
affair.
I had them admitted.
The Englishman passed in first. From the
end of my great drawing room I saw him ad-
vance and he seemed to come alone. He had
to stoop to pass beneath my little ebony arch.
1Drive not an enraged mistress to despair;
One word from me and your life 15 ended.


THE MAN WHO KILLED 63


The man is a giant; but so well proportioned
that at first one does not notice his height; one
needs something for comparison, a door or a low
ceiling.
Four steps from me he stopped, bowed cere-
moniously and repeated his name. Then by a
single step aside, he unmasked his companion,
until then absolutely invisible behind him.
And I was so bewildered by this fantastic ap-
pearance that Prince Cernuwicz had time to
bow in his turn and say his name before I had
recovered my wits.
On the spot, however, I noted the essential
trait of this personage, so clever at juggling
with himself: his physical and moral suppleness,
the suppleness of a contortionist. Behind the
other—the colossus who cannot pass through
doorways—he had insinuated himself more si-
lently than a traitor of melodrama; I did not see
him until he was ready to be seen. And then,
without any sort of transition, his bow, his an-
nouncement had been the same, precisely, as the
bow and announcement of the Englishman: the
same quick, stiff bending of the head, the same
kind of Britannic accent marked by pauses. It
was a feat of strength for this Slav with the
spine of a eat, this exact copy of the Saxon fash-
ioned of iron!


64 THE MAN WHO KILLED


I offered them seats. They sat down and im-
mediately apologized for their négligée dress.
That is to say Cernuwicz presented the excuses
of the community, Falkland limiting himself
to approving nods. They were in riding coat
and breeches; but the reason was that they were
going to play polo at Buyukdereh. Yet they
had not wished to defer any longer the pleasure
of making my acquaintance.
“We were so sorry to have missed your visit
the other day at the Debt and at the Embassy!
We had gone hunting in Asia.”
After which silence. Politeness is satisfied.
The two, mute, consider me with the greatest
attention. Their eyes are remarkable; those of
Falkland astonishingly steady and almost color-
less, those of Cernuwicz alert and green as two
cat’s eyes; they must shine at night.
Queer fellows who stand out strangely from
the elegant monotone of the people of their pro-
fession. Their sporting clothes alone would
suffice to put them in a class apart. They both
have the air of men who would not be too much
bothered by etiquette and protocols. There,
however, ends their analogy. I have rarely
seen two beings more dissimilar. Falkland
might be about forty years old and everything
about him tends to strengthen the impression of


THE MAN WHO KILLED 65


power and hardness which one receives in the
beginning from his gigantic height. His face,
broad as the muzzle of an animal, ends in a
square chin as vigorous as a mastiff’s jaw. The
armchair in which he is seated is too narrow
for his hips and his two bands, which are clasped
together, seem like two vices. Cernuwicz, on
the contrary, thin as a foil and drawn up on his
chair like a beast ready to spring, seems as fragile
as he is supple. His very youthful face,
adorned by a long silky moustache, calls to my
mind those figures of pages, which one sees in
Florentine paintings. It is gracious, winning
and cynical. And if I were a woman I would
mistrust it like fire.
The silence continues. Mon Dieu! I am not
easily intimidated, but this dog and this tiger-
cat form so strange a combination that I don’t
know what to say to them. I rise, I ring for
Turkish coffee, I sit down again. During these
three seconds, and without my having seen or
heard him, the Florentine page has taken up my
Racine and is fingering the pages.
“Ah, Bajazet! I was pretty sure you were
literary.”
Aid The charm is broken and I restrain a
mad desire to laugh. [But he continues and
'what he says becomes less stupid:


66 THE MAN WHO KILLED


“One must be literary to enjoy Racine, and
literary in the western sense, a man of the older
races. We, the Poles, we are the westerners of
the East, you know.”
Ah! he is Polish. I understand better his ser-
pentine suppleness and the treacherous and
caressing expression upon his features.
“Racine is the foremost of all poets. He is
the most insinuating, the most disquieting, the
most ”
He completes his thought in a gesture all
spirals. I listen. As if I expected a lecture
on Racine!
“He is the most deliciously immoral, the one
who knows best how to pass the sponge over all
the small horrors of life, adultery, incest, assas-
sination, treason, ambuscades—isn’t it so? Take
this excellent Bajazet, such a sympathetic per-
sonality, to tell the truth he is—(he says the real
word, which I dare not write.) Dame! he lives
on women, this man. Without his Roxane it is
a fair guess that he would not amount to much.
Add, as a climax, that he is (the unclean word
as above), who does not wish to pay for his——
pottage—in the way of nature. And, far worse,
'he does not refuse squarely; hypocrite that he is,
he hides behind false pretenses and bubbles over
with fine words:


THE MAN WHO KILLED 67


“Peutétre, avec le temps, j'oserai davantage,
Ne précipitons rien, et daignez commencer
Par me mettre en e'tat de vous remercier. . . .1
“In a word, pony up, we will talk afterward—-
perhaps. Montparnasse would never have done
that.”
On my word, he quotes from memory, the book
closed. And he recites well, in a correct tone.
Attention! now he is becoming enthusiastic!
“Racine, Monsieur, is a pervert and a refined
one, a man blue-blooded like us. You are of
the highest nobility, Monsieur de Sévigné, and
that gives great pleasure to both Falkland and}
me, because people of our caste are rare in this
country. It is a good country and even inter-
esting; many adventurers, many blackguards,
but no possible intimates. I, I bear the name
Cernuwicz, as you know; there have been five
kings in my family.”
A fine conclusion and worthy of the exordium.
I wager that Racine, first of all, would be aghast
at it. But I have forgotten Sir Archibald Falk-
land, silent in his armchair. At the words
“noble,” “caste,” “king,” the‘dumb man speaks:
1 Perhaps, in time, I will dare more,
Let us not hurry things and deign to begin
By putting me into a condition to thank you.
5 - - A


THE MAN WHO KILLED 69


“You have lived in the Transvaal, Sir Archi-
bald?”
“Not lived there. I only followed the Jame-
son raid.”
Great! Highway robber; that makes him
complete. He concludes very simply:
“I like to hunt. Here, the Prince and I hunt
the wild boar and the bear on the lands of Abra-
!ham Pasha and in the forest of Alemdagh.”
It would seem from his expression that he
does not find this kind of hunting equal to the
other, that of Jameson, the hunt of the Boer.
I suspect that his vocation was really toward
piracy. If I might question him as to that?
But there is no longer time; (they, are rising.
The Pole speaks again:
“It is time for polo. Excuse us. Soon again,
dear monsieur, we will speak of Racine.”
Two handshakes, one rough, the other insinu-
ating, although also vigorous. This thin Slav
with the silken moustaches is not wanting in
either muscle or nerve.
They are going. Under the ebony arch Sir
Archibald stoops as before. Behind him Cer-
nuwicz glides noislessly.
They are gone. I watch them from the win-
dow. The street of Brousa seems less dreary.
I want to go out and walk in the crowd, elbow


70 THE MAN WHO KILLED

the hook-nosed Armenians, the lousy Jews, the
talkative Greeks and to admire the few Turks
astray in Pera, who walk in grave and lordly
dignity.


CHAPTER X
FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 9TH.
HIS morning I Wished to attend the Selam-
liik again. Really, this military parade is
beautiful. The Turks are admirable sol-
diers. This I knew, but, too often, in Thessaly
or in Macedonia, for instance, I had seen them
in rags and tatters and so'wanting everything
that it was painful to look at them; they were no
longer soldiers in appearance, except for their
arms, always clean, and their expression, always
proud. The Imperial Guard here shows more
form with quite as much solidity. The shoes '
have soles and the uniforms no ren'ts. So fine,
indeed, that it is almost as brilliant as with us,
and more substantial“
I wanted to see these soldiers again. I also
wanted to see once more the handsomest among
them, my big Cherkess, covered with gold, Mar-
shal Mehmed jaledin Pasha.
I have seen him again. ‘Mehmed Pasha, in-
' l7!


72 THE MAN WHO KIALLED


formed of my presence, came, just as last month,
to press my hand in the room of the ambassa-
dors.
Through the wide open windows the sun came
in brightly. The mosque Hamidieh, all white
marble, was as blinding as a snow palace. Far
off the Bosphorus, blue and buff, stretched be-
tween Sku'tari and Stamboul.
“Beautiful weather, Colonel, the farewell of
summer, which, in our Turkey, ends all of a
sudden. Perhaps today will be the last day at
~ the Sweet Waters of Asia. You have been there?
No? Then won’t you accept the half of my
kayik this evening?”
I accept, delighted.
I know that “Sweet Waters of Asia” is the
name of a little river, the meeting place of all
the handsome kayiks of the Bosphorus on Fri-
day nights in summer. I have not yet had lei-
sure to see this parade and it will be a double
pleasure to take part in the assembly in the com-
pany of this Turk, decidedly more appealing
than any other personage here. He is neither
a vulture nor a crow, he!
The kayik of Mehmed Pasha is a superb
kayik with three pairs of oars, some forty feet
long and just'wide enough to allow of two per-
sons being seated in it side by side; a sort of big


THE MAN WHO KILLED 73


canoe, marvellously slender, all of polished wood
carved and gilded. The kayikjis are three A!-
banians, with straight noses and fierce mous-
taches, dressed in white muslin. One sits in the
kayik, reclines in it, rather, on Persian rugs
which cover downy pillows, soft as a bed. And
it glides upon the water without the smallest jolt
and with unimaginable swiftness. We left Dol-
mabatchke, the landing nearest to Yildiz, at
ten o’clock, Turkish time (two hours before the
setting of the sun). And the sun is still high
when behold us already at the entrance of the
little river. We have made nine miles in three-
quarters of an hour and the current strongly
against us.'
Mehmed Pasha, seated at my right, in kayilzs
the place of honor is at the left, has not spoken
three words since our embarkation. The Euro-
pean and the Asiatic shores have filed past us.
He gazed at them in silence. He scarcely
named the handsomest places on the two shores
——Cheraghan, where the Sultan Murad V. died;
Beylerbey, the home of the Empress Eugénie,
beloved of the Sultan Abdul Aziz. The con-
templative Turks! And this one, talkative
enough in the diplomatic reception room of Yil-
diz, between an acacia table and red damask
curtains, is mute before the beautiful hills


74 THE MAN \VHO KILLED


clothed with immense trees and little houses.
However, we arrive at the little cape which
hides the entrance to the Sweet Waters of Asia
—a very narrow river flowing among rushes.
We enter. At the right a marble kiosk stands in
a lawn; at the left a few little frame houses lean
against four old, vine-covered towers.
“Anadoloo Hissar, the Castle of Asia, Meh-
med Fetih.”
Good, I understand. It is the fortress which
the Conqueror planted on the Asiatic shore be-
fore crossing the Bosphorus for the assault of
1453. I adore brief explanations.
A first kayik crosses ours, laden with three op-‘
ulent European ladies, carrying parasols. The
third is seated rabbit fashion, most uncomfort-
ably. That lacks elegance. Several kayiks,
less rapid than ours, let us pass them. I see
many handsome Turkish women, gracefully
veiled in the tcharaf made of black tulle. I say
“handsome” and it is not only on the strength of
their exquisite figures and their admirable
hands, smaller and more transparent than any
French or Spanish hands: the tcharaf: are veils
by courtesy, much the same as our women’s veils,
entirely transparent and I study at my ease the
adorable little faces, bright and irregular, with
immense sparkling black eyes or very soft blue


THE MAN WHO KILLED 75v


ones. This Turkish beauty, delicate and dainty
in its essence, gives me a most agreeable change
from the world of Perote Venuses, in Kolouri
style, always a little massive and somewhat ani-
mal. I cannot refrain from saying something
complimentary to Mehmed Pasha, thinking also
to flatter his patriotism. But I am unlucky;
Mehmed Pasha is a believer.
“Yes,” he answered shortly, “our Turkish
women are beautiful; but I would like them bet-
ter if they were more decent and less boldly un-
.veiled.”
_ Naturally I thought that enough had been
said and did not breathe another word. Meh-
med Pasha, irreproachably courteous, is none
the less very much the Marshal, and in spite
of our growing intimacy the military hierarchy
remains in force between us.
A moment of silence. Mehmed Pasha speaks
again, less shortly:
“I am wrong, however, to hold it against these
little things, who are guilty only in having
yielded to Occidental influence. Yes, Colonel,
it is your women who, by their example, have
impaired the virtue of ours. How can one
expect that a Mahometan woman will return
willingly to the heavy yashmak, when every day
she is rubbing elbows with ladies of Pera, un-


76 THE MAN WHO KILLED


veiled from the crown of the head to the shoul-
ders and when she sees you and me doing them
homagel”
I risk a sceptic objection:
“Marshal, do you honestly believe that the
virtue of women is to be gauged by the thick-
ness of their veils?”
He does not laugh. His eyes even grow sad.
“The virtue of women, Colonel, is like those
great trays of glassware that jugglers hold on
the point of a sword. N 0 matter what sword,
no matter what glassware; but once the tray is
on the sword beware of touching it, or look for
a crash! Our women live veiled, yours with
mouth and checks uncovered. On the other
hand, your little girls grow up ignorant of a
host of secrets which our little girls know from
their fourth year. What importance has that?
None. But I firmly believe that it would be
very dangerous for your little girls to learn, at
the same time as their alphabet, how they will
create sons later on, and very dangerous for our
women to go about the streets without the
icharaf. Women and children have no reason,
and to guide them through life they must for-
ever be amused with some toy.”
He stops speaking and casts around a direct
and piercing glance. The winding river is now.


THE MAN WHO KILLED 77


flowing through the cleft of a narrow and shady
valley. A crowd of boats swarms between the
two banks. There are many kayikr, but fewer
of these than of the common boats, economical
because they seat six people instead of two.
Here and there glide English skiffs, pretty but
out of place in the Asiatic setting. Young girls
row, bare armed, under the envious glances of
the Turkish women, condemned to indolence.
Brusquely Mehmed Pasha places his hand' on
mine.
“See! These Sweet Waters are like an epit-
ome of our entire city: here the women of Asia
and the women of Europe brush against each
other, examine each other and envy each other.
"And nothing is more unhealthy for the one as
for the other. Mutually they show each other
how to do wrong, so much so that at Stamboul
as at Pera, scandal runs the streets. Our Mos-
lem women of Brousa and of Koniah, better iso-
lated, observe the law of the Prophet with quite
a different precision! And I do not doubt that,
in their own country, your Christian women'
are also virtuous. But here—Colonel, I am
Chief of the Political Cabinet of His Majesty
and you will understand that there is not a house,
Turkish or foreign, where the exigencies of my
office do not require me to give a glance some-


78 THE MAN WHO KIl.T.ED


time. Well, although I try hard not to see any-
thing of what does not interest the Empire or
Islam, too often, seeing in spite of myself, I
have felt my old cheeks redden!”
Pest! This blushing Mahometan would no
doubt astonish a Parisian Prefect of Police.
However, Mehmed Pasha lowers his voice:
“Yes, it is in spite of myself that I have seen.
Listen, in the centre of Stamboul there is a large
quarter which is called Abul Vefa. Formerly
this quarter resembled all the others. Today I
would rather not tell you what goes on there.
That is where imitation of the West is leading
Turkey. And yet, Colonel, if our Stamboul be-
comes corrupted by contact with your Europe,
believe me, your Europeans, transplanted among
us, do worse than become corrupted; and your
entire Pera is still worth less than the Abul Vefa
quarter.”
We have reached the most beautiful part of
the Sweet Waters. The two banks have become
sloping lawns, planted with wonderful trees,
maples, cedars, oaks, willows, cypresses tall as
cathedral spires. And in the shade, richer in
green of every shade than a canvas of Corot, I
see a number of Turkish women sitting in
groups on the grass. Their dresses of plain or


THE MAN WHO KILLED 79


moiré silk in shades of rose, jasmine, lilac,
mauve, blue, peony, buttercup, jonquil, violet,
pervenche or pansy, are like great brilliant
flowers which adorn the fields. And it is alto-
gether lovely, the scattering of these flower-
dresses under the trees. Turkish country wom-
en wear a long piece of silk which envelops
them from the neck to the ankles and their hair
is hidden by little caps of the same silk; so that
they all resemble the Blessed Virgin of pious
pictures. From the middle of the river I see a
crowd of them. They do not move and I do not
hear them speak. Pensive and dreamy they
contemplate the brilliant water, the polished
kayiks, the light dresses and the distant velvet
of the woods.
Our kayik, however, draws alongside the
bank. Mehmed Pasha leaps ashore and invites
me to follow him. ,
“I have a little business to attend to just two
steps from here. If it suits you to walk a
little ”
Not at all; it does not suit me. I am too
comfortable in the soft, big kayik, between the
coolness of the running water and the delicate
perfume of all this verdure. Oh! the unspeak-


80 THE MAN WHO KILLED


able sweetness of summer nights on the Bos-
phorus!
I must have a kayik of my own without delay.
There is neither carriage nor sleigh which com-
pares with a kayik.
Boats of all kinds continue to come and go.
They make no noise; they glide softly, volup-
tuously. Under the parasols, through the
diaphanous tcharafr, I see gracious faces, ador-
able eyes.
Beyond, at the foot of a maple a hundred
steps from the bank, the blue coat of Mehmed
Pasha turns its back to me. Before the Mar-
shal two soldiers stand abreast, rigid. Mehmed
Pasha scribbles an order on a piece of paper,
which he holds in the hollow of his left hand,
Turkish fashion.
Ah! A kayik of great elegance, with two
pairs of oars, is coming up the river and will
pass quite close to me. A kayik of some em-
bassy or of a financial power; on the poop a
kavass squats, a kavass all red and gold, with
pointed cap and a big cimeter—an English liv-
ery or I am much mistaken. It draws near, this
kayik, it is here. A lady is seated in the com-
partment at the rear, a lady whom I cannot yet
see because of her open parasol. But the sun


THE MAN WHO KILLED 81

v
is hidden behind the big trees and just at this
moment the parasol is closed.
Oh! the delicious apparition! She is quite
young, the lady of the kayik, and very beauti-
ful, in spite of a certain mysterious melancholy
which rests upon her face. In her arms, clasped
against her, she holds a handsome little boy
with long brown curls. I have not time to see
.more. However, I catch a glimpse of two
brown eyes, very proud and very pensive. And I
already the kayik has passed.
A sudden jolt; Mehmed Pasha, returned,
jumps with feet together into the middle of the
cushions and sits down again beside me.
“Marshal, you saw that English kayik. Who
is the lady?”
“You don’t know? and yet she islof your
world, Colonel! Lady Falkland, the wife of
the English Director of the Debt.”
Ho! I open my mouth wide. So, he is mar-
ried, my Scotch dog, strangler of bears and of
Boers. And married to that, to that Duchess
of Van Dyck or of Titian. N0!
Mehmed Pasha looks at me with curiosity.
But a Turk never asks questions. Quite at my
case I can turn my head and try to see once more
the four-cared kayik, already far up the stream.
At that instant it turns around. It is the hour


82 THE MAN WHO KILLED


for leaving the Sweet Waters. One moment
more and the sun will set behind the hills of
Europe. And immediately the police, the
guardians of the virtue of Islam, will force the
flower-dresses seated on the grass to reénter
their boats or their carriages without delay and
return to their harems.
The kayik with the red livery passes us, for
our kayikji: row quite slowly; it nears the shore,
it stops; a vendor of sweets is there, preparing
to close his big glass box. Lady Falkland calls
in a pretty, melodious voice:
“Halvaji!”
The merchant hastens to approach. I see the
little boy with brown curls hold out delighted
hands. And the mother, with joyous expression
and gestures, fills the little fists with gaufreltes
of honey, big and round as pancakes, which
must be folded in four for eating. That is not
all. The man has spread out his largest paper
and into this paper he puts loukoums with
pistachio nuts, cakes of Damascus apricots and
an enormous piece of halva—Turkish halva is a
sort of solid cream, stifl‘ened with honey and
almonds. All these goodies find their place in
the kayik, on the knees of the big ka'vass with
the pointed red cap. Lady Falkland is a very
tender mother.


THE MAN WHO KILLED 83


At last the purchases are paid for and the
English kayik puts off. One of the kayikji:
pushes it from the bank with a little pole that
bends like a bow. Our kayik continues its slow
way back. Once again, in a jam of boats, Lady
Falkland is quite close to us. She smiles at
Mehmed Pasha, who salutes her in Turkish
fashion, his hand to his forehead.
What a strange smile! Childlike and bitter,
both at once. She smiles with her mouth open,
like a little girl; but her features do not move.
Yes, I can understand; it cannot always be very
amusing to have Sir Archibald Falkland for a
husband.
The river widens a little, the kayikjis
lengthen their stroke. At the left is the lawn
which surrounds the imperial kiosk, at the right
the ruins of Anadoloo Hissar and the little
wooden houses which lean against them. And
then, the Bosphorus appears.
Now we are going with all swiftness toward
Stamboul. The sun has set and the horizon, at
first all smeared with ochre, purple and emerald
green, begins to take its real Turkish color, that
dark carmine which is seen only here and on
which is limned the fantastic outline of Stam-
boul, bluish and bristling with minaretsl
s


84 THE MAN WHO KILLED


“Marshal, Lady Falkland, what kind of wom-
an is she?”
“Colonel, Lady Falkland is the wife of a sad
sort of husband. Sir Archibald Falkland, Eng-
lish Director of the Ottoman Debt, is a queer
specimen who, not content to maintain a mis-
tress under the conjugal roof, proposes to marry
this mistress after getting rid, by divorce, of the
woman whom you have seen and stealing from
her her only son, whom she adores on her knees.
While awaiting this inevitable and fast ap-
proaching dénouement Lady Falkland lives a
stranger in her own house, where her husband’s
mistress, taken in through charity, rules in her
place and overwhelms her with humiliations.
I am an Osmanli Marshal and a Prince of Cir-
cassia, and I do not often salute unveiled wom-
en who are not of the faith. But I salute Lady
Falkland.”


CHAPTER XI
SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 11TH.
AST night a ball at the “Summer Palace”
at T herapia—my first ball in Constanti-
nople. And, event, I was presented to
Lady Falkland.
(The “Summer Palace” is the most select
hotel on the upper Bosphorus; a very large
building, five stories high, ugly, but without
ostentation, because of a group of parasol pines
which conceal the front of it. Another mitigat-
ing circumstance: this building is provided with
a large terrace, of just the right height to give
a beautiful view of the Bosphorus.)
Every Saturday in summer the “Summer
Palace” offers its guests, as well as the notabili-
ties of the neighborhood, a soirée, not at all ex-
clusive, but of some elegance because of the
position of the foreigners staying there. The
entire staff of the diplomatic corps, moreover, is
sure to be on hand and contributes to the bril-
85


86 THE MAN WHO KILLED


liancy, or at least to the correctness, of the
gathering. In a word, the Saturdays of the
“Summer Palace” are agreeable and are well
attended.
Yesterday I was there. I go to balls will-
ingly—a melancholy pilgrimage toward my sou-
venirs of youth. Let it be well understood that
I do not dance; I am forty-six years old. But I
like to see a bare neck, or shoulder, and to ad-
mire the pretty lines of a supple figure as it
sways in the waltz. Sometimes, moreover, some-
one consents without too much begging, to flirt
with me in a balcony corner. Yes, I know I am
ridiculous. But the old must be forgiven their
follies.
And even, yesterday, the flirtation came to me!
It is true that it was in the form of Christine
Kolouri, or of Calliope; I did not dare ask the
question this time. Yes, she took my arm al-
most by force and dragged me, with flying colors,
to the darkest corner of the terrace. For want
of a screen, eh? By way of parenthesis, after
mature reflection I cannot dissimulate the fact
that the Misses Kolouri are of the semi-virtuous
rather than the entirely virtuous type. The one
of last night, for instance, when I proposed that,
soldier-like, I should carry her OH“ in the first


THE MAN WHO KILLED 87


available kayik, found no better answer than
“Don’t tempt me!” which froze me with fear.
But there were better than the Misses Kolouri
at the “Summer Palace” ball.
I had noticed a diplomatic group seated in
rocking chairs and armchairs in the middle of
the terrace. Narcisse Boucher was there and a
number of other Excellencies. Several women,
also, well wrapped up in scarf and burnous, for
the night was cool. When, with strict propriety,
I had taken back to her mother the ingénue so
tender to temptation, I came back to the terrace
and went to pay my respects to the Ambassador.
“Good evening, Colonel. Sit down. See,
here is an armchair.”
N arcisse Boucher was displaying all his
graces. In private I don’t amount to much in
his eyes; a soldier, peugh! but in public, another
tune; I am the Marquis de Sévigné and one may
dwell on my name in presenting me.
Unfortunately I had already been presented
to all those in the group. They were all men of
the diplomatic circle and two or three high lords
of the Regency or the Bank. I took a seat at
the side of the old Duke of Villaviciosa, the Am-
bassador of Italy, and immediately forgot many
things in the pleasure of talking with this gentle-


88 THE MAN WHO KILLED


man, perhaps the wittiest and the most courteous
of all the grand: .reigneur: of Europe.
Presently it became necessary to enlarge the
circle; two newcomers had arrived: Sir Archi-
bald Falkland and Prince Stanislaus Cernuwicz.
It was the first time I had seen them since their
visit to the street of Brousa. Of course it was
very cordial. Nevertheless, the judgment of
Mehmed Pasha ran in my head and, in spite of
myself, my hand remained inert in that of the
Baronet.
The Prince seated himself next to me and
immediately began again to talk of Racine. .
I do not think there is anything more ridicu-
lous than a literary discussion in a drawing-room
where women chatter. I cut this one short.
The old Duke came to my assistance by ques-
tioning Cernuwicz on his last hunt in Asia.
But already the general conversation was absorb-
ing the separate discussions. Madame Kerlofi‘,
a Russian and a reader of Bourget, who gets
drunk three times a week, talked at the top of
her lungs to get from everyone present a “defini-
tion of love.”
“Come, Monsieur l’Ambassadeur de France,
you have not yet answered. What is love?”
N arcisse Boucher, sneering, shrugged his
shoulders.


THE MAN WHO KILLED 89


“If anyone here knows, Madame, surely it is
you!”
Boum! Floored! Kerlofi’s adventures have
often been wanting in discretion and no one
in Constantinople is ignorant of them. Fortu-
nately, with Russian women one may push irony
very far; they do not understand it readily.
M'adame Kerloff thought this speech a compli-
ment and simpered:
“Duke, it is your turn. A definition.”
Villaviciosa smiled.
“Madame, I am very old. Love? Perhaps
I knew what it was thirty years ago—but I have
forgotten.”
She was not discouraged.
“Prince?”
Cernuwicz, sarcastic, raised his cat eyes.
“Love, Madame? It is a misunderstanding
between a lady and a gentleman, a prolonged
misunderstanding.”
“What?” ,
“Yes; when the misunderstanding is cleared
up, when the lady knows what to expect from
the gentleman and the gentleman from the lady,
fuitt!”
He was still speaking when there was a move-
ment of the chairs. This time Narcisse Bou-


90 THE MAN WHO KILLED


cher himself rose to bow and offered his rocking
chair. '
It was the Ambassadress of England and lean-
ing on the arm of Lady Falkland, whom I recog-
nized at the first glance. The Ambassadress ac-
cepted the rocking chair; then in her old, broken
mice:
“We interrupted Prince Cernuwicz. What
was it, Prince?”
Cernuwicz did not hesitate a second.
“Madame,” he said, as suave now as he had
been sharp a moment before, “Baroness Kerloff
was questioning us about love. And I gave my
humble opinion, which was that love, even for
lowly souls, serves as a compensation for all the _
sadness and all the ugliness of life.”
And so then! For other cars other songs.
Five minutes ago I would have laughed. But
now I did not even think of doing so. An idea
had come to me suddenly.
I rose, crossed the circle and standing before
Sir Archibald Falkland:
“Do me the honor of presenting me to Lady
Falkland, will you?”
I was all sugar and honey and, on my word,
I had an unpleasant sensation under the icy stare
of those fixed eyes, which looked at me without
good will. There was no jealousy in that look,


THE MAN WHO KILLED 91


no, but there was something else, surprise, sus-
picion and mistrust, with an undercurrent of
hate and ferocity which I felt.
However, he presented me—in a singular way
which I repeat word for word:
“Mary, the Marquis de Sévigné, who is my
friend.”
His friend! Oh, well, if he wished it so
much!
However, it mattered little to me and without
more ado I devoted myself to Lady Falkland. '
Friday at the Sweet Waters I had seen her only
in passing. She is worth a closer examination;
she is a perfect beauty; and so little English!
A dull skin, golden here and there, hair like the
night, tiny little hands and those magnificent
dark eyes which had already dazzled me—not
at all the simple Greek or Syrian carbuncles
which can only shine.
Only, one little thing puzzled me; at the
Sweet Waters what had first struck me was the
heavy melancholy that lay upon her entire face.
And last night I saw nothing of that. Lady
Falkland laughed and chattered as frankly as
any of the ladies present. With fine, light
phrases she teased the sentimental Kerloff, al-
ready stocked with four cocktails and stubbornly
trying to pursue her investigation of love; she


THE MAN WHO KILLED 93


looking with a strange fixity at the two young
people standing there, leaning against each other,
almost embracing.
“Monsieur Terrail,” teased old Villaviciosa,
“if I had such a pretty wife I don’t think I
would let her dance this way a whole evening
with no matter whom-———”
“What do you mean, with no matter whom?”
protested the little woman. “Monsieur l’Am-
bassadeur, tonight I have not danced with any-
one except my husband!”
At this moment, amid the laughter, I heard
the slight noise of a chair moving. Lady Falk-
land, rising cautiously, Went out to the very end
of the terrace and leaned there facing the sea.
Curiosity drove me. There is a stairway
down there which allows one to leave the gar-
dens. I promptly saluted everyone and went
out that way. The silhouette of Lady Falkland,
motionless, seemed from a distance like a slender
phantom, bluish in the moonlight.
Intending to surprise her I had a scruple and
made a noise with my heels on the stones. But
I do not think she heard.
“Madame,” I said, “I have the honor of bid-
ding you good-night.”
She trembled, she turned toward me and I
saw, distinctly, the traces of tears which shone


94 THE MAN WHO KILLED

1
along her cheeks. She did not answer me.
Her throat tightened and with a great effort she
strangled a sob.
Before a woman who weeps a man who is
neither her friend nor her lover can only be
blind.
“Madame,” I said, “dare I ask your permis-
sion to call and pay you my respects at your
home? Perhaps you have a day?”
The sob was swallowed. The voice, however,
was a little harsh, only a very little.
“N o, I have no day. But I rarely go out and
I receive when I am at home. Goodnight,
Monsieur, and, if you 'wish, to a future meet-
ing.” .
I kissed her hand, miraculously silken. In
going away I saw Cernuwicz who approached
in his turn, doubtless by order of the husband.
The carelessness of a while ago, then, and
the wit and the gayety and the delicate coquetry
—these are only a garment, a garment around the
- naked soul, so that the world may not see the
soul?
Well! I like that. The garment is beautiful.
She clothes herself well, does Lady Falkland,
courageously.


CHAPTER XII
ES, assuredly I shall go and pay my re-
spects to Lady Falkland at her home.
And I shall not delay. I am too curious
about this house where two women, wife and
mistress, implacable rivals, live shut in like two
queen bees in a single hive, and who, in spite
of everything, must maintain between them-
selves that semblance of intimacy which cousin-
ship creates.
I have made inquiries about this cousin, who
has puzzled me in advance. I am told that she
is a fairly good looking girl of about twenty-
five, an orphan and younger sister of a Scotch
nobleman, an Earl, a distant relative of the
Falklands. This elder brother, as rich as his
sister is poor, at first took charge of her, intend-
ing to give her a suitable dower. But, as a
consequence of I know not what stupid little
infamy, by which she had, in advance, repaid
this good man, he literally cast her into the
95


96 THE MAN \VHO KILLED


streets and refused to hear even mention of
her. Lady Falkland, at this time, insisted that
her husband shelter the proscribed woman. A
charity really well placed, if it be true that this
ingenious person formed the project of sup-
planting her benefactress and of taking from
her husband, fortune and child!
In the meantime a diversion. Since yester-
day I am the owner of a kayik and since this
morning of a house. This has been done a little
as if by a magic wand. Of course the magician
was Mehmed Pasha.
The other night I thanked him without after-
thought for the exquisite trip on which he had
taken me through the Sweet Waters.
“Ah!” he said with a satisfied air, “you like
our Turkish kayiks?”
“So much, Marshal, that I have decided to
buy one at the first possible opportunity.”
“That is easy. Let me attend to it; I shall see
to it for you.”
I protested with all my might; but he closed
my mouth:
“Colonel, remember the Rose Leaf.”
I smiled and shrugged my shoulders. He
shrugged his higher than mine:
“Moreover, remember this: that many things
are complicated and difficult for you, a for-


98 THE MAN WHO KILLED


Kanlijah, is inhabited only by Turks; there is
not a single house where a European may be
lodged. At least, this is the official belief at all
the embassies.
“Bah!” said Mehmed, laughing, “don’t let a
little thing like that bother you. A little Mus-
sulman cottage, bathing its feet in the Bosphorus,
would that please you? For instance, the house
which was inhabited by your Pierre Loti in the
time of Aziyade?”
“Would that please me!”
“Good. Au revoir. You will hear from me
soon.”
And yesterday a kavasr, bristling with revolv-
ers and yataghans, one must needs be in the
fashion, brought me, with all ceremony, this
letter:
“MY DEAR COLONEL:
You have a kayik. It awaits you at the landing
of Top-Hane, the one nearest your street of Brousa.
You need only tell the kayikjis each evening your
wishes for the following day. It is a kayik with two
pairs of oars. I chose this because kayiks with two
towers pass everywhere without being noticed.
Kayiks with three rowers are rare and one cannot use
them discreetly.
Your two kayikjis, one of whom is called Osman
and the other Arif, are Albanians like my own. Un-
der all circumstances consider them blind and dumb.


THE MAN WHO KILLED 99


They would let themselves be cut into pieces rather
than breathe a word of your secrets, even to the
police, even to me. Trust them; all Albanians are
faithful.
You also have a house; the kayik can take you
there tomorrow. It is in Asia, at Beikos, on the
Bosphorus, below the village and just opposite your
embassy. I have taken the liberty of placing in it
a few old rugs which were encumbering my konak
at Yenimahale.
The kayikjis are in your pay. I rented the house
in your name, twenty Turkish pounds per annum.
As to the kayik, it is a gift which I beg you to accept
in memory of the Sweet Waters of Asia.
MEHMED JALEDIN PASHA.”
The kayik is superb, all of polished wood
with a wide black border—exactly like Lady
Falkland’s. My house is one of a row of pic-
turesque little houses pressed one against the
other. It is reached by a flight of three steps,
which descend to the Bosphorus and also by a
door at the back, opening on a little garden.
The ground floor comprises two rooms, quite
small, and the floor above, three others, even
smaller. Mehmed Pasha’s rugs furnish all five
of them magnificently. Between the piles a
kayik-hane allows me to shelter one or two boats.
The windows are grated half-way up by little
ash lattices, as Mussulman modesty requires.
7


100 THE MAN WHO KILLED


And for neighbors I have on the right and left
two good old Turks, with long white beafds, one
of whom is Imam of a mosque. This is all
very complete and I have a great pity for the
poor things who sleep in the European hotels
opposite or in the frightful villas in art nouveau
style.


CHAPTER XIII
AST night I dined at Buyukdereh with the
Russian military attaché. And, natu-
rally, I slept in my house at Beikos.
This morning, leaning on my window-sill and
contemplating the morning Bosphorus, fresh as
an aquarelle, I suddenly realized that the big
house farther down, behind a little park border-
ing the water, is none other than the home of
Sir Archibald Falkland.
“Farther down” is Kanlijah. From Kanli-
jah to Beikos the shore of Asia curves around a
wide bay, terminating at each end in a cape.
My house is on the cape of Beikos and the house
of the Baronet is on the cape of Kanlijah.
From my window its fagade seems far off and
of a violet color, half hidden in a group of large
cedars. The garden railing is washed by the
water. At the corner of this railing a little
pavilion, isolated and round in form, overhangs
the waters of the Bosphorus like a shahnichir.
IO!


102 THE MAN WHO KILLED


“Osman! Kayik, dokouz :aat!" “Osman
the kayik for nine o’clock.” (Nine o’clock Turk-
ish time, be it well understood.) My kayikjis,
when I stay at Beikos, sleep under my roof.
I want to go this very day to Kanlijah.
Nine o’clock Turkish, half past three in Euro-
pean time. It is a little soon for a visit, but in
the country
The railing of the Falklands is broken in
the middle by a large open gate. A landing
stage descends to the water. At the right I
recognize the little isolated pavilion which over-
hangs the water like a shahnichir. It looks very
dilapidated, this little pavilion.
I cross the garden. Ah! here are the great
cedars that I see from Beikos. The house has
a pleasant air. The facade is that of an old
wooden Turkish palace, a little worm-eaten, but
these old houses, simple and wide, have a really
grand air. For instance, one enters as if into a
mill, neither knocker nor bell. I push and the
door yields without further effort.
None the less the mill is inhabited. The
knows of the Sweet Waters, if I mistake not.
“Lady Falkland?”
Silent, he bows his head. That is “yes,” ac-
cording to the gesture of the East. He precedes


THE MAN \VHO KILLED 103


me. Behold a room even larger than mine of
the street of Brousa, handsomer, too. The en-
tire wall is draped with Ghiordes rugs, as soft
to the eye as old pastels.
The room is empty. I wait. The Ghiordes
are wonders. One, above all, which one could-
hardly call green or yellow, the color of the sand
seen in the depths of a pond, under the water;
spots of mauve, like floating irises, complete the
resemblance. '
“Good afternoon, Monsieur.”
I tremble and turn. lBut—it is not Lady
Falkland!
“I am delighted to know you. My cousin
has spoken so much of you. I am Lady Edith.”
Ah! it is the cousin. .Yes; she is very like
what I expected, long, so thin as to be scrawny
and white as a pearl; only her cheeks show a
little of the raw, English red. The face is curi-
ous; the features, regular, almost hard, contrast
with the delicate complexion. The eyes are
handsome, although too grey for my taste and
the mouth perfectly modelled, but dry and pale,
drooping at the corners. Where have I already
seen this firm chin and this smooth, banded
hair? I remember a portrait by Selvatico, at

Milan


104 THE MAN WHO KILLED


“It is so sweet of you to come to see me. And
it is quite far from Pera here.”
“To see me?” Is this said on purpose? And
this affectation of not mentioning her cousin.
And yet I had asked for Lady Falkland. Of
course I do not know what message the ka'vass
gav_e.
I improvise formulas, polite and reserved.
To be amiable all at once, no. In the first place
this assumption of powers displeases me. And
then, the usurper herself. I find her a little
modern for me, this fiancée before the divorce.
Not a young girl for a cent’s worth! What
a mark it leaves, a woman’s first fall on the flat
of her back! If I did not know that this one
had a lover I should guess it merely to see her.
“You like Constantinople? Pera does not
bore you? The Bosphorus is a little monoto-
nous, but we English like the country, you
know. We stay in our house at Kanlijah the
year around.”
Oh, but it irritates me! “W e English—our
house.” I am tempted to ask about her brother
in Scotland and the house from which she was
cast out.
A diversion, thank God. The door opens and
this timez at last, it is Lady Falkland.


THE MAN WHO KILLED 105


“Oh! Monsieur de Sévigné! what a nice sur-
prise!”
She comes straight to me. A smile of genu-
ine pleasure effaces the bitterness of her mouth.
While I kiss her soft hand I lay out in my mind
two theorems and a corollary:
A. She is really glad to see me.
B. She did not know that I was there. Her
servants treat her as a negligible quantity and
do not even let her know when there are visi-
tors. This is charming.
And now here are both of them sitting oppo-
site me, the wife and the mistress. I have made
my choice, decidedly. I am for the wife and
against the mistress.
Forward! I do not like Platonic alliances.
“Madame, is it true that you pass the winter
here as well as the summer? You must be ter-
ribly alone!”
Her brown eyes study me for two seconds.
She has been quick to feel that she has an ally.
“Yes, alone. The more so, as in winter the
Bosphorus is very sinister in appearance. You
would not think so, would you, to see it all buff
and blue as at present? But when the wind
blows from the Black Sea, real storms of hail
and snow beat down upon us and you cannot
imagine how the old Turkish houses tremble


106 THE MAN WHO KILLED


and—moan beneath the squalls. Yes. But it is
all'one to me. Indeed, I rather like these win-
ter nights, black with low hanging clouds, white
with foam and striped with lightnings.”
The other shrugs her sloping shoulders:
“Don’t exaggerate, Mary. The house does
not shake so much. If you had not that strange
mania for sleeping in the pavilion at the edge
of the water!”
I look at Lady Falkland, who smiles.
“For I really have that strange mania, Mon-
sieur. I have made my room in that little pavil-
ion because it amuses me to hear the Bosphorus
flowing past my window in the night, to hear
the water noises, the whistling of the otters cross-
ing it, the strokes of distant oars, sometimes,
even, against the railing of the garden, the click
of the iron hooks with which the long bazaar
kayiks pull themselves along the quays.”
Better than a room alone, a house alone. That
is characteristic. Never mind, it seems to me
that I, too, should enjoy those nights suspended
above the water.
A thought comes to me, one which has already
come before.
“You are not English, Madame?”
“I! never in this world. I am—anything you


THE MAN WHO KILLED 107


like, Spanish, French, Creole; I was born at
Havana.”
“I was pretty sure that those eyes, that hair—
but you are (Talled ‘Mary.’ ”
“Marie, Maria—Maria de Grandmorne.
You see how English that is. 'But Sir Archi-
bald could never in this world pronounce Maria
or Marie, as I love it.”
The Scotchwoman, who feels herself shut out
of our conversation, makes an effort:
“You will take tea, will you not, Monsieur?”
“No, Miss Edith.”
I said “Miss” resolutely. It is a mad imper-
tinence ; she is the daughter of an Earl, therefore
“Lady.” She should be called “Lady Edith.”
Having lived fifteen months in London I know
this. But she is not obliged to know my biog-
raphy. And if she did know it, so much the
better! .
And I turn again to Lady Falkland.
“I am very fond of tea, but only of the tea of
China or of Persia; the three swallows of per-
fumed water that one drinks without cream,
without cake and without toast. And as to the
Anglo-Saxon five o’clock meal I have never been
able to accustom myself to it. I am .too old a
baby to eat’between meals.”


108 THE MAN WHO KILLED


Lady Edith bites her thin lip, Lady Falkland
laughs.
“Oh! you will find Persian tea in all the little
cafe's of Stamboul. It is delicious. But \in the
meantime I want you to try something Turkish,
a dondourma. Don’t be afraid, it is not exag-
geratedly nutritive.”
“Mary, you are mad. Are you going to in-
flict on the Colonel that nasty mixture that is
sold in the streets?” '
I intervene vigorously:
“Halva? Madame, what a delightful idea!
Just fancy, I adore all those little sugary things
that children nibble.”
She rings. A Greek woman enters, takes her
mistress’s order and goes out, not without giving
a questioning glance at Lady Edith. Ah! is it
necessary that Lady Edith ratify?
The dondourma does not come at once. And
the halva recalls the Sweet Waters.
“Madame, if one asked very earnestly, would
you send for the handsome little boy whom I
admired so much in your kayik the other day?”
She expanded joyously. ~
“Really? Would you like that? Oh, I am
quite willing. Wait a moment.”
She is already out of the room, quick as a
thrush. Strange woman! At times I would


THE MAN WHO KILLED 109


not give her twenty years of age; when she
laughs, when she runs, her youth springs up
in all her gestures and transfigures her. But a
second afterward the weight of melancholy falls
upon her and crushes her; all of a sudden she
appears sad, weary, old. Thirty? More? One
cannot say.
Here she is, pushing the child ahead of her.
A solemn little man already, the child comes
and offers me his hand. He is pretty. His
mother has given him her long brown curls and
the dull skin and the full mouth. But the grey
eyes, already steady and cold, reflect Scotland
and its lakes and its fogs. This baby is a Falk-
land. And I fear that later he, too, will bring
tears to the poor eyes which now look at him
with so much tenderness and adoration.
The dondourma is a sort of ice cream, the
beaten pulp of which grates beneath the tongue.
It is very good and I am not alone in this opin-
ion; the child sociably accepts, without argu-
ment, half of my saucerful. Lady Falkland
laughs at this and Lady Edith once more bites
her lip in annoyance. No doubt the spoiling of
children is not among her ideas.
I have been there a long time and the day is
ending.


110 THE MAN WHO KILLED


“You are leaving already? You know in the
country long calls are obligatory.”
“Sir Archibald often returns early, he will
be distressed to have missed you.”
It is the Scotch woman who speaks thus. All
the worse for her; I do not mince my reply.
“Please tell him, Miss, that I am myself dis-
tressed and that I have charged you, you per-
sonally, with a thousand kind messages for him.”
If you don’t understand me, my girl, it is be-
cause you are a fool. Now to the other.
“Madame I am deeply touched by your kind
welcome and I assure .you that it is with regret
that I take leave of you. But Stamboul is far
off and my kayik has only two pairs of oars.”
“You are returning to Stamboul?”
“Alas! only to Pera. The protocol condemns
me to live there. But I say Stamboul as an
euphemism, it is so much of a caricature, Pera!”
“Oh! how well we agree about that! And,
naturally, you like Stamboul.”
“I imagine that I shall like it. 'As yet I do
not know it. Remember all that I have had to
do since my arrival in Constantinople!”
“That is true. But now that you are accli-
mated, hurry and cross the bridge. It is so
beautiful, Stamboul !”
This time I really leave.


‘ THE MAN WHO KILLED 111

Lady Edith, to my satisfaction, remains in the
drawing-room. Lady Falkland accompanies
me across the garden. My kayik, which was
riding a hundred steps from the landing, ap-
proached.
Suddenly I look at Lady Falkland.
“Madame, I have very often been reproached
for too great frankness. Will it displease you
too much? Well, then, I will risk it. You
have a—bodyguard—who is very attentive. Is
it altogether impossible to chat with you alone
for an hour?” '
She listens, a little astonished, not displeased.
Her brown eyes reflect—undecided but trustful
—I insist: .
“Yes, one hour of téte-a-téte. I would like
to talk to you at my ease, without auditors, about
this Turkey which we both love.”
She takes her stand bravely.
“It is not very easy, but all the same— Let us
see; when will you go to Stamboul for the first
time?”
“I don’t know, Monday, perhaps.”
“Monday? Yes, it is possible. Well, would
you like to have me for your guide?”
“Would I like it!”
“Monday then. Where? That’s so, you do
not know the Turkish city. Listen! You will


112 THE MAN WHO KILLED
cross the bridge and turn into the first street on
your right. Wait for me there. I will be there
toward—toward two o’clock.”
“Thank you.”
I press this thanks on her hand with my lips
and I think that, twenty years ago, a young wom-
an would not have trusted me so completely.


CHAPTER XIV
SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 17TH.
LITTLE while ago I was walking along
the Bosphorus, on the quay of Therapia,
right at the edge of the water.
The quay of Therapia, the most deplorably
select in the neighborhood, pleases me because
of an eddy of the current which, at this spot,
breaks in real waves, choppy and foaming, the
only waves on the entire Bosphorus.
Moreover, so long as one walks as I do quite
at the edge of the water, one is not obliged to
see the villas along the banks, nor the servants
at the doors, nor the prancing equipages; one
needs only turn away the head.
So—I was looking at my waves when, all of
a sudden, right in the middle of my back, the
awful words:
“Good afternoon, Monsieur le Marquis.”
“Monsieur” le Marquis! It is useless to fight
:13


114 THE MAN WHO KILLED


against it; the people in Pera are determined to
take rank as my servants.
This time it was the Misses Kolouri—Calli-
ope and Christine—without chaperon, giving an
airing to their tailor-made costumes; somewhat
ridiculous, not too much so.
On the instant I was overwhelmed with gos-
sip.
“How little one sees of you 1”
“Yes, indeed; you never come to Yenikeui.”
“No doubt it is because you enjoy yourself
better elsewhere.”
“Is it true that you have taken a house at
Beikos, ‘among the Turks?’ ”
“And someone saw you the other day at Kan-
lijah.”
“At the lovely Madame Falkland’s.”
“Some people say that you treat her—
(sic)
“N o, no, Calliope. The Marquis went to see
Sir Archibald.”
“You are very great friends, are you not?”
“I think, myself, that I Could fall in love with
Sir Archibald! He is a man of such intelli-
gence! I feel quite small when with him—”
(resic)


THE MAN WHO KILLED 115


“Intelligent or minintelligent,1 I do not like
him. I find his friend, Prince Cernuwicz,
much more seductive.” ‘
“Oh, that man, he always has to be doing pell-
mell! (re-re-re-sic.) What mischief is he con-
cocting in that house?”
“Christine, the Marquis does not care about
that. Tell me, Monsieur le Marquis, will you
be at the ‘Summer’ this evening? Perhaps this
will be the last ball.” _
' “You must come; we will flirt with you
"And patati patata. I made off at a tangent. .
7)

Now I am in my wooden house. I dined
there all alone in Turkish style. My kayikji,
Osman, served me a pilaf and chick peas and
kebab with rice. It is night. Leaning on the
window-sill I try to distinguish, among the dis-
tant row of lights at Kanlijah, the lights of the
Falklands.
To the left and right, the Turkish houses next
to mine, silent and as if deserted until sunset,
1 In Turkish the negation is expressed by the syllable me;
for example: to love, sevmek; not to love, sev-me-nek.
Hence the Perote formulas which are abused by the Misses
Kolouri and their compatriots: “intelligent, minintelligent"
(intelligent or not). The author seizes this occasion to
express to his friends in Constantinople his gratitude for the
excellent French-Perote lexicon which he owes to their
cOIIaboration.
8


116 THE MAN WHO KILLED


become animated and full of chatterings. The
gratings of the’shahnichirs have been raised and
vaguely, by the light of the stars, I see white
forms leaning there and I 'hear twittering laugh-
ter.
I have ordered my kayik for ten o’clock, ten
o’clock European. It’s a nuisance to be obliged
to cross the water and go down to that hotel
where the electricity is noisy—yes, noisy; that
crude illumination in the nocturnal softness of
the Bosphorus, dotted only with lamps and lan-
terns as pale as stars, hurts my ears as much as
my eyes.
Yes, but I must go to the ball. Lady Falk-
land will surely be there on this last Saturday.
‘And I shall ask her if our engagement for Mon-
day still holds, our promenade in Turkey.
Ten o’clock. I shall wait a little longer.
Two o’clock in the morning.
I have come back from down there. My
head is heavy and my temples throbbing.
I arrived at this ball late. The dancing was
over; the terrace was empty. The damp cool-
ness of midnight had frightened away the bare
shoulders. I
Many of the women had already left. The
Kolouris and some others. But in the hall I


THE MAN WHO KILLED 119


Vanescu owed it to her for a discretion. Eh?
A discretion! An indiscreet discretion 1”
He laughed violently, delighted with his joke.
And, without taking breath:
“And another funny thing! Three days ago
Donietz, the Russian, and his wife were in their
villa at Buyukdereh. You know they are newly
married and are very fond of each other. It
was midnight and they were en chemise. They
had some new vodka in the house. They drink
and they become drunk. Then Madame Do-
nietz declares that this vodka is not vodka, that
it is whiskey, Irish. Of course it was vodka.
At first Donietz laughed, but as she insisted he
became angry. He takes his dog whip. She
defends herself, scratches him, breaks a bottle
in his face; he still carries the scar. But with
the whip he is the stronger. He lashes her.
She jumps out of the window. He chases her
across the park, coursing, tayaut!
“She screamed, there were lines of blood on
her chemise. Finally she finds the gate open,
rushes down the road at a gallop and brings up
in a little café where a dozen old Turkish grey-
beards are still smoking the narghile and drink-
ing a last cup of coffee. Donietz runs in,
seizes his wife by the hair, throws her to the
floor and strikes. But, you know, the Turks do


120 THE MAN WHO KILLED


not approve of striking women. Then they
jump on Donietz, tear his poor devil of a wife
from him and give him a beating. So much
so that when the police came Donietz was al-
most as badly off as his wife. They took them
back home. But the funny part of it is that the
next day they remembered nothing whatever
about it!”
Falkland gave one short laugh. And then:
“Waiter! Heidsieck, monopole, red.”
“Archibald, that is stubborn folly! Waiter!
Pommery Greno, brut.”
They force me to drink. Their eyes flame,
their gestures become feverish. Cernuwicz now
looks at me fixedly, his air suddenly ferocious.
“But you know, Colonel, Donietz is a man.
He is not Polish, he does not know how to ride;
that is his race, there is nothing to say about it.
But on foot he is terrible. We shall soon name
him Consul in Macedonia, at Mitrovitza!”
F ichtre! If all the Russian consuls down
there are of this stripe I do not wonder that
the Albanians, less patient than the Turks, some-
times break their heads for them.
Did I smile? I don’t think so. It would be
imprudent. Cernuwicz, crazy drunk, would as-
suredly fly at my throat. N 0, there is no more
danger. The spasm has passed. There is my


122 THE MAN WHO KIL'tLED


leavings of the Turkish soldiers; so this week I
chose Madame Papazian. I have them all.’
That is what he said to me. But, you know, he
has not one of them. He just brags. He is a
Greek. Waiter! Pommery Greno, brut!”
But, as it happened, the waiter, pointing to a
clock in the hall, explains that after one o’clock
the cellars of the hotel are closed.
“What is that you say?”
“Excellency, the cellars
“Son of a hog.”
He swears furiously, using five or six lan-
guages for his invectives and suddenly, without
warning, he throws an empty bottle at the man’s
head. The bottle misses its aim and breaks the
globes of the electric lights.
Cernuwicz, also losing his balance, falls on
his chair. He spits out his last insults:
“Jew! Armenian!”
He turns toward me, quite calm:
“I know this— He is the brother of my por-
ter. I owe him money, my porter, a thousand
francs. He lends at four per cent.”
Falkland, who has heard all, imperturbable,
becomes suddenly excited.
“Stanie! You, a gentleman, you borrow from
this servant?”
“But, Archie, what’s to be done? The money,
”


THE MAN WHO KILLED 123


all the money, is in their pockets. I, I am not
an Armenian, I cannot take from the Turks.
And I am not a Greek, I cannot ask it of
women.” 1
“You are a Pole.”
They hold a rapid conversation in English.
Cernuwicz becomes excited and cries out. Rus-
sian or Polish words rush out now and then.
Finally the dispute ends suddenly. I profit by
the pause to rise.
“Good-night, gentlemen.”
“Marquis, tonight we have drun
Yes, there is no denying it.
And now Sir Archibald also prepares to leave.
He verifies the check. His pocketbook is very
English, unduly large, the leather of such a
bright red that it screams.
The Falkland kayik waits at the dock of the
hotel beside my kayik. We embark. The
Prince, who lives at Buyukdereh, gesticulates
on the bank. In a little while his coachman
will force him into his carriage—Cossack fash-
ion.
We start. My kayikjis push on up the stream,
17

lPrince Cernuwicz is drunk and the author leaves to him
the entire responsibility for the bold and insulting opinions
which he has drawn from the depths of ,his four bottles of
extra dry. ‘


124 THE MAN WHO KILLED
keeping out of the current. The other kayik, on
the contrary, makes for the centre, Kanlijah is
far down below. .
Behind us the voice of Cernuwicz continues
to declaim in the night. On my word he calls
good authors to his aid this time:
“For the last time, good-bye, my lords.”
How damp these Bosphorus nights. It seems
to me that it must be very cold to sleep alone in
a pavilion overhanging the water.


CHAPTER XV
HAVE crossed the bridge. I have turned
into the first street to the right. And I wait
as it was agreed.
This, then, is Stamboul. Disillusion! I had
fancied that, the bridge once crossed, Stamboul
would astonish me from the first glance. But
there is nothing. The square of Emin-Eunu,
where I stand, is an exact reproduction of the
square of Kadikeui. And the first street to the
right, I do not know its name, there is neither
sign nor number, is ugly. Picturesque, perhaps,
a sort of tortuous gut, magnificently filthy and
rumbling with a motley crowd. But the alleys
of Galata and Pera are the same.
Two o’clock? No. I thought as much, I
am ahead of time. Military precision plays
pretty pranks with people at rendezvous. I re-
member a little story that I heard twenty years
ago, the story of a young lieutenant who had
obtained the promise of a very blonde young
:25


126 THE MAN WHO KILLED

1
person that she would cross the bridge connect-
ing the Gare Saint Lazare with the Hotel Ter-
minus at precisely two o’clock. The poor fel-
low, caught in a series of accidents, a runaway
carriage, foot passengers injured, a howling
mob, police, arrest, courtroom, the whole scale
of woe! arrived at two-twenty. N 0 one there.
Despair. He goes away and that night a tele-
gram, very sharp, informed him that the lady,
arriving at ten minutes of three, had left at a
quarter past four, after a chimerical wait of
an hour and a quarter, that she thought him
a blackguard and an imbecile combined and
begged him never again to come into her pres-
ence.
This first street to the right—in the morning
it must harbor a vegetable market. I walk
among a litter of lettuce leaves and here and
there I note the odor of cabbages.
I am jostled a great deal. The people of this
quarter move more quickly than the dead of the
ballad. They run, elbow and bump into one
another, screaming at the top of their lungs.
Hamal: (porters) abound. Evidently this is
not the real Stamboul; I am too near the port,
too near the bridge, too near Galata, Pera and
Europe.
Ah! a white parasol at the end of the street,


THE MAN WHO KILLED 127


above the mass of fez and turbans. Impossible!
it is not even quite the hour, it still wants ten
minutes of it. And yet, yes.
“Good afternoon, I have not kept you wait-
ing long?”
A boyish handshake. Lady Falkland has a
yellow paper bag of which I take possession.
“Yes, carry that. It is some of those little
sweets that you like and that I like too. As my
steamer arrived early I went first to Haji-
Bekir.”
“Haji-Bekir?”
“The fashionable Turkish confectioner. The
handsome women of the Shah-Zadeh will not
buy even a dragée anywhere else.”
“No, not that way. Let us turn to the left. I
hate these Greek streets. I am going to take
you Where it is pretty.”
She hurries, anxious to get out of the crowd.
I watch her pick up her skirt. She is wearing
a dress of coarse grey étamine and little grey
shoes, which are not afraid of the terrible
pointed pavement.
And lo and behold! No sooner have we left
the street—the first street to the right—than we
have peace and silence. We walk between two
walls overhung with old fig trees. The soil is
cut in gullies, chickens scratch in the dust.


THE MAN WHO KILLED 129


trees, the houses, the walls; all grows as it will \
and where it will. There are no facades, no
building line, nothing regular, nothing tiresome
and irritating. Here one is free, free.”
She is not laughing now, and again I see upon
her face its habitual melancholy. Silent for a
minute, she bends down the better to caress the
purring cat.
“And then there are things in my big village
—you shall see them. Come.”
N 0; not all alike; the whole of Stamboul is
not like this country lane. Already there is a
change; a real street, lined with houses on both
sides. It is not, however, a solemn street; it is
as wide as your hand and all windings, so that
the wind is not heard in it. The houses are of
wood, of course, of beautiful old wood of violet
color. And as we pass a door opens to let out a
woman and then closes again. The woman
crosses, knocks at the opposite door and glides
in—and all without any more noise than a cat
would make walking on its tiptoes.
We turn to the right and to the left. We reach
a little archway of old grey stones, barred by a
chain, which we have to climb over; evidently
the end of the village.


130 THE MAN WHO KILLED


Oh! I believe I cried out with surprise, and
I stand under the arch with open mouth.
Before me stretches a square like a plain, and
in the centre of the square a mountain of mar-
ble and stone, carved and chiselled like a colos-
sal jewel. Giant walls are supported by Gothic
buttresses of lace and openwork. Corridors,
cloisters, colonnades, arches, balustrades, steps
without number lean upon it or crouch against
it on all sides. Above, in a dizzy bubbling,
domes and cupolas thrust themselves toward the
heavens, like those domes of sand that the
simoon heaps in mounds. And four minarets,
slender and white as candles, spring from the
corners and mount upward, high above the rest.
Lady Falkland, stunned even as I, looks even
as I do, silent and reverent. At last, suddenly,
she seizes my wrist:
“Well? My Stamboul does sometimes take
on the air of a Capital? Even the air of the
Arabian Nights?”
We advance into the square, we walk around
the immense edifice. Encircling it a square
garden enclosed by a low wall, pierced by win-
dows, surrounds thousands of Turkish tombs,
simple and beautiful.
“If I were a reasonable and licensed guide I
would not have brought you here. I would have


THE MAN WHO KILLED 131


inflicted on you the classical promenade for
strangers: St. Sophia, the Hippodrome, the
Sublime Porte and the Grand Bazaar. You
would have seen plenty of English women in
green veils, plenty of Germans with dirty
beards, you would have bought the authentic
saddle of the horse of Tamerlane (made last
year in Trebizond) , and you would have walked
all day in streets with tramways in them, uglier,
even, than the streets of Pera. But I—I show
you this.”
We pass through a pointed door, carved in
faucets, harmonious as a scrap of the Parthenon.
Inside it is a cathedral nave, the most splen-
did I have ever seen. Immense pillars support
arches of black and white marble, which span
incredible spaces. Glass windows, the color of
milk or of seaweed, admit a solemn light. N o
chapels, no niches for saints, no confessionals,
nothing to belittle. The altar is a closed portico
of grey marble, on the face of which, in letters
of gold, the word of the Prophet is written.
There are four granite columns, enormous.
Lady Falkland points them out:
“They come from a vanished church of By-
zantium. Before that era they supported the
temple of Diana at Ephesus. Before that an-
9


132 THE MAN WHO KILLED


other temple, I don’t know where. Already
they have seen four gods, and how many more
to come?”
Here and there Mussulmen, prostrated, were
praying in silence. Two little girls, free and
happy, were beating each other in fun and roll-
ing on the carpet. An Imam with a long white
heard was contemplating them indulgently.
In the middle of the square garden, where the
tombs are thickest, Lady Falkland bade me ad-
mire a large mausoleum in the form of a kiosk,
surrounded by an octagonal gallery of Italian,
appearance. It is the turbeh of Suleiman. One
may enter it. And I recall that in our Europe,
the so-called tolerant, access to the tombs of
Popes and Kings is‘not permitted to any chance
comer.
In the round chamber, with walls of Persian
vfa'ience, three majestic catafalques, draped in
satin and brocade, side by side, flanked by enor-
mous yellow wax candles and crowned by tall
turbans. Suleiman sleeps there between two sul-‘
tans of his race. At their feet sleep several sul-
tanas also, under similar satins and brocades.
Nothing is so impressive as these Turkish cata-
falques, which seem to make the presence of
death visible and tangible.


THE MAN WHO KILLED 135


But the poor thing refuses proudly. One does
not easily accept the pity of infidels. Then
Lady Falkland bends down and puts the piece
of money in the baby’s hand. The mother hesi-
tates. Then I interfere and put another piece
in the other little fist. This time there is no
refusal; there is a courteous smile and a few
murmured words, short and sweet. As we walk
on I ask:
“What did she say?”
“It is almost impossible to translate it. It is
a Turkish form of thanks. The sense of it is:
‘Depart smiling.’ ”
How many streets! We have been walking
for more than an hour. Lady Falkland never
goes astray, and goes on and on with her light,
quick step. Stamboul is whatever you will ex-
cept monotonous. Quarter succeeds quarter,
some absolutely deserted and dead, with inter-
minable streets between two walls and under the
varying shade of acacia-s and fig trees; others
thickly peopled, built up with crowds of little
frame houses, from which one sees a few veiled
women come out, silent and almost furtive, and
many old people, who go limping along. From
time to time, from the walk around the houses,
a cypress looms up, rooted we know not where,


THE MAN WHO KILLED 137


higher appears a cupola, and higher than the
cupola two minarets taper among the giant cy-
presses.
“A big mosque P”
“Yes; the Selimieh jamy. Let us go into the
yard.”
The door is semi-circular and very old. The
courtyard is ~square, quite like the court of a
cloister, with arches and columns. But the col-
umns are of old marble, which centuries have
worn till they are yellow and transparent as
onyx. And under the arches the Persian
faiences illuminate the four walls with their .va-
ried colors, eternally bright and fresh.
In the centre is a fountain for ablutions, and
all around the border the cypresses are seen from
without. The near-by mosque extends its
shadow. It is infinitely sweet and calm.
Lady Falkland sits down upon a step at the
foot of a column and takes the yellow bag from
me.
“Here are some stuffed dates and dragées
with pistache, and I don’t know what all. Are
you tired? We have walked far and the pave-
ment is very hard.”
I am not tired. We munch, and silence falls
Between us. It seems as if I could stay for hours


138 THE MAN WHO KILLED

j
and days in this warm shade in the heart of this
Mussulman cloister without grating or lock.
Lady Falkland has leaned her elbow on her
knee and her check on her closed hand. And I
cannot distinguish the color of the thoughts that
are passing behind this forehead.
Suddenly she rises and looks at her little
watch.
“Mon Dieu! four o’clock already. Come,
hurry.”
I become uneasy:
“At what time does the last Chirket leave?
You have to return to Kanlijah?”
“Of course I must. The boat leaves at quar-
ter past twelve—about six o’clock, European
time. And at that, it does not touch at Kanli-
jah; it follows the European bank.”
“But then?”
“Then I go to Yenikeui, and I shall cross in
a small boat. I will get home very late, and I
shall have only a quarter of an hour for dress-
ing. You know we dine in full dress at Kanli-
jah. I can’t do it in quarter of an hour. They
will begin without me, and when I come in I
shall be greeted with unpleasant remarks. But
I have foreseen all that in my programme for to-
day; so don’t pity me.”


THE MAN WHO KILLED 139


We walk again, and the Selimi'eh Jamy is
soon far off. Before us the eternal little streets
extend, more village-like than ever. Now the
houses are farther apart, separated by gardens.
“I hope,” murmured Lady Falkland, “that
we shall find a carriage at Edirnir-Kapou.”
Edinir-Kapou—the Gate of Adrianople—
here we are; a large dilapidated arch, piercing
the enormous masonry wall, almost hidden be-
hind houses and shops piled together. Some sol-
diers, seated on the door-sill of a guard house,
are watching their little garden, where the sun-
flowers and the morning-glories are growing.
Outside, an encircling roadway, a moat, a
wall, all so ancient that one can hardly distin-
guish one from the other. And beyond, a roll-
ing plain planted with cypress, immense, unde-
fined.
The great wall of Stamboul is now behind us.
The formidable ruins of battlements and towers
extend north and south into the horizon.
“Come, come, it is late.”
It is toward the cypress plain that we must
go. We cross the moat on a stone bridge, we
descend the slope of dusty verdure. And here
is the plain.
It is a cemetery. At the foot of the stiff trees,
that the wind hardly moves, tombs and tombs,


14o ' THE MAN WHO KILLED


by thousands and by millions, new tombs,
freshly painted and gilded, old tombs, bleached
and blackened by the sun and the rain, ancient
tombs, worn, corroded, overthrown, all bound
and mingled in a motionless struggle. The col~
umns upright, slanting, lying down, look like
innumerable soldiers, suddenly petrified in the
midst of a battle.
We advance under the cypresses. We climb
over the stones and the columns. The grass is
high, and sometimes I stumble over an invisible
obstacle.
A century-old column, bent so that it touches
the ground with its turban, leans against the
trunk of a terebinth. Lady Falkland sits upon
it as on a bench, and makes a place for me be-
side her.
“There. I wanted to show you our Turkish
cemeteries. Now Turkey, with its absolute sul-
tan and its despotic Koran, is the only free coun-
try in the world. Even the Turkish dead are
not shut in like the Christian dead; they are not
surrounded by thick walls and heavy gratings.
They sleep where they have wished to sleep,
and no one heaps masonry upon their poor tired
bones.”
I have not spoken a word since we left the
courtyard of the Selimieh Jamy. But this place



THE MAN WHO KILLED 141


seems favorable for the words which one hesi-
tates to say.
“Madame, I wish to thank you.”
“For what, pray?”
“A little while ago, in the courtyard of the
mosque, you spoke to me as, assuredly, you do
not speak to any chance acquaintance. Yes,
when you alluded to the painful reception
which awaits you at home this evening. I am
profoundly touched by the confidence you show
me and—and you are right to treat me as a
friend.”
She did not blush, she made no gesture, no
pretense. She looked me straight in the face,
her eyes thoughtful.
“It is true. I don’t know why, but I trust
you.”
She smiled, but without gayety.
“Oh! don’t think that I show you any special
favor because I speak before you a little freely
of the sadness of my fireside. That sadness, my
friend—it is a long time, now, that Constanti-
nople knows that sadness by heart and comments
upon it, and judges it, and is amused by it. You,
yourself, a newcomer, you are not ignorant of '
it. Confess.” '
I confess with a sign and I am silent. After


142 THE MAN WHO KILLED


a minute she places her hand between both
mine:
“But you—you do not make comments, you
do not judge, you do not jeer, and it is for me
to say thank you.”
She rises. We take a few steps in the funeral
plain. Then she stops and shows me a tomb,
the tomb of a woman; there is no turban carved
on the stone; a tomb at least twenty years old;
there is no longer any painting on the marble,
nor gold in the hollows of the inscription.
“You see this? You cannot read the Turkish
letters? Neither can I, only the numbers. But
that is enough for making out the essentials of
an epitaph. The woman who sleeps here died in
the year 1297 of the Hegira; she was twenty-
two years old; that was the year of the death of
Aziyade, and that was her age, and I be-
lieve
“Most assuredly this is not the tomb of Azi-
yade. No one knows where the real tomb is,
happily. Can’t you see a Cook’s agent conduct-
ing a caravan of tourists?——But here sleeps an-
other Turkish woman whom Aziyade might
have known and loved, who knows? So I, who
have wept so often over the fate of the one who
died without seeing her lover again, I often


THE MAN WHO KILLED 143


bring flowers here; it is for the two little shades,
and I believe that in the kingdom where they are
now they divide without quarrelling.”
I have no desire to smile. Lady Falkland has
taken a few violets, pinned to her waist, and lays
them at the foot of the column.
“Women agree with one another much better
than people think. Except ”
She hesitates, then looks at me, her eyebrows
in a heavy frown, her lips drawn up from her
teeth.
“Except when one of them is very wicked and
wishes, through pride or cupidity, to steal the
son of another.”

When we reénter the Gate of Adrianople it
is past five o’clock. Three arabas are standing
there, three very dusty carryalls, suspended
God knows how. Lady Falkland begins a very
complicated discussion with the arabajis, in
which it appears there is much question of time
and distance. Finally they agree, and an instant
after we are launched in a wild race over the
rough pavements of the little streets.
The iron tires of the wheels make a noise like
hammer and anvil. Deafened, Lady Falkland
presses her hands to her ears. I can see through


144 THE MAN WI-IO KILLED


the étamine of the sleeves the pure outline of
two arms, childlike and fragile.
Stamboul is big, endlessly big! Here are new
quarters, new streets. We pass markets, bazaars;
now the araba rushes through solitary streets,
now it goes slowly through a square or a cross-
road seething with turbaned people.
In our flight I see a gigantic mosque, flanked
by interminable minarets. ‘
At last the carriage stops. But here, it seems
to me, there is nothing to see. Neither mosque
nor monumental tomb, nor wonderful little
street. Nothing but a building of worm-eaten
wood and crumbling stone. Is this it?
This is it. Lady Falkland drags me almost
against this ruin, yet it is neither handsome nor
big. And, her hand squeezing mine:
“Do you know a little Turkish history?
Suleiman, before knowing Roxelana, had a Cir-
cassian wife named Hasseki. He had two sons
by her, Mohammed and Ji-an-Jir. And they
were handsome children and good princes. But
Roxelana, through hatred of Hasseki, had them
both killed, and their mother died of despair.
This is why, a little while ago, I prevented your
entering the tomb of Roxelana. And that is
’why I bring you now to the mausoleum of Has-


THE MAN WHO KILLED 145


seki. Say a prayer. There, now hurry, it is
late. Arabaji, Emin-Eunul—Chirket Hairiel_
Chabuk! chabukl.”


CHAPTER XVI
SEPTEMBER 2 5TH.
TRAN GE adventures; I pass the night at
Beikos and this morning behold I find a
bouquet of tuberoses resting against my
shahnichir/
Who put it there? The shahnichir overhangs
the Bosphorus. Someone passing in a kayik?
Impossible; only a side window was open. The
only way, yes, that is the only explanation, the
only way was to have thrown these flowers from
the neighboring shahnichir. But that belongs
to the old Imam With the long white beard.
Odd enough!
Last night Narcisse Boucher, bitten by some
sudden notion, decided to close the summer
house immediately and reéstablish himself at
Pera. They are moving immediately, and to-
morrow the entire embassy will have left the
upper Bosphorus. I have, therefore, in all
:46


THE MAN WHO KILLED 147


probability, slept my last night at Beikos, bar-
ring the unexpected.
Bah! here or elsewhere. I regret my Turkish
house, but I shall have Stamboul down there.
Stamboul! Since Lady Falkland showed‘ it to
me I am homesick for all those little streets,
silent and deserted, where the sun shines on
tombs and houses intermingled, where so much
grass grows amid the yellowed marble of the
tall mosques.
And then, I do not give up my Turkish house.
Everything there shall remain in order and
nothing shall prevent my coming, from time to
time, to give the master’s glance at it. In this
way I shall not have forgotten anything by next
summer; I shall resume all my habits and the
dear rustling of the Bosphorus and the white
beard of the Imam, my neighbor—and perhaps
again a bouquet of tuberoses on the railing of
my :lzahnichir.
Yes. And I shall be forty-seven years old in-
stead of forty-six.
I pass the entire day roaming over the house.
I don’t want to return to Pera until sunset, to
descend the Bosphorus at twilight, which is the
sweetest hour. Down there, on my table, in the
street of Brousa, there is an unfinished report
awaiting me. I believe, even, that this report is
10


148 THE MAN WHO KILLED

to enlighten certain ministers upon the Bulgar
preparations along the Ottoman frontier. To
the with the infidels! But tomorrow I
must work doubly hard. Tonight I want to
think only of peaceful Turkey.
Ah! it is the hour of rest for the soldiers in
the barracks. They take their places in two
rows facing the sea, and I hear their bugles in-
toning slow notes which have a sound of crying.
A trumpet takes up the notes and ends on a
minor. I see the arms raised, all together, for
the salute; and a great cry arises:
Padishah’m chok yacha! (Long live the Em-
perorl)
I have already heard this cry at the Selamiik
and elsewhere, and I have trembled with the
contagious shudder which shakes the men of
Islam acclaiming their Khalif. Alas! These
men have a belief, and I envy them. If some
day they must kill or die they will know why, or
at least they will believe they know.
Now the sun is setting. The kayik has come
out of the kayik-hane and Osman brings it
alongside the dock, gripping the posts with his
little pole with the copper hook. What now!
Something falls in the shahm'chir. Well! a sec-
oIld bouquet just like the first one. There it is


THE MAN WHO KILLED 149


at my feet, and it exhales strongly the sensual
breath of the tuberose.
Evidently it is the neighboring shahnichir
which bombards me. Its side window is wide
open. Nevertheless, no one appears. N o doubt
prudence cautions. I pick up the bouquet, tak-
ing care not to show myself too plainly.
Just as I expected, a note pinned among the
flowers. A very funny note, scribbled on paper
edged with gold lace, such as our little children
use for their New Year letters:
“Four times I have raised my veil and leaned
out of my window, and you have never looked at
me. And yet I shall cry when your kayik goes
away.”
Ah, bah!
It is written in French and without the small-
est error. Then my neighbor must have a daugh-
ter—with a diploma. As a matter of fact, little
Turkish girls of every class are generally better
educated than young French girls.
Now, what shall I do? Gallantry demands
that, in any case, I answer.
A leaf from my memorandum book? It has
not much elegance; so much the worse; in war
as in war:


150 THE MAN WHO KILLED


“I shall come back soon and often. Show your-
self at the shahnichir when I go down to the kayik.”
There, a pin, now. The first bouquet is still
here, a propitious carrier. One, two, three. The
flowery pellet, thrown with all my strength, is
engulfed in the open window. In God’s name!
Good. The kayik is ready; it is still broad
daylight. I go down. I close the door noisily.
I embark.
At the shahnichir of the old Imam a veiled
figure leans out. I look; the tcharaf is raised.
A bright little face appears, tender eyes smile,
a childish mouth shapes a kiss and the rapid
current hears me away.
So, then, little Turkish girls, too, flirt some-
times with infidels! O Mehmed Pasha! your
eyes see clearly! '
None the less, flirt for flirt, I prefer the way
of the Moslem girl to that of the Calliopes and
Christines in their parlors full of screens.
Night falls. Here is Kanlijah. Here is the
railing, here the little pavilion at the edge of
the water. The kayik passes quite close to it,
invisible on the dark water.
The windows are lighted. I see a slender
shadow behind the lighted panes.


CHAPTER XVII
T Stamboul, in the first story of a house
painted red, Mr. Carazoff, a Persian,
keeps a much-frequented shop, where
one finds an hundred-thousand odd things; for
instance, turquoises and rugs. Today I called
upon Mr. Carazoff, being desirous of beautify-
ing my rooms in the street of Brousa, with some
pleasing curiosities chosen from his assortment.
Mr. Carazoff is a courteous personage, dressed
in black and coifl‘ed with astrachan, according
to the custom of the men of his nation. The
politeness of Mr. Carazoff is at once refined and
dignified. Jews are obsequious, Greeks are fa-
miliar, which does not prevent either the one or
the other being clever merchants and quick to
get rich. But the Persians, more clever and
more quickly rich, know how to be neither fa-
miliar nor obsequious, except just to the right
degree. And their tact in business surpasses
151


154 THE MAN WHO KILLED


taining a handful of turquoises, small but very
blue.
“No, Mr. Carazoff, today I want pea-rls.
Have you a pretty pearl very round, white or
slightly pink?”
She turns to me:
“We Armenians dote on jewels, you know; it
is the fault of our fathers and our husbands,
who are very fond of money, too much so, per-
haps. That love extends to us, but we women
are more refined, and instead of grossly cherish-
ing gold pieces we cherish their quintessence,
gems.”
With devotional gestures Mr. , Carazofl‘
brings up another coupe, a smaller one, contain-
ing pearls and opals. Madame Erizian stops
speaking, takes up a magnifying glass and looks
closely. A disappointed grimace.
“There is nothing here, Mr. Carazoff. Come,
look again. These pearls are miserable. But I
wager that at the bottom of your chests———”
A third coupe. Only four pearls lie there,
softly resting on silk paper.
“Ah! now we have it. This one, no, it has a
defect. Don’t be indignant, I have good eyes,
Mr. Carazoff. And this one is yellow. But
this other rather pleases me, although, well, the
price, Monsieur Carazoff?”


THE MAN WHO KILLED 155


“Madame, this house is yours. This pearl, it
is nothing. Nothing. A gift.”
“Monsieur Carazofl‘, you are the most cour-
teous of Persians. But it is already five o’clock,
European, and we have not the time to exchange
all the compliments that are suitable. There-
fore, tell me without delay; how much?”
“Nothing, I beg of you. The pearl is unique,
without price. Round as the moon; and bril-
liant! That cannot be paid for. All that I have
here, the rugs, the bronzes, the lacquers—noth-
ing, nothing is worth this pearl. I give it to
you.”
“How kind you are, Monsieur Carazoff! But
let us speak seriously. Do you think six Turkish
pounds?”
“Six pounds! Madame, you jest with a good
humor that rejoices my old bones. We are old
friends; it is sweet to me to see that gayety does
not depart from you. I shall tell my daughter,
who often inquires about your health.”
“I thank you, Monsieur Carazoff. But I am
not jesting. Six pounds seems to me a fair
price.”
“A fair price! Don’t let us speak of that any
more, Madame. We must not give the Colonel,
here, a false idea of the .value of things. .This
, 4


156 THE MAN WHO KILLED


pearl cost me exactly twenty-two pounds. I will
show you my purchase papers.”
“Don’t trouble, Monsieur Carazofi’. Your
purchase papers are in Persian and I cannot read
that poetic language. But I see that we shall
not do business together today. For, absolutely,
I have only seven pounds in my purse.”
“On the purchase papers the price marked is
twenty pounds. I thought to gain ten per cent
for my trouble. But I must renounce that. Life
has become very hard for merchants. Never
mind. My grandfather sold to your grand-
mother, and, on reflection, I feel that this profit,
taken from Madame Erizian, would bring me
bad luck. Here is the pearl. It is yours. A
present. You will pay me only the twenty Turk-
ish pounds.”
“Oh! no, that is quite impossible. I said
eight pounds, and you know the Armenians
never yield a single piastre.”
“Madame, listen, let us speak no more of
twenty pounds. Let us make an exact price.
All that was only fun; but it is well to jest for
a little while and to speak seriously afterward.
I give you my word of honor. At fifteen Turk-
ish pounds I do not make the price of a silk
handkerchief.”
“Monsieur Carazoff, at ten Turkish pounds


THE MAN WHO KILLED 157


you make what will buy satin to drape all the
beautiful body of your beautiful daughter. And
I am not rich enough to ”
“O Lord! ten pounds! Konje-Gul, come
here.”
A pretty little girl appeared, raising the
portiére.
“Madame, on the head of this child, who is
my flesh and my blood,” Monsieur Carazoff
lays his hand on the soft tresses, “I swear to you
that at ten pounds I lose.”
“Monsieur Carazoff, I believe you on your
oath. Come here, little one, and let me kiss you.
There! And tell your papa that, nevertheless,
he must give me the pearl for nine Turkish
pounds, because I am a customer who is very
old, very stubborn and because another time he
will make much more out of me. Well, Mon-
sieur Carazoff?”
“Eleven pounds, Madame, I beg of you!”
“Come, nine and a half.”
“Ah, Madame, this house is yours. The
pearl? that is nothing, a present. Nine and a
half pounds, so be it.”


CHAPTER XVIII
" .ONSIEUR DE SEVIGNE, listen to
this story. In the beginning Allah
created all peoples. Then, wishing
that they should be just and upright, he put hon-
esty to cook in a big boiler. At the end of seven
years honesty was done to a turn. Allah had
stirred it, as necessary, with his big golden
spoon. ‘Go now,’ he said to the archangel, ‘and
bring to me those whom I created.’ The arch-
angel went all over the world seeking them. The
believers came first, because they lived nearer
God. ‘Here is some for you, faithful men !’ said
Allah, giving them, without stint, a full spoon-
ful of the precious liquor. They went away,
forever honest. The Franks came next. ‘Here
is some for you,’ said Allah, giving them a
spoonful as large as the first. At last came the
idolaters. ‘Here is some for you, poor things!’
and the third spoonful was poured out. There
was very little left in the boiler. ‘Lord, Lord,’
158


THE MAN \VHO KILLED 159


cried out the archangel suddenly, ‘here come the
Jews and the Persians, whom we had forgotten!’
Allah, surprised, tipped up the boiler, but even
by scraping the bottom and sides he could fill
only a single spoonful. ‘So much the worse!’
said he; ‘the Jews and the Persians must divide
this between them!’ And the Jews and the
Persians went away, twice as shrewd and thiev-
ing as the idolaters, the Franks and the believers. _
Not a single drop of honesty was left in the
boiler. And it was then, alas! deplorably late,
that the Armenians came!”
Madame Erizian, not without a certain pleas-
ant pride, thus proclaimed the doubtful reputa-
tion of her race. It would ill become me to find
fault with it; awhile back the intervention of
my new friend and her tactics gave me precious
service against Monsieur Carazofi’, and I did
not pay more than twice their value for my
rugs.
In expressing my thanks I thought I might
offer the half of my araba to Madame Erizian,
and, without any ado, Madame Erizian ac-
cepted it.
And we roll across the Golden Horn, on the
immense bridge, which ascends and descends
like the tops of the Russian mountains.
Madame Erizian has beautiful Armenian


160 THE MAN WHO KILLED


eyes, long and bright, with which she looks you
full in the face with the tranquil security of an
old woman.
“Do you know I am glad of our chance en-
counter today? I wanted to know you after all
Maria had said about you.”
“Lady Falkland?”
“Yes. I call her Maria, for I have known her
since she was no higher than that, or almost that.
She was just married when she came to Constan-
tinople. It will be eight years in December.
She was rather childish then. Down there in
the Antilles they marry them as soon as they
are weaned. Poor little thing!”
I feel just as if I were listening to some
dowager from between the Loire and the Seine.
To such a degree that I cannot forbear inter-
rupting.
“You have lived long in France?”
“I? I have never set foot there. It is my
French which surprises you? But everyone
speaks French in Constantinople.”
“Not such French as yours.”
“Ah! you have been among the Greeks. Yes,
they have a lot of idioms of their own which
are sufliciently picturesque. That is because
their women rarely open a book. We Arme—
nians read.”


162 THE MAN WHO KILLED


color of my wool. I am forty—I am more than
forty years old.”
“Oh, say the number, it is all one to me. I,
myself, am sixty-four. It matters little, any-
how; you still appear quite young. And age
has nothing to do with the matter. Then, you
are in love with Maria?”
“Never in the world! I have a very strong
sympathy for Lady Falkland, but entirelythat
of a friend. Lady Falkland is charming, simple
and good from her head to her feet and very
unhappy, if I am not mistaken.”
“Lord, no, you are not mistaken! Then, to
end the matter, you are not in love' with her.
That is right. That is as it should be, but don’t
go and become so 1”
“No fear. However—simple curiosity—-
why, dear lady, does this eventuality seem to
you so deplorable?”
“Because, as you so well say, Maria is very
unhappy as she is and has no need to introduce
into her life any supplementary causes of suffer-
ing. If you loved her you would cause her
pain. Don’t say no; I am too old not to know
what it means to love. Yes, you would do her
harm. Now, for that purpose people are not
wanting: her rogue of a husband, her viper of
a cousin, her baby, already ungrateful and Cer-


THE MAN WHO KILLED 163


nuwicz and all the others. Truly, she can dis-
pense with you.”
Madame Erizian speaks with a fiery energy
that pleases me. I like people who love their
friends with all their strength.
“Rest easy, Madame; I will do no harm to
Lady Falkland, neither in the way you fear nor
in any other. But, as to Lady Falkland, will
you give me the solution of an enigma which
troubles me a great deal? It is this: I under-
stand that it cannot be very gay to be the wife
of Sir Archibald; but I cannot understand how,
having been so, one could fear not to be so any
longer. Yes; according to rumor, Lady Falk-
land would run the risk of a divorce by which
her child would be taken from her. I do not
know the English law very well, but I do not
suppose that that law would take a child from
a mother without good reason. And in the
case ”
“And in that case, Sir Archibald, proud as
a peacock and baronet to the tips of his fingers,
would never consent to be separated from the
son who is to inherit his name. He will see to
it that the divorce, if divorce there be, shall be
pronounced against his wife. And there will
be a divorce, for Sir Archibald is powerful and
more cunning than one would think to look at

11


164 THE MAN WHO KILLED


him. Maria, it is true, could defend herself,
but only by attacking; she would have to spy a
little at home, see what is passing there, have it
witnessed and get the divorce herself. It would
not be drinking the ocean and I swear that I!—
But the poor little thing has not the energy for
that. Or rather, the scruples of her race with-
hold her; to spy! she does not wish to do it. She
is a pure blooded 'Latin; she handicaps herself
with a host of prejudices, elegant and ill advised,
and even against assassins she refuses to fight
with a knife.”
“What would you have, dear lady? We are
like that. I, a Latin, I would refuse just as
she does.”
“Because you have never known the struggles
of the East where all blows are treacherous.
Now see, the other day Maria, the little fool,
gave you a rendez-vous in Stamboul for a téte-
d-téte excursion. Now if one of the spies of
her husband had surprised you two in the ceme-
tery with the high wall around it, perhaps the
pretext for the divorce would have been found.”
“Impossible!”
“Ah! you do not know this country. In any
case I put you on your guard. You see that it
is not difficult to injure Lady Falkland. Ara-
baji, door!"


THE MAN WHO KILLED 165


The coachman stops. We are at Pera, at the
entrance of one of those covered passageways
that lead, in the more crowded portion, from the
street of Cabristan to the Grand’ Rue. It is
here that Madame Erizian lives.
“Do come and gossip at my fireside corner
some afternoon. I' am always in and I have
good tea. It will amuse you, a civilized per-
son, to see an Armenian barbarian groping
among the hot water, the cream and the sugar?”
“A very refined barbarian. How many cen-
turies is it since your family left the ancestral
tent?”
“How~ many centuries? My mother lived
there, in that tent, between Erzerum and Erzing-
hian. I was born there, and I am the first of
my blood to be transported to Constantinople
and to learn French there. The transformation
was the work of a moment, my dear Monsieur.
Didn’t I tell you that the Armenians are the
most intelligent of all women?”


CHAPTER XIX'
OCTOBER.
HAD become accustomed to my September
mode of life, half country and half city; I
had become accustomed to the long trips
on the Bosphorus, to the careless hours of the
Chirket Ha'irie or the kayik. But now that
Therapia and Beikos are over and done with I
have Stamboul to make me forget them. And,
in truth, I forget them.
Stamboul is the delicious capital of forgetful-
ness. In these innumerable and tangled little
streets, which won me from the very first day,
one breathes amid the sunlight, the silence and
the solitude I know not what serene philosophy,
which appeases all troubles and consoles all
griefs. If fate, instead of confining me in the
monotony of modern existence, had given me the
tumultuous career of a hero of romance or
_tragedy, it seems to me that, when old, weary,
bruised and satiated with wanderings and shocks
166


THE MAN WHO KILLED 167


it is to Stamboul that I would have come to
rest and sleep.
My mornings are sufficient for my daily
duties; a French military attache has not much
to do in Turkey, too closely bound to Germany.
I have but one friend in the official world: Meh-
med Pasha. And even our friendship has to
be restrained by certain apparent bounds. We
are, whether we will or not, two spies and we
do not spy in the same camp.
My evenings, here more than in Therapia,
are taken up with the drudgery of the world.
Dinners or toothpicks, all obligatory and un-
avoidable; I am not my own man one night out
of seven.
But all the time between luncheon and five
o’clock I have entirely to myself. And I lunch,
expressly, very early and make my indispensable
visits after six o’clock, when it is dark. And
so I am able to discover Stamboul entire at my
case, at length and slowly, by fantastic wander-
ings, from Seraglio Point to the walls and from
the Golden Horn to Marmora. '
Already I have my pet corners. At first the
esplanade of the Suleimanieh Jami and the
cloistered court of the mosque of Selim, whither
Lady Falkland had led me that first day. And


168 THE MAN WHO KILLED


later, other corners that I discover one by one;
the arch of an aqueduct all covered with ivy,
which spans a little street only two steps from
the famous quarter of Abul Vefa; an old paved
square where there is a decrepit mosque called
the mosque of the Tulips; and the most adorable
of little Turkish cafés, that of Mahmud Pasha
Jami, all buried among immense maples.
Twice in two weeks I have gone to Kanlijah
and Lady Falkland received me in her parlor
hung with Ghiordes. Twice Lady Edith, anx-
ious to annoy her cousin, did not leave us alone
for a single minute. But we fully made up
for it; four long walks in Stamboul, four long
téte-ti-tétes in our little streets, in our big ceme-
teries, or on the steps of our mosques. I re-
membered the words of Madame Erizian and
set forth loyally the danger of such escapades.
“Yes, I know,” was the answer. “N 0 one sees
more clearly than I the danger that always lies
around me. But, my poor friend, I love to
play with this danger and the only way I regain
a little of my dignity as a so-called free woman
is by means of this useless courage and this vol-
untary boldness. So do not ever ask me to be
prudent.”
I did not ask. Useless courage pleases me.
A


THE MAN. WHO KILLED 169
Women have not, like us, the duty to be brave
as a matter of honor; and when they are so,
above all without necessity, their doubly luxu-
rious bravery is a most sumptuous adornment.


CHAPTER XX
OCTOBER 16TH.
IPLOMATIC soire'e last night at Peta,
at the home of His Excellency Piali Bey,
Minister of Foreign Affairs.
Piali Bey is not a Mussulman; he is a rayah,
a Christian subject, a vassal—but in poor T ur-
key of today, Europe and Christianity command
as masters. And the Padishah himself, Khalif
and Vicar of the Prophet, places the care of
administering his people in the hands of giaours.
It is at once sad and comic. In the most
sumptuous of the drawing-rooms of Piali Bey,
Ottoman Minister, framed and in the place of
honor, is a papal parchment: Piali Bey Sokili
and Madame Sakili, his wife, humbly pros-
trated at the feet of His Holiness, implore with
humility, faith and fervor the spiritual succor
of his apostolic 'blessing. Where are the viziers
.of other days?
Piali Bey receives in evening dress, the bosom
w


THE MAN WHO KILLED 171


of his shirt crossed by the Grand Green Ribbon.
If it were not for the obligatory fez one would
take Piali Bey for no matter what Excellency
of the West. And Madame Sokili, face, arms
and neck uncovered, does the honors of her
house and mingles with the men like the infidel
she is. This seems like the end of Islam.
Nevertheless, the hero of the feast last night
was a believer. I had been there half an hour
and was paying my respects to an ambassador
of canonical age, when there was a sudden
movement. Piali Bey, first of all, breaking
through his assembled guests hastened to greet
the arrival. And Madame Sokili, dropping a
group of important women without ceremony,
crossed the room almost on a run. Bewildered,
I looked at the door, expecting to see a sovereign
prince. I
It was Mehmed Jaledin Pasha who entered.
Piali Bey escorted him, showering bow after
bow upon him. From all sides people hastened
forward. Two ambassadors approached and
bowed very low. The old Duke of Villaviciosa,
whose seventy-five years did not disturb them-
selves except for kings, came from the end of
the drawing-room and held out his hand to the
Marshal.
Mehmed Pasha smiled, with some shrugging


172 THE MAN WHO KILLED


of his shoulders. I saw then that he was wear-
ing a very rare decoration, one that, as a rule,
the Sultan does not bestow except upon High-
nesses, the I mtiaz in brilliants. At this moment
Narcisse Boucher approached. I joined him
and as I bowed after him before Mehmed I
stammered out at random:
“I congratulate Your Excellency
But seeing me he protested:
“Ah! no, Colonel! not between soldiers. You
would have done as much and it is not worth
while.”
Puzzled, I questioned Narcisse Boucher.
“What! you don’t know? But it was the event
of the Selamliik yesterday, the riot of the
zouaves of the guard.”
“A'riot?”
“Why, yes. Three times in succession the
Sultan had himself escorted to the Selamluk by
the Albanian regiment. The Arab regiment,
furious, tried to assault the barracks of the
favored. The Albanians replied with shots
from the windows and, their adversaries retir-
ing to await reinforcements, they in turn de-
scended to the street. Immediately there was
a pitched battle, wounded and dead. The Arab
colonel, more excited than anyone else, instead
of restraining his soldiers, egged them on. The
7’


THE' MAN WHO KILLED 173


barracks, you know, are but a hundred yards
from Yildiz. The Sultan, hearing the uproar,
became alarmed. In great haste he ordered the
Minister of War to go and impose peace on the
fighters. But the Minister is badly received.
They even draw on him, and he is forced to turn
back. Mehmed Jaledin was at the palace.
‘Do you wish me to go?’ he asked the Sultan.
The Sultan hastens to accept. Mehmed Pasha
goes out all alone, on horseback, in the uniform
that you know so well, and begins by crossing
the battlefield at a walk, under a hail of bullets,
wishing to be plainly seen and thoroughly rec-
ognized. After which he turns to the left. He
goes straight up to the Arab colonel and blows
his brains out in the midst of his regiment. A
plunge in cold water would not have cooled
these madmen so well. A second afterward
you could have heard a fly walk past. They
know Mehmed, they have seen him on battle-
fields in Thessaly. The barracks were entered
pell-mell. And the Sultan decided that this was
worth the I mtiaz.”
I also think so. And returning to the Mar-
shal:
“Your Excellency will excuse my stupidity of
a moment ago; I have become such a good Turk
that I live more in Stamboul than in Peta, and


174 THE MAN WHO KILLED


five minutes ago I did not know how that me-
dallion had found its way to your breast. But
now that I am no longer ignorant you must
permit me, with full knowledge, to renew my
homage. It is my opinion that it is above all a
soldier who should congratulate you.”
“For having risked a little shooting, as is the
duty of our trade?”
“To have faced the firing of your own so!-
diers, on a day of common riot, and to have
risked being killed by accident, without either
glory or grandeur.”
He laughed and his eyes sparkled.
“Come, Colonel! Real soldiers, such as I am
and such as you are, know how to die or to be
killed, no matter how. There is no need of ban-
ners nor of music.”
Piali Bey returned and took possession of his
guest. I crossed the parlors. In my opinion
there was not a woman there who was worth
talking to. Lady Falkland had not come; and,
indeed, I did not see any Frenchwoman, except
little Madame Terrail, who was dancing with
her husband, as was right.
The toilettes were handsome and well carried.
The diplomatic world, minutely copied by “all
Pera,” keeps feminine taste here at an accept-
.able level. Furthermore, Piali Bey does not


THE MAN WHO KILLED 175


receive the simple middle class. But his ball,
if it gained thereby in brilliancy, lost in pictur-
esqueness. I had not the pleasure of seeing the
Misses Kolouri, or of hearing the special French
which is spoken in the Greek quarter. Only
once I heard by chance one phrase of a very
handsome woman, belonging to that set, but
acclimated in official spheres since her husband
gained I don’t know how many millions by
means of an audacious speculation: “Miss 804
and-So? God knows what she will have as a
dowry; don’t forget that her mother already
has three other children and a fifth in the road.”
I know that she means on the road. But this
metaphorical occupation of the road fills me
with joy.
Never mind. The drawing-rooms did not
offer any notable attraction, but the smoking-
room, on the contrary, was interesting. The
moment I entered, Narcisse Boucher, seated in
the midst of a group, signed to me to approach
and listen.
A big man, who looked like a German Jew,
covered with crosses and rings, called upon the
whole world to witness a deplorable injustice
of which he claimed to be the victim.
“Ah!” lamented he, “I can say before God
and His saints that I have done all that was pos-


176 THE MAN WHO KILLED


sible and even the impossible. Four hours by
the clock I held the First Secretary of His
Majesty by the buttonhole, just as I hold You.
But as well argue with a wall. As many smiles
and compliments as one could desire, but no
money. And to all reasoning the same answer:
‘I am entirely of your opinion, but His Majesty
cannot give another pound.’ When there is
question of restoring to three-quarters of Arabia
all its oldentime prosperity!”
He wiped his forehead. Narcisse Boucher,
kind man, pitied him.
“It is true that the guaranty per kilometer is
not exorbitant. But, after all, you have the con-
cession. That is the main thing.”
“It is the main thing—for Arabia, yes! The
railroad will be built, but our poor stockholders
will not grow fat on their dividends.”
“Bah! they are already fat ”
Narcisse Boucher rose and I followed him
into the embrasure of a window:
“You heard him?” he whispered, sneering.
“That is Frederlow, the Prussian, the man of
cars and rails. Are you posted on his business?
He wishes to connect Mecca and Mascate,
across fifteen hundred miles of sand and stones.
Naturally that will never bring in a cent; there
is not an inhabitant on the entire line, and, more-


THE MAN WHO KILLED 177

I
over, the trip by sea will cost but a third as
much. But the Sultan will pay the guaranty
per kilometer and the profit will be a pretty one.
none the less.” _
“But Frederlow is complaining of the fig-
ure?” '
“You are green, you are! Listen a moment
and I will tell you. You will laugh.”
And Narcisse Boucher turned toward the
German:
“By the way, your surveys are completed, I
suppose. What will be the entire length of the
line?”
, The big man raised both his arms toward
heaven.
“0 Lord! that is the worst of it; we were
counting on two thousand nine hundred kilo-
meters, but the desert of Dahna is a mass of
precipices and the small contribution of the gov-
ernment does not allow us to attempt any very
great works of art ”
“In short, how long?”
“Three thousand six hundred, seven hun-
dred ”
N arcisse Boucher laughed quietly:
“Well, Colonel? Do you admire the trick?
They accept the Sultan’s guaranty per kilometer,
but they add kilometers in proportion. In the


178 THE MAN WHO KILLED
a
end they gain, not to speak of the economy on
viaducts, which will be reduced to their most
simple expression. The railroad of Mascate
will not cost much for construction. These fine
Turks, eh? They have a thick fleece!”
I was openly indignant:
“But how comes the Sultan to agree to this?”
“The Sultan? My poor Colonel! Behind
Frederlow there is the Ambassador of Germany
and behind the German Ambassador, Germany.
They must swallow the dose !”
The doorway framed the tall figure of Meh-
med Jaledin. F rederlow, having seen him, was
suddenly silent.
Mehmed came to me.
“Colonel, I would like to transmit to you an
invitation.”
“I am at your command, Marshal.”
He took me aside:
“I use no diplomacy, you know. It is this
way: I do not want you to judge the customs
of our country by such receptions as that of this
evening. Oh! God forbid that I judge my
hosts! but they are Christians—and Turkish
Christians are not true Osmanlis. Then—will
you come and lunch next Tuesday at the home
of one of my friends, a Mussulman? I cannot


THE MAN WHO KILLED 179


ask you to my home, you understand why
not ”
“I know.”
“But my old comrade, General Atik Ali
Pasha, who has not the redoubtable honor of
entering the palace of Yildiz every morning,
will be happy to welcome my friend to his table.
Will you come?”
“Most assuredly!”
“Good! At the house of Atik Ali Pasha I
promise you that at least”—looking at the man
of railroads—“you will not meet any Germans.
To you, a Frenchman, that should be pleasing.”

12


CHAPTER XXI
TIK ALI tPASHA lives in the heart
of Stamboul, only two steps from the
Seraskierat, in an austere konak on a
silent road.-
The Izonak is not less silent; Atik Ali Pasha
is an old man, grave and gentle, like the ma-
jority of Osmanlis. The relatives who live
beneath his roof—Turkish hospitality has no
limits—are old like their host, and old, too, are
the servants, all former soldiers or tenants. But
the son of Atik Ali, Hamdi Bey, sometimes
brings into the house the sonorous laugh of his
comrades in the regiment; Hamdi Bey is cap-
tain in the hussars, and Atik Ali Pasha, proud
of this handsome oflicer who is his son, welcomes
with friendliness the young men who wear
the same green dolman and the same astrachan
tarbouch. Moreover, even when filled with
sabres and gorgets the konak is not more noisy;
for Turkish youth has kept intact the respect
:80


THE MAN WHO KILLED 181


which was formerly shown to greybeards and
they restrain their voices before Atik Ali Pasha.
We lunch in a vast, cool room, the ceiling
decorated, Turkish fashion, with paintings in
bright colors. And I enjoy the contrast of these
two men, Atik Ali—Mehmed Jaledin. Atik
Ali Pasha, twenty years older than Mehmed,
is only a general—ferik—and one understands
at once, from his- pensive eyes and his snowy
hair, that palace intrigues Were never in the line
of this old man. Mehmed Jaledin Pasha, Mar-
shal and all-powerful favorite of His Majesty,
had made his first essay in arms under Atik Ali,
then Major. But Mehmed, born of a princely
race and a page in the imperial harem as a be-
ginning, was marked, before he took the sword,
for a rapid and brilliant career.
Everywhere, except in Turkey, I believe that
between two officers so different in their des-
tinies there would be a gulf which no friend-
ship could bridge. But Turkey is the only
country in the world from which envy is ex-
cluded, because the Turks are the only real
democrats whom I know.
(Yesterday at the door of the Seraskierat I
saw the Minister of War make his carriage wait
so that a cleaner might wax his boots for him.
The street cleaner and the minister called each


182 THE MAN WHO KILLED


other Efendi and saluted each other with equal
affability.) So Atik Ali is not at all jealous of
Mehmed for being a Marshal while not yet
fifty years old. And it is Mehmed who bows
before his former chief and who calls him his
“father,” for age in itself is revered in the land
of Allah.
We eat in Turkish style naturally. There is
nothing very exotic, however; the Turkish
kitchen is very like the French. Roast mutton
and rice—chick kebab; mutton in gravy—orman
kebab; European vegetables; rice; and irre-
proachable pilaf—stuffed vine leaves; milk
products; the acidulated yohourt and the cele-
brated kaimak, obtained by shutting the female
buffalo in dark stables. At the end, fruit; the
admirable grapes of Anatolia, larger than the
grapes of Provence and more savory than the
grapes of Fontainebleau.
Of course, no women at table. 'Atik Ali
Pasha is married, and Hamdi Bey also, and
Mehmed Jaledin likewise. But Mussulman
ladies do not appear in the apartments of the
men, in the selamluk. The haremluk, walled
and grated, that is their part. They come and
go, however, as it pleases them, do their shop-
ping, make visits to their friends and gossip as
much as they will in the courtyards of the


THE MAN WHO KILLED 183


mosques. 'It even seems, when everything is
well weighed, that Turkish manners give more
real liberty to women than do our customs of
the Occident.1
A French husband would not consent to cer-
tain prerogatives of the harem which the Turk-
ish husband does not refuse. But, on the other
hand, the conjugal abode here is divided into
two parts and only the husband has the right
to pass the boundary wall.
We are ten guests, all soldiers. The repast
‘When the above page was written, the 28th of June,
[906, Pierre Loti’s admirable novel, “Les Désenchantées,”
had not appeared. And the author did not think it neces-
sary to lay great stress on the real liberty which Turkish
customs concede to women. Today, perhaps, many readers
will accuse him of having written thoughtlessly.
This is not so, however. Anyone who reads “Les
Désenehantées” attentively will see that the Turkish ladies
who are heroines of this book are very great ladies, belong-
ing not only to the aristocracy, but to the Court and enjoy-
ing at least an hundred thousand pounds income. For
those ladies, yes, the law of Islam is hard. In no country
except Turkey is fortune a synonym for slavery. There
fortune means eunuchs, attendants, a closed konak, carriage
-——so many jailers, so many jails. But the immense ma-
jority of women in Turkey have no negroes and go on
foot. And among such, those whom contact with Europe
has not turned aside too entirely, live in reality more free,
are more mistresses under their own roofs, than our women.
Where, for instance, is the European husband who will
leave entirely to his wife the education of his daughters
and even of his sons until the former are women and the
latter adolescents?


184 THE MAN WHO KILLED


is given in honor of Mehmed Jaledin’s decora-
tion with the I mtiaz. But no indiscreet or silly
compliment is inflicted upon the Marshal. To
be brave is quite a simple thing in the eyes of
the Turks. Only, upon entering, each oflicer
bowed a little lower than usual in saluting Meh-
med Pasha. The conversation is familiar and
without etiquette. A staff officer, a captain
newly arrived from Germany, where he had
completed his regulation period, gave his im-
pression of the Prussian army in four words:
“Excellent officers; execrable soldiers.”
Mehmed Pasha looked at me:
“Colonel, perhaps this astonishes you. Your
French military writers deafen you with the
virtues of the German soldier. We Osmanlis,
who make our theoretical studies and our first
stages of practical work in Germany, are of a
different opinion.”
Old Atik\Ali shook his head. In his time it
was in Paris, not in Berlin, that Turks learnt
the art of war.
“Izzet Bey, you hear the Pasha; explain to
the Colonel how you come to judge those men
so severely.”
Izzet Bey does so with very good grace. Of
course all Turkish officers speak French as if
they had come from St. Cyr.


THE MAN WHO KILLED 185


“Colonel, the Germans are mechanics. They
obey magnificently, above all when orders are
backed by kicks. But they can only obey. No
initiative, no intelligence and almost no bravery.
Our peasants of Anadoloo, that Nasredin hoja
said were like their cattle, are, by comparison,
subtle and wily.”
I question: “N asredin hoja?” ,
They all laugh. Atik Ali explains:
“After Karagheuz, N asredin hoja is the na-
tional philosopher of the Osmanlis.”
“Half ZEsop, half Socrates,” adds Mehmed
Pasha. “A little Sancho, sometimes. His thou-
sand and one adventures are a treasure. Hamdi
Bey, you are a good story-teller, give this joy
to the Colonel.”
“One morning,” begins Hamdi Bey, “Nas-
redin hoja wakes his wife as soon as the last star
fades out. ‘Woman, I shall go into the forest
today to cut our winter supply of wood.’ ‘You
will go,’ said the wife, ‘inshallah (please God).’
‘Inshallah,’ replied N asredin, scofiing, ‘why in-
.rhallah? I shall go if it please me, and not if
it please someone else.’ ‘So be it,’ said the de-
vout woman. ‘You will go if it please you and
also if it please God: Inshallah.’ ‘There is no
imhallah about it,’ said Nasredin hoja. And to
persuade his wife he beats her very hard. After


186 THE MAN WHO KILLED


which he goes out and goes into the forest. But
on the way he meets the wall, who is going hunt-
ing. ‘Hola, N asredin, peasant, come and beat
up our game.’ ‘Excellency, I—’ ‘You reply?
Beat him, inshallah, and make him come.’ All
day long, until the first star appeared Nasredin
hoja scours the byways, beats up the living game
and carries the dead game. Then he is sent
away without a bakshish. When night is well
advanced he knocks at his own door, his hands
empty, his stomach hollow and his back broken.
‘Allah keep the jinns from us!’ cries his wife,
alarmed. ‘Who knocks so late?’ And N asredin
hoja, repentant, answers: ‘It is I, open, in-
‘shallahl’ ”
And now we drink an admirable coffee in
cups with zarfs of antique silver. And they
bring us, not the common narghile, but the
chibaq of olden times, made of jasmine wood
and long as an arm.
The smoking room of Atik Ali is a studio.
The old chief occupies his leisure in painting
water colors, still-life landscapes. On étageres
there is a rather good collection of Turkish and
Venetian glass, throwing a ribbon of rainbow
light on the walls and making a pleasing con-
trast with the sombre works of Atik Ali Pasha.
However, the chibz‘tqs are smoked. Under


CHAPTER XXII
“ ND so, Monsieur de Sévigné, you are
completely enthralled with the Turks
and Turkey because you have eaten the
pilaf and kebab of an old feriq with a white
beard, who paints water colors and collects deli-
cate glassware.”
Madame Erizian gives me, not her English
tea, which I dislike very much, but a cypress
wine, very agreeably aged.
Moreover, she makes a perfect mistress of
the house. I do not know a single French-
woman who would offer me my glass with more
grace, above all a stout Frenchwoman, such as
Madame Erizian, with sixty-four springtimes.
“But, Monsieur de Sévigné, these Turks are
barbarians. How can you, a civilized Euro-
pean, get on with them?”
Madame Erizian, an Armenian, is sometimes
annoyed by my predilection for Islam and owes
188


THE MAN WHO KILLED 189


me a little grudge for the less friendly senti-
ments which I hold toward her race, too much
addicted to money or gems, according to the
sex. Alas! I have not the fine art of dissimu-
lating my slightest antipathies.
“Madame, you are right as to the Turks;
they are barbarians. I will go even further
than you, I do not believe they can ever be civ-
ilized. But you are strangely mistaken about
me; I myself am a barbarian like them. Re-
member that I am named ‘de Sévigné,’ that the
Sévignés have a Breton root nine centuries old,
and that my forefathers, by a stubbornness of
nobility, have not made three misalliances in
nine hundred years. I have, therefore, whether
I will or no, the brain of a Celt of the year 1000.
And it is quite different from the brain of an
Osmanli of the present time.”
“Ta, ta, ta, ta! Your Osmanlis of the present
time, you don’t know them. I wish you were
an Armenian on one of the days of a massacre.
You admit the massacres?”
“I certainly admit that ruined, despoiled,‘
scraped to the bones, and legally disarmed
against the lender and the rapacious, one may
do justice oneself.”
“By assassination?”
“That is a big word. Let us say by killing.”


190 THE MAN W'HO KILLED


The door opens. A light step that I know
well. Lady Falkland enters and kisses her old
friend. I do not show all the diplomatic sur-
prise that would be expedient. Not to lie about
it, the meeting was premeditated. The day be-
fore yesterday Lady Falkland and I walked
about Stamboul together and made the appoint-
ment for today. It is true that Madame Erizian
is not one of the people whom we need mistrust.
And moreover, in the matter of diplomacy,
Lady Falkland would rank with the Alceste of
Moliere. She comes straight to me, smiling,
and Offers me her hand to kiss—not the tips of
the fingers, the hand.
“Good afternoon! Do you know that this is
our third meeting this week?”
Madame Erizian looks at us, one after the
other.
“Still those unfortunate walks alone, which
make me tremble for you, little one.”
Lady Falkland mocked her:
“Tremble! You are always trembling. Ah!
the Turks are right: ‘Allah made the hare, and
the Armenian 1’ ”
“Hum! you do not know the proverb cor-
rectly, or you quote it too politely. The Turks
say: ‘Allah made the hare, the serpent and the
'Armenian.’ The serpent! I am perhaps fear-


THE MAN WHO KILLED 191


ful, and yet the Armenian women have always
been more courageous than their husbands. But,
above all, I am prudent. And you, you are
mad! Monsieur de Sévigné, do what is right
for her. What good does it do you two, I ask
you, to run about Stamboul arm in arm, like two
lovers that you are not, at the risk of a string of
catastrophes?”
“It advances us a little in the school of tru-
ancy. My dear old friend, don’t scold. We
amuse ourselves as we can and our escapades are
very innocent. Now, see, Monsieur de Sévigné
and I are very much alike; we are two caged
animals; my cage, the conjugal cage, is the nar-
rower; but his cage, the diplomatic and worldly,
is not very big either. So you can understand
our craving for the air of freedom! In beauti-
ful, empty Stamboul, so big that it is never-
ending, we race,like two lost chickens and for
a poor little hour we give ourselves the illusion
of being free, of having broken our leashes and
burst our collars. Come, now, that illusion is
certainly worth some risk. And then what
things? You have Armenian eyes, immense
eyes, and you see too much. Catastrophes! What
catastrophes?”
“And in spite of all that the day that some
one of your husband’s spies catches you alone


192 THE MAN WHO KILLED


on the arm of this Colonel, you will not be at
the mercy of a good scandal and forced to
knuckle under to avoid the worst! You know
the country we live in and you know the Eng-
lish consular tribunal demanded by Sir Archi-
bald will be content with very modest proofs.”
Lady Falkland shakes her head. She knows
all that, and I, too. Yes, certainly, my respon-
sibility will be heavy if ever
But, with a sudden gesture, Lady Falkland
gives wings to her troubles and I see again the
habitual smile which pleases me so much, the
childlike smile which does not entirly efface the
droop of the mouth.
“Imagine, Monsieur de Sévigné, that my son,
not having seen you all week, told me yesterday
that your great friend, Marshal Mehmed Jale-
din, must have sewn you in a bag and thrown
you into the Bosphorus!”


CHAPTER XXIII
OCTOBER 26TH.
T is the day of feminine manifestations;
two women have done me the signal honor
of perceiving that I exist.
I have no desire, be it understood, to put into
these notes all my sayings and doings, and I
prefer to omit certain very common adventures,
which few men have the courage to escape and
which only young men can avow with elegance.
A man of forty-six in love risks being ridicu-
lous, and a lover of the same age sometimes risks
being repugnant. Nevertheless, I do not wish
to pass over in silence the tales of this day, for
one, my faith! is pretty and the other as funny
as can be desired.
A little while ago, then, I was busy studying
the new maps of Macedonia just prepared, I
know not by what sorcery, by the Austrian staff,
when my kauars, Ahmed, came, with some mys—
""“A ‘4‘)“W
193


194 THE MAN WHO KILLED


tery, and informed me that an old woman wished
to speak to me, to me personally.
Curious, I ordered her admitted and I saw
an Armenian, clean and poor, all dressed in
black, of most respectable appearance. She
made me an almost monkish bow, then opening
her big shawl she took out of it a bouquet of
tuberoses, which she presented to me. After
which she made a second reverence and left.
All without opening her lips.
I stood, flowers in hand, a little confused,
when I noticed a well-sealed letter which had
been placed among the stems. I opened it and
at the first glance I recognized the note paper,
edged with gilt lace, of my little neighbor of
Beikos. O Lord! It is more than a month. I
had entirely forgotten that episode.
The letter is charming and the young person
very ingénue—or quite the contrary:
“You did not come back, in spite of your promise.
And soon we, too, will leave Beikos. Already we
are preparing for our departure. My mother passes
all her days in the city and sometimes she remains
there over night. Those nights I lean on the shah-
nichir, under the stars, and I wait for your kayik to
bring you back to me.”
I have placed the tuberoses in an old vase of
enamelled copper, which Monsieur Carazoff


THE MAN WHO KILLED 195


sold me the other day. “Damascus work, Mon-
sieur le Marquis! Beautiful as the lamp of a
mosque!” And of the lace-edged paper I made
an infinity of little butterflies, which I shall
drown tonight from the top of the high bridge
in the Golden Horn.
Then I put myself to work again at the Aus-
trian maps. And the kavass, Ahmed, presently
knocked again, informing me this time that a
young lady insisted, etc—See above.
The first surprise had seasoned me and it
seemed quite natural to see, beneath my little
ebony arch, the apparition of Calliope Kolouri '
in person; of Calliope, she said her name on
entering; of Calliope alone, without the shadow
of a chaperon.
She herself, in spite of the large measure of
poise which she ordinarily possesses and of
which her visit gave me a superfluous proof,
though a strong one, was put out of countenance
by the placid smile which greeted her and by
the easy gesture which offered her an armchair.
Seated, and with her rather uncertain eyes look-
ing point blank into mine, she hesitated almost
a minute before beginning the various excuses
which she had evidently been preparing all
along the way from her home to mine.
‘ ~ _-‘_A._-_ --V
13


196 THE MAN W'HO KILLED


“Just fancy—I was passing under your win-
dows by chance. Then I recalled that you lived
in this big house. I was so curious to see your
home. I could not resist ”
I let her extricate herself as best she could.
She ended with an air of confusion and looked
at my four walls, one after the other, religiously.
“How pretty it is! How one feels the French
tastel”
She feigned an excessive and uncalled for ad-
miration. My two drawing-rooms, simple al-
most to bareness and adorned only by large
Persian carpets of a dark purple tone, have
nothing in them to please a little Greek girl of
Pera, crazy for knick-knacks. But among her
“ohs!” and her “ahs!” I was seeking the real
reason of her visit. And I could not find it.
In fact, I have not yet found it. An idea did
come to me, but it was so absurd!
These are the facts: The parlors inspected in
detail, Miss Kolouri asked, not without blush-
ing a great deal, if she might see the rest of the
apartment. The dining-room held her only for
a minute. And as, at the next door, I warned
her loyally that we had come to my bedroom,
she entered instantly, not without stammering,
very quickly:
“Really, I don’t know if I can ”


THE MAN WHO KILLED 197


Apparently she could. She even “could” to
this point, that after standing a moment between
a straight chair and an armchair, she suddenly
decided to sit down on the bed.
I saw her do it a little abashed. But without
doubt a bed would not frighten her. I did not
flinch. Emboldened and talkative, she con-
tinued:
“You must be judging me with severity. To
enter a gentleman’s bedroom like this. But I
know that the French respect young girls—”
She stared at the points of her shoes with care-
ful attention.
“I would never dare enter the room of a native
young man like this.” (“Young man!”——pest!
I am flattered.) “It iLbecause—do you know
the definition of love?” (A'ie! where is that ex-
cellent Madame Kerloff?) “ ‘The exchange of
two likings and the contact—’ As a young girl
I must naturally confine myself to the exchange
and the young men here demand the contact. It
is very difficult for a young girl to flirt in Pera.”
In spite of myself I answer:
“Then if it be so difficult, the young girls who
flirt must have had a great deal of practice.”
She laughed a nervous laugh, very sharp:
“Oh! not as much as you may think; but all
the same—they know some things.”


198 THE MAN WHO KILLED
Q


She lowers her eyes, hesitates, then looks at
me with a sort of resolution, of defiance.
Ah, bah! is itP—But it is true that Frenchmen
instinctively respect young girls. I draw back
to the armchair and sit down.
Miss Calliope Kolouri left my house ten min-
utes later entirely intact. And, let it be well
understood, I do not admit that this young girl
came under my roof with a single ulterior
motive.
‘ _t » »~____- '-


CHAPTER XXIV]
doubtful and troubled hours which leave
me weighted with disgust, almost with a
sense of stain.
I dined at the cabaret Tokatlian in Pera.
The morning visit of Calliope had turned my
' mind toward ideas of a foolish nature and I
had decided not to finish the day alone at home.
At Tokatlian’s the lower room was, none the less,
too light and too garish for my taste. I there-
fore went upstairs to the restaurant on the first
floor, more discreet and also pleasanter because,
often, women who were alone and wore most
sumptuous hats dined there. One of them,
named Carline, had already consented to sit
opposite me on several occasions.
Now Carline was not there and, on the other
hand, two guests there were the sight of whom
annoyed me: Sir Archibald Falkland and his
inseparable Cernuwicz.
‘- STRANGE evening, yesterday; four
199


200 THE MAN WHO KILLED


The Pole saw me at once and called me. I
do not think I am any more pleasing to Sir
Archibald than he is to me. His wife is between
us, and he has too much sagacity beneath his
brute exterior not to feel that we cannot be, he
and I, anything but enemies. But Cernuwicz,
whom I like no better and for whom my an-
tipathy has, in addition, an almost fearful re-
pugnance, showers me, on all occasions, with
an unbounded cordiality which burdens and
troubles me.
Yesterday, notably, he would not stop urging
till I consented to dine at their table. I had no
polite reason for refusing ready. Falkland, al-
ways correct, had greeted me very courteously.
Therefore I dined with them; Cernuwicz bore
all the burden of conversation and gossiped so
well that I was able to maintain an almost com-
plete silence. However, I intended to free my-
self as soon as possible from this company, so
different from that which I had sought, and,
dessert despatched, I rose.
“Marquis,” said Cernuwicz, “you are not
leaving us so soon? I wager that you are going
'directly to see some of the girls. Now, don’t
ay no. We, too, we will go. Stay with us.”
I tried to make an excuse.
“Ah, bah! you, a Frenchman, you draw back


THE MAN WHO KILLED 201


before a little fete? Come, now, one must step
down once in a while. Still no? But we shall
believe that it is because of the fidelity of love.
Ah! ah! Marquis, you want to shame us, espe-
cially Falkland, who is married. You keep
yourself for the lady of your thoughts. And
who is she? We shall guess. Wait a moment.”
This chatter was terribly wearing to my
nerves. But I considered that the simplest way,
all things considered, was to remain with them.
Some instinct counselled this as an act of pru-
dence. The Polish pleasantries of Cernuwicz
gave me a vague uneasiness and it would have
been very disagreeable to me to give a body to
his suspicions and to leave him téte-¢i~te‘te with
the husband of Lady Falkland, both seeking
among the women of our world the one who
could best serve as a reason for my flight.
I remained.
Yes. A singular evening. Falkland and I
equally taciturn; Cernuwicz exaggerating his
exuberance.
We drank, of course, first the classic extra-
brut, before rising from table; then at the buffet
of the “Cirque” (it was Wednesday, a gala diplo-
matic night, the “Cirque” was obligatory), an-
other extra-brut, which bore a marvellous re-
- —.A ‘ .-a ag-Jh __;_1 1 L»L_‘___->_ __.. ._--\7 .-~ \.. ‘


204 THE MAN WHO KILLED


well made and that they be at least twelve years
of age.
But, just here, comes a rather curious incident.
We were in gallant company, in the salon of
Madame Artemisia, and I was trying by means
of a great many compliments as heavy as ma-
sonry—the girls of this place do not understand
anything else—to enliven these poor little girls,
who were too plainly there only for professional
obligation. Resigned prostitution is not gay
to see.
Sir Archibald, in the depths of an armchair,
listened to me speak and watched Cernuwicz,
who was flirting, more brutally, with a child in
short dresses, escaped from the kindergarten.
The door opened at intervals for the entrance
of some new arrival, who was introduced with
ceremony.
Suddenly Sir Archibald rose.
Madame Artemisia led in by the hand a dila-
tory person, a girl, rather pretty, tall, thin,
blonde and white, her hair in bandeaux. An
unexpected type among the little levantine cat-
tle with dark skin and crinkly black hair. The
souvenir of an Italian portrait passed through
my mind, a canvas by Selvatico, seen at Milan.
'And I thought, of a sudden, that this woman
greatly resembled, in all essentials of body and
_m—g-_. 1 .4, RxWa.lf '47_.J..’_J' ‘ H.l~ LMfuq ,


THE MAN WHO KILLED 205


face, Lady Edith, cousin and mistress of Sir
Archibald Falkland.
Beyond a doubt he also thought it. Pale,
standing, he stared fixedly at this living image.
And I saw his powerful hands tremble.
Brusquely he made three steps forward, seized
the arm of the young woman, and without a
word dragged her away. They disappeared.
There was a scofiing laugh. Cernuwicz, very
drunk, stood there reeling, his hand stretched
out toward the door. Immediately he de-
claimed, from Racine:
'J’ai revu l’ennemi que javais éloigné;
Ma blessure trop vive aussitot a saigné.1
Then, catching himself up with that sudden
anger that characterizes his accesses of alco-
holism:
“But you know, you French Colonel, I don’t
joke about these things. My honorable friend,
Sir Archibald Falkland, is a free man.”
' As I did not flinch, he grew tender:
“And also a sentimental man. And that is
why he, a giant, is taken by the purest and frail-
est and lies with them, delicately.”
1 I have seen again the enemy whom I had placed afar off;
My wound, still fresh, immediately bled again.


CHAPTER XXV
PILOGUE of the soirée of yesterday:
F alkland’s kavass has just brought me this
note:
“DEAR SIR:
This is an embassy.
My husband, charmed, he says, with the delightful
hours which you gave him at the club—is the club
as delightful as all that i—asks me to invite you to
luncheon on Sunday without ceremony. I acquit my-
self of this embassy with a pleasure that you can
imagine, and I beg you to believe me
But come, won’t you? For once, thanks to you,
this family table, my nightmare, will be less sinister.
Till Sunday; I count on you and I remain your friend.
GRANDMORNE FALKLAND.”

Assuredly I shall go—if it were only to re-
fresh my memory and compare the young per-
son of yesterday with Lady Edith and to see
again, perhaps, before her as before the other,
Sir Archibald Falkland, silent, pale, with
’ trembling hands— '
207


CHAPTER XXVI
FRIGID luncheon; worse certainly than
anything I had imagined. We were six
at the table, twice too large. Lady Falk-
land and her husband, Lady Edith and Cernu-
wicz, the child—silent as a stone and stiff as a
ramrod—and I.
A beautiful arrangement of the table, Eng-
lish, but discreet in color; white cloth and only
chrysanthemums of a single shade of rust. A
Latin taste has corrected the usual mixture of
Britannic tables ;——yes, Latin. When, accord-
ing to his desire, Sir Archibald shall have
changed his wife, I doubt very much if the new
Lady Falkland will know as well as the one of
today, how to diffuse throughout the entire
house the sober elegance, the harmony, which
now delights the eye.
But in this irreproachable setting what a
lugubrious and ugly comedy. The child does
not eat as much as he wants and holds himself
208


THE MAN WHO KILLED 209


with the correctness of one petrified, in which I
suffer with him. Cernuwicz, himself, in spite
of his Slavic suppleness, loses countenance in
this troubled atmosphere and moderates his
habitual chatter. Perhaps, also, compassion
softens him; several times I surprised his glance
resting on Lady Falkland, a soft glance, almost
tender. >
Only the lover and the mistress talk and their
conversation, so at odds with the general con-
straint, augments my embarrassment and my un-
easiness. Sir Archibald, master of the house,
shows a correct cordiality; Lady Edith the as-
sured attitude of a woman very much at home.
One is surprised not to see her at the head of
the table and it is Lady Falkland who seems to
be the intruder and the usurper.
The menu is English, but somewhat tem-
pered. After the dessert the ladies rise. We re-
main awhile to drink. Then, reunion in the
“Parlor,” this is what they call the room hung
with Ghiordes tapestry.
Coffee—European style—cigarettes, Turkish
and English. Lady Falkland offers the cups
and Lady Edith the “Bird’s Eye” and the “Corps
Diplomatique.”
They both smile with the same conventional,
worldly smile. Their hands are stretched out


210 THE MAN WHO KILLED


together toward each guest. One does not per-
ceive at once that they are enemies, that _they
fight without mercy for the prize that is before .
our eyes, the child, the vital dignity of wife and
mother. One notes only that they are different,
opposed, strangers.
And because of my friendship for the one I
feel that I hate the other, that I hate her vio-
lently. My friendship must be very strong
An incident. The child took refuge beside
his mother and whispered something, I know
not what, to her.
“Edward,” calls the father, in hard tones,
“Come here.”
He comes at once, full of fear.
“It is vulgar to whisper. You shall be pun-
ished. Leave the room.”
Silently the child obeys. Lady Falkland does
not wince. But I see her eyebrows suddenly
contract and her upper lip tighten a little, show-
ing her teeth; and I know this expression of a
wild beast in pain.
Lady Edith laughs.
“Archie, don’t scold the baby before Mary.
Mary is not in favor of energetic education, you
know.”
Not a word from the mother. Sir Archibald
shrugs his shoulders.


THE MAN WHO KILLED 211


“I think, Edith, that it is not you who will
ever advise me to let my son, a Falkland, have
manners that are not those of a gentleman.”
Edith continues laughing, a sharp, torment-
ing laugh.
“Oh, beyond a doubt, but a “mama” is a weak,
compassionate thing. You must be careful of
this one, Archie.”
Still not a word. But I see the beautiful
brown eyes that I love raised toward me as if
calling on me for help. And I speak.
“Oh, Sir Archibald, do you think that a baby-
of six years has not the manners of a gentleman,
or of a gentle man, which, perhaps, is better,
because he shows his love for his mother with-
out disguise? You once did me the honor of
praising my race and it is true that it is of old
Breton blood, rough and even brutal. And yet,
my most illustrious ancestor—a marquise of two
hundred years ago—is principally celebrated
for the love, blind, childish, touching, that she
had for her daughter. Even in my France of
former times, less sensitive than that of today,
itwas not considered wrong to spoil children a
little. And I believe that indulgence makes
them bolder and prouder. I don’t like the look
of a whipped dog.”
Silence. A hard, grey look rests on me for
14


212_ THE MAN WHO KILLED


a second and is then turned away. And after
a moment it is Lady Edith who answers me:
“Oh, France has always been the land of ten-
derness and weakness. And that is so suitable
for her. But, naturally, it would not be the
same with all peoples. Our Scotch blood is
prouder.”
“Prouder?”
“Why, yes, my dear Monsieur. Think a min-
ute; compare your stature and your strength
with that of my cousin—you have quite the ap-
pearance of a woman, Monsieur de Sévigné;
even I am larger than you are! You could wear
my dress nicely—by shortening it a little. So it
is quite natural that you should be on the side
of caresses and sugar plums.”
Oh! oh! how she irritates me; I would like to
pull her nose; patience. Ah, bah! it is Cernu-
wicz who answers the donzelle and ironically
enough, on my honor!
“Hum, Lady Edith, don’t trust to appear-
ances. The Marquis, slender as he is, could
perhaps give a tough job even to my honorable
friend, Sir Archibald Falkland himself.”
So! is the Pole in our camp, then? This is
certainly extraordinary. 'But I have not time
to be astonished. Sir Archibald peremptorily
closes the discussion:


THE MAN WHO KILLED 213


“I hope you are not offended, Colonel?
Young girls like to tease. As to the child, we
differ a little as to the education he should re-
ceive. But that does not matter. My wife and
I also differ. It is true that in a short time we
shall differ no more.”
And he looks squarely at the unhappy woman
with a cold resolution in the depths of those
eyes, the color of the fogs and lakes.
I soon have enough. I leave early on the
pretext of duty at the embassy.
Lady Falkland, who has not said four words
in all, smiles at me wearily as I kiss her hand.
Poor, poor woman! ' There she is, in the depths
of her armchair, crushed and so sad that I turn
my face away from her. And I understand her
madness for the open air‘ and for freedom, I
understand the childish gesture With which she
expands her chest to breathe more deeply when
I am alone at her side in the empty streets of
Stamboul, when there are no ferocious glances
ambuscaded around to watch and threaten her.
Sir Archibald accompanies me across the
garden as far as my kayik. Lady Edith comes
too. I thought I caught a quick glance from
him to her calling her. Lady Falkland re-
mains in the parlor because of Cernuwicz, who
is not leaving yet.
0'


CHAPTER XXVII
NOVEMBER 4TH.
“ S Lady Falkland at home?”
The kavass bends his head in the levan-
tine fashion. And'here I am again in
the Ghiordes drawing-room. -I come to make
my luncheon call.
Furthermore, I have my private reasons for
having chosen this particular afternoon to come
to the upper Bosphorus. And perhaps for not
returning tonight to Pera.
I know the customs of the house and there-
fore I am not surprised to see Lady Edith enter
first. I remember my first call. Lady Edith
had entered in the same manner and although
astonished I had been polite. I would like to
be less so today.
Let us begin—~ex abrupto—we hussars have a
weakness for the offensive.
“Miss! “(She can wait till doomsday before
215


THE MAN WHO KILLED 217

F
cold, too sombre! Ah! if you spoke of the little
pavilion at the edge of the water—there—yes,
everything is pretty, gallant, romantic—and at
night the kayiks can reach it as they wish.”
Really? This is a departure which resembles
villainy. You are looking for blows, my dear!
All the worse for you!
“House or pavilion it is all the same; one
must freeze here. But I believe you English
do not fear winter. You, yourself, Miss, were
you not brought up in Scotland, in a rough
manor in the Highlands? At your brother’s, I
think?”
Two flashes of lightning flame in her grey
eyes. This time I flicked her on the raw. Lady
Edith stops breathing and chokes before answer-
ing. Evidently the old wound is ever open and
'fills this heart with hate. I have taken her back,
rather brutally, to the terrible day of her flight
from Scotland—when her brother, pitiless and
wrathful, chased her from his home as one chases
a thieving servant. Look out when she is able
to speak. But, an armistice, here is Lady Falk-
land.
“Really, dear Monsieur, it looks as if it were
intentional; whenever you come here they for-
get to let me know.” V
When her husband is not there she revives a


218 THE MAN WHO KILLED


little, though she remains without gayety. She
is not the lively and almost playful comrade of
our walks about Stamboul, the courageous wom-
an who treads upon her melancholy and fights
against sadness by a studied carelessness and
boldness—no. But it is not the crushed crea-
ture of Sunday, deep in the hollow of her arm-
chair, obstinately mute and with bowed head.
“Madame, I awaited you in the most agree-
able manner possible; Miss Edith kept me com-
pany and was just beginning to tell me of her
former days in Scotland. It is several years
since you left your castle there, is it not, Miss?
Without intention of returning?”
Fight, shoot straight! I warm to the game.
Lady Falkland, who did not expect it, sits down.
She smiles slightly, not too much reassured as
to the issue of my warlike fantasy.
Lady Edith, ashen, makes a tremendous effort
to command herself. Her English cheeks, of
that cloudy pink which is nevertheless raw, have
turned green. She only manages to stammer in
a thin voice.
“Yes, several years. Two years.”
No quarter; I redouble my attacks:
“Two years? N o more? You accustom
yourself readily to new countries and strange
houses. It is a gift of the English to be at home


THE MAN WHO KILLED 219


everywhere, td create, no matter how, in the
wink of an eye, a home!”
On guard, she is going to charge! Good
God! What hate in those eyes that glitter like
spears, in that twisted mouth that would like
to bite!
“It is a gift of ours, yes. Although great
travelers we are a people of settled ideas. It
is the opposite with you French. You are satis-
fied with the first inn you reach and you some—
times sleep in sheets that are doubtful without
even perceiving it.”
What does she mean? Bah! Why worry?
Onward!
“Perhaps. But as long as one does not know
it. The inn, moreover, has one advantage, it is
that one pays one’s bill honestly; so well that
the host has not the right, no matter what hap-
.»pens, to accuse the traveler of ingratitude.”
Her hands tremble with rage and she man-
'ages to grow even paler. Where the deuce has
the blood of her cheeks gone? Is she going to
faint or to have hysterics? But no. These
Englishwomen are cold-blooded animals.
All the same Lady Falkland, uneasy, thinks it
time to interfere:
“Monsieur de Sévigné, you are in a romantic
humor today. That happens only in the inns of


220 THE MAN WHO KILLED


Don Quixote, travelers quarreling with their
hosts.”
It is always imprudent to interfere between
two duelists.
“My dear,” hissed Lady Edith, “your words
are golden. But your quality of Frenchwoman,
which you urge in season and out of season,
should make you indulgent toward the Marquis.
Don Quixote is very celebrated in France and
no doubt it is in order to imitate his exploits
that the French are so willing to break their
spears against windmills, and to meddle with
what does not concern them.”
Peuh! Poor retort. I had hoped for better.
“With what is not our affair, I agree. But
what would you have? It is a French mania to
desire to redress wrongs. For my own part I
have never been able to see women or children
cry without calling someone to account for their
tears.”
“Don Quixote delivering the convicts.”
“Perhaps some of them were innocent.”
“When in doubt, do nothing. A French
proverb, I think.”
“When in doubt, enlighten yourself! And
when you have light protect the good, strike the
others.”
“Yes, there may be light, but sometimes it is


THE MAN WHO KILLED 221

I
not a true light. Some people are easily dazzled
and mistake will-o’-the-wisps for lanterns.”
“Other people have excellent eyes.”
“Even those I should sometimes advise to wear
spectacles. It is always the same story of the
sheets at the inn. Men who arev particular al-
ways look at them twice before sleeping in them.
Isn’t that true, Mary? The other day Prince
Cernuwicz recited some delicious verses on a
similar subject.”
Again that allusion. And still I do not un-
derstand. And Cernuwicz, what has he to do
with it? I look at Lady Falkland. Now she,
in her turn, is very pale. What deviltry is afoot,
anyhow? Halt! in any case. I think it is time
to give the coup de grfice.
“Rest easy, Miss Edith; if it should so happen
I shall not be satisfied with spectacles. I have
a telescope which brings things very near. For
instance, from Pera I can see Kanlijah and what
is passing there very plainly. Even better. My
equipment, as military attaché, includes an as—
tronomer’s telescope—through which, when the
fancy takes me, I often look as far as I wish to—
even to Scotland, for instance. But I am for-
getting time in chattering, it must be already
late.”
This time it is the coup He grfice; she remains


222 THE MAN WHO KILLED


on the ground, hors de combat. And it is Lady
Falkland alone who escorts me to the water
steps. I kiss her hand:
“Well, I hope I know how to take your part?”
But she seems less pleased than I expected.
She shakes her head:
“My friend, my friend, I beg of you to be
prudent”
“Prudent. It is you who tell me this, you,
the daring one.”
She shakes her head again, reflects a little
while and hesitates. In the depth of the garden
I hear a child’s laugh.
“Daring, yes! If there were question only of
me! But I have my little one. And do you
think I do not have to watch over that laugh
that you hear down there? With me away the
little one would laugh no more; you know it.”
In spite of myself I answer:
“Yes, I know it. And I told you so before,
when Madame Erizian pleaded so strongly with
us to give up our excursions. You forbade me
then ever to mention the word prudence. What
change is there today?”
She looks uneasily toward the window
through which the grey eyes are undoubtedly
watching us.
“There is no change.l But I feel the danger


THE MAN WHO KILLED 223


which hovers over me, which hovers each day
nearer my head.” Again I kiss the hand which
she extends, and descend the steps. I enter the
kayik which is at the foot of them.
“Adieu, till when?”
“Wait! there is something—something which
I must tell you.”
“Door!”
This to the kayikjis, who obey and stop. Lady
Falkland changes her mind with a gesture:
“No! Impossible. Impossible here. I was
mad! But I will tell you later. I promise to
tell you. We will meet again in Stamboul. I
will write to you. Wait for my letter. Adieu.”


CHAPTER XXVIII
“ TAMBOUL yok, Osman; Beikos.”
N o, I do not want to return to Stam-
boul. This little battle with the Scotch-
woman has warmed my blood and I am in ex-
actly the condition that I desired. Tonight I
want to sleep in my Turkish house in Beikos, a
caprice.
A sentimental caprice. This morning the old
Armenian woman of such respectable appear-
ance again brought me a letter on the paper
edged with gold lace. And I know that today
my little Turkish ingénue is alone in the house
——entirely alone; her mother at Stamboul and
her father I know not where.
In short, two fancies will be exchanged.
I shall be watched for all afternoon from the
shahnichir and provided that my kayik arrives
before night, provided it can be recognized, all
will be well, all will be easy. I shall first enter
my own home and I shall wait until it is dark,
224


THE MAN WHO KILLED 225


very dark. After which I shall go out by the
door at the back, without making any noise and
I will have only to jump the garden wall, a very
low wall, nothing more. In the garden there
will be someone.
Someone. A little girl, veiled, whose heart
will beat fast. What—exactly—does she expect
of me, this child, tempted, perhaps, by my sky-
blue dolman and by that mysterious attraction
that the foreigner, the exotic, always exercises
irresistibly on feminine minds and hearts? If
this rendez-oous were chaste to last degree, I-
should not be in the least surprised.
Twelve o’clock Turkish time. The sun has
disappeared. But we are there. Before dark
we shall be below the shahnichir. The sky is a
golden red, the hills are amethyst, the sea ex-
hales a diaphanous mist which softens every out-
line and tinges every shade; the pure air, less
warm than in summer, is intoxicating. The
kayikjis row slowly, with strong, supple strokes.
Alas! Lady Falkland, a prisoner down there,
under the malevolent guard of her rival, sighs,
perhaps, toward my kayik, free in the very
middle of the Bosphorus. 'And I, I would love
just now to press the little silky hand.
A sudden rustle passes over the water—a flock


226 THE MAN, WHO KILLED


of halcyons, which fly so quickly that one can-
not see them in the mist.
Beikos. We arrive. The shahnichir is well
veiled by its thick curtains. Is she watching or
is she not watching? Perhaps her thoughts are
wandering. It needs but a second of inatten-
tion. But at my desire Osman intones one of
the Turkish plaints that I love because they
laugh and weep at the same time in each of their
measures. Perhaps this will serve as an intro—
ductory chorus.
My house. I find it as I left it. Five weeks
of absence, that is nothing. I sit down. It
seems as if I had returned after a walk, not a
very long one. I am at home.
At home. I have not the feeling of being at
home in the street of Brousa. In Pera 'I am a
stranger. Oh! really, I must rent a house like
this in Stamboul for the winter.
Mehmed Pasha’s rugs which, naturally, I left
here, what would they be doing in the street of
Brousa? In a Perote house? These rugs of a
Pasha and a believer? Mehmed Pasha’s rugs
are much handsomer than those which Monsieur
Carazoff sold me. When I have my Turkish
house in Stamboul I shall put Mehmed Pasha’s


THE MAN WHO KILLED 227


rugs there. And there they will not be exiles,
since it will be a Turkish house.
One by one the windows on the European
shore are lighted up. The night darkens.
A harem! In a little while I shall enter a
harem and the adventure will be much less
dangerous than I could have imagined. So
much the worse, moreover
The love of a Turkish woman, what an im-
possibility, if one may believe all that is said in
Constantinople by diplomats and financiers.
“Eh? you say? A European lover of a Turkish
woman? But, my dear, what are you thinking
of? It is folly, folly pure and simple. The
story of Aziyade? a fable, a boast. Come, re-
flect: we, the Europeans permanently estab-
lished in Constantinople, we who do not change
about like you, we who remain here, well, have
we Turkish women for mistresses?” Parbleu!
They avoid Stamboul and Asia; they shut them-
selves up in their Pera, they never go out of it,
and the real Turkey is as strange to them as it
was to me before my departure from France.
Certainly more unknown. I heard with my own
ears an embassy dragoman, a citizen of Constan-~
tinople for more than twenty years, aver with
entire sincerity that after sunset no house in

15


228 THE MAN WHO KILLED


Stamboul has the right to show a light from a
single one of the windows giving on the street.
He told that to me who, four times a week, go
at midnight to drink my coffee, perfumed with
amber, before the mosque of Mahmud Pasha,
which is in the heart of Stamboul. There are
large maples there and from these hang lanterns
which could not be brighter; and some two hun-
dred old Turks smoke their narghiles there with-
out any care for the lateness of the hour.
Good people of Pera, open your long ears!
Presently I, one who merely crosses over your
threshold, I shall be alone in her haremlr‘ak with
a Turkish woman, neither more nor less; with
a young girl, the daughter of an Imam.
Only a suspicion of twilight above the hills of
Europe.
Poor little thing! What she is going to do is
very wicked. In the haremlrlk an infidel, an
unbeliever, a giaour! But, is it her fault? She
has seen so many giaours in the street, in the
kayik, in carriages, everywhere. And, too, she
has seen their wives everywhere, women without
veils, without modesty, without a haremlak—
honored just the same, saluted, respected! She
cannot understand it; her principles falter.


THE MAN WHO KILLED 229


What is good? What is bad? She no longer
knows.
Oh, Mehmed Pasha! You have explained
these things to me very clearly.
Dark night! It is the appointed time! 'We
must not leave a little girl too long alone in a
garden where surely phantoms wander.
After all, the adventure is not without some
risk for the European as well as for the Turkish
girl. A knife thrust is quickly given by a serv-
ant overfaithful to the law of the Koran. And
danger purifies everything.
My-kayz'kjis are already sleeping. I leave
the house without their hearing me. My gar-
den, my little gate, and I am in the country
street, paved with round stones. Not even a
cat. It is well. A graveyard silence. No sus-
picious light, except, farther down, the three
luminous windows of an unknown house; but no
disquieting shadow on the transparence of the
cloth curtains. No one. Entire security. And
here is the little wall _
I have but to vault it. But no, not yet. The
‘Mussulman street, silent and mysterious, this
isolated house, thetall heads of the cypresses
aligned round about and the veiled princess who
awaits in the shadow, among the roses of the gar-


230 THE MAN WHO KILLED


den, the coming of the knight errant in the azure
doublet—it is a page of the Arabian Nights that
I am living at this moment and I want to hold
that moment, so as to enjoy the page the longer.
Ho! The noise of a cavalcade at the end of
the street. Is it that Khalif of the Abbassides
named Harun and his vizier Jafur and the black
eunuch, who carries the silver shield, all three
on a nocturnal round, watching over the order
of the empire? I retire to the wall of my own
garden and wait. The noise approaches; iron
horseshoes startle the pavement.
Alas! no. It is neither the Khalif nor the
vizier; it is only the happy troop of village asses
which are let loose at night and which go about
the streets without either pack or halter. No
matter, it is a pretty sight, this procession of
little grey beasts trotting freely along.
They have passed, like the jinns in the song.
The street is again silent. And the wall is there,
not much higher than my forehead.
Strange! N o fever at all, no impatience, no
eagerness. And yet in one minute a little hand
will seize mine and I will follow my veiled prin-
cess; in two minutes the princess will remove
her veil. But it is too quiet and calm at the
foot of this wall that I cannot decide to vault.
I think the real reason is this: I do not know


CHAPTER XXIX
NOVEMBER 13TH.
HE mosque of Mehmed Sokoli is a very
little mosque of the district which lies
upon the side of the hill of the At-Mei-
dan, the Hippodrome of Byzantium—on the
side of the sea of Marmora. I have often
passed quite close to it without noticing any-
thing about it, except the diminutive cemetery
which surrounds it—an adorable, old mezzar
like a very thick wood, where the tombs are
lost in waves of ivy and clematis. But the
mosque of Sokoli is, perhaps, more beautiful
than its mezzar. Picture to yourself a nave all
of white marble, carved and gilded, like a jewel.
The marble is very old and has the tone of
amber in places and is diaphanous; the tarnished
gold blends delicately into the amber tones.
The mihrab (altar) is inlaid from top to bot-
tom with antique Persian porcelains, brilliant
as flowers in the sunlight. And the glass of the
233


234 THE MAN WHO KILLED


windows, painted or ground, admits a light
which is soft and clear, as devotional as one
could wish.
It was by the merest accident that I discov-
ered the mosque of Sokoli. Yesterday I was
passing before it and the door of the courtyard
was open. In this courtyard someone was
screaming and I entered.
Two little girls, a yellow dress and a green
dress, two tots no higher than one’s boot, were
playing at battle—a very Turkish game—with
loud laughs and piercing screams. The court-
yard, cloistered and paved, made a magnificent
battlefield. They chased each other among the
old columns, caught each other, fought like little
wild goats and ended by rolling on the ground
among the tall grass which grew in the crevices
of the marble.
My abrupt entrance caused peace. Both of
them, standing, suddenly serious, contemplated
me. After a little reflection the yellow dress
said something to the green dress. This one ran
to the door and disappeared. The other came
up to me and signed to me to wait. I waited.
1 I waited four minutes, after which the green
dress reappeared and after her came the Imam
of the mosque, an old pure blooded Osmanli,
with certainly the longest white beard that I


236 THE MAN WHO KILLED


then and today we are poor people. And so the
ragged carpet has remained.”
Naively, I thought this an invitation and I
discreetly brought out my purse, but the Imam
became angry. The simple kayimr of the big
mosques, corrupted by the perpetual procession
of unbelieving tourists and their guides, accept
and even ask for bakshish, dear to levantines of
all castes. But the I mam: are more high-
minded and this one was an old Turk. He re-
fused flatly.
Yet it was written that I should gain my point
and that I should cast my mite into the fund of
the future carpet of the mosque. As the Imam,
the little girls and I were exchanging our
salaams of farewell, an unexpected person
crossed the courtyard and, seeing us, stopped. It
was Marshal Mehmed Jaledin, who was walk-
ing there no doubt between two sessions of the
sublime Porte, which is near by.
“Bah! Colonel, you here? Have you become
such a good Osmanli that you are only to be
found in the depths of Stamboul, making your
devotions in our mosques? It is more than a
fortnight since we have met.”
Mehmed Pasha wore his Marshal’s uniform,
which is not to be mistaken. But as the Imam


238 THE MAN WHO KILLED


cellent man and courteous as they were in the
Olden time. Listen; a few months ago there
came here, on a yacht, one of your compatriots,
Madame de Retz. D’Epernon, our friend Ep-
ernon, had recommended her to me strongly.
So I took her about to the best of my ability in
Stamboul. Now, at the door of this mosque
Madame de Retz hesitated; she was about put-
ting on enormous babouches, the very one which
you just slipped on over your shoes. Madame de
Retz looked at her feet and murmured in per-
plexity: ‘I am sure to fall with those machines
on.’ Then our Imam bent down toward the
white kid slippers and wiped them paternally on
his robe: ‘Enter without babouches! Zarar yok
.(it does not matter), the feet are so little.’ ”
We reached the At-Meidan and the beautiful
minarets of the Ahmedieh Jamy rose above the
maples round about.
“Colonel, I am thinking. You are, I know,
a-close friend of Lady Falkland, whose name
I told you at the Sweet Waters of Asia, if I re-
member. Yes. Well. Have you seen her re-
cently?”
“Not for two weeks, Marshal.”
“Ah! will you see her soon?”
“I do not know. To tell the truth I am not
anxious to call upon her frequently; her hus-


THE MAN WHO KILLED 239


band is in the humor to misinterpret the most
simple politeness.”
“Yes.”
Mehmed Pasha ‘reflected for a moment. Then
suddenly:
“It displeases me very much to meddle with
what does not concern me and with what does
not concern you. And yet I shall do it today,
because, in truth, Falkland is an odd fish. It is
this. Their house is one of those where duty
obliges me to cast an eye now and then—this
between ourselves, well understood. What I
want you to know—to repeat it, if your heart
counsels you—is that in that house black trea-
son is being brewed against your friend. I do
not know any more of it than this. Good-bye,
Colonel. I have business here, at the School of
Arts and Crafts.”


THE MAN WHO KILLED 241


she. A whole category of sentiments, on which
it would be painful for me to dwell, cannot exist
between us. And I admit too sane a horror of
ridicule not to mistrust myself in this connection.
Never mind. N o ridicule can be considered
when there is question of a duty of friendship.
If within two days I do not receive the prom-
ised letter I shall go to Kanlijah and repeat the
words of Mehmed Pasha.
I have occupied these two weeks, as usual,>in
going about Stamboul alone. To whomsoever
seeks forgetfulness Stamboul is merciful. There
is so' much sun and so much silence there and so
many tombs intermingled with the houses.
I have my own house in Stamboul now, my
Turkish house, just like the one at Beikos; only
the Bosphorus is wanting. My house in Stam-
boul is situated in a very remote quarter, that
of Kara-Gumruk. From the windows I can
see the dome and minarets of that Selimieh
Jamy, whither Lady Falkland took me on the
day of our first walk, to make me admire the
cloistered courtyard, so pretty and so'peaceful,
with its arcades of fa'ienee, its columns of old
marble and its big cypresses.
In fact, I remember that on that day we passed
before my present house, for it is at the corner
of an immense Byzantine reservoir which has


242 ,THE MAN 'WHO KILLED


become a garden and it is one of the little new
houses, of fresh pine smelling of resin, that I
remarked at that time.
Yesterday I slept there all night. My soli-
tary ramble had been too long. At sundown I
would have had six miles to walk before reach-
ing Pera. I had followed all the great wall of
Stamboul and I was sitting at the extreme end
of it near the celebrated Marble Tower which
bathes its worm-eaten base in the sea of Mar-
mora. The railroad of San Stephano passes be-
low it and sometimes I heard the whistles of the
trains. There is a station quite near by, the
station of Yedi-Kuleh.
Then, as night was falling and the flaming
gold of the waves changed into a steel blue, I
just came back to my house of Kara-Gumruk,
idling along the big cemeteries scattered beyond
the wall—the big cemeteries among which is
hidden the tombstone of Aziyade.


244 THE MAN WHO KILLED


But I want you to know that many people blame me.
That is of no consequence, however; what is of
consequence is this; it is very painful for two almost
mortal enemies to live together; but the father and
the mother of a child innocent of their quarrel have
not the right to live apart. Above all, a mother who
loves her son has not the right to permit this child
to be snatched away from her and thrown as a sacri-
fice to a woman who detests him and will always
detest him. '
My friend, everything lies in this. I count for
nothing and I mock my fate. I try to forget my-
self and to make an abstraction of myself. I tread
upon my pride, almost on my dignity. And I
struggle to destroy in myself that great thirst to
love and to be loved, which is the very breath of
life to all true women. But there is my child—my
little boy. Oh! perhaps I have illusions as to him,
but, when all is said and done, I made him, I put
my blood in his veins and my nerves beneath his
skin. I know, I feel, that he suffers as I do from
hardness, from violence, from contempt, from all
that is cold and evil. What, then, will he become
if I disappear, if I abandon him to that man who
knows no mercy—and to that vile woman who will
continue to pursue me in the poor flesh of my flesh!
No, I have not the right to disappear; I have not
the right to go away, since they require that I go
alone; I have not the right to yield to them, since it
is not my flight that they desire but my abdication,
my renunciation. .
For never, never, never, will they give me my


THE MAN WHO KILLED 245


little one. It is'his son, the son of the'Falklands,
the heir of the name and of the title, the master of
the castle in Scotland, the chief of the clan. But
neither will I give him up, never, never, never. I
defend myself. I fight. '
Only, my friend, I am afraid of being vanquished.
Alas! I fight, but I have poor arms. And the
other day when I saw _you tremble for me, when I
divined your pity, I felt like crying out to you for
help and throwing myself at your feet. I wanted
to trust myself to you completely, to say to you: ‘I
am afraid, help me, save me ;’ I am afraid, that is
the flaw in my armor; I am afraid, give me your
courage and your strength. But it was impossible
down there. And today, I no longer know, I no
longer dare. You are no longer here; I no longer
feel your friendship present; I no longer see your
eyes. I
Listen: More now than ever it is my duty to be
prudent; I do not want to meet you again in Stam-
boul, because I know that one of the Armenian beg-
gars of the port is a spy for my husband. And yet
I must see you, I must tell you. Well, next Satur-
day—it will be the 26th—I shall have a pretext for
passing the evening at Pera. Will you be, toward
half past five, European time, on the walk that fol-
lows the wall of the English embassy, you under-
stand? The one behind the little park. That street
—I do not know its name, is almost deserted. It
will be nearly dark; we can talk-very freely and
without danger. I shall expect you to await me,
although there is not much diversion in waiting in



246 THE MAN WHO KILLED I
0'


a dark street for a mama who comes to speak to you
about her little son. But I have learned to know
you.
MARIE.”
Yes, I am a little more uneasy than before.


248 THE MAN WHO KILLED


Kara-Gumruk habitable; curtains of the silk of
Brousa, a screen of Mucharabi, two mosque
lamps with five wicks and a copper mangal to
hold a fire; winter is near and for two days it
has been foggy.
For the mangal and for the lamps I fought
with an Armenian who, despite all my efforts,
skinned me alive. A Jew sold me the screen
and neither was that without difficulty. The
silk of Brousa, on the other hand, belonged to
an old Osmanli merchant whose large blue eyes
contained no malice and our bargain was made
at the first trial, in perfect honesty.
The scene of this last exploit was the Bezesten,
which is the auction room of the Bazaar. Just
as I entered a sale was beginning. They were
selling an entire collection of Kurd, Arab and
Persian arms, 'damascened pistols, crescent-
shaped yataghans and long muskets weighted
down with turquoises and pieces of coral.
I drew near and instantly fell in love with
an adorable little dagger, which seemed rather
a jewel than a weapon. I bought it and it was
a real surprise to me, when I took it in my hand,
to find that this dainty thing with a jade handle
and a blade enameled in gold and silver was a
very real dagger, sharp and strong and perfectly
adapted to kill.


THE MAN WHO KILLED 249


The sale continued, lots of Turkish garments
following. I saw them spread out cafetans of
all colors and also shawls, ferijehs, scarves,
tcharafs
A fancy came into my head. I had my usual
guide with me; one cannot dispense with a guide
in the Bazaar unless one has many hours to lose.
My guide is named Astik and he knows how
to save the minutes.
“Astik,” I said, “I want to buy a costume of
a Turkish lady, a complete costume.”
He was not even astonished. Tourists, his
usual clients, have hardened him against aston-
ishment. On the spot he joined in the bidding.
A quarter of an hour later the thing was done;
I had my costume for four pounds, two meji-
die/1s, fifteen dollars: “a very fair price, efen-
dim!” The costume was not at all ugly and was
truly complete, even to the umbrella and the
babouches.
Then Astik, always imperturbable, looked me
up and down with the eye of a tailor and de-
clared that it was “just my size.”
It will be still more the size of an osier man-
nikin which, duly dressed and veiled as a hanum,
will be wonderfully good company for me in
my house of Kara-Gumruk.


CHAPTER XXXIII
THURSDAY, NOVEMBER 24TH.
HE latter part of this week drags itself
along as slowly as a snail.
There was great excitement this morn-
ing in Pera; Monseigneur F arnese, the Cardinal
Secretary of State, was assassinated yesterday in
the Vatican. Of course the event is not local;
but Constantinople, metropolis of the Oriental
sects, affects great interest in all that concerns
religion. The assassination of the Cardinal,
therefore, made a great noise.
The press furnished a picturesque trait; the
Turkish censorship is not very fond of recitals
of political crimes; not a newspaper of Pera
made the slightest mention of the murder.
After all I do not know that the Turkish cen-
sorship is so much to blame; it is not a very
-- healthy curiosity that dilates the eyes of all our
Parisian janitors through the Faits Divers of the
Petit Journal. ’
250


THE MAN WHO KILLED 251


Never mind. The Perotes give a truce to
their eternal rage for scandal. For Pera, which
is not a specially licentious city,1 in spite of the
mob of bastard races which jostle one another
there, does its best to seem so by means of
tittle-tattle, lies and calumny.
I have therefore the pleasure Of hearing sev-
eral gentlemen, bankers, financiers, promoters,
all people whom Christ would probably have
chased out of the temple—many women-—by
whom scandal cometh frequently, weep all the
tears of Jeremiah for Cardinal Farnese and vow
his assassin to the gibbet, to the wheel, to the
stake.
At the home of the English ambassadress,
whose day it was, the sentimental Madame Ker-
loff touches the highest note. (It seems that
the assassin is an anarchist, of the vulgar race
of killers of kings and prime ministers.)
“Crime, crime, crime!” lamented Madame
Kerloff in her Russian voice, like a trumpet—
“and cowardice, cowardice! Never was there
a more cowardly crime.”
N arcisse Boucher who had just entered, gave
his crafty peasant smile:
1After the fashion of the Misses Kolouri, the Perote
ladies willingly sit down upon a bed, but never lie upon it.


252 THE MAN WHO KILLED


“Ah! Madame Kerloff, we shall quarrel. I,
on the contrary, think that the wretch of whom
you speak is a brave fellow, a man who had his
nerve with him.”
“Monsieur I’d mbasradeurl”
“Yes, who had his nerve with him. Yes, yes,
yes, I know; he killed a poor defenseless old
man. F arnese was alone, not a servant near, I
know all that. But listen a moment. It is not
true that F arnese was alone; beside him, around
him, he had a formidable guard! He had the
law, society, the judges, the guillotine. And
you think the assassin had no eyes? He saw it
all! the court of assizes, the red robes and the
triangular knife. None the less he went ahead,
he struck! He! He! I know many proud duel-
lists and many brave soldiers who laugh at
swords and bullets but who would turn tail be-
fore the scaffold.”
Someone objected:
“Criminals do not think of punishment. That
is, they always flatter themselves that they will
escape.” '
“When a man fights he always flatters himself
that he will be the victor, nevertheless it re-
quires bravery to fight,” replied Narcisse, sneer-
ing. “All things considered I measure the cour-


THE MAN WHO KILLED 253


age of the combatants by the size of their
adversaries. And the executioner has always
impressed me as a warrior with deucedly broad
shoulders.”


CHAPTER XXXIV
“The voice of the nightingale in the boughs of
the cypress."
H. DE R.
ATURDAY, November 26th, half past
S five, European time.
The street which passes behind the Eng-
lish embassy is a Greek street, regular and som-
bre. Ugly stone houses stand in a row, facing the
wall Of the park. Few passersby. The twilight
is already brown. It is raining.
I have pulled up the hood of my cape and I
walk along by the wall. I am waiting.
At the end of the street Pera suddenly ends;
the earth is gone. There is a ravine there, deep
as an abyss. The steep sides, covered with
cypresses, go down to the Golden Horn, which
can be seen below licking the feet of Stamboul
—Stamboul, the color of the night, with lacy
minarets and cupolas.
This ravine is a forest, a forest growing right
254


256 THE MAN WHO KILLED


almost invisible among the trees, awaits me
there. I join her. I bend over her little hand
that the rain has chilled and I press my lips to
the opening of the glove.
At first we say nothing. Lady Falkland has
taken my arm and we walk in the pathway
toward the depths of the ravine, toward darker
and more secret night. The trunks of the cy-
presses alternate with opaque bushes; the um-
brella, catching here and there, becomes a
nuisance. Lady Falkland closes it brusquely.
“You will get wet.”
“I don’t care.”
“And your feet! You are not shod for wad-
ing in this streaming mud l”
“I don’t care.”
She speaks shortly. I feel her hand grow
rigid on my arm.
“Marie ”
It is the first time I dare to call her thus.
But it is also the first time that I hold her
pressed close to me, with the night all round
about us. And then, that nervous voice, that
trembling hand, those lowered eyes that I can-
not see; I have too much pity for her! Sud-
denly I long to enfold her in my arms, to lift
her up, to soothe her, to put her to sleep, so that
she may forget everything, and against my heart


258 THE MAN WHO KILLED


was because of my little one—it is always be-
cause of my little one. Ever since you lashed
her so severely in her pride—you remember?—
it seems as if she wants to avenge herself on that
poor innocent. Finally, four days ago, she
dared to strike him. I was there. I sprang at
her. We fought like the lowest class of women.
I was the stronger, fortunately! My friend, do
you know, if I had had the worst of it, I think
I would have thrown everything to the winds,
that I would have fled from that hell, that I
would have deserted! What good in remain-
ing if I could not protect my little one?”
She stops. Then she smiles. Oh! the poor,
heart-rending smile!
“Yes, my friend, I am not lying, I fought.
See the marks!”
She pushed up her sleeve. The mark of nails
scored the skin, the milk and amber skin. I
look. A raindrop falls on the bare arm, which
quivers and is covered again.
I—I do not know just where I am. Ah! the
words of Mehmed Pasha. I must repeat the
words of Mehmed Pasha!
I repeat them. Still leaning against the
cypress trunk she listens to me, thoughtful.
“He said that? It is strange. I do not un-


260 THE MAN WHO KILLED


She reads astonishment in my eyes.
“How do I know these things? Alas! Do
you think my husband has ever spared my pride
or has ever permitted me to ignore his brutish
debauches? Sir Archibald Falkland does not
disdain imitation of the Kurd or Turkish sol-
diers; he frequents the cemeteries here, he fol-
lows the veiled women and rarely, very rarely,
resists their seductions.”
Her lips tighten in disgust. She lowers her
eyelids quickly, as if to push away the filthy
vision.
Again a long silence. It is dark night now.
“My friend, the moment has come. I want \
to be perfectly honest with you; I do not want
to steal your friendship, I do not want to steal
your esteem. I want you to know all about me,
the bad as well as the good; my frailties, my
weaknesses, my shames. But first have a great
deal of pity! There has been so much, so much
sadness in my life! It has been nothing but sad-
ness. Think of the child that I was in that old
Creole home, on the other side of the ocean,
where I was born; there, no one taught me to
suffer. Think of the young girl, ardent, en-
thusiastic, who expanded freely in full sunlight.
I remember an old red dog that loved me very
much, that put his paws on my shoulders to lick


262 THE MAN WHO KILLED
the water, and now I am kissing her wrists, all
wet with the rain.
“What am I doing? I love you! Oh! for-
give me! Do not believe that I chose this mo-
ment, do not think that I am taking advantage
of the place, of the hour, of your weakness. I
did not know, I swear to you, I. did not know.
I thought it was pity that urged me toward you,
and, suddenly, I understand that it is love. Ah!
forgive me. I am almost an old man; I have
nothing that will touch your young and ardent
heart. I am sceptic, blasé, frozen, old, old.
But I love you and I am yours. Dispose of me.
Command me. Here is my fortune, my strength
as a man and a soldier, all that I have, all that
I am.”
She listens but she does not hear. Only the
caress of the tender words reaches her ear. And
it is so new to her, so unexpected. She has closed
her eyes. An unknown power dominates her.
She abandons herself to it. At last I hear her
voice, slow, soft, without will:
“Speak on; speak on.”
And then, after a long, heavy breath:
“Speak on; make memories for me.”
The rain falls on her neck, runs down on her
waist, chills her shoulders. Suddenly she shiv-


THE MAN WHO KILLED 265


My kayikjis have taken me very far. We
have followed the European shore. The vil-
lages, with their old violet houses, looking like
an autumn woodland, have defiled past, one by
one. Ortakeui, with its graceful mosque the
color of snow; Kurut-Chesmeh, where the boats
anchor; Arnaout Keui, built on a point; Bebek,
in the hollow of a bay; Roumeli-Hissar, where
the Conqueror planted his first towers, still
standing after five centuries; and Boyaji Keui
and Stenia and Yenikeui, where I recognize the
hospitable house of the Kolouris.
Farther on was Therapia. We have passed
the palace of France, at present empty. The
winter wind already blows through the park,
but the old trees still fight to retain their splen-
did red crowns of November.
Women often have such strange pruderies.
The mere idea of physical infidelity frightens
them. Yes. But she, she! so long ago forsaken,
repudiated, a sort of widow. There is no one
in the world more mistress of her heart and of
her body.
And now the sun has dropped behind the
hills. A sudden and almost terrifying magic:
the west is dyed in the closing of an eye with
that very dark red which seems to be the venous


268 THE MAN WHO KILLED


Cernuwicz—Lady Falkland and Prince Stan-
islaus Cernuwicz! I see them as plainly as if
I touched them. They are standing, in each
other’s arms. She is wearing a négligée, open,
unfastened. I see the bare breast
I—I—I have broken a nail against the wood
of the kayik.
It is, yes, by the Lord! it is very funny—
Renaud de Sévigné Montrnoron betrayed—be-
trayed before the fact. Before the fact, still
more funny!
Imbecile! Forty-six years old—forty-six
years old! It is a lesson. He is how old?
Twenty-five, Cernuwicz? It is a lesson, a hard
one.
Yes, hard! All my pride bleeds—and some--
thing else than pride.
But I shall master that. No, I cannot go
away from here just yet. I do not risk being
seen; the night is too dark and their alcove too
light, too much illuminated. Three lamps! I
want to lash my suffering until it dies.
Now they have drawn apart. Carelessly she
has approached the open window, she looks out
at the night, toward me. He, motionless, looks
toward her. I hear them speak. He says:
“What are you thinking of, my beauty?”
She answers in that sweet and dreamy voice


THE MAN.WHO KILLED 271


Pouah l—Pouah!
Again the voice of the Baronet:
“Mary, will you please sign this? I hold you
in the hollow of my hand, you know it. It is
useless to resist. If you sign I will not call
either the kavasses or the servants. Everything
will remain among ourselves. If you do not
sign, I shall call—excuse me, remain where you
are, leave your bosom bare, if you please!”
And always the little thin, clacking laugh.
She revenges herself, oh, she revenges herself
well, the other.
Lady Falkland is standing in the embrasure
of the window, leaning against the casing. A
statue would be less motionless. Sir Archibald
takes a step forward; Cernuwicz interposes:
“Archie, you are not going to.”
“Stanie, keep still, I beg of you. It is cor-
rect for you to be silent.”
He is silent. I think there are others who
would not be silent.
“Mary, are you going to sign this?”
Not a word, not a murmur. She is changed
into stone. The little laugh of Lady Edith is
interrupted. The viper stings: '
“Mary, sign and be done with it. I notice
that you are not dressed very warmly; you will


THE MAN WHO KILLED 273


spoken this way yesterday. But, I have told
you, you are now in my hands. If you sign, the
child will not know. If you do not sign, he
will know. Choose and do not waste words.”
“Archibald, I beg of you, the child!”
The voice has dropped an octave and I can
hardly hear it, so weak and so weary, heavy
with such a weight of suffering.
It is Edith who answers:
“Archie, call the servants! You see that she
does not understand. These Frenchwomen have
a great deal of sentimentality, but very little
intelligence.”
A quick step. Lady Falkland has risen,
savage.
“Archibald!”—the voice springs forth, jerky,
terrible. “Make her keep silence first. I am
in my own home here, in my own home, yet!
Archibald, you are very abject. We were two
strangers under one roof, we were free, the one
and the other. How often have you not told
me that I was free, so as to be free yourself?
How often could I not have trapped you as
you have trapped me tonight? But I did not
want to do so; I was open. You, you are a
traitor, a traitor, a traitor!”
I saw him pale under the insult. He hesi-
tates a second, standing before her. And sud-


274 THE MAN WHO KILLED


denly, as she repeats once more, “traitor,” he
raises his closed fist and strikes the fragile shoul-
der. Lady Falkland falls. Cernuwicz has not
budged.
Implacable, the husband opens the door:
“I shall call. One, two—-—”
I do not see the martyr’s gesture, because she
- is down on the floor, crushed, conquered. But
the executioner stops and closes the door. Then
he bends down, the paper in one hand and a
pen in the other. The silence is so great that
I can hear the pen scratch. It is done.
“Edith, Stanie, sign also, as witnesses.”
She signs and Cernuwicz signs also, without
protest. It is done. Sir Archibald Falkland
folds the paper carefully and places it in his
great pocketbook of scarlet leather.
“Tomorrow I shall go to San Stephano to
the lawyer. There is a train at three o’clock.
All right. Stanie, a cigarette?”
They smoke like a pair of friends.
Meanwhile a shadow slowly drags itself up
to the window and leans there. Lady Falkland,
by a great effort, has stood upright. She leans
over the sea. Oh, she will not throw herself in.
It is over. She has signed. She no longer has
a child. She wants nothing more, only a little
of the damp coolness for her temples. She


rCHAPTER XXXVI
ODAY, the 29th of November, I went
T out early for a walk, which will be a
long one perhaps; a walk which sug-
gested itself to me last night while my kayik
was bringing me back from—down there.
Noon was striking as I left the street of Brousa.
I breakfasted at the shop of the milk vendor of
the Kadikeui quarter. Then I crossed the
Golden Horn.
And now I am in Stamboul. At the end of
the bridge I took the first street to the right—
as formerly. I
Now I am walking on the grassy pavement,
between the silent wooden houses, amid the
sunny solitude of the immense city that has the
air of a dead village.
Cypresses, fig trees, acacias; cottages mingled
with the konaks of the Beys and the Pashas;
tombs scattered about everywhere; and, from
time to time, a grave passer-by who crosses my
276


280 THE MAN WHO KILLED


of two! already! Oh! I haven’t the time. In-
deed, I must even hurry.
Quick, to the reservoir, to my house! The
street is empty, as usual. Certainly not a soul
has seen me open my little new wooden door
and close it after me.
The gratings of crossed lattice-work, which
in Turkey are called kefes, protect me from any
indiscreet glance of neighbor or passer-by. A
Turkish room is the most inviolable of sanc-
tuaries. This one is pretty; the curtains of silk
of Brousa, bought the other day, hang at the
windows, the copper mangal shines in the mid-
dle of the floor.
And, draped on an osier mannikin, there is
the costume of a hanum—of a veiled Turkish
lady, mysterious, unrecognizable—and on a lit-
tle table the small damascened dagger, with
handle of jade and a very keen blade.
I—I think I shall sleep.
Yes. I sleep.
I sleep. When one sleeps one has dreams,
isn’t that so?—strange dreams, bloody dreams.
Night. A very dark night. I have—I
have awakened from my sleep and from my


THE MAN WHO KILLED 281


dream . . . and, already quite far from the
house at Kara-Gumruk, here is the bridge of
the Golden Horn.
There are echoes on the bridge. I stop be-
neath the dancing lights. It seems to me that
I am forgetting something. Yes, that’s it. This
paper—this paper. I unfold it, I read it. I
read it again. It is that, surely enough. A
paper—a useless paper—evidently it should be
torn up, like this: two, four, eight, sixteen,
thirty-two, sixty-four pieces, which the friendly
wind carries off, scatters and drowns in the
deep sea.
I go back to Pera, taking the Top Hane
quarter. On the right-hand side, between two
houses, are a few tombs, white tombs which
shine faintly under the stars. The moon is only
a slender crescent.
What peace, what peace! Is it not a joy to
sleep among such tombs when one has been
troubled so long by the vain, brutal and wrong-
doing agitation of life?


CHAPTER XXXVII.
THURSDAY, DECEMBER IST.
T seems that Sir Archibald Falkland is
dead. I got this news from Madame
Erizian, met by chance this morning in
Pera. Sir Archibald Falkland is dead. The
day before yesterday, they say, he had started
for San Stephano, where he had business. But
he did not arrive there, and yesterday his corpse
was found in the big Turkish cemetery beyond
the walls of Stamboul.
It seems that Sir Archibald Falkland was
assassinated, stabbed. N o doubt by one of those
criminals who prowl around the gates of the
city at twilight.
Madame Erizian, standing at a street corner,
her closed umbrella serving as a cane, gave me
some tragic details. Evidently her grief was
not very deep. Nevertheless, bloodshed does
not fail to affect her Armenian nerves.
“One thing is certain, this knife thrust'came.
282


THE MAN WHO KILLED 283


in the nick of time; life was no longer endurable
for our poor little Maria. Besides, that Falk-
land; I don’t want to speak ill of him now that
he is dead, but you knew him and, between our-
selves, there is not much to regret. In spite of
which, that does not prevent a murder having
something terrible about it.”
She shudders. And I recall the Turkish
proverb: “Allah made the hare———-”
Never mind. She is an old woman who has
seen a great deal and remembered a great deal
—an old woman of an old race, subtle and crafty
above all others, who is not affected by many
prejudices. Well, that very woman knows per-
fectly the kind of man that Sir Archibald Falk-
land was; honestly she congratulates herself that
he has been killed. But she would turn away
from the assassin.


CHAPTER XXXVIII
DECEMBER 20.
HE little mosque of Mehmed Sokoli shines
like a jewel beneath the mid-day sun and
the cemetery which surrounds it seems to
encircle it with a band of green enamel.
I have come on horseback and I have tethered
my beast to the door of the cloistered courtyard.
The good Imam recognizes me at once and we
begin by exchanging our deepest salaams. The
little girls are not there. I inquire for them—-
it is lawful since they are not yet women—and
I am thanked for my great courtesy.
A visit to the mosque is of necessity. I allow
myself to be conducted. The white marble nave,
carved and gilded, is always the same marvel,
but I think that the other day I did not feel so
voluptuously the softness of the daylight which
filters through the wind0w panes. It is like a
warm rain which falls even upon the depths of
the soul, a rain of peace, of forgetfulness.
284


THE MAN WHO KILLED 285

Intentionally I trip in the ragged rug. The
Imam, very much confused, apologizes. But
it is precisely for this that I have come. It just
happens that since my last visit an inheritance
has come to me, just as if it had fallen from
heaven, an inheritance to which, in all equity, I
have not a right, but which, nevertheless, I was
not able to refuse. Not much even at that, a
few gold pieces. But, in conscience, I feel that
I must render to Allah what belongs to Allah.
And, fortunately, the new rug is not yet bought.
Then
Then! The Imam seems much perplexed.
But very much a propos I appeal to the author-
ity of Mehmed Pasha. I deploy my purest, my
most persuasive Turkish. And finally the pieces
of gold are accepted.
I take them one by one from the pocketbook
which contains them. There are seven and two
smaller ones. Eight Turkish pounds in all, a
little more than nine louis.
It is done. I must go. Allah irmarladik!
Good-bye.
Those gold pieces which I had no right to
keep— Certainly, I could have got rid of them,
no matter how, or thrown them, no matter
where. But it is better this way.


CHAPTER XXXIX
TROTTED from Mehmed Sokoli as far
as the sea of Marmora. There I took to
the gallop. Along the entire length of
the old wall, which was the sea front of Byzan-
tium, there passes today the railway of San
Stephano and a road parallel with the rails, a
road which is good for horses. This road and
the railway extend to the very end of Stamboul,
as far as the Marble Tower, as far as the great
wall, where there is the beginning of the ceme-
tery of Aziyade.
A fancy; I want to go down there, to see the
place where someone killed Sir Archibald Falk-
land—killed to rob, since nothing was found in
the clothing of the dead man. This accident
has made a great noise in Pera and naturally.
The murder of a Director of the Debt takes the
proportions of a political crime. And the news-
papers speak of it only with the greatest reserve.
It is almost six miles from Mehmed Sokoli
286


288 THE MAN WHO KILLED


med Jaledin Pasha, on horseback, in the midst
of the cypresses.
“Marshal 1”
“Ah! curiosity! You have come to see the
famous place. You have it correctly; it is here,
precisely here.”
He points his finger at an overturned column.
The high grass round about it is trodden down.
“But you, Marshal, what are you doing here
if not satisfying your curiosity?”
“Professional. His Imperial Majesty has in-
structed me to examine specially into this matter.
You understand that it is important; a Director
of the Debt; pest!”
“And you are investigating—here? ‘Alone,
on horseback, in the cemetery?”
“Yes. A fancy of my own, Colonel; I am
waiting till the assassin comes back to the scene
of his crime.”
“Ah, bah! what likelihood?”
“They all come back.”
“The neurasthenics, the assassins of the West,
rotten with our literature. But a common thief,
some Serbian, some Bulgarian, or some Kurd.”
“Ah! I see you have read the papers. But
that hypothesis is the official and provisional
hypothesis. Between ourselves I think that
common thieves will be exonerated.”


THE MAN WHO KILLED 289


“Really?”
“Really.” -
I look at him, showing my astonishment.
“Oh! I am free to admit you into the secret
of the gods. I know that you are discreet,
Colonel. And, indeed, the story is worth hear-
ing, no matter where one begins it.”
“Wait, first this: you know that Sir Archi-
bald Falkland was on his way to San Stephano
the day of the crime. And let us remark, in
passing, that this cemetery is not a necessary part
of the journey between Stamboul and San Steph-
ano. For business, they say. What business?
N 0 one has thought of inquiring. I began my
investigation at that point. Well, Sir Archi-
bald Falkland was on his way to San Stephano
to begin proceedings for his divorce, which
divorce had been decided upon the night before,
after a family scene which has no interest for
you nor for me, but of which I know the details.
The Armenian servants of the Falklands are, as
you probably surmise, in my pay.”
“That is very curious, but it does not seem to
bear any relation to the crime.”
“Who knows? The crime itself presents some
very strange features.”
“For instance.”
“Judge for yourself, rather. On the 29th of


290 THE MAN WHO KILLED



November Sir Archibald Falkland embarks at
Kanlijah upon the Chirket Ha'irie at 9.17 Turk-
ish time. Before that he has a conversation with
that cousin who is his mistress, Lady Edith.
From that conversation, which was reported to
me word for word and from the testimony of
Lady Edith, whom, for additional certitude, I
interrogated last night, it appears that Sir Arch-
ibald took with him, in a large red leather
pocketbook, all the papers necessary for the
divorce. There was no duplicate of these
papers. Now then, we have Sir Archibald on
his way. He arrives at Stamboul at 10.19,
twenty minutes before the time of his train——
the train of three o’clock, European time.
None the less, he goes directly to the station of
Sirkeji and enters the waiting-room. Evidently,
then, he is not in a mood for wandering. Train
time strikes, Sir Archibald takes his ticket—for
San Stephano; we have the deposition of the
employés. The train leaves. Up to this point
everything is clear.
“But at the station of Iedi-Kouleh Sir Archi-
bald leaves the train. NO doubt it is only to
stretch his legs; horsemen like you and me,
Colonel, know that it is painful to remain seated
too long at a time. And very conveniently, the
stop at Iedi-Kouleh was of several minutes’ du-


THE MAN WHO KILLED 293


not tall, she jumped with her feet together.
Here Falkland overtook her and, no doubt,
placed his hand on her shoulder. She turned
suddenly and gave him a dagger thrust so well
placed that the poor 'devil fell stone dead.
There was not the slightest struggle. Oh! that
woman was not wanting in either strength or
suppleness. Her dagger was a perfect jewel——
as long as your finger—but handled by a master.
The wound did not bleed four drops, although
the blade, entering at the pit of the stomach, cut
upward to the very heart.” I
“Then it was a premeditated murder?”
“And very well planned. The lady in the
tcharaf was evidently well posted about many
things. She awaited the arrival of the three
o’clock train at Iedi-Kouleh. She knew a sure
way of luring after her the man whom she
wished to kill.”
“Your Excellency has a suspicion?”
“Mashallah! that might be. See, Colonel,
too many people were interested in preventing
the arrival of Sir Archibald at San Stephano.
Too many! His wife, his best friend. You do
not understand, well, never mind. ‘And pre-
cisely those persons were not in any ignorance
of the rather special morals of this Sir Archi-
bald, and knew to a degree, particularly, the ir-


294 THE MAN WHO KILLED


resistible attraction that Turkish cemeteries had
for him—Turkish cemeteries and certain wom-
en, calling themselves Moslem, whose trade it is
to walk there.”
“How, Marshal! If I understand you aright,
Lady Falkland, for whom, formerly, you showed
so much esteem, is suspected?”
“Not yet, not yet! For the present the only
person suspected is the Turkish lady, a lady in
a tcharaf, all trace of whom is lost. When that
trace is found we will suspect other people.”


CHAPTER XL'
HE funeral of Sir Archibald Falkland at
the English chapel and in the cemetery
of F erikeui. I could not avoid being
there. N arcisse Boucher himself wished thus
to cement the friendly relations.
The ceremony was altogether commonplace.
Anyhow I have a very limited imagination and
while they were chanting the oflice of the dead
it was only by great efforts of reasoning and
deduction that I could persuade myself that this
box, draped with black cloth, enclosed what was
Sir Archibald Falkland, my host at Kanlijah,
my companion at the Summer Palace and other
places.
Lady Falkland, her son at her side, prays on
her knees behind the coflin. For the first time
in years Lady Edith finds herself in her proper
place, the third. Who knows? A few weeks
or a few months longer and the long crepe veil
of the widow would have been for her, and for
395


296 THE MAN WHO KILLED



her the dowry and for her the child. But we
are on Allah’s earth, watched over by the angel
Azrael.
And now everyone goes to salute Lady Falk-
land, standing by the door, holding her son by
the hand.
It is strictly correct that I do likewise. I
approach. A few steps away, however, I stop—
I step aside to give place to some old people.
In spite of the mourning veil I can see the face
and the eyes of the widow. There is a great
peace in those eyes which I have known so fe-
vered and anguished. Lady Falkland squeezes
the hand of her little son and presses him close
to her. Come, let me contemplate all this! Let
me engrave it deeply within me. And then let
us part. I shall not salute Lady Falkland. I
shall not enjoy the sweetness of her glance,
friendly, tender perhaps. That glance is not
for me. About face!
I shall go and dine at the cabaret; I shall in-
vite some Carline. I have no longer a right to
anything better. It is my lot.


THE MAN WHO KILLED 301


He looks at me.
“I have no intentions, Colonel. I will render
an account of my mission to His Majesty; no
more.”
“But afterward?” -
“Afterward, we will apprise the English and
Russian embassies and we will wash our hands
of the rest. Let infidels murder one another;
that is their affair. It is enough that Osmanli
honor is safe.”
“But will the embassies accept your conclu-
sions?”
“Oh! the presumption is strongly against it.
Whether or no England will begin a prosecu-
tion.”
“But what a scandal 1”
“Yes. But English justice is courageous.
Be sure it will not draw back. Moreover, Lady
Edith is there to push the wheels. Lady Falk-
land is lost.”
“If she is innoCent they will have to acquit
her for want of proof.”
“If they must. But she will come out of the
suit dishonored and that is worse than a convic-
tion.”
“Yes.”


THE MAN WHO KILLED 309


away from it toward the superb battlements
which encircle the fleeing city.
“Look, look down there, Colonel, and think
of all the blood it needed to cement those high
stones. In this life we do nothing big without
reddening our hands.”
For a second he forces me to see only the
bloody wall. Then he says gravely:
“We are all nothing but fingers of the hand
of Allah. What matters'it that one of these
fingers is armed with an iron nail? On the
pages of the Book all is written.”
Mediterranean, Year 1634 of the Hegira.


l-F-
——-—H-—~—_-—hH-s—
_ 7 . j V Lam-z-rwfl


NOTES
CHAPTER I
The Selamluk.—In this case the word refers to
the devotions which the Sultan is compelled to make
in a public mosque once a week, on Friday, which is
the Mohamedan Sunday. ' ‘
The word is also used to designate the apart-
ments which belong exclusively to the men of each
household; in contradistinction, the apartments ofi
the women are called the Haremlilk.
Bey.-—Prince, but of the lower grades only.
Yashmak.—-The heavy veil which covers the 'face
of the Turkish woman who observes the commands
of the Prophet rigidly. Made of thick, white
muslin. -
Roxelana.—Was a Circassian slave; her name
meaning “the joyous one.” She had been the slave
and mistress of the Sultan Suleiman and told him of
her wish to do certain works of piety toward the
saving of her soul. The good deeds of a slave, how-
ever, redound only to the benefit of her master, so
the Sultan gave her her freedom, and she at once
refused the complaisances which as a slave she had
been forced to show. The Sultan then married her,
313


314 THE MAN WHO KILLED
. ._ ,. ,-.. . __.._.. .
¢M&\fl>mm;;Q'—D._YAJ<T'" . . 11.13.!”


and in a short time she caused the death of the two
sons of the former Sultana Hasseki, who died of a
broken heart in consequence.
Green ribbon.-Green is the color which the
Prophet made sacred and therefore it is used for
exalted purposes. The Persians, who detest the
Turks, use this color, per contra, for their shoes,
trousers and other purposes which seem to hold a
measure of degradation.
CHAPTER II
Kadikeui.-Once famous as Chalcedon.
Cemeteries.—In Turkey it was the custom, now
fast changing with the entrance of western hygiene,
to bury the dead near those who had loved them
living. This accounts for the general scattering of
cemeteries, sometimes holding only a few graves,
throughout the cities. It was also the custom to
plant a tree when burying a dead person. The
cypress was chosen in most cases, being the emblem
of sorrow.
CHAPTER XIII
Ghiordes Carpets.—These are ancient, rare and
costly. The knot used in making them also serves
in other weaves. It was this knot which is referred
to in history as the “Gordian” knot which Alexan-
der the Great cut with his sword.


316 THE MAN WHO KILLED


low their own spittle. It is now practised by only
a few in its original form and is entirely omitted by
many. It occurs at various seasons of the year,
because in Turkey the lunar year is followed.
I [tan—The name of the breakfast which is eaten
to break the fast after Ramadan.
M._ _.,L.~.


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