“It is a malady, a madness,” said Bedr-ul-Budûr, with resignation. “It is the air of infidelity in this accursed city. We did wrong to travel unprovided with the antidote, which must be known to sages and obtainable. It is bad enough for us, but what of Barakah⁠—a chief wife, a great lady? How can she endure it?”

Barakah did at last think fit to make a protest. One night and early morning she sat up for Yûsuf, and her reproaches met with a success which startled her. He wept aloud and flung himself upon the floor. His face was ghastly. When questioned, he confessed that he had sinned most foully, having that night consumed so much abomination that on his way home he had been struck down by God with awful sickness and had nearly died. He swore that none but devils lived in Paris, and implored her to transport him back to Egypt.

A picture seen the previous morning in a shop upon the boulevard had roused in Barakah the wish to visit Switzerland. She longed to walk by forest streams, beneath great mountains, in solitude, with keen, cool breezes to restore her spirits.