But the Pasha cried: “One moment, mademoiselle!” He wiped his eyes and struggled to recover firmness. “Do not suppose that I complain! Even if the happiness of my dear son were not concerned, I would suffer more than this⁠—much more⁠—abominations!⁠—to serve so beautiful and good a lady. I fear my words have saddened you. Oh, God forbid! Never, I pray you, think of it again, your letter written. You must be all happy. Tomorrow you must go among our ladies. You will find there mothers, sisters, longing to embrace you. They will help you choose the stuffs for your trousseau. They speak Arabic, of which you know few words as yet, or Turkish, which is quite unknown to you. But my widowed sister speaks a little French, and Murjânah Khânum owns a young Circassian who can talk it fluently. She is a present from relations in Constantinople who have bred her from a child in every elegance. At the time of the great war with Russia, French was much the mode; even girls learnt it, and this maid of whom I speak, Gulbeyzah, talks it well. She shall be attached to you as interpreter. The wedding, if it please you, can take place next week. We will have it in the mode of Europe⁠—nothing barbarous!”