Pastrini replied that he could only offer them two rooms and a drawing-room al secondo piano, for which he would accept the modest emolument of a louis a day. The two young men accepted; and then, wishing to make use of the intervening period, Albert left for Naples, while Franz remained in Florence.

Near the beginning of the year 1838, two young men belonging to fashionable Parisian society, Vicomte Albert de Morcerf and Baron Franz d'Epinay, found themselves in Florence. They had agreed that they would meet to spend that year's carnival together in Rome, where Franz, who had lived in Italy for nearly four years, would serve as Albert's guide.

When he had spent some time enjoying life in the city of the Medici, when he had walked back and forth in that Eden which is known as the Casini, when he had been a guest in the houses of those splendid hosts who do the honours of Florence, he took a fancy -- having already seen Corsica, the cradle of Bonaparte -- to visit the island of Elba, that great staging-post in the life of Napoleon.

Since visiting Rome for the carnival is no small matter, especially when one does not intend to spend the night in the Piazza del Popolo or the Campo Vaccino, they wrote to Signor Pastrini, proprietor of the Hôtel de Londres in the Piazza di Spagna, to request him to reserve a comfortable suite for them.

The boat left the harbour like a seabird leaving its nest and the next day put Franz down in Porto Ferrajo.

He crossed the imperial island, following every trace that the giant's footsteps had left there, and embarked at Marciana.

"Now, if Your Excellency wishes," said the boatman, "you could have some good hunting."

"Where?"

So one evening he untied a barchetta from the iron ring that was attaching it to the docks at Leghorn, settled himself in the stern, wrapped in his cloak, and spoke only these words to the sailors: "To Elba!"

Two hours after leaving land, he touched it again, getting off at Pianosa, where he had been assured that he would find infinite numbers of red partridge.

The hunting proved poor. Franz killed barely a handful of thin birds and, like any huntsman who has tired himself out to no purpose, got back into his boat in rather bad humour.

"Do you see that island?" the boatman said, pointing southwards and indicating a conical mass which rose out of the sea, bathed in the loveliest indigo light.

"Your Excellency does not need permission, the island is deserted."

"To Tuscany."

"On the ground, in the caves, or on board in your cloak. In any case, if Your Excellency wishes, we can leave immediately the hunt is over: as Your Excellency knows, we can sail as well by night as by day and, if the wind fails, we can row."

"No, by grazing on the heather, the myrtles and the gum-trees that grow between them."

"Well I never," said the young man. "That's rare: a desert island in the middle of the Mediterranean."

"And to whom does it belong?"

As Franz still had some time before he needed to meet his friend, and as he was assured of their lodgings in Rome, he accepted this proposal to compensate for the disappointment of his previous hunt. On his assent, the sailors exchanged a few words in a whisper.

"What game will I find there?"

"Thousands of wild goats."

"But natural, Excellency. The island is a mass of rock; there is perhaps not so much as an acre of cultivable land on all its surface."

"Monte Cristo," said the Livornan.

"Which live by licking the rocks, I suppose," Franz said, with an incredulous smile.

"Where could I sleep?"

"But I have no licence to hunt on that island."

"What is it?" Franz asked him.

"In that case, ahoy for Monte Cristo."

"The devil we will! That puts a different complexion on it! Six days! The same time that it took God to create the world. It's a bit too long, my friends."

"What does that mean?"

"Well?" he asked. "What now? Is there some problem?"

"No," said the master of the boat, "but we must advise Your Excellency that the island has been designated contumacious."

"And nor will we," said the sailors.

"But who is to say that His Excellency has been to Monte Cristo?"

The master ordered them to change course for the island and the boat began to sail in that direction.

"I certainly shan't!" Franz exclaimed.

"It means that, since Monte Cristo is uninhabited and is sometimes used as a staging-post by smugglers and pirates from Corsica, Sardinia or Africa, if there is any evidence of our having stopped there, we shall be obliged when we return to Leghorn to spend six days in quarantine."

Franz waited for the manoeuvre to be completed and, when the new course was set, the wind was filling the sail and the four sailors had resumed their places, three at the bow, one at the rudder, he resumed his conversation with the captain. "My dear Gaetano," he said, "I think you just said that the island of Monte Cristo was a refuge for pirates: this is a rather different game from goats."

"I knew that there were such people as smugglers, but I thought that since the capture of Algiers and the destruction of the Regency, there were no pirates left outside the novels of Fenimore Cooper and Captain Marryat."

"Yes, Excellency, that's a fact."

"Your Excellency is wrong. The same is true of pirates as of bandits, who were supposed to have been exterminated by Pope Leo XII, but who nonetheless stop travellers every day right up to the gates of Rome. Did you not hear that barely six months ago the French chargé d'affaires to the Holy See was robbed, five hundred yards from Velletri?"

"Now, if Your Excellency were to live in Leghorn, as we do, you would hear from time to time that a vessel laden with merchandise, or a pretty English yacht which was expected in Bastia, Porto Ferrajo or Civita Vecchia, has not made port, and that no one knows what has become of it, except that it has doubtless been wrecked on some rock. Well, the rock that it hit was a low narrow-boat, with six or eight men on board, which surprised it and pillaged it, some dark and stormy night off a wild, uninhabited island, just as bandits stop and pillage a mail coach at the entrance to a wood."

"Yes, I did."

"But in that case," said Franz, still lying back in the boat, "why don't the victims of these accidents complain and bring down the vengeance of the French, Tuscan or Sardinian governments on the head of the pirates?"

"Because first of all they unload everything that is worth taking off the ship or the yacht and put it in their boat; then they tie the hands and feet of the crew, tie a cannonball round the neck of each man, make a hole as big as a barrel in the keel of the captured vessel, go back up on deck, batten down the hatches and return to their own boat. Ten minutes later, the ship starts to moan and groan, then bit by bit it founders. First one side, then the other goes under; then it rises up, then dips down again, slipping lower and lower each time. Suddenly, there is a noise like a cannon shot: that's the air bursting the deck. Then the vessel struggles like a drowning man, getting heavier with every movement that it makes. Soon the water, trapped under pressure inside, bursts out of every opening, like the spouting liquid from the air-holes of a gigantic whale. Finally it gives its death-cry, rolls over on itself and goes under, leaving a huge funnel in the deep which spins for an instant, then gradually fills and eventually disappears altogether. The result is that in five minutes only the eye of God Himself could see a trace of the vanished ship beneath the calm surface of the sea. Now do you understand," he added, smiling again, "why the ship does not return to port and the crew does not lodge a complaint?"

"Why not?" Gaetano asked with a smile.

"Yes, why not?"

"Huh!" he continued. "I have crossed Sicily and Calabria, I've sailed around the archipelago for two months, and never yet have I seen a trace of any bandit or pirate."

"But I did not say that to Your Excellency in order to suggest that you should alter your plans. Your Excellency asked me a question and I replied, nothing more."

If Gaetano had told him this story before suggesting their expedition, Franz would quite probably have thought twice before agreeing to it; but they were on their way, and he felt it would be cowardly to go back. He was one of those who do not court danger but who, if it presents itself, retain all their composure in confronting it; he was one of those calm-willed men who consider a risk in life as they do an opponent in a duel, measuring his movements, studying his strength, and breaking off long enough to catch their breath, but not enough to appear cowardly. Such men, assessing all their advantages with a single glance, kill with a single blow.

"Yes, my dear Gaetano, and your conversation is most interesting. So, as I want to enjoy it as long as possible, let's go to Monte Cristo."

However, they were quickly nearing the end of the journey. They had a fresh wind in their sails and the boat was making six or seven knots. At their approach, the island seemed to rise up out of the sea. Through the clear atmosphere of the dying rays of the sun they could see, like cannonballs in an arsenal, the mass of rocks piled up, one above the other, with between them the dark red of the heather and the light green of the trees. Though the sailors appeared perfectly calm, it was clear that they were watchful, scanning the vast mirror across which the boat was slipping, its horizon interrupted only by the white sails of a few fishing boats which hovered like seagulls on the crests of the waves.

They were scarcely more than fifteen miles from Monte Cristo when the sun began to set behind Corsica, the mountains of which rose up to their right, darkly serrated against the sky. The mass of stones rose threateningly in front of the boat, like the giant Adamastor, its crest gilded by the sun which was concealed behind it. Little by little the shadowy figure came up out of the sea and appeared to drive before it the last ray of the dying day, until at last the shaft of light was driven to the very tip of the cone, where it paused for a moment like the flaming plume of a volcano. Finally the darkness, still rising, progressively swept across the summit as it had previously swept across the base, and the island had only the appearance of a mountain, growing constantly a darker shade of grey. Half an hour later, everything was pitch black.

"What's that light?" he asked.

Luckily the sailors were in familiar waters and knew every last rock in the Tuscan archipelago; otherwise, in the midst of this blackness that had enfolded the boat, Franz might not have been altogether easy in his mind. Corsica had vanished entirely and even the island of Monte Cristo had become invisible; but the sailors seemed to have the lynx's faculty of seeing in the dark, and the pilot, sitting at the rudder, did not show the slightest hesitation.

About an hour had passed since sunset when Franz thought he could see a dark shape, about a quarter of a mile to the left. It was so difficult to distinguish what it could be that, rather than risking the sailors' mockery by mistaking some passing clouds for land, he said nothing. But suddenly a great light appeared on the shore: the land might resemble a cloud, but this fire was not a meteor.

"Hush!" said the boatman. "It's a fire."

"But you said that the island was uninhabited."

"I said that it had no permanent inhabitants, but I also mentioned that smugglers sometimes put in there."

"And pirates?"

"But surely," Franz said, "it seems to me that this fire should reassure us rather than otherwise. People who were afraid of being seen would not have lit a fire like that."

"That's what we must find out," said Gaetano, keeping his eyes fixed on the terrestrial star.

"And pirates," said Gaetano, repeating Franz's words. "That's why I gave the order to sail past the island: as you can see, the fire is behind us."

"Oh, that means nothing," said Gaetano. "If you could judge the position of the island in the darkness, you would see that the fire is sited in such a way that it cannot be seen from the coast, or from Pianosa, but only from the open sea."

"How can we do that?"

"So you suspect that this fire indicates unwelcome company?"

"You'll see."

At this, Gaetano had a few words with his comrades and, after they had talked for five minutes, they carried out a manoeuvre which allowed them instantly to reverse their course. In this way they were sailing back in the direction from which they had come and, a few moments later, the fire disappeared, hidden behind some outcrop on the land.

At this, the pilot altered course yet again with the rudder, and the little boat came visibly closer to the island, until it was only some fifty yards off-shore. Gaetano lowered the sail and the boat remained stationary.

Gaetano, having suggested the expedition, had taken full responsibility for it on himself. The four sailors kept peering at him, preparing the oars and evidently getting ready to row to shore which, thanks to the darkness, was not difficult.

As for Franz, he was inspecting his weapons with the characteristic sang-froid we have mentioned. He had two double-barrelled guns and a rifle, which he loaded. Then he cocked them and waited.

All this had taken place in the most profound silence; indeed, since the change of course not a word had been spoken on board.

Meanwhile the master had taken off his shirt and jacket, and secured his trousers around his waist; as he was barefoot, he had no shoes or stockings to remove. Once dressed -- or, rather, undressed -- like this, he put his finger to his lips to show that they should observe complete silence and, after slipping gently into the sea, swam towards the shore, but so cautiously that they could not hear the slightest sound. His path could be followed only by the phosphorescent trail he left in his wake. Soon even this disappeared, and it was clear that Gaetano had reached land.

For half an hour everyone on the boat remained motionless. Then the same luminous furrow reappeared near the shore and came towards them. In a moment, with two strokes, Gaetano was alongside.

"Well?" Franz and the four sailors asked simultaneously.

"Well," said Gaetano, "they are Spanish smugglers, and they only have with them two Corsican bandits."

"What are two Corsican bandits doing with Spanish smugglers?"

"Bless my soul!" said Gaetano, in tones of the most sincere Christian charity. "We are here to help one another, Excellency. Bandits are often hard-pressed on land by the gendarmes or the carabinieri, so they find a boat with good fellows like us in it. They come and request the hospitality of our floating house. How can one refuse to succour a poor devil with men on his tail? We take him in and, for greater safety, put out to sea. This costs us nothing and it saves the life -- or, at least, the freedom -- of one of our fellow men who, as it happens, acknowledges the service we have done him by showing us a good spot to put off our cargo where it is safe from prying eyes."

"Of course! They are being hunted down because they made their bones, nothing more. As if revenge wasn't in a Corsican's nature…"

"But what about the two Corsican bandits?" Franz insisted, trying to allow for every possibility.

"And you think we shall have nothing to fear if we disembark here in our turn?"

"How can that be?"

"Good Lord!" said Gaetano. "It's not their fault if they're bandits, it's the fault of the authorities."

"So you know where you stand with the present inhabitants of Monte Cristo?"

"Oh, I see!" said Franz. "And are you a bit of a smuggler yourself, then, my dear Gaetano?"

"Nothing at all. Smugglers are not thieves."

"More or less. We sailors are like freemasons, we recognize one another by certain signs."

"What do you mean by 'making their bones'? Having killed someone?" Franz asked, still curious.

"I mean killing an enemy," said the master. "That's quite different."

"What do you expect, Excellency!" he replied with an indescribable smile. "One does a bit of everything. A man must live."

"Well then," the young man said, "let's go and ask for the hospitality of these smugglers and bandits. Will they welcome us?"

"Four, Excellency; with the two bandits, that makes six."

"No doubt at all."

"How many of them are there?"

"What, my good fellow! Be as wise as Nestor and as cautious as Ulysses. I not only allow it, I beg you."

"Silence!" said Gaetano; and they all fell silent.

"Yes, Excellency. But will you allow me to take a few extra precautions?"

"Just the same as us, in fact. And if these gentlemen should prove unfriendly, then we are in a position to keep them at bay. So, one last time, let's land on Monte Cristo."

For someone like Franz, who considered everything in its true light, the situation, while not dangerous, still gave pause for serious thought. He was here, in the most profound darkness, in the middle of the sea, with sailors who did not know him and who had no reason to be loyal to him; who, moreover, knew that he had a few thousand francs in his belt and who had ten times examined his guns, at least with curiosity, if not envy: they were fine pieces. In addition to that, escorted by only these men, he was about to land on an island which certainly had a very religious name, but which appeared to offer Franz no greater hospitality than Calvary did to Christ, in view of the smugglers and the bandits. Then those stories of scuttled ships, which he had thought exaggerated by day-light, seemed more believable in the dark. So, caught between this -- perhaps imaginary -- double danger, he did not take his eyes off the men or his hand off the rifle.

At the first words of the song the men sitting around the fire got up and walked across to the landing-stage, keeping a close watch on the approaching boat so as to assess its size and intentions. They soon appeared to have satisfied themselves and went back to their places around the fire, where a kid was roasting -- apart from one, who remained, standing on the shore.

The light extended some hundred yards across the sea. Gaetano sailed just outside its reach, keeping the boat in the unlit darkness beyond. Then, when he was directly across from the bonfire, he turned the bow towards it and sailed boldly into the circle of light, singing a fisherman's song and taking the main part himself, while the crew joined in with the chorus.

During this time, the sailors had once more raised their sails and resumed their previous course. Through the darkness, Franz, whose eyes were already becoming somewhat accustomed to it, could see the granite giant beside which the boat was sailing; then finally, as they came round a rock for the second time, he saw the fire burning more brightly than ever, and around it five or six seated figures.

"My name must be entirely unknown to these men," Franz said. "So just tell them that I am a Frenchman who is travelling for his own amusement."

Franz cocked his repeating rifle unemotionally.

"Does Your Excellency wish to be named," the master asked, "or would he prefer to go incognito?"

When the boat was about twenty yards from land, the man on the shore mechanically gestured with his carbine, like a sentry greeting a returning patrol, and shouted: "Who goes there?" in Sardinian patois.

At this, Gaetano exchanged a few words with the man, which Franz could not understand, though they clearly concerned him.

There was a silence. Everyone appeared preoccupied with his own affairs: Franz with the landing, the sailors with their sails, the smugglers with their kid; but, in the midst of this apparent lack of curiosity, they were observing one another.

When Gaetano had communicated this to him, the sentry gave an order to one of the men sitting at the fire; he immediately got up and disappeared among the rocks.

This Italian "s'accommodi" is untranslatable. It means at once: come, come in, welcome, make yourself at home, you are the master. It's like the Turkish phrase in Molière's play which astonished the Bourgeois Gentilhomme by all the meanings that it could contain.

The man who had gone away suddenly came back, from the opposite direction to the one in which he had gone. He nodded to the sentry, who turned to them and said merely: "S'accommodi."

He had one of his guns slung across his shoulder, Gaetano had the other and one of the sailors was holding the rifle. His dress had something of both the artist and the dandy, which aroused no suspicion in his hosts, and consequently no unease.

The boat was tied up on the shore and they started to walk around, looking for a suitable place to camp; but the direction in which they were walking was not to the liking of the smuggler who was acting as sentry, because he shouted to Gaetano: "No, not over there, please."

The sailors did not wait to be asked twice. With four strokes of the oars they brought the boat to shore. Gaetano jumped on to the beach, whispered a few more words to the sentry, and his crew then came down one after the other. Finally it was Franz's turn.

They went for about thirty yards then stopped on a little esplanade entirely surrounded by rocks, in each of which a kind of seat had been hollowed, not unlike small sentry-boxes where the guard can sit down. Around them, in patches of soil, grew some dwarf oaks and thick clumps of myrtle. Franz lowered a torch and recognized, from a pile of ashes, that he was not the first person to notice the comfort of this spot, which must be one of the usual stopping-places of random visitors to Monte Cristo.

He stopped worrying about any incident that might occur. Once on dry land, and having seen the mood of his hosts which, if not friendly, was at least one of indifference, all his anxieties had vanished; with the smell of roast kid coming from the nearby camp, anxiety had changed to appetite.

Gaetano mumbled some excuse and, without argument, went over to the other side, while two sailors went to fetch lighted torches so that they could see their way.

He mentioned this to Gaetano, who said that nothing was easier than to make supper when they had bread, wine and six partridge in the boat, and a fire to prepare them.

"Do it, Gaetano, do it," said Franz. "You are a born negotiator."

Meanwhile the sailors had pulled up handfuls of heather and made firewood from myrtle and green oak branches, then set fire to it, so that they had quite a fine blaze going.

"Moreover," he added, "if Your Excellency is so tempted by the smell of that kid, I can go and offer our neighbours two of our birds for a slice of their beast."

"What now?" asked Franz. "Have they refused our offer?"

Franz was waiting impatiently, sniffing the smell of roasting kid, when the master came back with an anxious look about him.

"On the contrary," Gaetano replied. "Their chief, on learning that you were a young Frenchman, has invited you to dine with him."

"Well, well," said Franz, "this chief is a most civil man and I see no reason to refuse, all the more so as I'm bringing my own contribution to the meal."

"His home! Does he have a house here, then?"

"It's not that: there is more than enough to eat. But he is imposing an unusual condition on your visiting his home."

"Both."

"No, but I am assured that he has a very comfortable home, nonetheless."

"I've got nothing to lose. I'd go."

"What a dream!" Franz said, sitting down again.

"Listen," Gaetano said, lowering his voice, "I don't know if what they say is true…" He paused and looked around to make sure they were not overheard. "What do they say?"

Franz read what he could into Gaetano's face to discover what was behind this suggestion. Gaetano read his thoughts. "The devil!" he said. "I know, it needs thinking about."

"That you should let your eyes be bandaged and not remove the blindfold until you are told you can do so."

"So this chief can show us something unusual?"

"You would agree?"

"Good things or bad?"

"They say that the chief lives in a subterranean abode beside which the Pitti Palace is a mere trifle."

"Oh, it's not a dream, it's a reality! Cama, pilot of the Saint-Ferdinand, went in there one day and came out completely dazzled, saying that such treasures only exist in fairy-stories."

"I have heard speak of him."

"Do you know this chief?"

"Well, dammit, what is this condition?"

"What would you do in my place?" the young man asked.

"Yes, if only out of curiosity."

"I am only saying what I was told, Excellency."

"You know," said Franz, "what you are telling me sounds as if you were trying to lure me into the caves of Ali Baba."

"So you advise me to accept?"

"That I'm not saying! Your Excellency will do as he pleases. I should not like to advise him in such circumstances."

Franz thought for a few moments, realized that such a rich man could not feel any envy for him, as he had only a few thousand francs with him and, since he could see nothing coming of this but an excellent dinner, accepted. Gaetano went back with his answer.

However, as we mentioned, Franz was prudent, so he wanted to know as much as he could about his strange and mysterious host. Consequently he went back to the sailor who, while the above conversation was going on, had been plucking the partridges with the grave air of a man proud of his job, and asked him what kind of vessel the other men had landed in, since he could not see any speronara, tartan or other boat.

"I'm not concerned about that," the sailor said. "I know their vessel."

"A rich aristocrat who travels for his own pleasure."

"I didn't say that the owner of the yacht was a smuggler," the sailor replied. "No, but I believe Gaetano said so."

"Come now," Franz thought to himself. "This man is becoming more and more mysterious, since the stories differ."

"A hundred tons, or thereabouts. In any event, it is a pleasure boat -- a yacht, as the English call it -- but built, you understand, in such a way that it can go to sea in any weather."

"And if the man is not a smuggler, then what is he?"

"I wish Your Excellency such a one, should he sail round the world."

"Is it a fine one?"

"Gaetano had seen the crew from a distance, but he had not yet spoken to anyone."

"That I don't know; but I believe in Genoa."

"And how does the head of a gang of smugglers," Franz asked, "dare to have a yacht built for his trade in the port of Genoa?"

"When asked, he replies that he is called Sinbad the Sailor. But I suspect this may not be his true name."

"Where was it built?"

"What is its displacement?"

Then he said aloud: "What is his name?"

"But have you never been curious, when you landed on this island and found it deserted, to try and enter this enchanted palace?"

"What is he like?"

"A few times."

"I don't know."

"What country does he come from?"

"Sinbad the Sailor?"

"Yes."

"At sea."

"Have you seen him?"

"Where does this gentleman live?"

"And where will he entertain me?"

"Doubtless in the underground palace that Gaetano mentioned."

"I have definitely stepped off into a tale from the Thousand and One Nights," Franz muttered.

"Oh, yes indeed, Excellency," the sailor replied. "More than once, in fact. But all our efforts have been fruitless. We have looked all round the grotto and not found the smallest passageway. In any case, it is said that the door does not open with a key, but with a magic word."

"His Excellency awaits you," said a voice behind him which he recognized as that of the sentry. He had with him two men from the crew of the yacht. In reply, Franz simply took out his handkerchief and offered it to the man who had spoken.

"Your Excellency can judge for himself."

After some thirty paces, he guessed, from the increasingly appetizing smell of kid, that they were walking past the encampment. They carried on for about fifty paces more, clearly proceeding in the direction that had been forbidden to Gaetano, which explained why they had not wanted him to go there. Soon, from the change in the air, he realized that he was going underground and, after they had walked for a few more seconds, he heard a creaking sound and felt that the air had again changed, to become warm and scented. Finally he felt his feet walking on a thick, soft carpet, and his guides let go of his arms.

Without a word, they blindfolded him, taking enough care to show that they were afraid he might commit some indiscretion, then made him swear that he would not try to remove the blindfold. He swore. At that, the two men each took one of his arms and they led him forward, preceded by the sentry.

There was a moment's silence and a voice said, in good French, though with a foreign accent: "Welcome to my home, Monsieur. You may take off your handkerchief."

Although his colouring was an almost livid white, the man had a remarkably handsome face. The eyes were bright and penetrating, the nose straight and almost on a level with the forehead, suggesting the purest Greek type; and the teeth, white as pearls, shone splendidly under a dark moustache. It was only the pallor that was strange: the man looked as if he had been shut up for a long time in a tomb and afterwards had been unable to recover the natural rosy complexion of the living.

As one may imagine, Franz did not wait to be asked again: he took off his handkerchief and found himself standing in front of a man of between thirty-eight and forty, wearing Tunisian dress, that is to say a red skullcap with a long blue silk tassel; a jacket in black woollen cloth embroidered all over with gold thread; wide, loose, dark-red trousers, with gaiters in the same colour, embroidered in gold like the jacket; and yellow Turkish slippers. Around his waist was a splendid cashmere belt with a sharp little curved dagger hanging from it.

However, what astonished Franz, who had treated Gaetano's story as a fantasy, was the sumptuousness of the furnishings. The whole room was hung with crimson Turkish hangings, brocaded with gold flowers. In a recess there was a sort of divan, and above it a display of Arab swords with vermeil sheaths and hilts shining with precious stones. From the ceiling dangled a lamp in Venetian glass, delightful in shape and colour, and his feet sank up to the ankles in the Turkish rug underneath them. There were curtains hanging in front of the door by which Franz had entered and in front of another door which led into a second room which seemed to be splendidly lit.

Though not very tall, he was well-built and had the small hands and feet typical of Mediterranean men.

The man allowed his guest a moment to take all this in, while using the opportunity to examine him in turn and keeping his eyes fixed on him.

"Monsieur," he said finally, "I beg you to forgive me a thousand times for the precautions that we had to take before showing you into my home, but, since this island is deserted for most of the time, if the secret of where I live were to get out I should no doubt return to find my dwelling in a rather poor state. I should be much displeased at this, not because of any loss that it might occasion, but because I should no longer have the assurance that, whenever I wish, I can separate myself from the rest of the world. Now I shall try to make you forget any slight displeasure I may have caused you, by offering you something that you surely did not expect to find here, namely a decent supper and quite a good bed."

"Now," the stranger told Franz, "I am not sure whether you agree with me, but I find nothing more irritating than to spend two or three hours with a person and not know by what name or title one should address him. Observe that I respect the laws of hospitality too much to ask you your name or title. I should just like to ask you to suggest some name or other which I might use when speaking to you. As for myself, to put you similarly at ease, I should tell you that people are accustomed to call me Sinbad the Sailor."

"My dear host," said Franz, "you must not apologize. I know that people who visit enchanted palaces always do so blindfold: look at Raoul in The Huguenots. And I really have no cause for complaint, because what you are showing me is equal to the marvels of the Arabian Nights."

"Alas! I have to say, like Lucullus: if I had known I was going to have the honour of your visit, I should have made some preparation for it. But, in the event, I put my humble retreat at your disposal and invite you to share my supper, such as it is. Ali, are we served?"

At almost that very moment the curtain in front of the door was raised and a Nubian, black as ebony and wearing a simple white tunic, indicated to his master that they could proceed to the dining-room.

"And I," said Franz, "I shall tell you that, as I have everything except the celebrated magic lamp, I see no objection for the moment to your calling me Aladdin. In this way we can stay in the Orient, where I suspect that I must have been transported with the help of some good genie."

At these words, raising the curtain, Sinbad stepped through the doorway.

"Well, Aladdin, sir," said the strange host, "you heard that we are served, I think? So please be good enough to come into the dining-room. Your humble servant will go first to show you the way."

Franz went from one wonder to another. The table was splendidly laid. Once he had assured himself of this important detail, he looked around: the dining-room was no less magnificent than the boudoir that he had just left. It was entirely in marble, with the most precious antique bas-reliefs. The room was oblong, and at each end there were superb statues carrying baskets on their heads. The baskets contained two pyramids of wonderful fruit: Sicilian pineapples, pomegranates from Malaga, oranges from the Balearics, French peaches and Tunisian dates.

As for the "supper", it consisted of a roast pheasant sitting on a bed of Corsican blackbirds, a wild boar's ham in jelly, a quarter of a kid à la tartare, a magnificent turbot and a huge lobster. Between the main dishes were smaller plates with the various side-dishes.

Only Ali was allowed to wait on them, acquitting himself very well. The guest complimented his host on the fact.

The serving dishes were silver and the plates of Japanese porcelain.

"Yes, yes," the other replied, continuing to do the honours of his table in the most easy manner. "He's a poor devil who is most devoted to me and who does his best. He recalls that I saved his life and, as he was attached to his head, apparently, he owes me some gratitude for having preserved it for him."

Ali went up to his master, took his hand and kissed it.

"Mr. Sinbad," said Franz, "I want to ask you under what circumstances did you accomplish that service. Don't you think it was too abrupt?"

"It's very simple," the host replied. "It appears that the fellow had wandered closer to the harem of the Bey of Tunis than is acceptable for a lad of his colour. In consequence he was condemned by the bey to have his tongue, his hand and his head cut off: the tongue on the first day, the hand on the second and the head on the third. I had always wanted to have a dumb servant. I waited for him to have his tongue cut out, then I went to offer the bey, in exchange for him, a splendid two-stroke repeating rifle which, on the previous day, had appeared to take His Highness's fancy. He hesitated a moment, so keen was he to make an end of this poor devil. But I added to the rifle an English hunting knife with which I had blunted His Highness's yataghan; as a result the bey decided to spare him his hand and his head, on condition that he never again set foot in Tunis. The stipulation was unnecessary. As soon as the miscreant catches sight of the African coast, he flees to the bottom of the hold and cannot be persuaded to come out until we have lost sight of the third quarter of the world."

Franz rubbed his eyes to make sure he was not dreaming.

"Have you suffered a great deal, Monsieur?" Franz asked.

For a moment Franz said nothing, considering what he should think of the cruel good humour with which his host had told him this story. "And, like the honourable sailor whose name you have taken," he asked, changing the subject, "do you spend all your time travelling?"

Sinbad shuddered, and stared closely at him. "How can you tell that?" he asked.

"Yes, this is the result of a vow that I made at a time when I did not expect I should be able to accomplish it," the stranger said with a smile. "I have made a few vows of that sort, and I hope to be able to accomplish them all in due course."

"Everything speaks of it," said Franz. "Your voice, your look, your pallor, even the sort of life that you lead."

"What! I lead the happiest life of any man I know -- the life of a pasha! I am the lord of creation: if I am enjoying myself in a place, I stay there; if I am bored, I leave. I am as free as a bird and, like a bird, I have wings. I have only to make a sign for the people around me to obey me. From time to time I amuse myself in teasing justice by snatching a wanted bandit away from it, or a criminal with the police on his trail. Then I have my own justice, high and low, which suspends no sentences and hears no appeals, which merely condemns or pardons, and concerns nobody. Oh, if you could have tasted my life, you would want no other, you would never return to the world, unless you had some great project to carry out."

Though Sinbad had spoken these words with the greatest sang-froid, his eyes gave a glance of peculiar ferocity.

"Some act of revenge, for example," said Franz.

"Well, well," Sinbad said, laughing his strange laugh and showing his sharp, white teeth, "you're quite wrong. You might not think it, but I am a kind of philanthropist and perhaps one day I shall go to Paris to rival Monsieur Appert and the Man in the Little Blue Cloak."

The stranger held the young man in one of those looks that penetrate to the depths of the soul and the mind. "Why revenge?" he asked.

"Because," said Franz, "you look to me like a man who has been persecuted by society and has a terrible account to settle with it."

"Would that be your first visit?"

"Certainly, it would. I don't appear very curious, do I? I assure you, however, that it is not my fault if I have not been before, and it will happen one day or another."

"Do you expect to go soon?"

"I don't know yet; it depends on circumstances that are still uncertain."

"I should like to be there when you come, so that I could return, as far as I am able, the hospitality that you have been so generous as to offer me on Monte Cristo."

"I would be most happy to accept your offer," the host replied. "But if I do go, unfortunately, it might well be incognito."

"You cannot guess," he said, "what kind of foodstuff is in that little container, and it intrigues you, I imagine?"

Finally Ali brought the dessert; or, rather, he took the baskets from the hands of the statues and placed them on the table. Between the two baskets he set down a little bowl in vermeil, with a lid of the same metal. Franz's curiosity was awakened by the respect with which the servant had brought this bowl. He lifted the lid and saw a sort of greenish paste that he did not recognize, though it resembled a sort of sweet made from angelica. He replaced the lid, as ignorant of the contents of the bowl after lifting the lid as he had been before and, turning back to his host, saw him smile at his disappointment.

Meanwhile the dinner continued and appeared to have been served purely for Franz, for the stranger had barely nibbled at one or two of the dishes in the splendid feast that he had offered him and on which his unexpected guest had dined handsomely.

"I admit it does."

"I'll tell you. That sort of green sweetmeat is nothing more nor less than the ambrosia that Hebe served at the table of Jupiter."

"Which ambrosia," said Franz, "no doubt, on coming into the hand of man, lost its celestial name to take a human one. What is the name of this substance -- to which, I must admit, I feel no great attraction -- in ordinary speech?"

"Ah!" cried Sinbad. "It is precisely in this that we reveal our base material origins. Often we pass beside happiness without seeing it, without looking at it, or, even if we have seen and looked at it, without recognizing it. If you are a practical man and gold is your God, then taste this, and the mines of Peru, Gujarat and Golconda will be open to you. If you are a man of imagination, a poet, then taste this too, and the boundaries of the possible will vanish, the fields of infinity will be open and you will walk through them, free in heart, free in mind, in the limitless pasture of reverie. If you are ambitious and seek earthly glory, then you too can taste this and in an hour you will be a king, not the king of some little kingdom buried away in a corner of Europe, like France, Spain or England, but king of the world, king of the universe, king of creation. Your throne will be raised up on the mountain where Satan took Jesus. And, without having to pay him homage, without having to kiss his claw, you will be the sovereign master of all the kingdoms on earth. Aren't you tempted by my offer? Tell me, is it not an easy thing to do, since there is nothing to do but that? Look."

"Have you heard speak of the Old Man of the Mountain?" his host asked. "The one who tried to kill Philip Augustus?"

Franz gave him as long as he needed to enjoy his favourite food; then, seeing that he had somewhat recovered his attention, said: "But tell me, what is this precious sweetmeat?"

With this, he lifted the lid off the little vermeil bowl which contained the substance of which he had spoken so highly, took a coffee-spoon full of the magic sweetmeat, raised it to his lips and slowly savoured it, his eyes half closed and his head leaning back.

"Of course."

"Well, you know that he ruled over a rich valley overlooked by the mountain from which he had taken his picturesque name. In that valley were splendid gardens planted by Hassanben-Sabah, and in those gardens were isolated pavilions. According to Marco Polo, he would bring his chosen friends into these pavilions and there make them eat a certain grass which would take them into paradise, in the midst of plants that were always in flower, fruits that were always ripe and women who were always virgins. What these fortunate young men imagined was reality was a dream; but a dream so sweet, so intoxicating, so voluptuous that they would sell themselves, body and soul, to the person who had procured it for them, obey his orders like those of God and strike whatever victim he directed at the furthest end of the earth, dying under torture without a murmur, simply because they believed that the death they would suffer was merely a transition to that life of delights of which the holy grass, which you see before you, had given them a foretaste."

"Do you know," Franz said, "I am quite eager to judge for myself as to the truth or otherwise of your commendation?"

"Precisely; you have said the word, my lord Aladdin, it's hashish, the best and finest hashish of Alexandria, hashish from Abugour, the great maker, the only man, the man for whom they should build a palace with the following inscription: 'To the merchant of happiness, from a grateful world'."

"Do so, my dear guest, do so. But do not be content with just one experiment: as with everything, the senses must become accustomed to a new impression, whether it is pleasant or not, happy or sad. Nature wrestles with this divine substance, because our nature is not made for joy but clings to pain. Nature must be defeated in this struggle, reality must follow dreams; and then the dream will rule, will become the master, the dream will become life and life become a dream. What a difference is made by this transfiguration! When you compare the sorrows of real life to the pleasures of the imaginary one, you will never want to live again, only to dream for ever. When you leave your world for that of others, you will feel as if you have travelled from spring in Naples to winter in Lapland, from paradise to earth, from heaven to hell. Try some hashish, my friend! Try it!"

"In that case," Franz exclaimed, "it's hashish! Yes, I do know it, at least by name."

Instead of replying, Franz took a spoonful of the wonderful paste, about as much as his host had taken, and brought it to his mouth.

"Dammit!" he exclaimed, swallowing this divine substance. "I am not yet sure if the outcome will be as pleasant as you say. But the thing itself doesn't seem to me as delicious as you claim."

"That is because the nodes of your palate are not yet accustomed to the sublimity of the thing they are tasting. Tell me: the first time, did you like oysters, tea, porter, truffles, all these things that you were later to adore? Can you understand the Romans, who seasoned pheasants with asafoetida, or the Chinese, who eat birds' nests? Of course you can't! Well, it's the same with hashish: just try taking it for a whole week, and no food in the world will seem to you comparable in fineness to this taste which today you find musty and repellent. Now let us go into the next room, which is your bedroom, and Ali will serve us coffee and give us some pipes."

They both got up and, while the man who called himself Sinbad -- the name which we, too, have used from time to time, so that we may be able to designate him in some way -- was giving orders to his servant, Franz went through to the other room.

Both men lay down upon the divan. Chibouks with jasmine stems and amber mouthpieces were within easy reach, all prepared so that they never needed to smoke the same one twice. They each took one. Ali lit them and went out to fetch coffee.

The furnishings were simpler, though no less rich. The room was round and a large divan extended along the walls. But the divan, the walls, the ceiling and the floor were hung with splendid animal-skins, as sweet and soft as the deepest-piled carpet: there were lions' skins from the Atlas Mountains, with great manes; there were tigers' skins from Bengal, warmly striped; there were the skins of panthers from the Cape, as merrily spotted as the one that appeared to Dante; finally, there were bears' skins from Siberia and Norwegian foxes. All these were heaped one upon the other, in such profusion that one would have imagined oneself to be walking on the thickest lawn and resting on the most silken couch.

There was a moment's silence in which Sinbad was immersed in the thoughts that seemed continually to occupy him, even in the midst of conversation, and Franz abandoned himself to the silent reverie into which one almost invariably falls when smoking fine tobacco, which seems to carry away all the sufferings of the mind on its smoke and give the smoker in exchange all the dreams of the soul.

"How would you like it?" the stranger said. "A la française or à la turque, strong or weak, with sugar or without, filtered or boiled? You choose. We have it prepared in every manner."

Ali brought them coffee.

"I should like Turkish," Franz replied.

"I do believe," said Franz, "that it will be the easiest thing, because I think I am growing eagles'wings and with them I shall fly round the world in a day."

"Ah, ha! That's the hashish working. Well, then, open your wings and fly into regions beyond the reach of men. Fear nothing. You are being watched over and if, like those of Icarus, your wings should melt in the sun, we are there to catch you."

"How right you are!" cried his host. "This proves that you have a natural disposition for Oriental life. Ah, the Orientals, you understand, are the only people who know how to live! As for me," he added, with one of those odd smiles that did not escape the young man's observant eye, "when I have finished my business in Paris, I shall go and die in the East; and then if you want to find me, you will have to look in Cairo, Baghdad or Isfahan."

He said a few words in Arabic to Ali, who signified his obedience and retired, without going too far away.

As for Franz, a strange transformation was taking place in him. All the physical tiredness of the day, all the concerns awakened in the mind by the events of the evening were disappearing as in that first moment of rest when one is still conscious enough to feel the arrival of sleep. His body seemed to acquire the lightness of some immaterial being, his mind became unimaginably clear and his senses seemed to double their faculties. The horizon was constantly receding; it was no longer that dark horizon which he had seen before falling asleep and over which a vague terror loomed, but a blue, transparent and vast horizon, containing all the blueness of the sea, all the sparkle of the sun and all the perfumes of the breezes. Then, in the midst of the songs of his sailors, songs that were so pure and so clear that they would have made the most divine harmonies if one could have noted them down, he saw the island of Monte Cristo appear, no longer like a threatening reef rising out of the waves but like an oasis lost in the desert; and, as the boat approached, the songs swelled in volume, because an enchanting and mysterious harmony rose towards heaven out of the island, as if some fairy, like Lorelei, or some enchanter, like Amphion, wanted to lure a soul towards it or to build a city there.

The statues were indeed the same, rich in shape, in sensuality and in poetry, with their magnetic eyes, lustful smiles and opulently flowing hair. Here were those three great courtesans, Phryne, Cleopatra and Messalina; then, like a pure ray in the midst of these immodest shades, like a Christian angel among the gods of Olympus, came one of those chaste countenances, one of those calm shadows, one of those sweet visions that appeared to veil its virginal brow beside all these marble impurities.

Finally, the boat reached the shore, effortlessly, with no shock, but as lips touch lips, and he came into the cave, without a pause in the charming music. He went down a few steps, or seemed to do so, breathing a fresh and scented air such as must surround Circe's grotto, composed of perfumes that inspire the soul to dream and warmth such that the senses are inflamed by it; and he saw everything that he had seen before falling asleep, from Sinbad, his fantastic host, to Ali, the dumb servant. Then everything seemed to fade and become confused before his eyes, like the last rays of a magic lantern going out; and he found himself in the room with the statues, lit only by one of those dim antique lights that are kept burning at night to watch over sleep or voluptuous pleasures.

Franz felt that he was closing his eyes and that in the last glance he cast around him he noticed the modest statue cover itself entirely with its veil; then his eyes closed on reality and his senses opened to inconceivable feelings.

At this, it seemed to him that the three statues had combined the love of all three, to offer to a single man, and that that man was himself; that they were approaching the bed where he was dreaming a second sleep, their feet covered by their long white tunics, bare-breasted, their hair coursing like water across their shoulders, in those poses which can seduce gods -- but not saints -- and those burning looks, such as those the serpent turns on a bird, and that he was abandoning himself to these painful expressions as if to an embrace, as voluptuous as a kiss.

After that, he felt unremitting sensuality and continual love-making, such as the Prophet promised to the elect. Now all those stone mouths became living ones and those breasts became warm, to such an extent that for Franz, falling for the first time under the domain of hashish, this lust was almost pain and this voluptuousness almost torture, as he felt the lips of these statues, supple and cold as the coils of a viper, touching his parched mouth. But the more his arms tried to ward off this unknown embrace, the more his senses fell beneath the spell of this mysterious dream, so that, after a struggle in which he would have given his soul, he abandoned himself unreservedly and eventually fell back, panting, seared with exhaustion, worn out with lust, beneath the kisses of these marble mistresses and the enchantment of this unimaginable dream.