Mangogul, without answering the favorite’s joke, departed instantly, and went to Zaide’s house. He found her retired in a closet, at a small table, on which he observed some letters, a portrait, and some trifles scatter’d here and there, which came from a cherished lover, as it was easy to presume, by the fondness she expressed for them. She was writing; tears ran down her cheeks, and wetted the paper. Every now and then she kiss’d the portrait with transport opened the letters, wrote some words, returned to the portrait, snatched up the above mentioned trifles, and pressed them to her breast.

The Sultan’s astonishment was incredible; he had never seen any tender woman, but the favorite and Zaide. He thought himself beloved by Mirzoza: but did not Zaide love Zuleiman better still? And were not this pair the only true lovers of Congo.

The tears, which Zaide shed in writing, were not tears of sorrow. ’Twas love that made them flow. And in that moment, a delicious sentiment, which arose from a certainty of possessing the heart of Zuleiman, was the only one that affected her. “Dear Zuleiman,” cry’d she, “how I love thee! how dear thou art to me! How agreeably thou employest me! In those instants, when Zaide has not the happiness of seeing thee, she writes to thee how much she is thine: separated from Zuleiman, his love is the only conversation which gives her pleasure.”

Zaide was thus far advanced in her amorous meditation, when Mangogul pointed his ring at her. Immediately he heard her Toy send forth a sigh and repeat the first words of her mistress’s monology. “Dear Zuleiman, how I love thee! how dear thou art to me! how agreeably thou employest me!” Zaide’s heart and Toy were too well agreed, to vary in their discourse. Zaide was surprised at first; but she was so sure that her Toy would say nothing, but what Zuleiman might hear with pleasure, that she wish’d him present.

Mangogul repeated his trial, and Zaide’s Toy repeated with a soft tender voice: “Zuleiman, dear Zuleiman, how I love thee! how dear thou art to me!”

“Zuleiman,” says the Sultan, “is the happiest mortal of my empire. Let us abandon this place, where the image of a happiness greater than mine is presented to my sight, and afflicts me.” Accordingly he withdrew, and went to his favorite with an air of inquietude and pensiveness.

“Prince,” says she, “what ails you, you say nothing to me of Zaide?”

“Zaide is an adorable woman, madam,” replied Mangogul. “She loves beyond anything that ever loved⁠—”

“So much the worse for her,” says Mirzoza.

“What do you say?” replied the Sultan.

“I say,” answers the favorite, “that Kermades is one of the most disagreeable persons of Congo; that interest and the authority of the parents made that match; and that there never was a couple worse sorted than Kermades and Zaide.”

“But, madam,” replies Mangogul, “it is not her husband that she loves⁠—”

“Who then?” says Mirzoza.

“ ’Tis Zuleiman,” replies Mangogul.

“Adieu then to the Porcelains and the little Sapajou,” added the Sultana.

“Ah!” says Mangogul whispering to himself, “this Zaide has struck me: she pursues me, she occupies my thoughts; I must absolutely see her again.” Mirzoza interrupted him by some questions, which he answered in monosyllables. He refused a game of piquet which she proposed, complain’d of a headache which he counterfeited, retired to his apartment, went to bed without supping, which he had never done before, and had no sleep. The charms and tenderness of Zaide, the qualities and happiness of Zuleiman tormented him the whole night.

One may easily imagine, that he had no business so much in his head this day, as to return to Zaide. He walk’d out of his palace, even without enquiring after Mirzoza, the first time that ever he fail’d in this point. He found Zaide in the same closet as the preceding day, and Zuleiman with her; who held his mistresses hands between his own, and had his eyes fixed on her. Zaide on her knees, and inclining forward, darted glances animated with the most ardent passion on Zuleiman. They continued some time in this attitude: but both in the same instant yielding to the violence of their desires, they rush’d into each others arms, and embraced with eagerness. The profound silence, which had hitherto reigned about them, was disturbed by their sighs, the sound of their mutual kisses, and some inarticulated words, which slip’d from them.

“You love me!”

“I adore you⁠—”

“Will you love me constantly?”

“Alas! the last sigh of my life shall be for Zaide!”

Mangogul overwhelm’d with sorrow, threw himself into an easy chair, and covered his eyes with his hand. He dreaded seeing things, which are easily imagined, and yet did not happen. After a silence of some moments, “Ah! dear and tender lover,” says Zaide, “why have I not always found you such as you are at present? I should not love you the less, nor should I have any reproach to throw on myself.⁠—But you weep, dear Zuleiman. Come, dear and tender lover, come, and let me wipe off your tears. Zuleiman, you cast down your eyes, what ails you? Pray look on me.⁠—Come, dear friend, come, that I may comfort thee: cling thy lips on my mouth, breathe thy soul into me, receive mine; suspend⁠—Ah! no⁠—no⁠—” Zaide finished her discourse with a deep sigh, and was silent.

The African author informs us, that this scene touched Mangogul most sensibly, that he built some hopes on the impotence of Zuleiman, and that some secret proposals were made on his behalf to Zaide, who rejected them, and never made any merit of it with her lover.