"Very well! If you love me no more, I want you to confess it, and I will
die! What have I done to you, that you should prefer Hadidjé to me?
Perhaps she is handsomer than I am, is she? If you think me ugly," she
added, in a tone of concentrated despair, "tell me straight, and I will
go and cast myself into the lake, and you shall see me no more!"

"But no! I did not say that," I replied, trying to cut short this
diversion.

"Then what are you reproaching me for? Hadidjé loves you better than I
do, perhaps?"

"Neither Hadidjé's sentiments nor mine have anything to do with the
question. I am asking you about your violence, and the wound you have
given her with the dagger!"

"Why did she tell me that you love her better than me?" she answered.

"She told you that?"

"Yes; and pretends that you swore to it. For my part, I do not want to
be loved like a slave. I have learnt from your books that women in your
country die when they are no longer loved. So if you have ceased to love
me, I wish to die! You have told me that I have a heart, a soul, and an
intellect, as they have, and that a woman's love makes her the equal of
her master. Do you mean to tell me, ungrateful man, that I do not love
you? Have I ever been jealous of Zouhra, or of Nazli? Why should this
Hadidjé be everything in your eyes? If you do not want me any more," she
added, in a transport of grief, "say so, then; crop my hair, shave off
my eyebrows, and place me among the servants!"