At the very beginning of the siege, I scribbled down my distressing situation for the only European living in Isfahan, Prince D, the consul-general of Russia, on a piece of paper entrusted to my most loyal Persian. By chance, my besieged house is close to his and I can see the arrival of two large Cossacks, dressed in their official Russian uniforms. In the face of all this, my assailants yield. The Cossacks are sent to me in haste, bringing me the very kind invitation to come to stay with the prince. In spite of my fear of imposing, there is no real alternative but to accept. So, I agree to surrender the place and to follow my two silver-braided liberators, my head held high. Meanwhile, the crowd, who, as it turns out, are more childish than particularly ill-natured, busy themselves carrying my baggage.

At the end of a large garden – full of roses, it goes without saying, and with a high wall, of course – we find ourselves in a huge bright clean house with European comfort in an oriental setting, affording exquisite well-being and a priceless rest after so many days passed in the corners of earthen floors and the squalor of caravanserais. Besides, Prince and Princess D are such charming hosts who know from the very outset how to give the impression that I am not just a tramp bent on adventure, but an expected friend who is not at all in the way.

Sunday, 13 May

I wake up late to the bird songs and before my thoughts have completely returned, with a sudden feeling of security and leisure. The chief muleteer will not be coming this morning to nag me about the departure; we will not have to get back on the move along bad muddy tracks. No more black broken walls, earth and refuse; the room is spacious and white, with large couches and bright oriental carpets. The garden in front of my door is a veritable blanket of roses, brightened by some yellow broom which springs up here and there in sprays of gold under a May sky of a purity and depth almost unknown in other climes. The birds, tits, wagtails and nightingales, come right up to the threshold of my door, making a festive commotion. It is as if there is something like a spring

delirium in the air, the full magnificence of the Persian spring, so fleeting before the scorching summer. It is the glorious madness of this season of roses in Isfahan, which hastens to drain away all the sap and, in a few short days, to produce all the flowers and all their perfume.