If the princess was charmed with these tender sentiments which the caliph expressed in his compliments, she was amazed to hear of Nouzhatoulaouadat’s death.  This news threw her into such astonishment, that she was not able to return an answer for some time.  At last recovering, she replied with an air expressive of surprise, “Commander of the faithful, I am very sensible of all your tender sentiments; but give me leave to say, I cannot comprehend the news you tell me of the death of my slave, who is in perfect health.  My affliction is for the death of Abou Hassan, her husband, your favourite, whom I esteemed, as much for the regard you had for him, as his having so often diverted me agreeably, and for whom I had as great a value as yourself.  But the little concern you shew for his death, and your so soon forgetting a man in whose company you have so often told me you took so much pleasure, surprises me; and this insensibility seems the greater, from the deception you would put upon me in changing his death for that of my slave.”

The caliph, who thought that he was perfectly well informed of the death of the slave, and had just reason to believe so, because he had both seen and heard Abou Hassan, laughed, and shrugged up his shoulders, to hear Zobeide talk in this manner.  “Mesrour,” said he, to the eunuch, “what do you think of the princess’s discourse?  Do not women sometimes lose their senses; for you have heard and seen all as well as myself?” Then turning to Zobeide, “Madam,” said he, “shed no more tears for Abou Hassan, for I can assure you he is well; but rather bewail the death of your dear slave.  It is not many moments since her husband came in the most inexpressible affliction, to tell me of the death of his wife.  I gave him a purse of a hundred pieces of gold and a piece of brocade, to comfort him, and bury her; and Mesrour, who was present, can tell you the same.”

The princess took this discourse of the caliph’s to be all a jest, and thought he had a mind to impose upon her.  “Commander of the faithful,” replied she, “though you are used to banter, I must tell you, this is not a proper time for pleasantry.  What I tell you is very serious; I do not talk of my slave’s death, but of Abou Hassan’s, her husband, whose fate I bewail, and so ought you too.”  “Madam,” said the caliph, putting on a grave countenance, “I tell you without raillery that you are deceived; Nouzhatoul-aouadat is dead, and Abou Hassan is alive, and in perfect health.”

Zobeide was much piqued at this dry answer of the caliph.  “Commander of the faithful,” replied she smartly, “God preserve you from continuing longer in this mistake, surely you would make me think your mind is not as usual.  Give me leave to repeat to you once more, that it is Abou Hassan who is dead, and that my slave Nouzhatoul-aouadat, his widow, is living.  It is not an hour since she went from hence.  She came here in so disconsolate a state, that the sight of her was enough to have drawn tears from my eyes, if she had not told me her affliction.  All my women, who wept with me, can bear me witness, and tell you also that I made her a present of a hundred pieces of gold and a piece of brocade; the grief which you found me in, was on account of the death of her husband; and just at the instant you entered, I was going to send you a compliment of condolence.”