tomach, three-quarters asleep
from the effect of warmth and wellbeing. Suddenly, as he was entering
the town, a loud hail woke him up. "He! You, you great lump! You're
Monsieur Tartarin aren't you?" At the name of Tartarin and the sound of
the Provencal accent Tartarin raised his head and saw, a few feet away,
the tanned features of Barbassou, the Captain of the Zouave, who was
drinking an absinthe and smoking his pipe at the door of a little cafe.
"He! Barbassou by God!" Said Tartarin, pulling up his mule.

Instead of replying Barbassou regarded him wide-eyed for a few moments,
and then he began to laugh and laugh, so that Tartarin sat stunned among
his water-melons. "What a get-up, my poor monsieur Tartarin. It's true
then what people say, that you have become a Teur? And little Baia, does
she still sing 'Marco la belle' all the time?" "Marco la belle," said
Tartarin indignantly, "I'll have you know Captain, that the person
of whom you speak is an honest Moorish girl who doesn't know a word of
French!" "Baia?... Not a word of French?... Where have you come from?" And
the Captain began to laugh again, more than ever. Then noticing the long
face of poor Sidi Tart'ri, he changed tack. "Well perhaps it isn't
the same one," He said, "I've probably got her mixed up with someone
else... only look here, M. Tartarin, you would be wise not to put too much
trust in Algerian Moors, or Montenegrin princes." Tartarin stood up in
his stirrups, and made his grimace, "The prince is my friend, Captain!"
He said. "All right... all right... Don't let's quarrel... would you like
a drink?... no. Any message you would like me to take back?... none. Well
that's it then. Bon voyage.... Oh!... While I think of it, I have some
good French tobacco here, if you would like a few pipes-full take some,
help yourself, it will do you good, it's those blasted local tobaccos
that scramble your brain."

With that the Captain returned to his absinthe and Tartarin pensively
trotted his mule down the road to his little house. Although in his
loyal heart he refused to believe any of the insinuations made by the
Captain, they had upset him, and his rough oaths and country accent had
combined to awake in him a vague feeling of remorse. When he reached
home, Baia had gone to the baths, the negress seemed to him ugly, the
house dismal, and prey to an indefinable melancholy, he went and sat by
the fountain and filled his pipe with Barbassou's tobacco. The tobacco