few moments he saw above
his head, on the causeway, the camel striding along rapidly, its neck
anxiously extended. Greatly relieved to be rid of it, Tartarin entered
the town by a side road which ran along by the wall of his house.

On his arrival at his Moorish house, Tartarin halted in astonishment. The
day was ending, the streets deserted. Through the low arched doorway,
which the negress had forgotten to close, could be heard laughter, the
clinking of glasses, the popping of a champagne cork and the cheerful
voice of a woman singing loud and clear:

"Aimes-tu Marco la belle,

"La danse aux salons en fleurs..."

"Tron de Diou!" Said Tartarin, blenching, and he rushed into the
courtyard.

Unhappy Tartarin! What a spectacle awaited him!.... Amid bottles,
pastries, scattered cushions, tambourine, guitar, and hookah, Baia
stood, without her blue jacket or her corslet, dressed only in a silver
gauze blouse and big pink pantaloons, singing "Marco la belle" with a
naval officer's hat tipped over one ear... while on a rug at her
feet surfeited with love and confitures, was Barbassou, the infamous
Barbassou, roaring with laughter as he listened to her.

The arrival of Tartarin, haggard, thin, covered in dust, with blazing
eyes and bristling chechia cut short this enjoyable Turco-Marseillaise
orgy. Baia uttered a little cry, and like a startled leveret she bolted
into the house, but Barbassou was not in the least put out and laughed
more than ever: "He!... He!... Monsieur Tartarin. What did I tell you? You
can hear that she knows French all right."

Tartarin advanced, furious: "Captain!.." He began; but then, leaning
over the balcony with a rather vulgar gesture, Baia threw down a few
well-chosen words. Tartarin, deflated, sat down on a drum, his Moor
spoke in the argot of the Marseilles back-streets.

"When I warned you not to trust Algerian women," Said Captain Barbassou
sententiously, "The same applied to your Montenegrin prince." Tartarin
looked up, "Do you know where the prince is?" he asked.

"Oh, he is not far away. He will spend the next five years in the
fine prison at Mustapha. The clown was foolish enough to be caught
stealing... and anyway this is not the first time His Highness has been
inside, he has already done three years in gaol somewhere, and... hang
on!... I believe it was in Tarascon!

"In Tarascon!" Cried Tartarin, suddenly enlightened, "that is why I never
saw him there. All he knew of Tarasc