e, sewn into a sack and
tossed into the sea with his head beside him.

This thought cooled his ardour a little, but the little slipper
continued to tease and the he eyes opened very wide, like two black
velvet flowers which seemed to say "Come and gather us!"

The omnibus stopped. It had arrived at the Place du theatre, at the
entrance to the Rue Bab Azoum. One by one, enveloped in their billowing
garments and drawing their veils about them with savage grace, the Moors
dismounted. Tartarin's neighbour was the last to leave and as she rose
to go her face was so close to that of our hero that their breaths
mingled and he was aware of a bouquet of youth, jasmine, musk and
pastries.

He could no longer resist. Drunk with love and ready to face anything,
he scrambled after the Moor... At the sound of his clumsy footsteps she
turned and put her finger to her lips, as if to say "Hush" and with
the other hand she tossed him a little scented garland made of jasmine
flowers. Tartarin bent to pick it up, but as he was somewhat overweight
and much encumbered by his weapons, the operation took a little
time... When he rose, the garland pressed to his heart, the little Moor
had disappeared.

Chapter 19.

Sleep, lions of the Atlas! Sleep tranquilly in your lairs amongst the
aloes and the cactus! It wil be some time before Tartarin de Tarascon
comes to slaughter you. At the moment his equipment, his arms, his
medicine chest, the preserved food and the bivouac tent are piled
up peacefully in a corner of room 36 in the Hotel de l'Europe. Sleep
without fear, great tawny lions! The Tarasconais is searching for his
Moor.

Since the events in the omnibus, the unhappy man seems to feel
constantly on his feet the scurrying of the little red mouse, and the
sea breeze which wafts across his face seems somehow perfumed by an
amorous odour of patisserie and anise. He must find his Dulcinea; but to
find in a city of one hundred thousand inhabitants a person of whom one
knows only the scent of their breath, the appearance of their slippers
and the colour of their eyes is no light undertaking. Only a lovesick
Tarasconais would attempt such a task. To make matters worse, it must be
confessed that beneath their masks all Moorish ladies tend to look very
much the same; and then they do not go out a great deal, and if one
wants to see them one must go to the upper town, the Arab town, the town
of the Teurs.

A real cut-throat place that u