pper town. Little dark alley-ways, very
narrow, climbing steeply between two rows of silent, mysterious houses
whose roofs touch to make a tunnel. Low doorways and small windows,
opaque and barred, and then, to right and left, little shops within
whose deep shade fierce "Teurs" with piratical faces, glittering eyes
and gleaming teeth, smoke their hookahs and converse in low tones, as
if planning some wicked deed.... To say that Tartarin walked through this
fearsome township unmoved would be to lie. He was on the contrary moved
a good deal, and in those obscure alleys where his large stomach took
up almost the entire width, the brave fellow advanced with the greatest
caution, his eyes alert, his finger on the trigger of his revolver, just
as he used to be at Tarascon on his way to the club. At any moment he
expected to be jumped on from behind by a whole gang of janissaries and
eunuchs, but his desire to find the lady endowed him with the courage
and determination of a giant.

For eight days the intrepid Tartarin did not quit his search. Sometimes
he could be seen hanging about the turkish baths, waiting for the women
to emerge in chattering groups, scented from the bath. Sometimes he
appeared at the entrance of a mosque, puffing and blowing as he removed
his heavy boots before entering the sacred premises. On other occasions,
at nightfall, when he was returning to the hotel, downcast at having
discovered nothing at the mosque or the baths, he would hear, as he
passed one of the Moorish houses, monotonous songs, the muffled sound
of guitars, the rattle of tambourines and the light laughter of women,
which made his heart beat faster. "Perhaps she is there" He would say to
himself, and approaching the house he would lift the heavy knocker and
let it fall timidly.

Immediately the song and the laughter stop. Nothing can be heard within
but faint vague cluckings as if in a sleeping hen-house. Hold on thinks
our hero, something is about to happen, but what happened mostly was a
big pot of cold water on his head, or orange peel and fig skins.... Sleep
lions!

Chapter 20.

For two long weeks the unhappy Tartarin searched for his Algerian
lady-love, and it is likely that he would be searching still, if that
providence which looks after lovers had not come to his aid in the guise
of a Montenegrin gentleman.

The Theatre in Algiers, like the "Opera" in Paris, organises every
Saturday night during the winter a Bal Masqu