ce. Tartarin-Quixote had perhaps now and
then some regrets, when he remembered Tarascon and the promised lion
skins... but they did not last for long, and to dispel these moments of
sadness all that was needed was a look from Baia or a spoonful of her
diabolic confections, scented and bewitching like some brew of Circe's.

In the evenings prince Gregory came, to talk a little about free
Montenegro. Of indefatigable complaisance, this agreeable nobleman
undertook in the house the function of interpreter and, if need be, even
that of steward, and all for nothing. Apart from him, Tartarin had only
"Teurs" as visitors. All of those ferocious bandits which in the depths
of their dark shops he once found so frightening, turned out to be
harmless tradesmen, embroiderers, spice sellers, turners of pipe
mouthpieces. Discrete, courteous people, modest, shrewd, and good at
cards. Four or five times a week they would spend the evening with
Tartarin, winning his money and eating his confitures, and on the stroke
of ten leaving politely, giving thanks to the Prophet.

After they had left, Sidi Tart'ri and his faithful spouse would finish
the evening on their terrace, a large white-walled terrace which formed
the roof of the building and looked out over the town. All about them
a thousand other terraces, tranquil in the moonlight, dropped one below
the other down to the sea. Suddenly, like a burst of stars, a great
clear chant rose heavenward and on the minaret of the nearby mosque a
handsome Muezzin appeared, his white outline silhouetted against the
deep blue of the night sky. As he invoked the praise of Allah in a
splendid voice which filled the horizon, Baia laid aside her guitar and
with her eyes fixed on the Muezzin seemed to be rapt in prayer. For
as long as the chant lasted she remained ecstatic, like an Arabic
St. Theresa. Tartarin watched her and thought that it must be a beautiful
and powerful religion which could give rise to such transports of faith.
Tarascon hide your face, your Tartarin dreams of becoming apostate.

Chapter 23.

One fine afternoon of blue sky and warm breeze, Sidi Tart'ri, astride
his mule, was returning alone from his little garden, his legs spread
widely over hay filled bags which were further swollen by citrus and
water-melon. Lulled by the creaking of the harness and swaying to the
clip-clop of the animal the good man progressed through the delightful
countryside, his hands crossed on his s