“Hey!  Lord love you, Barbassou!” said Tartarin, pulling up his mule.

Instead of continuing the dialogue, Barbassou stared at him for a space ere he burst into a peal of such hilarity that Sidi Tart’ri sat back dumbfounded on his melons.

“What a stunning turban, my poor Monsieur Tartarin!  Is it true, what they say of your having turned Turk?  How is little Baya?  Is she still singing ’Marco la Bella’?”

“Marco la Bella!” repeated the indignant Tartarin.  “I’ll have you to know, captain, that the person you mention is an honourable Moorish lady, and one who does not know a word of French.”

“Baya does not know French!  What lunatic asylum do you hail from, then?”

The good captain broke into still heartier laughter; but, seeing the chops of poor Sidi Tart’ri fall he changed his course.

“Howsoever, may happen it is not the same lass.  Let’s reckon that I have mixed ’em up.  Still, mark you, Monsieur Tartarin, you will do well, nonetheless, to distrust Algerian Moors and Montenegrin princes.”

Tartarin rose in the stirrups, making a wry face.

“The prince is my friend, captain.”

“Come, come, don’t wax wrathy.  Won’t you have some bitters to sweeten you?  No?  Haven’t you anything to say to the folks at home, neither?  Well, then, a pleasant journey.  By the way, mate, I have some good French ’bacco upon me, and if you would like to carry away a few pipefuls, you have only to take some.  Take it, won’t you?  It’s your beastly Oriental ’baccoes that have befogged your brain.”

Upon this the captain went back to his absinthe, whilst the moody Tartarin trotted slowly on the road to his little house.  Although his great soul refused to credit anything, Barbassou’s insinuations had vexed him, and the familiar adjurations and home accent had awakened vague remorse.

He found nobody at home, Baya having gone out to the bath.  The negress appeared sinister and the dwelling saddening.  A prey to inexpressible melancholy, he went and sat down by the fountain to load a pipe with Barbassou’s tobacco.  It was wrapped up in a piece of the Marseilles Semaphore newspaper.  On flattening it out, the name of his native place struck his eyes.

“Our Tarascon correspondent writes:  —­

“The city is in distress.  There has been no news for several months from Tartarin the lion-slayer, who set off to hunt the great feline tribe in Africa.  What can have become of our heroic fellow-countryman?  Those hardly dare ask who know, as we do, how hot-headed he was, and what boldness and thirst for adventures were his.  Has he, like many others, been smothered in the sands, or has he fallen under the murderous fangs of one of those monsters of the Atlas Range of which be had promised the skins to the municipality?  What a dreadful state of uncertainty!  It is true some Negro traders, come to Beaucaire Fair, assert having met in the middle of the deserts a European whose description agreed with his; he was proceeding towards Timbuctoo.  May Heaven preserve our Tartarin!”