Ah!  If the townsfolk of Tarascon could have seen the great Tartarin, lying in his commode drawer, in the pale, dismal light which filtered through the porthole, amongst the stale smell of cooking and wet wood, the depressing odour of the ferry boat.  If they had heard him groan at every turn of the propeller, ask for tea every five minutes, and complain to the steward in the weak voice of a child, would they have regretted having forced him to leave?  On my word, the poor Tuer deserved pity.  Overcome by sea-sickness, he had not the will even to loosen his sash or rid himself of his weapons.  The hunting knife with the big handle dug into his ribs.  His revolver bruised his leg, and the final straw was the nagging of Tartarin-Sancho, who never ceased whining and carping:—­“Imbecile!  Va!  I warned you didn’t I?....  But you had to go to Africa!....  Well now you’re on your way, how do you like it?”

What was every bit as cruel was that, shut in his cabin, between his groans he could hear the other passengers in the saloon, laughing, eating, singing, playing cards.  The society in the Zouave was as cheerful as it was diverse.  There were some officers on their way to rejoin their units, a bevy of tarts from Marseille, a rich Mahommedan merchant, returning from Mecca, some strolling players, a Montenegran prince, a great joker this, who did impersonations....  Not one of these people was sea-sick and they spent the time drinking champagne with the captain of the Zouave, a fat “Bon viveur” from Marseille, who had an establishment there and another in Algiers, and who rejoiced in the name of Barbassou.  Tartarin hated all these people.  Their gaity redoubled his misery.

At last, in the afternoon of the third day, there was some unusual activity on board the ship, which roused our hero from his torpor.  The bell in the bows rang out... the heavy boots of the sailors could be heard running on the deck...  “Engine ahead!... engine astern!.”  Shouted the hoarse voice of Captain Barbassou.  Then “Stop engine!”

The engine stopped, there was a little tremor and then nothing.  The ferry lay rocking gently from side to side, like a balloon in the air.  This strange silence horrified Tartarin.  “My God!  We are sinking!” He cried in a voice of terror, and recovering his strength as if by magic, he rushed up onto the deck.

Chapter 13.

The Zouave was not sinking.  She had just dropped her anchor in a fine anchorage of deep, dark water.  Opposite, on the hillside, was Algiers, its little matt-white houses running down to the sea, huddled one against the other, like a pile of white washing laid out on a river bank.  Up above a great sky of satin blue... but oh!...  So blue!