Then there are the quarrels.  Fights.  Oaths in many languages.  Knives are drawn.  A guard arrives.  Money is missing....  In the midst of this saturnalia wandered poor Tartarin, who had come that evening in search of forgetfulness and peace of heart.

As he went about through the crowd, thinking of his Moor, suddenly, at one of the gaming tables, above the cries and the chinking of coins, two angry voices were raised.  “I tell you, there are twenty francs of mine missing, m’sieu!” “M’sieu!!!” “Well, what have you to say, m’sieu?” “Do you know to whom you are talking, m’sieu?” “I should be delighted to find out, m’sieu!” “I am prince Gregory of Montenegro, m’sieu!”

At this name, Tartarin, much moved, pushed through the crowd until he reached the front row, delighted to have found once more his prince, the distinguished Montenegrin nobleman whose acquaintance he had made on the packet-boat.

Unfortunately this title of prince which had so dazzled the worthy Tarasconais, did not produce the least impression on the officer of the Chasseurs with whom the prince was in dispute.  “A likely story” said the officer with a sneer, and then turning to the onlookers, “Prince Gregory of Montenegro, who has ever heard of him?...  No one!” Tartarin, indignant, took a pace forward.  “Pardon...  I know the prince.”  He said firmly in his best Tarrascon accent.

The officer of the Chasseurs stared him in the face for a few moments, then shrugging his shoulders, he said “Well now, is’nt that just fine?...  Share out the twenty francs between you and we’ll leave it at that.”  So saying he turned on his heel and was lost in the crowd.

Tartarin, furious, wanted to go after him, but the prince prevented him.  “Leave it...  It’s my affair.”  He said, and taking Tartarin by the arm he led him outside.

When they had reached the square, prince Gregory of Montenegro took off his hat, held out his hand to our hero and vaguely recalling his name began in vibrant tones, “Monsieur Barbarin...”  “Tartarin.”  Breathed the other, timidly.  “Tartarin...  Barbarin, it makes no difference, we are now friends for life.”  And the noble Montenegrin shook his hand with ferocious energy.  Tartarin was was overwhelmed by pride.  “Prince....  Prince” He murmured in confusion.

Fifteen minutes later the two gentlemen were seated in the Restaurant des Platanes, an agreeable spot whose terraces sloped down toward the sea, and there before a large Russian salad and a bottle of good wine they renewed their acquaintance.

You cannot imagine anything more beguiling than this Montenegrin prince.  Slim, elegant, his hair curled and waved, smooth-shaven and powdered and decked with strange orders, he had a sharp eye an ingratiating manner and spoke with a vaguely Italian accent, faintly suggestive of a renaissance Cardinal.  Of ancient aristocratic lineage, his brothers, it seemed, had driven him into exile at the age of ten, because of