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 stomach, three-quarters asleep from the effect of warmth and wellbeing.  Suddenly, as he was entering the town, a loud hail woke him up.  “He!  You, you great lump!  You’re Monsieur Tartarin aren’t you?” At the name of Tartarin and the sound of the Provencal accent Tartarin raised his head and saw, a few feet away, the tanned features of Barbassou, the Captain of the Zouave, who was drinking an absinthe and smoking his pipe at the door of a little cafe.  “He!  Barbassou by God!” Said Tartarin, pulling up his mule.

Instead of replying Barbassou regarded him wide-eyed for a few moments, and then he began to laugh and laugh, so that Tartarin sat stunned among his water-melons.  “What a get-up, my poor monsieur Tartarin.  It’s true then what people say, that you have become a Teur?  And little Baia, does she still sing ‘Marco la belle’ all the time?” “Marco la belle,” said Tartarin indignantly, “I’ll have you know Captain, that the person of whom you speak is an honest Moorish girl who doesn’t know a word of French!” “Baia?...  Not a word of French?...  Where have you come from?” And the Captain began to laugh again, more than ever.  Then noticing the long face of poor Sidi Tart’ri, he changed tack.  “Well perhaps it isn’t the same one,” He said, “I’ve probably got her mixed up with someone else... only look here, M. Tartarin, you would be wise not to put too much trust in Algerian Moors, or Montenegrin princes.”  Tartarin stood up in his stirrups, and made his grimace, “The prince is my friend, Captain!” He said.  “All right... all right...  Don’t let’s quarrel... would you like a drink?... no.  Any message you would like me to take back?... none.  Well that’s it then.  Bon voyage....  Oh!...  While I think of it, I have some good French tobacco here, if you would like a few pipes-full take some, help yourself, it will do you good, it’s those blasted local tobaccos that scramble your brain.”