When, after eight days of walking, Tartarin, tired and dusty, saw gleaming in the distance the white terraces of Algiers, when he found himself on the outskirts of the town, on the bustling Mustapha road, amid the crowds who watched him go by with the camel in attendance, his patience snapped, and taking advantage of some traffic congestion he ducked into a field and hid in a ditch.  In a few moments he saw above his head, on the causeway, the camel striding along rapidly, its neck anxiously extended.  Greatly relieved to be rid of it, Tartarin entered the town by a side road which ran along by the wall of his house.

On his arrival at his Moorish house, Tartarin halted in astonishment.  The day was ending, the streets deserted.  Through the low arched doorway, which the negress had forgotten to close, could be heard laughter, the clinking of glasses, the popping of a champagne cork and the cheerful voice of a woman singing loud and clear: 

“Aimes-tu Marco la belle,

“La danse aux salons en fleurs...”

“Tron de Diou!” Said Tartarin, blenching, and he rushed into the courtyard.

Unhappy Tartarin!  What a spectacle awaited him!....  Amid bottles, pastries, scattered cushions, tambourine, guitar, and hookah, Baia stood, without her blue jacket or her corslet, dressed only in a silver gauze blouse and big pink pantaloons, singing “Marco la belle” with a naval officer’s hat tipped over one ear... while on a rug at her feet surfeited with love and confitures, was Barbassou, the infamous Barbassou, roaring with laughter as he listened to her.

The arrival of Tartarin, haggard, thin, covered in dust, with blazing eyes and bristling chechia cut short this enjoyable Turco-Marseillaise orgy.  Baia uttered a little cry, and like a startled leveret she bolted into the house, but Barbassou was not in the least put out and laughed more than ever:  “He!...  He!...  Monsieur Tartarin.  What did I tell you?  You can hear that she knows French all right.”

Tartarin advanced, furious:  “Captain!..”  He began; but then, leaning over the balcony with a rather vulgar gesture, Baia threw down a few well-chosen words.  Tartarin, deflated, sat down on a drum, his Moor spoke in the argot of the Marseilles back-streets.

“When I warned you not to trust Algerian women,” Said Captain Barbassou sententiously, “The same applied to your Montenegrin prince.”  Tartarin looked up, “Do you know where the prince is?” he asked.

“Oh, he is not far away.  He will spend the next five years in the fine prison at Mustapha.  The clown was foolish enough to be caught stealing... and anyway this is not the first time His Highness has been inside, he has already done three years in gaol somewhere, and... hang on!...  I believe it was in Tarascon!

“In Tarascon!” Cried Tartarin, suddenly enlightened, “that is why I never saw him there.  All he knew of Tarascon was what he could see from a cell window.”