“He!... without a doubt....  Ah!  My poor M. Tartarin, you have to keep both eyes wide open in this devilish country if you don’t want to be taken in.  Like that business of the Muezzin.”

“What business?...  What Muezzin?”

“Ti!...  Pardi!” The Muezzin opposite, who was courting Baia; all Algiers knew about it.  Not all the prayers he was chanting were addressed to Allah, some were directed to the little one, and he was making propositions under your nose.  “It seems that everyone in this beastly country is a crook”, Wailed the unhappy Tartarin.  Barbassou shrugged his shoulders, “My dear fellow, you know how it is.  All these sort of places are the same.  If you take my advice you will go back to Tarascon as quickly as possible.”

“That’s easy to say, but what am I to do for money?  Don’t you know how they robbed me out there in the desert?”

“Don’t worry about that,” laughed the Captain, “the Zouave is leaving tomorrow and I’ll take you back if you want... does that suit you, colleague?...  All right...  Good!  There’s only one thing left to do, there is still some champagne and some pastries left.  Come, sit down and let bygones be bygones.”  After a little delay which his dignity required, our hero accepted the offer.  They sat down and poured out a drink.  Hearing the clink of glasses, Baia came down and finished singing Marco la Belle, and the party went on until late in the night.

Chapter 30.

It is mid-day.  The Zouave has steam up and is ready to depart.  Up above on the balcony of the cafe Valentin, a group of officers aim the telescope, and come one by one, in order of seniority, to look at the lucky little ship which is going to France.  It is the principle entertainment of the general staff.  Down below, the water of the anchorage sparkles....  The breeches of the old Turkish cannons, mounted along the quay, glisten in the sunshine....  Passengers arrive....  Baggage is loaded onto tenders.

Tartarin does not have any baggage.  He comes down from the Rue de la Marine by the little market, full of bananas and water-melons, accompanied by his friend Captain Barbassou.

Tartarin de Tarascon has left on the Moorish shore his arms, his equipment and his illusions, and is preparing to sail back to Tarascon with nothing in his pockets but his hands.  Scarcely, however, had he set foot in the captain’s launch, when a breathless creature scrambled down from the square above and galloped towards him.  It was the camel, the faithful camel, which for twenty-four hours had been searching for its master.

When Tartarin saw it, he changed colour and pretended not to know it; but the camel was insistent.  It frisked along the quay.  It called to its friend and regarded him with tender looks.  “Take me away!” Its sad eyes seemed to say, “Take me away with you, far away from this mock Arabia, this ridiculous Orient, full of locomotives and stage coaches, where I as a second-class dromadary do not know what will become of me.  You are the last Teur, I am the last camel, let us never part, Oh my Tartarin!” “Is that your camel?” Asked the Captain.