who led him away with all his baggage loaded on several barrows.

As he took his first steps in Algiers, Tartarin looked about him
wide-eyed. He had imagined beforehand a fairylike Arabian city,
something between Constantinople and Zanzibar... but here he was back
in Tarascon. Some cafés some restaurants, wide streets, houses of four
stories, a small tarmac square where a military band played Offenbach
polkas, men seated on chairs, drinking beer and nibbling snacks, a few
ladies, a sprinkling of tarts and soldiers, more soldiers, everywhere
soldiers... and not a single "Teur" in sight except for him... so he found
walking across the square a bit embarrassing. Everyone stared.... The
military band stopped playing and the Offenbach polka came to a halt
with one foot in the air.

With his two rifles on his shoulders, his revolver by his side,
unflinching and stately he passed through the throng, but on reaching
the hotel his strength deserted him. The departure from Tarascon. The
harbour at Marseille. The crossing. The Montenegrin prince. The pirates,
all whirled in confusion round his brain. He had to be taken up to his
room, disarmed and undressed... there was even talk of sending for a
doctor, but hardly had his head touched the pillow than he began to
snore so loudly and vigorously that the hotel manager decided that
medical assistance was not required, and everyone discreetly withdrew.




Chapter 15.

The bell of the government clock was sounding three when Tartarin awoke.