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
his liberal opinions; since when he had travelled the world for his
instruction and pleasure... a philosopher prince. By a remarkable
coincidence the prince had spent three years in Tarascon, but when
Tartarin expressed astonishment at never having seen him at the club or
on the promonade, "I didn't go out much" Said the prince in a somewhat
evasive manner, and Tartarin discretely asked no more questions.
Important people, he knew, had diplomatic secrets.

All in all a very fine prince this Gregory. While sipping his wine he
listened patiently to Tartarin, who told him of his Moorish love, and
as he claimed to have contacts among these ladies, he even undertook to