Chapter 22.

If you go in the evening into some of the coffee-houses of the Algerian
upper town, you will hear even today, Moors speak among themselves,
with winks and chuckles, of a certain Sidi ben Tart'ri, an amiable,
rich European who--it now some years ago--lived in the upper town with a
little local girl called Baia.

This Sidi ben Tart'ri was of course none other than Tartarin. Well what
could you expect. This sort of thing happens even in the lives of Saints
and Heroes. The illustrious Tartarin was, like anyone else, not exempt
from these failings and that is why for two whole months, forgetful of
lions, forgetful of fame, he wallowed in oriental love, and slumbered,
like Hannibal in Capua, amid the delights of Algiers.

He had rented in the heart of the Arab quarter, a pretty little local
house with an interior courtyard, banana trees, cool galleries and
fountains. He lived there quietly in the company of his Moor, a
Moor himself from head to foot. Puffing at his hookah and munching
musk-flavoured condiments. Stretched on a divan opposite him, Baia with
a guitar in her hands droned monotonous songs, or to amuse her master
she perhaps mimed a belly-dance, holding in her hands a small mirror in
which she admired her white teeth and made faces at herself.

As the lady did not understand French and Tartarin did not speak a
word of Arabic, conversation languished somewhat and the talkative
Tarasconais had time to repent of any intemperate loquaciousness of