which he might have been guilty at Bezuquet's pharmacy or Costecalde
the gunsmith's shop. This penance even had a certain charm. There was
something almost voluptuous in going all day without speaking, hearing
only the bubble of the hookah, the strumming of the guitar and the
gentle splashing of the fountain amid the mosaic tiles of his courtyard.

Smoking, the Turkish bath and "l'amour" occupied his time. They went out
little. Sometimes Sidi Tart'ri, with his lady mounted on the crupper,
went on mule-back to eat pomegranates in a little garden which he had
bought in the neighbourhood... but never on any account did they go down
to the European part of the town, which with its drunken Zouaves, its
bordellos full of officers and the sound of sabres trailing on the
ground beneath the arcade, seemed to him to be insupportably ugly.
Altogether our Tartarin was perfectly happy. Tartarin-Sancho in
particular, very fond of Turkish pastries, declared himself entirely
satisfied with his new existence. Tartarin-Quixote had perhaps now and
then some regrets, when he remembered Tarascon and the promised lion
skins... but they did not last for long, and to dispel these moments of
sadness all that was needed was a look from Baia or a spoonful of her
diabolic confections, scented and bewitching like some brew of Circe's.

In the evenings prince Gregory came, to talk a little about free
Montenegro. Of indefatigable complaisance, this agreeable nobleman
undertook in the house the function of interpreter and, if need be, even
that of steward, and all for nothing. Apart from him, Tartarin had only
"Teurs" as visitors. All of those ferocious bandits which in the depths
of their dark shops he once found so frightening, turned out to be
harmless tradesmen, embroiderers, spice sellers, turners of pipe
mouthpieces. Discrete, courteous people, modest, shrewd, and good at
cards. Four or five times a week they would spend the evening with