For two long weeks the unhappy Tartarin searched for his Algerian
lady-love, and it is likely that he would be searching still, if that
providence which looks after lovers had not come to his aid in the guise
of a Montenegrin gentleman.
The Théatre in Algiers, like the “Opera” in Paris, organises every
Saturday night during the winter a Bal Masqué‚. This is, however,
a provincial version. There are few people in the dance-hall; the
occasional drifter from out of town, unemployed stevedores, some rustic
tarts, who are in business but who still retain from their more virtuous
days a faint aroma of garlic and saffron sauce... the real spectacle is
in the foyer, which has been converted for the occasion into a gambling
saloon.
A feverish, multicoloured crowd jostles about the long green cloths.
Algerian soldiers on leave, gambling their meagre pay. Moorish merchants
from the upper town. Negroes. Maltese. Colonists who have come a hundred
miles to wager the price of a cart or a pair of oxen on the turn of a
card. Pale, tense and anxious as they watch the game.
There are Algerian Jews, gambling en famille. The men in oriental
costume, the women in gold coloured bodices. They gather round the
table, chatter and and plan, count on their fingers, but play little.
From time to time, and only after long consultation, an elderly, bearded
patriarch goes to place the family stake. Then as long as play lasts
there is a concentration of dark hebraic eyes on the table, which
would seem to draw the gold pieces lying there as if by an invisible
thread....
Then there are the quarrels. Fights. Oaths in many languages. Knives
are drawn. A guard arrives. Money is missing.... In the midst of this
saturnalia wandered poor Tartarin, who had come that evening in search
of forgetfulness and peace of heart.
As he went about through the crowd, thinking of his Moor, suddenly, at
one of the gaming tables, above the cries and the chinking of coins, two
angry voices were raised. “I tell you, there are twenty francs of mine
missing, m’sieu!” “M’sieu!!!” “Well, what have you to say, m’sieu?” “Do
you know to whom you are talking, m’sieu?” “I should be delighted to
find out, m’sieu!” “I am prince Gregory of Montenegro, m’sieu!”
At this name, Tartarin, much moved, pushed through the crowd until he
reached the front row, delighted to have found once more his prince, the
distinguished Montenegrin nobleman whose acquaintance he had made on the
packet-boat.
Unfortunately this title of prince which had so dazzled the worthy
Tarasconais, did not produce the least impression on the officer of the
Chasseurs with whom the prince was in dispute. “A likely story” said the
officer with a sneer, and then turning to the onlookers, “Prince
Gregory of Montenegro, who has ever heard of him?... No one!” Tartarin,
indignant, took a pace forward. “Pardon... I know the prince.” He said
firmly in his best Tarrascon accent.
The officer of the Chasseurs stared him in the face for a few moments,
then shrugging his shoulders, he said “Well now, is’nt that just
fine?... Share out the twenty francs between you and we’ll leave it at
that.” So saying he turned on his heel and was lost in the crowd.
Tartarin, furious, wanted to go after him, but the prince prevented him.
“Leave it... It’s my affair.” He said, and taking Tartarin by the arm he
led him outside.
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
help look for her.
They drank long and deep. They drank to the ladies of Algeria. They
drank to free Montenegro. Outside, below the terrace, the sea rolled,
the waves slapping wetly on the beach. The air was warm, the sky bright
with stars, in the plane trees a nightingale sang... It was Tartarin who
paid the bill.