The Montenegrin prince was as good as his word. Shortly after the
reunion at the Restaurant des Platanes he arrived early one morning at
Tartarin’s room. “Quick!... quick!... get dressed” he said, “Your Moor has
been found... her name is Baia... as pretty as a picture, twenty years
old and already a widow.” “A widow!.... Well that’s a bit of luck” Said
Tartarin who was a little uneasy at the thought of Moorish husbands.
“Yes, but closely guarded by her brother” “Oh! That’s a bit awkward”
“A ferocious Moor who sells hookahs in the bazaar” There was a silence,
“Good!” Said the prince, “You’re not the chap to be put off by a little
thing like that, and anyway we can perhaps buy off this villain by
purchasing some of his pipes. So come on, get dressed... you lucky dog!”
Pale and excited, his heart full of love, Tartarin jumped out of bed and
as he climbed into his ample underwear he asked “What shall I do now?”
“Write to the lady quite simply and ask for a meeting” “She understands
French then?” Said Tartarin with an air of disappointment. For his
dreams had been of an Arabian Houri, uncontaminated by the west. “She
doesn’t understand a word” Replied the prince imperturbably, “but you
will dictate the letter to me and I shall translate it.” “Oh prince,
how good you are.” And Tartarin strode about the room silent and deep in
thought.
As you may imagine one does not write to a Moorish lady as one might to
a little shop-girl in Beaucaire. Happily our hero was able to cull from
his reading many phrases of oriental rhetoric and combining these with
some distant memories of the “Song of Songs” he was able to compose the
most flowery epistle you could wish for, full of unlikely similes and
improbable metaphors. With this romantic missive Tartarin would have
liked to combine a bouquet of flowers with emblematic meanings, but
prince Gregory thought it would be better to buy some pipes from the
brother, which could not fail to soften the savage temperament of the
gentleman and would please the lady, who greatly enjoyed smoking. “Let
us go quickly then and buy some pipes,” Said Tartarin. “No, no.” Replied
the prince, “Let me go alone, I shall get them at a better price.” “Oh
prince! How good you are to take such trouble.” And the trusting fellow
held out his purse to the obliging Montenegrin, exhorting him to neglect
nothing which might make the lady happy.
Unfortunately, the affair which had started so well, did not progress as
rapidly as one might have wished. Very touched, it seemed, by Tartarin’s
eloquence, and already three parts won over, she would have liked
nothing better than to have received him, but her brother had scruples,
and to lay these to rest it was necessary to buy an astonishing number
of pipes. Sometimes Tartarin wondered what on earth the lady did with
them all, but he paid up nevertheless, and without stinting.
At last, after the purchase of many pipes and the composing of many
sheets of oriental prose, a rendezvous was arranged. I need hardly tell
you with what fluttering of heart Tartarin prepared himself; with what
care he trimmed, washed and scented his beard, without forgetting--for
one must always be prepared--to slip into his pockets a life-preserver
and a revolver. The ever-obliging prince attended this first meeting in
the role of interpreter
The lady lived in the upper part of the town. Outside her door lounged a
young Moor of fourteen or fifteen, smoking a cigarette, it was Ali, her
brother. When the two visitors arrived he knocked twice on the postern
and retired from the scene. The door was opened and a negress appeared,
who, without saying a word, conducted the two gentlemen across a narrow
interior courtyard to a small, cool room where the lady awaited them,
posed on a divan.
At first glance it seemed to Tartarin that she was smaller and sturdier
than the Moor on the omnibus... were they in fact the same? But this
suspicion was only momentary: the lady was so pretty, with her bare
feet and her plump fingers, rosy and delicate, loaded with rings; while
beneath her bodice of gold cloth and the blossoms of her flowered robe
was the suggestion of a charming form, a little chubby, dainty and
curvaceous. The amber mouthpiece of a narghile was between her lips and
she was enveloped in a cloud of pale smoke.
On entering, Tartarin placed his hand on his heart and bowed in the most
Moorish manner possible, rolling big, passionate eyes... Baia looked
at him for a moment without speaking, then letting go of the amber
mouthpiece, she turned her back, hid her face in her hands and one could
see only her neck, shaken by uncontrollable laughter.