ENTIRELY astonished was Tartarin before his Moorish dwelling when he
stopped.
Day was dying and the street deserted. Through the low pointed-arch
doorway which the negress had forgotten to close, laughter was heard;
and the clink of wine-glasses, the popping of champagne corks; and,
floating over all the jolly uproar, a feminine voice singing clearly and
joyously:
“Do you like, Marco la Bella, to dance in the hall hung with bloom?”
“Throne of heaven!” ejaculated the Tarasconian, turning pale, as he
rushed into the enclosure.
Hapless Tartarin! what a sight awaited him! Beneath the arches of the
little cloister, amongst bottles, pastry, scattered cushions, pipes,
tambourines, and guitars, Baya was singing “Marco la Bella” with a ship
captain’s cap over one ear. She had on no blue vest or bodice; indeed,
her only wear was a silvery gauze wrapper and full pink trousers. At
her feet, on a rug, surfeited with love and sweetmeats, Barbassou, the
infamous skipper Barbassou, was bursting with laughter at hearing her.
The apparition of Tartarin, haggard, thinned, dusty, his flaming
eyes, and the bristling up fez tassel, sharply interrupted this tender
Turkish-Marseillais orgie. Baya piped the low whine of a frightened
leveret, and ran for safety into the house. But Barbassou did not wince;
he only laughed the louder, saying:
“Ha, ha, Monsieur Tartarin! What do you say to that now? You see she
does know French.”
Tartarin of Tarascon advanced furiously, crying:
“Captain!”
“Digo-li que vengue, moun bon!--Tell him what’s happened, old dear!”
screamed the Moorish woman, leaning over the first floor gallery with a
pretty low-bred gesture!
The poor man, overwhelmed, let himself collapse upon a drum. His genuine
Moorish beauty not only knew French, but the French of Marseilles!
“I told you not to trust the Algerian girls,” observed Captain Barbassou
sententiously! “They’re as tricky as your Montenegrin prince.”