XII. The Latest Intelligence from Tarascon.

PARTING from his little country seat, Sidi Tart’ri was returning alone on his mule on a fine afternoon, when the sky was blue and the zephyrs warm. His legs were kept wide apart by ample saddle-bags of esparto cloth, swelled out with cedrats and water-melons. Lulled by the ring of his large stirrups, and rocking his body to the swing and swaying of the beast, the good fellow was thus traversing an adorable country, with his hands folded on his paunch, three-quarters gone, through heat, in a comfortable doze. All at once, on entering the town, a deafening appeal aroused him.

“Ahoy! What a monster Fate is! Anybody’d take this for Monsieur Tartarin.”

On this name, and at the jolly southern accent, the Tarasconian lifted his head, and perceived, a couple of steps away, the honest tanned visage of Captain Barbassou, master of the Zouave, who was taking his absinthe at the door of a little coffee-house.

“Hey! Lord love you, Barbassou!” said Tartarin, pulling up his mule.

Instead of continuing the dialogue, Barbassou stared at him for a space ere he burst into a peal of such hilarity that Sidi Tart’ri sat back dumbfounded on his melons.

“What a stunning turban, my poor Monsieur Tartarin! Is it true, what they say of your having turned Turk? How is little Baya? Is she still singing ‘Marco la Bella’?”

“Marco la Bella!” repeated the indignant Tartarin. “I’ll have you to know, captain, that the person you mention is an honourable Moorish lady, and one who does not know a word of French.”

“Baya does not know French! What lunatic asylum do you hail from, then?”

The good captain broke into still heartier laughter; but, seeing the chops of poor Sidi Tart’ri fall he changed his course.

“Howsoever, may happen it is not the same lass. Let’s reckon that I have mixed ’em up. Still, mark you, Monsieur Tartarin, you will do well, nonetheless, to distrust Algerian Moors and Montenegrin princes.”

Tartarin rose in the stirrups, making a wry face.

“The prince is my friend, captain.”

“Come, come, don’t wax wrathy. Won’t you have some bitters to sweeten you? No? Haven’t you anything to say to the folks at home, neither? Well, then, a pleasant journey. By the way, mate, I have some good French ‘bacco upon me, and if you would like to carry away a few pipefuls, you have only to take some. Take it, won’t you? It’s your beastly Oriental ‘baccoes that have befogged your brain.”

Upon this the captain went back to his absinthe, whilst the moody Tartarin trotted slow............