Just you two share the twenty francs lacking
between you, and let us talk no more on the score."

Whereupon he turned his back upon them and mixed with the crowd. The
stormy Tartarin was going to rush after him, but the prince prevented
that.

"Let him go. I can manage my own affairs."

Taking the interventionist by the arm, he drew him rapidly out of doors.
When they were upon the square, Prince Gregory of Montenegro lifted his
hat off; extended his hand to our hero, and as he but dimly remembered
his name, he began in a vibrating voice:

"Monsieur Barbarin--"

"Tartarin!" prompted the other, timidly.

"Tartarin, Barbarin, no matter! Between us henceforward it is a league
of life and death!"

The Montenegrin noble shook his hand with fierce energy. You may infer
that the Tarasconian was proud.

"Prince, prince!" he repeated enthusiastically.

In a quarter of an hour subsequently the two gentlemen were installed in
the Platanes Restaurant, an agreeable late supper-house, with terraces
running out over the sea, where, before a hearty Russian salad, seconded
by a nice Crescia wine, they renewed the friendship.

You cannot image any one more bewitching than this Montenegrin prince.
Slender, fine, with crisp hair curled by the tongs, shaved "a week
under" and pumice-stoned on that, bestarred with out-of-the-way
decorations, he had the wily eye, the fondling gestures, and vaguely the
accent of an Italian, which gave him an air of Cardinal Mazarin without
his chin-tuft and moustaches. He was deeply versed in the Latin tongues,
and lugged in quotations from Tacitus, Horace, and Caesar's Commentaries
at every opening.

Of an old noble strain, it appeared that his brothers had had him exiled
at the age of ten, on account of his liberal opinions, since which time
he had roamed the world for pleasure and instruction as a philosophical
noble. A singular coincidence! the prince had spent three years in
Tarascon; and as Tartarin showed amazement at never having met him at
the club or on the esplanade, His Highness evasively remarked that he
never went about. Through delicacy, the Tarasconian did not dare to
question further. All great existences have such mysterious nooks.

To sum up, this Signor Gregory was a very genial aristocrat. Whilst
sipping the rosy Crescia juice he patiently listened to Tartarin's
expatiating on his lovely Moor, and he even promised to find her
speedily, as he had full knowledge of the native