hat 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 slowly on the road to his little house. Although his
great soul refused to credit anything, Barbassou's insinuations had
vexed him, and the familiar adjurations and home accent had awakened
vague remorse.

He found nobody at home, Baya having gone out to the bath. The negress
appeared sinister and the dwelling saddening. A prey to inexpressible
melancholy, he went and sat down by the fountain to load a pipe with
Barbassou's tobacco. It was wrapped up in a piece of the Marseilles
Semaphore newspaper. On flattening it out, the name of his native place
struck his eyes.

"Our Tarascon correspondent writes:--

"The city is in distress. There has been no news for several months from
Tartarin the lion-slayer, who set off to hunt the great feline tribe
in Africa. What can have become of our heroic fellow-countryman? Those
hardly dare ask who know, as we do, how hot-headed he was, and what
boldness and thirst for adventures were his. Has he, like many others,
been smothered in the sands, or has he fallen under the murderous fangs
of one of those monsters of the Atlas Range of which he had promised the
skins to th