s; the
sound of her voice, the graceful, almost childlike, movements of the
head, all revealed that a young, pretty, and loveable creature bloomed
underneath the veil. The unfortunate Tartarin did not know where to
shrink. The fond, mute gaze of these splendrous Oriental orbs agitated
him, perturbed him, and made him feel like dying with flushes of heat
and fits of cold shivers.

To finish him, the lady's slipper meddled in the onslaught: he felt the
dainty thing wander and frisk about over his heavy hunting boots like a
tiny red mouse. What could he do? Answer the glance and the pressure,
of course. Ay, but what about the consequences? A loving intrigue in the
East is a terrible matter! With his romantic southern nature, the honest
Tarasconian saw himself already falling into the grip of the eunuchs,
to be decapitated, or better--we mean, worse--than that, sewn up in a
leather sack and sunk in the sea with his head under his arm beside him.
This somewhat cooled him. In the meantime the little slipper continued
its proceedings, and the eyes, widely open opposite him like twin black
velvet flowers, seemed to say:

"Come, cull us!"

The 'bus stopped on the Theatre place, at the mouth of the Rue
Bab-Azoon. One by one, embedded in their voluminous trousers, and
drawing their mufflers around them with wild grace, the Moorish women
alighted. Tartarin's confrontatress was the last to rise, and in doing
so her countenance skimmed so closely to our hero's that her breath
enveloped him--a veritable nosegay of youth and freshness, with an
indescribable after-tang of musk, jessamine, and pastry.

The Tarasconian stood out no longer. Intoxicated with love, and ready
for anything, he darted out after the beauty. At the rumpling sound of
his belts and boots she turned, laid a finger on her veiled mouth, as
one who would say, "Hush!" and with the other hand quickly tossed him a
little wreath of sweet-scented jessamine flowers. Tartarin of
Tarascon stooped to pick it up; but as he was rather clumsy, and much
overburdened with implements of war, the operation took rather long.
When he did straighten up, with the jessamine garland upon his heart,
the donatrix had vanished.

VIII. Ye Lions of the Atlas, repose in peace!

LIONS of the Atlas, sleep!--sleep tranquilly at the back of your lairs
amid the aloes and cacti. For a few days to come, any way, Tartarin
of Tarascon will not massacre you. For the time being, all his warlike