Part 14 (2/2)
”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 Ma.r.s.eilles!
”I told you not to trust the Algerian girls,” observed Captain Barba.s.sou sententiously! ”They're as tricky as your Montenegrin prince.”
Tartarin lifted his head
”Do you know where the prince is?”
”Oh, he's not far off. He has gone to live five years in the handsome prison of Mustapha. The rogue let himself be caught with his hand in the pocket. Anyways, this is not the first time he has been clapped into the calaboose. His Highness has already done three years somewhere, and--stop a bit! I believe it was at Tarascon.”
”At Tarascon!” cried out her worthiest son, abruptly enlightened.
”That's how he only knew one part of the Town.”
”Hey? Of course. Tarascon--a jail bird's-eye view from the state prison.
I tell you, my poor Monsieur Tartarin, you have to keep your peepers jolly well skinned in this deuce of a country, or be exposed to very disagreeable things. For a sample, there's the muezzin's game with you.”
”What game? Which muezzin?”
”Why your'n, of course! The chap across the way who is making up to Baya. That newspaper, the Akbar, told the yarn t'other day, and all Algiers is laughing over it even now. It is so funny for that steeplejack up aloft in his crow's-nest to make declarations of love under your very nose to the little beauty whilst singing out his prayers, and making appointments with her between bits of the Koran.”
”Why, then, they're all scamps in this country!” howled the unlucky Tarasconian.
Barba.s.sou snapped his fingers like a philosopher.
”My dear lad, you know, these new countries are 'rum!' But, anyhow, if you'll believe me, you'd best cut back to Tarascon at full speed.”
”It's easy to say, 'Cut back.' Where's the money to come from? Don't you know that I was plucked out there in the desert?”
”What does that matter?” said the captain merrily. ”The Zouave sails tomorrow, and if you like I will take you home. Does that suit you, mate? Ay? Then all goes well. You have only one thing to do. There are some bottles of fizz left, and half the pie. Sit you down and pitch in without any grudge.”
After the minute's wavering which self-respect commanded, the Tarasconian chose his course manfully. Down he sat, and they touched gla.s.ses. Baya, gliding down at that c.h.i.n.k, sang the finale of ”Marco la Bella,” and the jollification was prolonged deep into the night.
About 3 A.M., with a light head but a heavy foot, our good Tarasconian was returning from seeing his friend the captain off when, in pa.s.sing the mosque, the remembrance of his muezzin and his practical jokes made him laugh, and instantly a capital idea of revenge flitted through his brain.
The door was open. He entered, threaded long corridors hung with mats, mounted and kept on mounting till he finally found himself in a little oratory, where an openwork iron lantern swung from the ceiling, and embroidered an odd pattern in shadows upon the blanched walls.
There sat the crier on a divan, in his large turban and white pelisse, with his Mostaganam pipe, and a b.u.mper of absinthe before him, which he whipped up in the orthodox manner, whilst awaiting the hour to call true believers to prayer. At view of Tartarin, he dropped his pipe in terror.
”Not a word, knave!” said the Tarasconian, full of his project. ”Quick!
Off with turban and coat!”
The Turkish priest-crier tremblingly handed over his outer garments, as he would have done with anything else. Tartarin donned them, and gravely stepped out upon the minaret platform.
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