"Do you mean to say she knows French?" queried the Tarasconian
simpleton, with the disappointed mien of one who had believed
thoroughly in the Orient.

"Not one word of it," rejoined the prince imperturbably; "but you
can dictate the billet-doux, and I will translate it bit by bit."

"O prince, how kind you are!"

The lover began striding up and down the bedroom in silent
meditation.

Naturally a man does not write to a Moorish girl in Algiers in the
same way as to a seamstress of Beaucaire. It was a very lucky
thing that our hero had in mind his numerous readings, which
allowed him, by amalgamating the Red Indian eloquence of Gustave
Aimard's Apaches with Lamartine's rhetorical flourishes in the
"Voyage en Orient," and some reminiscences of the "Song of
Songs," to compose the most Eastern letter that you could expect
to see. It opened with:

"Like unto the ostrich upon the sandy waste" --

and concluded by:

"Tell me your father's name, and I will tell you the name of that
flower."

To this missive the romantic Tartarin would have much liked to join