Oriental amorousness, and dozed, like Hannibal at Capua, in the
delights of Algiers the white.

The good fellow took a pretty little house in the native style in the
heart of the Arab town, with inner courtyard, banana-trees, cool
verandahs, and fountains. He dwelt, afar from noise, in company
with the Moorish charmer, a thorough woman to the manner born,
who pulled at her hubble-bubble all day when she was not eating.

Stretched out on a divan in front of him, Baya would drone him
monotonous tunes with a guitar in her fist; or else, to distract her
lord and master, favour him with the Bee Dance, holding a hand-
glass up, in which she reflected her white teeth and the faces she
made.

As the Esmeralda did not know a word of French, and Tartarin
none in Arabic, the conversation died away sometimes, and the
Tarasconian had plenty of leisure to do penance for the gush of
language of which he had been guilty in the shop of Bezuquet the
chemist or that of Costecalde the gunmaker.

But this penance was not devoid of charm, for he felt a kind of
enjoyable sullenness in dawdling away the whole day without
speaking, and in listening to the gurgling of the hookah, the
strumming of the guitar, and the faint splashing of the fountain on
the mosaic pavement of the yard.

The pipe, the bath, and caresses filled his entire life. They seldom
went out of doors. Sometimes with his lady-love upon a pillion,
Sidi Tart'ri would ride upon a sturdy mule to eat pomegranates in a