PARTING from his little country seat, Sidi Tart'ri was returning
alone on his mule on a fine afternoon, when the sky was blue and
the zephyrs warm. His legs were kept wide apart by ample saddle-
bags of esparto cloth, swelled out with cedrats and water-melons.
Lulled by the ring of his large stirrups, and rocking his body to the
swing and swaying of the beast, the good fellow was thus
traversing an adorable country, with his hands folded on his paunch,
three-quarters gone, through heat, in a comfortable doze. All at
once, on entering the town, a deafening appeal aroused him.

"Ahoy! What a monster Fate is! Anybody'd take this for Monsieur
Tartarin."

On this name, and at the jolly southern accent, the Tarasconian
lifted his head, and perceived, a couple of steps away, the honest
tanned visage of Captain Barbassou, master of the Zouave, who
was taking his absinthe at the door of a little coffee-house.

"Hey! Lord love you, Barbassou!" said Tartarin, pulling up his
mule.

Instead of continuing the dialogue, Barbassou stared at him for a
space ere he burst into a peal of such hilarity that Sidi Tart'ri sat
back dumbfounded on his melons.

"What 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'?"