United States or Saint Helena, Ascension, and Tristan da Cunha ? Vote for the TOP Country of the Week !
Tarascon hide your face, your Tartarin dreams of becoming apostate. One fine afternoon of blue sky and warm breeze, Sidi Tart'ri, astride his mule, was returning alone from his little garden, his legs spread widely over hay filled bags which were further swollen by citrus and water-melon.
"Marco la belle," said Tartarin indignantly, "I'll have you know Captain, that the person of whom you speak is an honest Moorish girl who doesn't know a word of French!" "Baia?... Not a word of French?... Where have you come from?" And the Captain began to laugh again, more than ever. Then noticing the long face of poor Sidi Tart'ri, he changed tack.
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'?" "Marco la Bella!" repeated the indignant Tartarin.
Baya gazed on him for a moment without making any answer; but then, dropping her pipe-stem, she threw her head back, hid it in her hands, and they could only see her white neck rippling with a wild laugh like a bag full of pearls. XI. Sidi Tart'ri Ben Tart'ri.
This Sidi Tart'ri, who has left such a merry memory around the Kasbah, is no other than our Tartarin, as will be guessed. How could you expect things otherwise? In the lives of heroes, of saints, too, it happens the same way there are moments of blindness, perturbation, and weakness.
SHOULD you ever drop into the coffee-houses of the Algerian upper town after dark, even at this day, you would still hear the natives chatting among themselves, with many a wink and slight laugh, of one Sidi Tart'ri Ben Tart'ri, a rich and good-humoured European, who dwelt, a few years back, in that neighbourhood, with a buxom witch of local origin, named Baya.
Four or five times a week they would spend the evening with Tartarin, winning his money and eating his confitures, and on the stroke of ten leaving politely, giving thanks to the Prophet. After they had left, Sidi Tart'ri and his faithful spouse would finish the evening on their terrace, a large white-walled terrace which formed the roof of the building and looked out over the town.
"I'll have you to know, captain, that the person you mention is an honourable Moorish lady, and one who does not know a word of French." "Baya does not know French! What lunatic asylum do you hail from, then?" The good captain broke into still heartier laughter; but, seeing the chops of poor Sidi Tart'ri fall he changed his course. "Howsoever, may happen it is not the same lass.
Sometimes Sidi Tart'ri, with his lady mounted on the crupper, went on mule-back to eat pomegranates in a little garden which he had bought in the neighbourhood... but never on any account did they go down to the European part of the town, which with its drunken Zouaves, its bordellos full of officers and the sound of sabres trailing on the ground beneath the arcade, seemed to him to be insupportably ugly.
Sometimes with his lady-love upon a pillion, Sidi Tart'ri would ride upon a sturdy mule to eat pomegranates in a little garden he had purchased in the suburbs. But never, without exception, did he go down into the European quarter.
Word Of The Day