Chapter Chapter 24 · X. “Tell me your father’s name, and I will tell you the name of that
. X. “Tell me your father’s name, and I will tell you the name of that
flower.”
PRINCES of Montenegro are the ones to find the love-bird.
On the morrow early after this evening at the Platanes, Prince Gregory
was in the Tarasconian’s bedroom.
“Quick! Dress yourself quickly! Your Moorish beauty is found, Her name
is Baya. She’s scarce twenty--as pretty as a love, and already a widow.”
“A widow! What a slice of luck!” joyfully exclaimed Tartarin, who
dreaded Oriental husbands.
“Ay, but woefully closely guarded by her brother.”
“Oh, the mischief!”
“A savage chap who vends pipes in the Orleans bazaar.”
Here fell a silence.
“A fig for that!” proceeded the prince; “you are not the man to be
daunted by such a trifle; and, anyhow, this old corsair can be pacified,
I daresay, by having some pipes bought of him. But be quick! On with
your courting suit, you lucky dog!”
Pale and agitated, with his heart brimming over with love, the
Tarasconian leaped out of his couch, and, as he hastily buttoned up his
capacious nether garment, wanted to know how he should act.
“Write straightway to the lady and ask for a tryst.”
“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 an
emblematic bouquet of flowers in the Eastern fashion; but Prince Gregory
thought it better to purchase some pipes at the brother’s, which could
not fail to soften his wild temper, and would certainly please the lady
a very great deal, as she was much of a smoker.
“Let’s be off at once to buy them!” said Tartarin, full of ardour.
“No, no! Let me go alone. I can get them cheaper.”
“Eh, what? Would you save me the trouble? O prince, prince, you do me
proud!”
Quite abashed, the good-hearted fellow offered his purse to the obliging
Montenegrin, urging him to overlook nothing by which the lady would be
gratified.
Unfortunately the suit, albeit capitally commenced, did not progress
as rapidly as might have been anticipated. It appeared that the Moorish
beauty was very deeply affected by Tartarin’s eloquence, and, for that
matter, three-parts won beforehand, so that she wished nothing better
than to receive him; but that brother of hers had qualms, and to lull
them it was necessary to buy pipes by the dozens; nay, the gross--well,
we had best say by the shipload at once.
“What the plague can Baya do with all these pipes?” poor Tartarin wanted
to know more than once; but he paid the bills all the same, and without
niggardliness.
At length, after having purchased a mountainous stack of pipes and
poured forth lakes of Oriental poesy, an interview was arranged. I have
no need to tell you with what throbbings of the heart the Tarasconian
prepared himself; with what carefulness he trimmed, brilliantined, and
perfumed his rough cap-popper’s beard, and how he did not forget--for
everything must be thought of--to slip a spiky life-preserver and two or
three six-shooters into his pockets.
The ever-obliging prince was coming to this first meeting in the office
of interpreter.
The lady dwelt in the upper part of the town. Before her doorway a boy
Moor of fourteen or less was smoking cigarettes; this was the brother in
question, the celebrated Ali. On seeing the pair of visitors arrive, he
gave a double knock on the postern gate and delicately glided away.
The door opened. A negress appeared, who conducted the gentlemen,
without uttering a word, across the narrow inner courtyard into a small
cool room, where the lady awaited them, reclining on a low ottoman. At
first glance she appeared smaller and stouter than the Moorish damsel
met in the omnibus by the Tarasconian. In fact, was it really the same?
But the doubt merely flashed through Tartarin’s brain like a stroke of
lightning.
The dame was so pretty thus, with her feet bare, and plump fingers, fine
and pink, loaded with rings. Under her bodice of gilded cloth and the
folds of her flower-patterned dress was suggested a lovable creature,
rather blessed materially, rounded everywhere, and nice enough to eat.
The amber mouthpiece of a narghileh smoked at her lips, and enveloped
her wholly in a halo of light-coloured smoke.
On entering, the Tarasconian laid a hand on his heart and bowed as
Moorlike as possible, whilst rolling his large impassioned eyes.
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.