With Tartarin aboard, the omnibus was now full. At the far end was an Algerian priest with a big black beard, his nose stuck in his breviary. Opposite was a young Moorish merchant, puffing at a large cigarette, then a Maltese seaman, and four or five Moorish women, with white linen masks, whose eyes alone were visible. These ladies had been on a visit to the cemetery of Abd-el-Kader, but this did not seem to have depressed them. Behind their masks they laughed and chattered among themselves and munched pastries. It seemed to Tartarin that they cast many glances in his direction, and one in particular, who was seated opposite him, fixed her gaze on him and did not remove it. Although the lady was veiled, the liveliness of her large dark eyes, emphasised by kohl, a delicate little wrist, encircled by gold bracelets, which one glimpsed from time to time amidst her draperies, the sound of her voice, the graceful movements of her head, all suggested that beneath her garments was someone young, pretty and loveable. The embarrassed Tartarin did not know which way to turn. The silent caress of these beautiful dark eyes set his heart aflutter. He blushed and paled by turns. Then to complete his downfall he felt on his massive boot the lady’s dainty slipper scurrying about like a little red mouse.... What was he to do?... Reply to these looks, this touch?... Yes... but an amorous intrigue in this part of the world can have terrible consequences. In his imagination Tartarin already saw himself seized by eunuchs, decapitated or even worse, sewn into a sack and tossed into the sea with his head beside him. This thought cooled his ardour a little, but the little slipper continued to tease and the he eyes opened very wide, like two black velvet flowers which seemed to say “Come and gather us!” The omnibus stopped. It had arrived at the Place du théatre, at the entrance to the Rue Bab Azoum. One by one, enveloped in their billowing garments and drawing their veils about them with savage grace, the Moors dismounted. Tartarin’s neighbour was the last to leave and as she rose to go her face was so close to that of our hero that their breaths mingled and he was aware of a bouquet of youth, jasmine, musk and pastries. He could no longer resist. Drunk with love and ready to face anything, he scrambled after the Moor... At the sound of his clumsy footsteps she turned and put her finger to her lips, as if to say “Hush” and with the other hand she tossed him a little scented garland made of jasmine flowers. Tartarin bent to pick it up, but as he was somewhat overweight and much encumbered by his weapons, the operation took a little time... When he rose, the garland pressed to his heart, the little Moor had disappeared. Chapter 19.