For eight days the intrepid Tartarin did not quit his search. Sometimes he could be seen hanging about the turkish baths, waiting for the women to emerge in chattering groups, scented from the bath. Sometimes he appeared at the entrance of a mosque, puffing and blowing as he removed his heavy boots before entering the sacred premises. On other occasions, at nightfall, when he was returning to the hotel, downcast at having discovered nothing at the mosque or the baths, he would hear, as he passed one of the Moorish houses, monotonous songs, the muffled sound of guitars, the rattle of tambourines and the light laughter of women, which made his heart beat faster. “Perhaps she is there” He would say to himself, and approaching the house he would lift the heavy knocker and let it fall timidly. Immediately the song and the laughter stop. Nothing can be heard within but faint vague cluckings as if in a sleeping hen-house. Hold on thinks our hero, something is about to happen, but what happened mostly was a big pot of cold water on his head, or orange peel and fig skins.... Sleep lions! Chapter 20. For two long weeks the unhappy Tartarin searched for his Algerian lady-love, and it is likely that he would be searching still, if that providence which looks after lovers had not come to his aid in the guise of a Montenegrin gentleman. The Théatre in Algiers, like the “Opera” in Paris, organises every Saturday night during the winter a Bal Masqué‚. This is, however, a provincial version. There are few people in the dance-hall; the occasional drifter from out of town, unemployed stevedores, some rustic tarts, who are in business but who still retain from their more virtuous days a faint aroma of garlic and saffron sauce... the real spectacle is in the foyer, which has been converted for the occasion into a gambling saloon. A feverish, multicoloured crowd jostles about the long green cloths. Algerian soldiers on leave, gambling their meagre pay. Moorish merchants from the upper town. Negroes. Maltese. Colonists who have come a hundred miles to wager the price of a cart or a pair of oxen on the turn of a card. Pale, tense and anxious as they watch the game. There are Algerian Jews, gambling en famille. The men in oriental costume, the women in gold coloured bodices. They gather round the table, chatter and and plan, count on their fingers, but play little. From time to time, and only after long consultation, an elderly, bearded patriarch goes to place the family stake. Then as long as play lasts there is a concentration of dark hebraic eyes on the table, which would seem to draw the gold pieces lying there as if by an invisible thread.... Then there are the quarrels. Fights. Oaths in many languages. Knives are drawn. A guard arrives. Money is missing.... In the midst of this saturnalia wandered poor Tartarin, who had come that evening in search of forgetfulness and peace of heart.