TARTARIN DE TARASCON
Translated by Oliver C. Colt.
Introduction.
The tale of Tartarin de Tarascon was written by
Alphonse Daudet in 1872, and was one of the many works which he produced. In it
he pokes gentle fun at a type of Frenchman who comes from the Midi, the area
where he himself was born. Tartarin has characteristics which may remind the
English-speaking reader of Toad of Toad Hall, a boastful braggart, easily
deceived, but good-hearted au fond.
The world he inhabits is, of course, very
different from ours. There is no radio or television, the motor car is no more
than a plaything for the rich. There is only the beginnings of a telephone
system. Much sea transport is still by sailing ship and the idea of mass air
travel is in the realm of science-fiction. France lost the Franco-Prussian war
at the battle of Sedan in 1870, which accounts for the flood of refugees from
Alsasce. She had also, in the 19th century rush to carve up the African
continent, seized among other places, Algeria, which she held in subjection by
force of arms. So-called Big Game Hunters were regarded with some admiration,
and indeed it was a much more perilous activity than it is today, when high
power repeating rifles with telescopic sights make motor-borne "Sportsmen"
little more than butchers.
Daudet's humour is on the whole inoffensive,
but anti-semitism was rife in certain circles in France. It was the era of the
Dreyfus scandal, and he indulges in one or two tasteless gibes at the expense of
the Jews, which I have suppressed or at least amended. He also has a passage
which might well offend the delicate susceptabilities of the less tolerant
believers in Islam, although to anyone with a nodding acquaintance with the
tents of that faith, the incident is so far-fetched as to neutralise "The
willing suspension of disbelief" I have therefore decided to eliminate it from
this version of the story. It is not very amusing and is no great loss.
Although Daudet's humour is in the main kindly,
he does not spare the French colonial administration of the time. His treatment
of the subject is acidly satirical. It may be said that Daudet seems to know
little about firearms, less about lions and nothing about camels, but he is not
striving for verisimilitude. After all, the adventures of James Bond do not
mirror the reality of international espionage, nor do the exploits of Bertie
Wooster and Jeeves truely reflect life in the upper echelons of British society.
This is not a schoolroom exercise in
translation. It might be more accurately described as a version in English. I
have not tampered with the story line nor made any changes in the events
related, but where I thought it necessary I have not shrunk from altering the
words and phrases used in the original to describe them. All translation must be
a matter of paraphrase. What sounds well in one language may sound ridiculous if
translated literally into another, and it is for the translator to judge how far
this process of paraphrase may be carried.
I have attempted to produce a text which will
entertain the average reader. Those who want to know exactly what Daudet wrote
must consult the French original.
TARTARIN DE TARASCON
Chapter 1.
Although it is now some twelve or fifteen years
since my first meeting with Tartarin de Tarascon, the memory of the encounter
remains as fresh as if it had been yesterday.
At that time Tartarin lived near the entrance
to the town, in the third house on the left on the Avignon road, a pretty little
Tarascon villa, with a garden in front, a balcony behind, very white walls and
green shutters.
From outside the place looked perfectly
ordinary, one would never have believed that it was the home of a hero, but when
one went inside, well... My goodness! The whole establishment had an heroic air,
even the garden!
Ah...! The Garden... there was not another like
it in Europe. Not one indigenous tree grew there, not one French flower; nothing
but exotic plants, gum trees, calabashes, cotton trees, coconut palms, mangos,
bananas, cactuses, figs and a baobab. One might have thought oneself in the
middle of Africa, thousands of miles from Tarascon. Of course none of these
trees was fully grown, the coconut palm was about the size of a swede and the
baobab (arbos gigantica) fitted comfortably into a pot full of earth and gravel.
No matter.... For Tarascon it was quite splendid, and those citizens who were
admitted, on Sundays, to have the privilege of inspecting Tartarin's baobab went
home full of admiration.
You may imagine my emotions as I walked through
this remarkable garden... they were nothing, however, to what I felt on being
admitted to the sanctum of the great man himself.
This building, one of the curiosities of the
town, was at the end of the garden, to which it opened through a glass door.
Picture a large room hung from floor to ceiling with firearms and swords;
weapons from every country in the world. Guns, carbines, rifles, blunderbusses,
knives, spears, revolvers, daggers, arrows, assegais, knobkerries,
knuckledusters and I know not what.
The brilliant sunlight glittered on the steel
blades of sabres and the polished butts of firearms. It was really quite a
menacing scene... what was a little reassuring was the good order and discipline
which ruled over this arsenal. Everything was neat tidy and dusted. Here and
there a simple notice, reading "Poison arrows, Do not touch." or "Beware. Loaded
firearms." made one feel it safe to approach.
In the middle of the room was a table. On the
table was a flagon of rum, a turkish tobacco pouch, The voyages of Captain Cook,
stories of adventure, treatises on falconry, descriptions of big-game hunts
etc... and finally seated at the table was the man himself. Forty to forty-five
years of age, short, fat, stocky and ruddy, clad in shirt-sleeves and flannel
trousers, with a close-clipped wiry beard and a flamboyant eye. In one hand he
held a book and with the other he brandished an enormous pipe, its bowl covered
by a metal cap; and as he read some stirring tale of the pursuit of hairy
creatures, he made, pushing out his lower lip, a fierce grimace which gave his
features, those of a comfortable Tarascon "Rentier", the same air of hearty
ferocity which was evident throughout the whole house. This man was Tartarin...
Tartarin de Tarascon... the intrepid, great and incomparable Tartarin de
Tarascon.
At that time Tartarin was not the Tartarin
which he is today, the great Tartarin de Tarascon who is so popular throughout
the Midi of France, however, even at this epoch, he was already the king of
Tarascon.
Let us examine how he acquired his crown. You
will be aware, for a start, that everyone in these parts is a hunter. From the
highest to the lowest hunting is a passion with the Tarasconais and has been
ever since the legendary Tarasque prowled in the marshes near the town and was
hunted down by the citizens.
Now, every Sunday morning, the men of Tarascon
take up arms and leave town, bag on back and gun on shoulder, with an excited
collection of dogs, with ferrets, with trumpets and hunting horns, it is a
splendid spectacle.... Sadly, however, there is a shortage of game... in fact
there is a total absence of game.... Animals may be dumb but they are not
stupid, so for miles around Tarascon the burrows are empty and the nests
abandoned. There is not a quail, not a blackbird, not the smallest rabbit nor
even the tiniest wheatear.
These pretty little Tarascon hills, scented
with lavender, myrtle and rosemary are very tempting, and those fine muscat
grapes, swollen with sugar, which line the banks of the Rhone, are wonderfully
appetising... yes, but there is Tarascon in he distance, and in the world of fur
and feather Tarascon is bad news. The birds of passage seem to have marked it
with a cross on their maps, and when the long wedges of wild duck, heading for
the Camargue, see far off the town's steeples, the whole flight veers away. In
short there is nothing left by way of game in this part of the country but an
old rascal of a hare, who has escaped by some miracle the guns of Tarascon and
appears determined to stay there. This hare is well known. He has been given a
name. He is called "Speedy". He is known to live on land belonging to M.
Bompard... which, by the way, has doubled or even tripled its value. No one has
yet been able to catch him, and at the present time there are not more than two
or three fanatics who go after him. The rest have given up and Speedy has become
something of a protected species, though the Tarasconais are not very
conservation minded and would make a stew of the rarest of creatures, if they
managed to shoot one.
Now, you may say, "Since game is in such short
supply, what do these Tarasconais sportsmen do every Sunday?" What do they do?
Eh! Mon Dieu! They go out into the country, several miles from the town. They
assemble in little groups of five or six. They settle down comfortably in some
shady spot. They take out of their game-bags a nice piece of boeuf-en-daube,
some raw onions, a sausage and some anchovies and they begin a very long
luncheon, washed down by one of these jolly Rhone wines, which encourage singing
and laughter.
When all have had enough, they whistle for the
dogs, load their guns and commence the shoot. That is to say each of these
gentlemen takes off his hat, sends it spinning through the air with all his
strength and takes a pot-shot at it. The one who hits his hat most frequently is
proclaimed king of the hunt and returns to Tarascon that evening in triumph, his
perforated hat hanging from the end of his gun and to the accompaniment of much
barking and blowing of trumpets.
One need hardly tell you that there is a brisk
trade in hats in the town, and there are even hatters who sell hats already full
of holes and tears for use by the less skillful, but scarcely anyone is known to
buy them except Bezuquet the chemist.
As a hat shooter Tartarin had no equal. Every
Sunday morning he left with a new hat. Every evening he returned with a rag. In
the little house of the baobab, the attic was full of these glorious trophies.
All of Tarascon recognised him as their master in this respect. The gentlemen
elected him as their chief justice in matters relating to the chase and
arbitrator in any dispute, so that every day, between the hours of three and
four in the afternoon, at Costecalde the gunsmith's one could see the plump
figure of a man, seated gravely on a green leather arm-chair, in the middle of
the shop, which was full of hat hunters standing about and arguing. It was
Tartarin delivering justice. Nimrod doubling as Soloman.
Chapter 2.
In addition to their passion for hunting the
good people of Tarascon had another passion, which was for drawing-room ballads.
The number of ballads which were sung in this part of the world passed all
belief. All the old sentimental songs, yellowing in ancient cardboard boxes,
could be found in Tarascon alive and flourishing. Each family had its own ballad
and in the town this was well understood. One knew, for example, that for
Bezuquet the chemist it was:-"Thou pale star whom I adore."
For the gunsmith Costecalde:-"Come with me to
the forest glade."
For the Town Clark:—"If I was invisible, no one
would see me." (a comic song) Two or three times a week people would gather in
one house or another and sing, and the remarkable thing is that the songs were
always the same. No matter for how long they had been singing them, the people
of Tarascon had no desire to change them. They were handed down in families from
father to son and nobody dared to interfere with them, they were sacrosanct.
They were never even borrowed. It would never occur to the Bezuquets to sing the
Costecaldes' song or to the Costecaldes to sing that of the Bezuquets. You might
suppose that having known them for some forty years they might sometimes sing
them to themselves, but no, everyone stuck to his own.
In the matter of ballads, as in that of hats,
Tartarin played a leading role. His superiority over his fellow citizens arose
from the fact that he did not have a song of his own, and so he could take part
in all of them, only it was extremely difficult to get him to sing at all.
Returning early from some drawing-room success,
our hero preferred to immerse himself in his books on hunting or spend the
evening at the club rather than join in a sing-song round a Nimes piano, between
two Tarascon candles. He felt that musical evenings were a little beneath him.
Sometimes, however, when there was music at
Bezuquet the chemists, he would drop in as if by chance, and after much
persuasion he would consent to take part in the great duet from "Robert le
Diable" with madame Bezuquet the elder.
Anyone who has not heard this has heard
nothing. For my part, if I live to be a hundred, I shall always recall the great
Tartarin approaching the piano with solemn steps, leaning his elbow upon it,
making his grimace and in the greenish light reflected from the chemist's jars,
trying to give his homely face the savage and satanic expression of Robert le
Diable.
As soon as he had taken up his position, a
quiver of expectation ran through the gathering. One felt that something great
was about to happen.
After a moment of silence, madame Bezuquet the
elder, accompanying herself on the piano, began:
"Robert, thou whom I adore
And in whom I trust,
You see my fear (twice)
Have mercy on yourself
And mercy on me."
She added, sotto voce, "Its you now Tartarin."
Then Tartarin, with arm extended, clenched fist
and quivering nostrils, said three times in a formidable voice which rolled like
a clap of thunder in the entrails of the piano "Non! Non! Non!" Which as a good
southerner he pronounced "Nan. Nan. Nan" Upon which madame Bezuquet repeated
"Mercy on yourself and on me" "Nan! Nan! Nan!" Bellowed Tartarin even more
loudly... and the matter ended there.... It was not very long, but it was so
well presented, so well acted, so diabolic that a frisson ran round the pharmacy
and he was made to repeat his "Nan. Nan. Nan." four or five times.
Afterwards Tartarin wiped his forehead, smiled
at the ladies, winked at the men and went off triumphantly to the club, where,
with a casual air, he would say, "I've just come from the Bezuquets. They had me
singing in the duet from Robert le Diable." What is more he believed it.
Chapter 3.
It was to the possession of these various
talents that Tartarin owed his high standing in the town. There were, however,
other ways in which he had made his mark on society.
In Tarascon the army supported Tartarin. The
gallant Commandant Bravida (Quartermaster. Ret) said of him "He's a stout
fellow," and one may suppose that having kitted out so many stout fellows in his
time, he knew what he was talking about.
The magistrature supported Tartarin. Two or
three times, on a full bench, the aged president Ladevèze had said of him "He's
quite a character".
Finally, the people supported Tartarin, his
stolid appearance, the heroic reputation he had somehow acquired, the
distribution of small sums of money and a few clips round the ear to the
youngsters who hung around his doorstep, had made him lord of the neighbourhood
and king of the Tarascon market-place. On the quay, on sunday evenings, when
Tartarin returned from the hunt, his hat dangling from the end of his gun, the
stevedores would nod to him respectfully and eying the arms bulging the sleeves
of his tightly buttoned jacket, would murmur to one another, "He's strong he is.
He's got double muscles." The possession of double muscles is something you hear
about only in Tarascon.
However, in spite of his numerous talents,
double muscles, popular favour and the so precious esteem of the gallant
Commandant Bravida (Quartermaster. Ret) Tartarin was not happy. This small-town
life weighed him down, stifled him. The great man of Tarascon was bored with
Tarascon. The fact is that for an heroic nature such as his, for a daring and
adventurous spirit which dreamt of battles, explorations, big game hunting,
desert sands, hurricanes and typhoons, to go every Sunday hat shooting and for
the rest of the time dispense justice at Costecalde the gunsmith's was...
well... hardly satisfying. It was enough indeed to send one into a decline.
In vain, in order to widen his horizon and
forget for a while the club and the market square, did he surround himself with
African plants; in vain did he pile up a collection of weapons; in vain did he
pore over tales of daring-do trying to escape by the power of his imagination
from the pitiless grip of reality. Alas all that he did to satisfy his lust for
adventure seemed only to increase it. The sight of his weapons kept him in a
perpetual state of furious agitation. His rifles, his arrows and his spears rang
out war-cries. In the branches of the baobab the wind whispered enticingly of
great voyages.
How often on these heavy summer afternoons,
when he was alone, reading amongst his weaponry, did Tartarin jump to his feet
and throwing down his book rush to the wall to arm himself, then, quite
forgetting that he was in his own house at Tarascon, cry, brandishing a gun or a
spear, "Let them all come"!!... Them?... What them? Tartarin did not quite know
himself, "Them" was everything that attacked, that bit, that clawed. "Them" was
the Indian brave dancing round the stake to which his wretched prisoner was
tied. It was the grizzly bear, shuffling and swaying, licking bloodstained lips.
The Toureg of the desert, the Malay pirate, the Corsican bandit. In a word it
was "Them!"
Alas it was fruitless for the fearless Tartarin
to challenge them... they never appeared; but though it seemed unlikely that
they would come to Tarascon, Tartarin was always ready for them, particularly in
the evenings when he went to the club.
Chapter 4.
The knight of the temple preparing for a sortie
against the Saracen. The Chinese warrior equipping himself for battle. The
Comanchee brave taking to the warpath were as nothing compared to Tartarin de
Tarascon arming himself to go to the club at nine o'clock on a dark evening, an
hour after the bugle had blown the retreat. He was cleared for action as the
sailors say.
On his left hand he had a metal knuckleduster.
In his right he carried a sword-stick. In his left pocket there was a cosh and
in his right a revolver. Stuck into his waistband was a knife. Before setting
out, in the privacy of his den, he carried out a few exercises. He made a pass
at the wall with his sword-stick, drew his revolver, flexed his muscles and then
taking his identity papers he crossed the garden... steadily... unhurriedly... à
l'Anglais. That is the mark of true courage.
At the end of the garden he opened the heavy
iron gate. He opened it brusquely, violently, so that it banged against the
wall. If "They" had been behind it, it would have made a fine mess of them.
Unfortunately they were not behind it.
Having opened the gate Tartarin went out, cast
a quick look right and left, closed the gate swiftly and double locked it. Then
he set off.
On the Avignon road there was not so much as a
cat. Doors were shut and curtains drawn across windows. Here and there a street
light blinked in the mist rising from the Rhône.
Superb and calm Tartarin de Tarascon strode
through the night, his heels striking the road with measured tread and the metal
tip of his cane raising sparks from the paving-stones. On boulevards, roads or
lanes he was always careful to walk in the middle of the causeway, an excellent
precaution which allows one to see approaching danger and moreover to avoid
things which at night, in the streets of Tarascon, sometimes fall from windows.
Seeing this prudence you should not entertain the notion that Tartarin was
afraid. No! He was just being cautious.
The clearest evidence that Tartarin was
unafraid is that he went to the club not by the short way but by the longest and
darkest way, through a tangle of mean little streets, at the end of which one
glimpsed the sinister gleam of the Rhone. He almost hoped that at a bend in one
of these alleys "They" would come rushing from the shadows to attack him from
behind. They would have had a hot reception I can promise you; but sadly
Tartarin was never fated to encounter any danger... not even a dog... not even a
drunk... Nothing.
Sometimes however there was an alarm. The sound
of footsteps... Muffled voices. Tartarin comes to a halt, peering into the
shadows, sniffing the air, straining his ears. The steps draw nearer, the voices
more distinct... there can be no doubt..."They" are here. With heaving breast
and eyes ablaze Tartarin is gathering himself like a jaguar and preparing to
leap on his foes, when suddenly out of the gloom a good Tarasconais voice calls
"Look! There's Tartarin! Hulloa there Tartarin!" Malediction! It is Bezuquet the
chemist and his family who have been singing their ballad at the Costecaldes.
"Bon soir, bon soir" growls Tartarin, furious at his mistake, and shouldering
his cane he disappears angrily into the night.
Arrived at the club the fearless Tarasconais
waits a little longer, walking up and down in front of the door before entering.
In the end, tired of waiting for "them" and certain that they will not show
themselves, he throws a last look of defiance into the dark and mutters crossly
"Nothing... nothing... always nothing" With that our hero goes in to play
bezique with the Commandant.
Chapter 5.
With this lust for adventure, this need for
excitement, this longing for journeys to Lord knows where, how on earth, you may
ask, does it happen that Tartarin had never left Tarascon? For it is a fact that
up to the age of forty-five the bold Tarasconais had never slept away from his
home town. He had never even made the ritual journey to Marseille which every
good Provencal makes when he comes of age. He might, of course, have visited
Beaucaire, albeit Beaucaire is not very far from Tarascon, as one has only to
cross the bridge over the Rhône. Regrettably, however, this wretched bridge is
so often swept by high winds, is so long and so flimsy and the river at that
point is so wide that... Ma foi... you will understand...!
At this point I think one has to admit that
there were two sides to our hero's character. On the one hand was the spirit of
Don Quixote, devoted to chivalry, to heroic ideals, to grandiose romantic folly,
but lacking the body of the celebrated hidalgo, that thin, bony apology of a
body, careless of material wants, capable of going for twenty nights without
unbuckling its breastplate and surviving for twenty-four hours on a handful of
rice. Tartarin, on the other hand, had a good solid body, fat, heavy, sybaritic,
soft and complaining, full of bourgeois appetites and domestic necessities, the
short-legged, full-bellied body of Sancho Panza.
Don Quixote and Sancho Panza in the same man!
You may imagine the arguments, the quarrels, the fights. Carried away by some
lurid tale of adventure, Tartarin-Quixote would clamour to be off to the fields
of glory, to set sail for distant lands, but then Tartarin-Sancho ringing for
the maid servant, would say "Jeanette, my chocolate." Upon which Jeanette would
return with a fine cup of chocolate, hot, silky and scented, and some succulent
grilled snacks, flavoured with anise; greatly pleasing Tartarin-Sancho and
silencing the cries of Tartarin-Quixote.
That is how it happens that Tartarin de
Tarascon had never left Tarascon.
Chapter 6.
There was one occasion when Tartarin nearly
went on a long journey. The three brothers Garcio-Camus, Tarasconais who were in
business in Shanghai, offered him the management of one of their establishments.
Now this was the sort of life he needed. Important transactions. An office full
of clerks to control. Relations with Russia, Persia, Turkey. In short, Big
Business, which in Tartarin's eyes was of enormous proportions.
The establishment had another advantage in that
it was sometimes attacked by bandits. On these occasions the gates were slammed
shut, the staff armed themselves, the consular flag was hoisted and "Pan! Pan!"
They fired through the windows at the bandits.
I need hardly tell you with what enthusiasm
Tartarin-Quixote greeted this proposal; unfortunately Tartarin-Sancho did not
see the matter in the same light, and as his views prevailed the affair came to
nothing.
At the time there was a great deal of talk in
the town. Was he going or not going? It was a matter for eager discussion.
Although in the end Tartarin did not go, the
event brought him a great deal of credit. To have nearly gone to Shanghai and
actually to have gone there was for Tarascon much the same thing. As a result of
so much talk about Tartarin's journey, people ended by believing that he had
just returned, and in the evenings at the club the members would ask him for a
description of the life in Shanghai, the customs, the climate, and big business.
Tartarin, who had gathered much information
from the brothers was happy to reply to their questions, and before long he was
not entirely sure himself whether he had been to Shanghai or not; so much so
that when describing for the hundredth time the raid by bandits he got to the
point of saying "Then I dished out arms to my staff. Hoisted the consular flag
and we fired 'Pan! Pan!' Through the windows at the bandits." On hearing this
the members would exchange suitably solemn looks.
Tartarin then, you will say, is just a
frightful liar. No!.... A thousand times no! How is that? you may say, he must
know vey well that he has not been to Shanghai... to be sure he knows...
only.... Perhaps the time has come when we should settle the question of the
reputation for lying which has been given to the people of the Midi.
There are no liars in the Midi, neither at
Marseille, nor Nimes, nor Toulouse, nor Tarascon. The man of the Midi does not
lie, he deceives himself. He does not always speak the truth but he believes he
speaks it. His untruth, for him, is not a lie, it is a sort of mirage. To
understand better you must visit the Midi yourself. You will see a countryside
where the sun transfigures everything and makes it larger than life-size. The
little hills of Provence, no bigger than the Butte Montmartre will seem to you
gigantic. The Maison Carrée at Nimes, a pretty little Roman temple, will seem to
you as big as Notre Dame. You will see that the only liar in the Midi, if there
is one, is the sun; everything that he touches he exaggerates. Can you be
surprised that this sun shining down on Tarascon has been able to make a retired
Captain Quartermaster into the gallant Commandant Bravida, to make a thing like
a turnip into a baobab and a man who almost went to Shanghai into one who has
really been there.
Chapter 7.
Now that we have shown Tartarin as he was in
his private life, before fame had crowned his head with laurels. Now that we
have recounted the story of his heroic existance in modest surroundings, the
story of his joys and sorrows, his dreams and his hopes, let us hurry forward to
the important pages of his history and to the event which lent wings to his
destiny.
It was one evening at Costecalde the
gunsmith's; Tartarin was explaining to some listeners the working of a pin-fire
rifle, then something quite new, when suddenly the door was opened and a hat
hunter rushed into the room in a great state shouting "A lion! a lion!" General
amazement, fright, tumult and confusion. Tartarin grabbed a bayonet, Costecalde
ran to close the door. The newcomer was surrounded and questioned nosily. What
they learned was that the Menagerie Mitaine, returning from the fair at
Beaucaire, had arranged to make a stop of several days at Tarascon, and had just
set itself up in the Place du Château with a collection of snakes, seals,
crocodiles, and a magnificent African lion.... An African lion at Tarascon!...
such a thing had never been seen before, never in living memory.
The brave band of hat hunters gazed proudly at
one another. Their manly features glowed with pleasure and, in every corner of
the shop, firm handshakes were silently exchanged. The emotion was so
overwhelming, so unforseen that no one could find a word to say. Not even
Tartarin. Pale and trembling, with the new rifle clutched in his hands, he stood
in a trance at the shop counter. A lion!... an African lion!... nearby... a few
paces away... A lion, the ferocious king of the beasts... the quarry of his
dreams... one of the leading actors in that imaginary cast which played out such
fine dramas in his fantasies. It was too much for Tartarin to bear. Suddenly the
blood flooded to his cheeks. His eyes blazed, and with a convulsive gesture he
slapped the rifle onto his shoulder, then turning to the brave Commandant
Bravida (quartermaster. Ret) he said in a voice of thunder, "Come, Commandant,
let us go and see this." "Excuse me. Excuse me. My new rifle." The prudent
Costecalde hazarded timidly, but Tartarin was already in the street, and behind
him all the hat hunters fell proudly into step.
When they arrived at the menagerie it was
already crowded. The brave people of Tarascon, too long deprived of sensational
spectacles, had descended on the place and taken it by storm. The big madame
Mitaine was in her element; dressed in an oriental costume, her arms bare to the
elbows and with iron bracelets round her ankles, she had a whip in one hand and
in the other a live chicken. She welcomed the Tarasconais to the show, and as
she too had "Double muscles" she aroused almost as much interest as the animals
in her charge.
The arrival of Tartarin with the rifle on his
shoulder produced something of a chill, all the bold Tarasconais who had been
walking tranquilly before the cages, unarmed, trusting, with no notion of
danger, became suddenly alarmed at the sight of the great Tartarin entering the
place, carrying this lethal weapon. There must be something to fear if he, their
hero.... In the blink of an eye the area in front of the cages was deserted,
children were crying with fright and the ladies were eying the doorway. Bezuquet
the chemist left hurridly, saying that he was going to fetch a gun.
Little by little, however, the attitude of
Tartarin restored their courage. Calm and erect, the intrepid Tarasconais
strolled round the menagerie. He passed the seals without stopping. He cast a
contemptuous eye on the container full of noise, where the boa was swallowing
its chicken, and at last halted in front of the lion's cage.... A dramatic
confrontation.... The lion of Tarascon and the lion of the Atlas mountains face
to face.
On one side stood Tartarin, his legs planted
firmly apart, his arms resting on his rifle, on the other was the lion, a
gigantic lion, sprawling in the straw, blinking its eyes drowsily and resting
its enormous yellow-haired muzzle on its front paws... they regarded one another
calmly... then something odd happened. Perhaps it was the sight of the rifle,
perhaps it recognised an enemy of its kind, but the lion which up until then had
looked on the people of Tarascon with sovereign disdain, yawning in their faces,
seemed to feel a stirring of anger. First it sniffed and uttered a rumbling
growl, it stretched out its forefeet and unsheathed its claws, then it got up,
raised its head, shook its mane, opened its huge maw and directed at Tartarin a
most ear-splitting roar.
This was greeted by a cry of terror. Tarascon,
in panic, rushed for the doors. Everyone, men, women, children, the hat shooters
and even the brave Commandant Bravida himself. Only Tartarin did not move... he
remained firm and resolute before the cage, a light shining in his eyes, and
wearing that grim expression which the town knew so well. After a few moments,
the hat shooters, somewhat reassured by his attitude and the solidity of the
cage bars, rejoined their chief, to hear him mutter "Now that is something worth
hunting." And that was all that he said.
Chapter 8.
Although at the memagerie he had said nothing
more, he had already said too much. The following day all the talk of the town
was of the impending departure of Tartarin for Africa, to shoot lions.
You will bear witness that the good fellow had
not breathed a word of this, but you know how it is... the mirage.... In short
the whole of Tarascon could talk of nothing else.
On the pavement, at the club, at Costecalde's
shop, people accosted one another with an air of excitement.
"Et autrement, have you heard the latest, au
moins?"
"Et autrement, what now, is Tartarin going, au
moins?" For in Tarascon every remark begins with "Et autrement" which is
pronounced "autremain" and ends with "au moins" which is pronounced "au mouain"
and in these days the sound of "autremain" and "au mouain" was enough to rattle
the windows.
The most surprised person in the town to hear
that he was leaving for Africa was Tartarin, but now see the effects of vanity.
Instead of replying that he was not going and had never intended to go, poor
Tartarin, on the first occasion that the subject was broached adopted a somewhat
evasive air, "Hé!... Hé!... perhaps... I can't say." On the second occasion, now
a little more accustomed to the idea, he replied "Probably" and on the third
"Yes, definitely."
Eventually, one evening at the club, carried
away by some glasses of egg-nog, the public interest and the plaudits, he
declared formally that he was tired of shooting at hats and was going shortly in
pursuit of the great lions of Africa.
A loud cheer greeted this declaration, then
came more egg-nog, handshakes, embraces and torchlight serenades until midnight
before the little house of the baobab.
Tartarin-Sancho, however, was far from pleased.
The idea of travelling to Africa and hunting lions scared him stiff and when
they went into the house, and while the serenade of honour was still going on
outside, he made the most frightful scene with Tartarin-Quixote, calling him a
crazy dreamer, a rash triple idiot and detailing one by one the catastrophes
which would await him on such an expedition. Shipwreck, fever, dysentery,
plague, elephantiasis and so on... it was useless for Tartarin-Quixote to swear
that he would be careful, that he would dress warmly, that he would take with
him everything that might be needed, Tartarin-Sancho refused to listen. The poor
fellow saw himself already torn to pieces by lions or swallowed up in the sands
of the desert, and the other Tartarin could pacify him only a little by pointing
out that these were plans for the future, that there was no hurry, that they had
not yet actually started.
Obviously one cannot embark on such an
expedition without some preparation. One cannot take off like a bird. As a first
measure Tartarin set about reading the reports of the great African explorers,
the journals of Livingstone, Burton, Caille and the like, there he saw that
those intrepid travellers, before they put their boots on for these distant
excursions, prepared themselves in advance to undergo hunger, thirst, long treks
and privations of all sorts.
Tartarin decided to follow their example and
took to a diet of "Eau bouillie". What is called eau bouillie in Tarascon
consists of several slices of bread soaked in warm water, with a clove of
garlic, a little thyme and a bay leaf. It is not very palatable and you may
imagine how Tartarin-Sancho enjoyed it.
Tartarin de Tarascon combined this with several
other sensible methods of training. For instance, to habituate himself to long
marches he would go round his morning constitutional seven or eight times,
sometimes at a brisk walk, sometimes at the trot with two pebbles in his mouth.
Then to accustom himself to nocturnal chills and the mists of dawn, he went into
the garden and stayed there until ten or eleven at night, alone with his rifle,
on watch behind the baobab.
Finally, for as long as the menagerie remained
in Tarascon, those hat hunters who had stayed late at Costecalde's could see in
the shadows, as they passed the Place du Château, a figure pacing up and down
behind the cages... it was Tartarin training himself to listen unmoved to the
roaring of lions in the African night.
Chapter 9.
While Tartarin was preparing himself by these
strenuous methods, all Tarascon had its eyes on him. Nothing else was of
interest. Hat shooting was abandoned, the ballads languished; in Bezuquet the
chemist's the piano was silent beneath a green dust cover, with cantharides
flies drying, belly up, on the top... Tartarin's expedition had brought
everything to a halt.
You should have seen the success of our hero in
the drawing-rooms. He was seized, squabbled over, borrowed and stolen. There was
no greater triumph for the ladies than to go, on the arm of Tartarin, to the
menagerie Mitaine and to have him explain, in front of the lion's cage, how one
goes about hunting these great beasts, at what point one aims and at what
distance, whether there are many accidents, and so on... through his reading
Tartarin had gained almost as much knowledge about lion hunting as if he had
actually engaged in it himself, and so he spoke of these matters with much
authority.
Where Tartarin really excelled, however, was
after dinner at the home of president Ladevèze or the brave Commandant Bravida
(quartermaster. Ret) when coffee had been served and the chairs pulled together,
then with his elbow on the table, between sips of his coffee, our hero gave a
moving description of all the dangers which awaited him "Over there" He spoke of
long moonless watches, of pestilential marshes, of rivers poisoned by the leaves
of oleanders, of snows, scorching suns, scorpions and clouds of locusts; he also
spoke of the habits of the great lions of the Atlas, their phenomenal strength,
their ferocity in the mating season.... Then, carried away by his own words, he
would rise from the table and bound into the middle of the room, imitating the
roar of the lion, the noise of the rifle "Pan! Pan!" The whistle of the bullet.
Gesticulating, shouting, knocking over chairs... while at the table faces are
grave, the men looking at one another and nodding their heads, the ladies
closing their eyes with little cries of alarm. A grandfather brandishes his
walking-stick in a bellicose manner and, in the next room, the small children
who have been put to bed earlier are startled out of their sleep by the banging
and bellowing, and greatly frightened demand lights.
Tartarin, however, showed no sign of leaving
for Africa... did he really have any intention of going? That is a delicate
question and one to which his biographer would find difficulty in replying. The
fact is that the menagerie had now been gone for three months but the killer of
lions had not budged... could it be that our innocent hero, blinded perhaps by a
new mirage, honestly believed that he had been to Africa, and by talking so much
about his hunting expedition believed that it had actually taken place.
Unfortunately, if this was the case and Tartarin had once more fallen victim to
the mirage, the people of Tarascon had not. When it was observed that after
three months of waiting the hunter had not packed a single bag, people began to
talk.
"This will turn out to be another Shanghai."
Said Costecalde, smiling, and this remark spread round the town like wildfire,
for people had lost their belief in Tartarin. The ignorant, the chicken-hearted,
people like Bezuquet, whom a flea could put to flight, and who could not fire a
gun without closing both eyes, these above all were pitiless. At the club, on
the esplanade, they accosted poor Tartarin with little mocking remarks, "Et
autremain, what about this trip then?" At Costecalde's shop his opinion was no
longer law. The hat hunters had deserted their leader.
Then there were the epigrams. President
Ladevèze who in his spare time dabbled in provencal poetry, composed a little
song in dialect which was a great success. It concerned a certain hunter named
master Gervaise whose redoubtable rifle was to exterminate every last lion in
Africa. Sadly this rifle had a singular fault, although always loaded it never
went off.... It never went off... you will understand the allusion. This song
achieved instant popularity, and when Tartarin was passing, the stevedores on
the quay and the grubby urchins hanging round his door would chant this
insulting little ditty... only they sang it from a safe distance because of the
double muscles.
The great man himself pretended to see nothing,
to hear nothing. Although at heart this underhand, venomous campaign hurt him
deeply, in spite of his suffering, he continued to go about his life with a
smile; but sometimes the mask of cheerful indifference which pride had pinned on
his features slipped, then instead of laughter one saw indignation and grief. So
it was one morning when some street urchins were chanting their jeers beneath
the window of the room where our poor hero was trimming his beard. Suddenly the
window was thrown open and Tartarin's head appeared, his face covered in
soapsuds, waving a razor and shaving brush and shouting "Sword-thrusts,
gentlemen, sword-thrusts, not pin-pricks!" Fine words but wasted on a bunch of
brats about two bricks tall.
Amid the general defection, the army alone
stood firmly by Tartarin, the brave Commandant Bravida continued to treat him
with esteem. "He's a stout fellow," He persisted in saying, and this affirmation
was worth a good deal more, I should imagine, than anything said by Bezuquet the
chemist.
The gallant Commandant had never uttered a word
about the African journey, but at last, when the public clamour became too loud
to ignore, he decided to speak.
One evening, the unhappy Tartarin was alone in
his study thinking sad thoughts, when the Commandant appeared, somberly dressed
and gloved, with every button fastened "Tartarin!" said the former captain, with
authority, "Tartarin, you must go!" and he stood, upright and rigid in the
doorway, the very embodiment of duty.
All that was implied in that "Tartarin you must
go" Tartarin understood. Very pale, he rose to his feet and cast a tender look
round his pleasant study, so snug, so warm, so well lit, and at the the large,
so comfortable armchair, at his books, his carpet and at the big white blinds of
his window, beyond which swayed the slender stems of the little garden. Then
advancing to the the brave Commandant, he took his hand, shook it vigorously and
in a voice close to tears said stoically, "I shall go, Bravida." And he did go
as he had said he would. Though not before he had gathered the necessary
equipment.
First, he ordered from Blompard two large cases
lined with copper and with a large plaque inscribed TARTARIN DE TARASCON.
FIREARMS. The lining and the engraving took a long time. He ordered from M.
Tastevin a magnificent log-book in which to write his journal. Then he sent to
Marseille for a whole cargo of preserved food, for pemmican tablets to make
soup, for a bivouac tent of the latest design, which could be erected or struck
in a few minutes, a pair of sea-boots, two umbrellas, a waterproof and a pair of
dark glasses to protect his eyes. Finally, Bezuquet the chemist made up a
medicine chest full of sticking plaster, pills and lotions. All these
preparations were made in the hope that by these and other delicate attentions
he could appease the fury of Tartarin-Sancho, which, since the departure had
been decided, had raged unabated by day and by night.
Chapter 10.
At last the great day arrived. From first light
the whole of Terascon was afoot, blocking the Avignon road and the approaches to
the little house of the baobab. There were people at windows, on roofs, up
trees. Bargees from the Rhône, stevedores, boot-blacks, clerks, weavers, the
club members, in fact the whole town. Then there were people from Beaucaire who
had come across the bridge, market-gardeners from the suburbs, carts with big
hoods, vignerons mounted on fine mules ornamented with ribbons, tassels, bows
and bells, and even here and there some pretty girls from Arles, with blue
kerchiefs round their heads, riding on the crupper behind their sweethearts on
the small iron-grey horses of the Camargue. All this crowd pushed and jostled
before Tartarin's gate, the gate of this fine M. Tartarin who was going to kill
lions in the country of the "Teurs". (In Tarascon: Africa, Greece, Turkey and
Mesopotamia formed a vast, vague almost mythical country which was called the
Teurs... that is the Turks). Throughout this mob the hat shooters came and went,
proud of the triumph of their leader, and leaving in their wake, as it were,
little trails of glory.
In front of the house of the baobab there were
two large handcarts. From time to time the gate was opened and one could see men
walking busily about in the garden. They carried out trunks, cases and
carpet-bags which they piled onto the carts. On the arrival of each new package
the crowd stirred and a description of the article was shouted out. "That's his
tent! There's the preserved foods! The medicine chest! The arms chest!" While
the hat shooters gave a running commentary.
Suddenly, at about ten o'clock, there was a
great movement in the crowd. The garden gate swung back violently on its
hinges.... "It's him!.... Its him!" they cried.
It was indeed him. When he appeared on the
threshold, two cries of amazement rose from the crowd:—"He's a Teur!.... He's
wearing sun-glasses!".... Tartarin, it is true, had believed that as he was
going to Algeria he should adopt Algerian costume. Large baggy pantaloons of
white cloth, a small tight jacket with metal buttons, a red sash wound round his
stomach and on his head a gigantic "Chechia" (a red floppy bonnet) with an
immensely long blue tassel dangling from its crown. Added to this, he carried
two rifles, one on each shoulder, a hunting knife stuck into the sash round his
middle, a cartridge-bag slung on one side and a revolver in a leather holster on
the other. That was it. Ah!... forgive me... I forgot the sun-glasses, a huge
pair of blue sun-glasses which were just the very thing to correct any
suggestion of extravagance in his turnout.
"Vive Tartarin!... Vive Tartarin!" Yelled the
people. The great man smiled but did not wave, partly because of the rifles,
which were giving him some trouble and partly because he had learned what little
value one can place on popular favour. Perhaps even, in the depths of his soul,
he cursed these terrible compatriots who were forcing him to leave, to quit his
pretty little house with its green shutters and white walls, but if so he did
not show it. Calm and proud, though a little pale, he marched down the pathway,
inspected his handcarts and seeing that all was in order set off jauntily on the
road to the station, without looking back even once at the house of the baobab.
On his arrival at the station he was greeted by
the station-master, a former soldier, who shook him warmly by the hand several
times. The Paris-Marseille express had not yet arrived, so Tartarin and his
general staff went into the waiting-room. To keep back the following crowd the
station-master closed the barriers.
For fifteen minutes Tartarin paced back and
forward, surrounded by the hat shooters. He spoke to them of his coming
expedition, promising to send them skins, and entering their orders in his
note-book as if they were a list of groceries. As tranquil as was Socrates at
the moment when he drank the hemlock, the bold Tartarin had a word for everyone.
He spoke simply and affably, as if before departing he wished to leave behind a
legacy of charm, happy memories and regrets. To hear their chief speak thus
brought tears to the eyes of the hat shooters, and to some, such as the
president Ladevèze and the chemist Bezuquet, even a twinge of remorse. Some of
the station staff were dabbing their eyes in corners, while outside the crowd
peered through the railings and shouted "Vive Tartarin!"
Then a bell rang. There was a rumbling noise of
wheels. A piercing whistle split the heavens... All aboard!... All aboard!...
Goodbye Tartarin!... Goodbye Tartarin!. "Goodbye everyone" murmured the great
man, and on the cheeks of the brave Commandant Bravida he planted a farewell
salute to his beloved Tarascon. Then he hurried along the platform and got into
a carriage full of Parisian ladies, who almost died of fright at the appearance
of this strange man with his revolver and rifles.
Chapter 11.
On the first day of December 186-, in the clear
bright winter sunshine of Provence, the startled inhabitants of Marseille
witnessed the arrival of a Teur. Never had they seen one like this before,
though God knows there is no shortage of Teurs in Marseille. The Teur, need I
tell you, was none other than Tartarin de Tarascon, who was proceeding down the
quay followed by his case of arms, his medicine chest and his preserved foods,
in search of the embarkation point of the Compagnie Touache and the ferry-boat
"Le Zouave" which was to carry him away.
His ears still ringing with the cheers of
Tarascon and bemused by the brightness of the sky and the smell of the sea,
Tartarin marched along, his rifles slung on his shoulders, gazing around in
wonder at this marvellous port of Marseille, which he was seeing for the first
time and which quite dazzled him. He almost felt that he was dreaming and that
like Sinbad he was wandering in one of the fabulous cities of the Thousand and
one Nights.
As far as the eye could see, there stretched a
jumble of masts and yards, criss-crossing in all directions. The flags of a
multitude of nations fluttering in the wind. The ships level with the quay,
their bowsprits projecting over the edge like a row of bayonets, and below them
the carved and painted wooden figureheads of nymphs, goddesses and saintly
virgins from which the ships took their names. From time to time, between the
hulls one could see a patch of sea, like a great sheet of cloth spattered with
oil, while in the entanglement of yardarms a host of seagulls made pretty
splashes of white against the blue sky. On the quay, amid the streams which
trickled from the soapworks, thick, green, streaked with black, full of oil and
soda, there was a whole population of customs officers, shipping agents, and
stevedores with trollies drawn by little Corsican ponies. There were shops
selling strange sweetmeats. Smoke enshrouded huts where seamen were cooking.
There were merchants selling monkeys, parrots, rope, sailcloth and fantastic
collections of bric-a-brac where, heaped up pell-mell, were old culverins, great
gilded lanterns, old blocks and tackle, old rusting anchors, old rigging, old
megaphones, old telescopes, dating from the time of Jean Bart.
There were women selling shellfish, crouched
bawling beside their wares, sailors passing, some with pots of tar, some with
steaming pots of stew, others with baskets full of squid which they were taking
to wash in the fresh water of the fountains. Everywhere prodigious heaps of
merchandise of every kind. Silks, minerals, baulks of timber, ingots of lead,
carobs, rape-seed, liquorice, sugar cane, great piles of dutch cheeses. East and
west hugger-mugger.
Here is the grain berth. Stevedores empty the
sacks onto the quay from a scaffold, the grain pours down in a golden torrent
raising a cloud of pale dust, and is loaded by men wearing red fezes into carts,
which set off followed by a regiment of women and children with brushes and
buckets for gleaning.
There is the careening basin. The huge vessels
lie over on one side and are flamed with fires of brushwood to rid them of
seaweed, while their yardarms soak in the water. There is a smell of pitch and
the deafening hammering of shipwrights lining the hulls with sheets of copper.
Sometimes, between the masts, a gap opened and
Tartarin could see the harbour mouth and the movement of ships. An English
frigate leaving for Malta, spruce and scrubbed, with officers in yellow gloves,
or a big Marseilles brig, casting off amid shouting and cursing, with, in the
bows, a fat captain in an overcoat and a top hat, supervising the manoeuvre in
broad provencal. There were ships outward bound, running before the wind with
all sails set, there were others, far out at sea, beating their way in and
seeming in the sunshine to be floating on air.
Then, all the time the most fearsome racket.
The rumbling of cart wheels, the cries of the sailors, oaths, songs, the sirens
of steam-boats, the drums and bugles of Fort St. Jean and Fort St. Nicolas, the
bells of nearby churches and, up above, the mistral, which took all of these
sounds, rolled them together, shook them up and mingled them with its own voice
to make mad, wild, heroic music, like a great fanfare, urging one to set sail
for distant lands, to spread one's wings and go. It was to the sound of this
fine fanfare that Tartarin embarked for the country of lions.
Chapter 12.
I wish that I was a painter, a really good
painter, so that I could present to you a picture of the different positions
adopted by Tartarin's chechia during the three days of the passage from France
to Algeria.
I would show it to you first at the departure,
proud and stately as it was then, crowning that noble Tarascon head. I would
show it next when, having left the harbour, the Zouave began to lift on the
swell. I would show it fluttering and astonished, as if feeling the first
premonitions of distress.
Then, in the gulf of Lion, when the Zouave was
further offshore and the sea a little rougher, I would present it at grips with
the storm, clutching, bewildered, at the head of our hero, its long blue woollen
tassel streaming in the spume and gusting wind.
The fourth position. Six in the evening. Off
the coast of Corsica. The wretched chechia is leaning over the rail and sadly
contemplating the depths of the ocean.
Fifth and last position. Down in a narrow
cabin, in a little bed which has the appearance of a drawer in a commode,
something formless and desolate rolls about, moaning, on the pillow. It is the
chechia, the heroic chechia, now reduced to the vulgar status of a night-cap,
and jammed down to the ears of a pallid and convulsing invalid.
Ah! If the townsfolk of Tarascon could have
seen the great Tartarin, lying in his commode drawer, in the pale, dismal light
which filtered through the porthole, amongst the stale smell of cooking and wet
wood, the depressing odour of the ferry boat. If they had heard him groan at
every turn of the propeller, ask for tea every five minutes, and complain to the
steward in the weak voice of a child, would they have regretted having forced
him to leave? On my word, the poor Tuer deserved pity. Overcome by sea-sickness,
he had not the will even to loosen his sash or rid himself of his weapons. The
hunting knife with the big handle dug into his ribs. His revolver bruised his
leg, and the final straw was the nagging of Tartarin-Sancho, who never ceased
whining and carping:—"Imbecile! Va! I warned you didn't I?.... But you had to go
to Africa!.... Well now you're on your way, how do you like it?"
What was every bit as cruel was that, shut in
his cabin, between his groans he could hear the other passengers in the saloon,
laughing, eating, singing, playing cards. The society in the Zouave was as
cheerful as it was diverse. There were some officers on their way to rejoin
their units, a bevy of tarts from Marseille, a rich Mahommedan merchant,
returning from Mecca, some strolling players, a Montenegran prince, a great
joker this, who did impersonations.... Not one of these people was sea-sick and
they spent the time drinking champagne with the captain of the Zouave, a fat
"Bon viveur" from Marseille, who had an establishment there and another in
Algiers, and who rejoiced in the name of Barbassou. Tartarin hated all these
people. Their gaity redoubled his misery.
At last, in the afternoon of the third day,
there was some unusual activity on board the ship, which roused our hero from
his torpor. The bell in the bows rang out... the heavy boots of the sailors
could be heard running on the deck... "Engine ahead!... engine astern!." Shouted
the hoarse voice of Captain Barbassou. Then "Stop engine!"
The engine stopped, there was a little tremor
and then nothing. The ferry lay rocking gently from side to side, like a balloon
in the air. This strange silence horrified Tartarin. "My God! We are sinking!"
He cried in a voice of terror, and recovering his strength as if by magic, he
rushed up onto the deck.
Chapter 13.
The Zouave was not sinking. She had just
dropped her anchor in a fine anchorage of deep, dark water. Opposite, on the
hillside, was Algiers, its little matt-white houses running down to the sea,
huddled one against the other, like a pile of white washing laid out on a river
bank. Up above a great sky of satin blue... but oh!... So blue!
Tartarin, somewhat recovered from his fright,
gazed at the landscape, while listening respectfully to the Montenegrin prince,
who standing beside him, pointed out the different quarters of the town. The
Casbah, the upper town, the Rue Bab-Azoum. Very well educated this prince of
Montenegro. What is more he knew Algiers well and spoke Arabic. Tartarin had
decided to cultivate his acquaintance when suddenly, along the rail on which
they were leaning, he saw a row of big black hands grasping it from below.
Almost immediately a curly black head appeared in front of him and before he
could open his mouth the deck was invaded from all side by a swarm of pirates;
black, yellow, half naked, hideous and terrible. Tartarin knew at once that it
was "Them" The fearsome "Them" who he had so often expected at night in the
streets of Tarascon. Now they had arrived.
At first surprise glued him to the spot, but
when he saw the pirates hurl themselves on the baggage, tear off the tarpaulin
covers and begin to pillage the ship, our hero came to life. Drawing his hunting
knife and shouting "Aux armes!... Aux armes!" To his fellow passengers, he
prepared to lead an assault on the raiders. "Ques aco?... What's the matter with
you?" Said Captain Barbassou as he came off the bridge. "Ah!... There you are
Captain.... Quick! Quick! Arm your men!" "Hé!... Do what? Why for God's sake?"
"But don't you see?" "See what?" "There, in front of you... the pirates!"
Captain Barbassou regarded him with astonishment..... At that moment a huge
monster of a black man ran past carrying the medicine chest. "Wretch! Wait till
I catch you!" Yelled Tartarin, starting forward with his knife held aloft.
Barbassou caught him and held him by his sash. "Calm down for Chrissake." He
said, "These are not pirates, there have been no pirates for ages, these are
stevedores." "Stevedores?" "Hé! Yes, stevedores who have come to collect the
baggage and take it ashore. Put away your cutlass, give me your ticket and
follow that negro, an excellent fellow, who will take you ashore and even to
your hotel if you wish."
Somewhat confused Tartarin surrendered his
ticket and following the negro he went down the gangplank into a large boat
which was bobbing alongside the ferry. All his baggage was there, his trunks,
cases of weapons and preserved food, as they took up all the room in the boat,
there was no need to wait for other passengers. The negro climbed onto the
baggage and squatted there with his arms wrapped round his knees. Another negro
took the oars... the two of them regarded Tartarin, laughing and showing their
white teeth.
Standing in the stern, wearing his fiercest
expression, Tartarin nervously fingered the handle of his hunting knife, for in
spite of what Barbassou had told him, he was only half reassured about the
intentions of these ebony-skinned stevedores, who looked so different from
honest longshoremen of Tarascon.
Three minutes later the boat reached land and
Tartarin set foot on the little Barbary quay, where three hundred years earlier
a galley-slave named Michael Cervantes, under the whip of an Algerian
galley-master, had begun to plan the wonderful story of Don Quixote.
Chapter 14.
If by any chance the ghost of Micheal Cervantes
was abroad on that bit of the Barbary coast, it must have been delighted at the
arrival of this splendid specimen of a Frenchman from the Midi, in whom were
combined the two heroes of his book, Don Quixote and Sancho Panza.
It was a warm day. On the quay, bathed in
sunshine, were five or six customs officers, some settlers awaiting news from
France, some squatting Moors, smoking their long pipes, some Maltese fishermen,
hauling in a large net, in the meshes of which thousands of sardines glittered
like pieces of silver; but scarcely had Tartarin set foot there when the quay
sprang into life and changed entirely its appearance.
A band of savages, more hideous even than the
pirates of the boat, seemed to rise from the very cobble-stones to hurl
themselves on the newcomer. Huge Arabs, naked beneath their long woolen
garments, little Moors dressed in rags, Negroes, Tunisians, hotel waiters in
white aprons, pushing and shouting, plucking at his clothes, fighting over his
luggage; one grabbing his preserves another his medicine chest and, in a
screeching babel of noise, throwing at his head the improbable names of
hotels.... Deafened by this tumult, Tartarin ran hither and thither,struggling,
fuming, and cursing after his baggage, and not knowing how to communicate with
these barbarians, harangued them in French, Provencal and even what he could
remember of Latin. It was a wasted effort, no one was listening.... Happily,
however, a little man dressed in a tunic with a yellow collar and armed with a
long cane arrived on the scene and dispersed the rabble with blows from his
stick. He was an Algerian policeman. Very politely he arranged for Tartarin to
go to the Hotel de l'Europe, and confided him to the care of some locals who led
him away with all his baggage loaded on several barrows.
As he took his first steps in Algiers, Tartarin
looked about him wide-eyed. He had imagined beforehand a fairylike Arabian city,
something between Constantinople and Zanzibar... but here he was back in
Tarascon. Some cafés some restaurants, wide streets, houses of four stories, a
small tarmac square where a military band played Offenbach polkas, men seated on
chairs, drinking beer and nibbling snacks, a few ladies, a sprinkling of tarts
and soldiers, more soldiers, everywhere soldiers... and not a single "Teur" in
sight except for him... so he found walking across the square a bit
embarrassing. Everyone stared.... The military band stopped playing and the
Offenbach polka came to a halt with one foot in the air.
With his two rifles on his shoulders, his
revolver by his side, unflinching and stately he passed through the throng, but
on reaching the hotel his strength deserted him. The departure from Tarascon.
The harbour at Marseille. The crossing. The Montenegrin prince. The pirates, all
whirled in confusion round his brain. He had to be taken up to his room,
disarmed and undressed... there was even talk of sending for a doctor, but
hardly had his head touched the pillow than he began to snore so loudly and
vigorously that the hotel manager decided that medical assistance was not
required, and everyone discreetly withdrew.
Chapter 15.
The bell of the government clock was sounding
three when Tartarin awoke. He had slept all evening, all night, all morning and
even a good part of the afternoon. It has, of course, to be admitted that over
the preceding three days the chechia had had a pretty rough time.
His first thought on waking was "Here I am, in
lion country!" and it must be confessed that this notion that he was surrounded
by lions and was about to go in pursuit of them produced a marked chill, and he
buried himself safely under the bedclothes.
Soon, however, the gaiety of the scene outside,
the sky so blue, the bright sunshine which flooded into his room through the
large window which opened towards the sea, and a good meal which he had served
in bed, washed down by a carafe of wine, quickly restored his courage. "To the
lions! To the lions!" He cried, and throwing off the bed clothes he dressed
himself hurriedly.
His plan of action was this. Leave town and go
well out into the desert. Wait until nightfall. Lie in hiding, and at the first
lion that comes along... Pan! Pan!.... Return in the morning. Lunch at hotel.
Receive the congratulations of the Algerians and hire a cart to go and collect
the kill.
He armed himself hastily, strapped onto his
back the bivouac tent, the pole of which stuck up above his head, and then, held
rigid by this contraption, he went down to the street. He turned sharply to the
right and walked to the end of the shopping arcade of Bab-Azoum, where a series
of Algerian store-keepers watched him pass, concealed in corners of their dark
boutiques like spiders. He went through the Place du théatre, through the
suburbs and eventually reached the dusty main road to Mustapha.
Here was a fantastic confusion of traffic.
There were coaches, cabs, curricles, military supply wagons, great carts of hay
drawn by oxen, some squadrons of Chasseurs d'Afrique, troops of microscopic
little donkeys, negresses selling galettes, loads of emigrants from Alsasce,
some Spahis in red cloaks. All passing in a great cloud of dust, with cries,
songs and trumpet calls, between two rows of miserable shacks, where could be
seen prostitutes applying their make-up at their doors, tap-rooms full of
soldiers and the stalls of butchers and slaughtermen. The tales I have been told
about this place are quite untrue, thought Tartarin, there are fewer "Teurs"
here than there are in Marseille.
Suddenly he saw striding past him, long-legged
and proud as a turkey cock, a magnificent camel. The sight quickened his pulse;
where there were camels lions could not be far away, and indeed within five
minutes he saw coming towards him with guns on their shoulders, a whole company
of lion hunters with their dogs.
A cowardly lot, thought Tartarin, as he came
alongside them... hunting lions in a group and with dogs... for it had never
occurred to him that In Algeria one could hunt anything but lions. However these
hunters looked like comfortably retired businessmen, and Tartarin, curious about
this way of hunting lions with dogs and game-bags, took it on himself to address
one of them.
"Et autrement, my friend, a good day?"
"Not bad" Replied the other, looking with some
surprise at the heavy armament of our Tarascon warrior.
"You have killed some of them?"
"Yes... a few... as you can see." And the
Algerian pointed to his game-bag, bulging with rabbits and woodcock.
"How is that?... you put them in your
game-bag?"
"Where would you like me to put them?"
"But then they... they must be very small!"
"Some big, some small." Said the hunter, and as
he was in a hurry to catch up with his companions and go home, he made off at
high speed. Tartarin stood, stupefied, in the middle of the road. Then after a
moment of thought "Bah!" He said to himself, "These people are trying to have me
on, they haven't shot anything." And he continued on his way.
Already the houses were becoming more
scattered, the passers-by less frequent. Night was falling. Objects becoming
less distinct.... He marched on for another half an hour, and then he stopped.
It was now completely dark, a moonless night spangled with stars. There was no
one on the road, but in spite of that Tartarin reckoned that lions were not like
coaches and would not stick to the highway. He set off across country. At every
step there were ditches, thorns and bushes. No matter, he walked on until at
last he reached a spot he thought suited to his purpose. A likely place for
lions.
Chapter 16.
He was in a vast, wild desert, bristling with
bizarre plants. African plants, which have the appearance of savage animals. In
the faint light from the stars their shadows spread over the ground in all
directions. On the right was the confused, looming mass of a mountain, the Atlas
perhaps, to the left could be heard the dull surge of the invisible sea. An
ideal spot to tempt wild animals!
Placing one rifle on the ground before him and
taking the other in his hands, Tartarin settled down and waited... he waited for
an hour... two hours.... Then he remembered that in his books the famous lion
hunters always used a kid as bait, which they tethered at some distance in front
of them and made to bleat by pulling on a string attached to its leg. Lacking a
kid, he had the idea of trying an imitation and began to bleat in a goat-like
manner, "Mé!... Mé!...." At first very quietly, because, in the depths of his
heart he was a little afraid that the lion might hear him... then seeing that
nothing happened he bleated more loudly, "Mé!... Mé!... Mé!...." And then louder
still, "MÉ!... MÉ!... MÉ!..."
Suddenly, a few paces in front of him,
something black and gigantic materialised. He shut up... the thing crouched,
sniffed the ground, leapt up, turned and ran off at a gallop... then it came
back and stopped short. It was a lion! There could be no doubt. Now one could
see quite clearly the four short legs, the formidable forequarters and two huge
eyes gleaming in the darkness.... Aim!... Fire!... Pan!... Pan!.... Tartarin
backed away, drawing his hunting knife
Following Tartarin's shot there was a terrible
outcry, "I've got him!" Cried the good Tarasconais and prepared himself to
receive a possible attack, but the creature had had enough and it fled at top
speed, bellowing.... He, however, did not budge: he was waiting for the
female... as happened in all his books. Unfortunately the female failed to turn
up, and after two or three hours of waiting Tartarin became tired. The ground
was damp, the night was growing cool, there was a nip in the breeze from the
sea... "Perhaps I should have a nap while I wait for daylight" he said to
himself, and to provide some shelter he had recourse to the bivouac tent. A
difficulty now arose, the bivouac tent was of such an ingenious design that he
was quite unable to erect it. He struggled and sweated for a long time, but
there was no way in which he could get the thing up, so at last he threw it on
the ground and lay on top of it, cursing it in Provencal.
Ta!... Ta!... Ta!... Tarata! "Ques aco?" said
Tartarin, waking up with a start. It was the trumpets of the Chasseurs d'Afrique
sounding reveille in the barracks at Mustapha. The lion killer rubbed his eyes
in amazement. He who had believed that he was in the middle of a desert... do
you know where he was?... In a field full of artichokes, between a cauliflower
and a swede... his Sahara was a vegetable patch.
Nearby, on the pretty green coast of upper
Mustapha, white Algerian villas gleamed in the dawn light, one might have been
among the suburban houses in the outskirts of Marseille. The bourgeois
appearance of the sleeping countryside greatly astonished Tartarin and put him
in a bad humour. "These people are crazy", he said to himself, "To plant their
artichokes in an area infested by lions. For I was not dreaming, there are lions
here and there is the proof".
The proof was a trail of blood which the
fleeing beast had left behind it. Following this blood-spoor, with watchful eye
and revolver in hand, the valiant Tarasconais went from artichoke to artichoke
until he arrived at a small field of oats.... In a patch of flattened grain was
a pool of blood and in the middle of the pool, lying on its side with a large
wound to its head, was... what?... a lion?... No Parbleu!... A donkey! One of
the tiny donkeys so common in Algeria, which there are called "Bourriquots".
Chapter 17.
Tartarin's first reaction at the sight of his
unfortunate victim was one of annoyance. There is after all a considerable
difference between a lion and a bourriquot. This was quickly replaced by a
feeling of pity. The poor bourriqout was so pretty, so gentle, its warm flanks
rising and falling as it breathed. Tartarin knelt down and with the end of his
sash he tried to staunch the blood from its wound. The sight of this great man
tending the little donkey was the most touching thing you could imagine. At the
soothing contact of the sash, the bourriquot, which was already at death's door,
opened a big grey eye and twitched once or twice its long ears, as if to say
"Thank you!... Thank you!". Then a final tremor shook it from head to tail and
it moved no more.
"Noiraud!... Noiraud!" Came a sudden cry from a
strident, anxious voice, and the branches of some nearby bushes were thrust
aside. Tartarin had barely time to get up and put himself on guard. It was the
female!... She arrived, roaring and terrible, in the guise of an elderly
Alsation lady in a rabbit-skin coat, armed with a red umbrella and calling for
her donkey in a voice which woke all the echoes of Mustapha. Certainly it might
have been better for Tartarin to have had to deal with an angry lioness than
this infuriated old lady. In vain he tried to explain what had happened... how
he had mistaken Noiraud for a lion, she thought he was trying to make fun of her
and, uttering loud cries of indignation, she set about our hero with blows from
her umbrella. Tartarin, in confusion, defended himself as best he could,
parrying the blows with his rifle, sweating, puffing, jumping about and crying
"But Madame!... But Madame!". To no avail. Madame was deaf to his pleas and
redoubled her efforts.
Happily a third party arrived on the field of
battle. It was the husband of the Alsation lady, also an Alsation.... A tavern
keeper and a shrewd man of business. When he saw with whom he was dealing and
that the assassin was willing to pay for his crime, he disarmed his spouse and
took her to one side. Tartarin gave two hundred francs. The donkey was worth at
least ten, which is the going price for bourriquots in the Arab market. Then the
poor Noiraud was buried beneath a fig tree, and the Alsation, put in a good
humour at the sight of so much money, invited our hero to break a crust at his
tavern, which was not far away at the edge of the main road. The Algerian
hunters went there every Sunday for luncheon; for the countryside was full of
game, and for two leagues about the city there was not a better place for
rabbits. "And the lions?" Asked Tartarin. The Alsation looked at him with
surprise... "The lions?" "Yes, the lions, do you see them sometimes?" Tartarin
replied, with a little less assurance. The tavern-keeper burst out laughing,
"Lions!... Lions!... What is all this about lions?" "Are there no lions in
Algeria then?" "Moi foi! I have been here for twenty years and I have never seen
any.... though I did once hear... I think there was a report in the newspaper...
but it was long ago... somewhere in the south"....
At that moment they reached the tavern, a
wayside pot house, the sort of thing one can see by any main road. It had a very
faded sign above the door, some billiard cues painted on the wall and the
inoffensive name "Au rendezvous des lapins".
Chapter 18.
This first adventure would have been enough to
discourage many people, but seasoned characters such as Tartarin are not so
easily disheartened. The lions are in the south, thought our hero, very well I
shall go to the south.
As soon as he had swallowed his last morsel, he
got up, thanked his host, took leave of the old lady without any ill-feeling,
shed a last tear over the unfortunate Noiraud and headed quickly for Algiers,
with the firm intention of packing his trunks and departing that same day for
the south.
Sadly, the main Mustapha road seemed to have
grown longer during the night. There was so much sunshine, so much dust, the
bivouac tent was so heavy, that Tartarin could not face the walk back to the
town and he hailed the first horse-drawn omnibus which came along and climbed
in.... Poor Tartarin! How much better it would have been for his reputation if
he had not entered that fateful vehicle, and had continued his journey on foot,
even at the risk of collapsing from the heat and the weight of his two
double-barreled rifles and the bivouac tent.
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.
Sleep, lions of the Atlas! Sleep tranquilly in
your lairs amongst the aloes and the cactus! It wil be some time before Tartarin
de Tarascon comes to slaughter you. At the moment his equipment, his arms, his
medicine chest, the preserved food and the bivouac tent are piled up peacefully
in a corner of room 36 in the Hotel de l'Europe. Sleep without fear, great tawny
lions! The Tarasconais is searching for his Moor.
Since the events in the omnibus, the unhappy
man seems to feel constantly on his feet the scurrying of the little red mouse,
and the sea breeze which wafts across his face seems somehow perfumed by an
amorous odour of patisserie and anise. He must find his Dulcinea; but to find in
a city of one hundred thousand inhabitants a person of whom one knows only the
scent of their breath, the appearance of their slippers and the colour of their
eyes is no light undertaking. Only a lovesick Tarasconais would attempt such a
task. To make matters worse, it must be confessed that beneath their masks all
Moorish ladies tend to look very much the same; and then they do not go out a
great deal, and if one wants to see them one must go to the upper town, the Arab
town, the town of the Teurs.
A real cut-throat place that upper town. Little
dark alley-ways, very narrow, climbing steeply between two rows of silent,
mysterious houses whose roofs touch to make a tunnel. Low doorways and small
windows, opaque and barred, and then, to right and left, little shops within
whose deep shade fierce "Teurs" with piratical faces, glittering eyes and
gleaming teeth, smoke their hookahs and converse in low tones, as if planning
some wicked deed.... To say that Tartarin walked through this fearsome township
unmoved would be to lie. He was on the contrary moved a good deal, and in those
obscure alleys where his large stomach took up almost the entire width, the
brave fellow advanced with the greatest caution, his eyes alert, his finger on
the trigger of his revolver, just as he used to be at Tarascon on his way to the
club. At any moment he expected to be jumped on from behind by a whole gang of
janissaries and eunuchs, but his desire to find the lady endowed him with the
courage and determination of a giant.
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 Masque. 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.
As he went about through the crowd, thinking of
his Moor, suddenly, at one of the gaming tables, above the cries and the
chinking of coins, two angry voices were raised. "I tell you, there are twenty
francs of mine missing, m'sieu!" "M'sieu!!!" "Well, what have you to say,
m'sieu?" "Do you know to whom you are talking, m'sieu?" "I should be delighted
to find out, m'sieu!" "I am prince Gregory of Montenegro, m'sieu!"
At this name, Tartarin, much moved, pushed
through the crowd until he reached the front row, delighted to have found once
more his prince, the distinguished Montenegrin nobleman whose acquaintance he
had made on the packet-boat.
Unfortunately this title of prince which had so
dazzled the worthy Tarasconais, did not produce the least impression on the
officer of the Chasseurs with whom the prince was in dispute. "A likely story"
said the officer with a sneer, and then turning to the onlookers, "Prince
Gregory of Montenegro, who has ever heard of him?... No one!" Tartarin,
indignant, took a pace forward. "Pardon... I know the prince." He said firmly in
his best Tarrascon accent.
The officer of the Chasseurs stared him in the
face for a few moments, then shrugging his shoulders, he said "Well now, is'nt
that just fine?... Share out the twenty francs between you and we'll leave it at
that." So saying he turned on his heel and was lost in the crowd.
Tartarin, furious, wanted to go after him, but
the prince prevented him. "Leave it... It's my affair." He said, and taking
Tartarin by the arm he led him outside.
When they had reached the square, prince
Gregory of Montenegro took off his hat, held out his hand to our hero and
vaguely recalling his name began in vibrant tones, "Monsieur Barbarin..."
"Tartarin." Breathed the other, timidly. "Tartarin... Barbarin, it makes no
difference, we are now friends for life." And the noble Montenegrin shook his
hand with ferocious energy. Tartarin was was overwhelmed by pride. "Prince....
Prince" He murmured in confusion.
Fifteen minutes later the two gentlemen were
seated in the Restaurant des Platanes, an agreeable spot whose terraces sloped
down toward the sea, and there before a large Russian salad and a bottle of good
wine they renewed their acquaintance.
You cannot imagine anything more beguiling than
this Montenegrin prince. Slim, elegant, his hair curled and waved, smooth-shaven
and powdered and decked with strange orders, he had a sharp eye an ingratiating
manner and spoke with a vaguely Italian accent, faintly suggestive of a
renaissance Cardinal. Of ancient aristocratic lineage, his brothers, it seemed,
had driven him into exile at the age of ten, because of his liberal opinions;
since when he had travelled the world for his instruction and pleasure... a
philosopher prince. By a remarkable coincidence the prince had spent three years
in Tarascon, but when Tartarin expressed astonishment at never having seen him
at the club or on the promonade, "I didn't go out much" Said the prince in a
somewhat evasive manner, and Tartarin discretely asked no more questions.
Important people, he knew, had diplomatic secrets.
All in all a very fine prince this Gregory.
While sipping his wine he listened patiently to Tartarin, who told him of his
Moorish love, and as he claimed to have contacts among these ladies, he even
undertook to help look for her.
They drank long and deep. They drank to the
ladies of Algeria. They drank to free Montenegro. Outside, below the terrace,
the sea rolled, the waves slapping wetly on the beach. The air was warm, the sky
bright with stars, in the plane trees a nightingale sang... It was Tartarin who
paid the bill.
Chapter 21.
The Montenegrin prince was as good as his word.
Shortly after the reunion at the Restaurant des Platanes he arrived early one
morning at Tartarin's room. "Quick!... quick!... get dressed" he said, "Your
Moor has been found... her name is Baia... as pretty as a picture, twenty years
old and already a widow." "A widow!.... Well that's a bit of luck" Said Tartarin
who was a little uneasy at the thought of Moorish husbands. "Yes, but closely
guarded by her brother" "Oh! That's a bit awkward" "A ferocious Moor who sells
hookahs in the bazaar" There was a silence, "Good!" Said the prince, "You're not
the chap to be put off by a little thing like that, and anyway we can perhaps
buy off this villain by purchasing some of his pipes. So come on, get dressed...
you lucky dog!"
Pale and excited, his heart full of love,
Tartarin jumped out of bed and as he climbed into his ample underwear he asked
"What shall I do now?" "Write to the lady quite simply and ask for a meeting"
"She understands French then?" Said Tartarin with an air of disappointment. For
his dreams had been of an Arabian Houri, uncontaminated by the west. "She
doesn't understand a word" Replied the prince imperturbably, "but you will
dictate the letter to me and I shall translate it." "Oh prince, how good you
are." And Tartarin strode about the room silent and deep in thought.
As you may imagine one does not write to a
Moorish lady as one might to a little shop-girl in Beaucaire. Happily our hero
was able to cull from his reading many phrases of oriental rhetoric and
combining these with some distant memories of the "Song of Songs" he was able to
compose the most flowery epistle you could wish for, full of unlikely similes
and improbable metaphors. With this romantic missive Tartarin would have liked
to combine a bouquet of flowers with emblematic meanings, but prince Gregory
thought it would be better to buy some pipes from the brother, which could not
fail to soften the savage temperament of the gentleman and would please the
lady, who greatly enjoyed smoking. "Let us go quickly then and buy some pipes,"
Said Tartarin. "No, no." Replied the prince, "Let me go alone, I shall get them
at a better price." "Oh prince! How good you are to take such trouble." And the
trusting fellow held out his purse to the obliging Montenegrin, exhorting him to
neglect nothing which might make the lady happy.
Unfortunately, the affair which had started so
well, did not progress as rapidly as one might have wished. Very touched, it
seemed, by Tartarin's eloquence, and already three parts won over, she would
have liked nothing better than to have received him, but her brother had
scruples, and to lay these to rest it was necessary to buy an astonishing number
of pipes. Sometimes Tartarin wondered what on earth the lady did with them all,
but he paid up nevertheless, and without stinting.
At last, after the purchase of many pipes and
the composing of many sheets of oriental prose, a rendezvous was arranged. I
need hardly tell you with what fluttering of heart Tartarin prepared himself;
with what care he trimmed, washed and scented his beard, without forgetting—for
one must always be prepared—to slip into his pockets a life-preserver and a
revolver. The ever-obliging prince attended this first meeting in the role of
interpreter
The lady lived in the upper part of the town.
Outside her door lounged a young Moor of fourteen or fifteen, smoking a
cigarette, it was Ali, her brother. When the two visitors arrived he knocked
twice on the postern and retired from the scene. The door was opened and a
negress appeared, who, without saying a word, conducted the two gentlemen across
a narrow interior courtyard to a small, cool room where the lady awaited them,
posed on a divan.
At first glance it seemed to Tartarin that she
was smaller and sturdier than the Moor on the omnibus... were they in fact the
same? But this suspicion was only momentary: the lady was so pretty, with her
bare feet and her plump fingers, rosy and delicate, loaded with rings; while
beneath her bodice of gold cloth and the blossoms of her flowered robe was the
suggestion of a charming form, a little chubby, dainty and curvaceous. The amber
mouthpiece of a narghile was between her lips and she was enveloped in a cloud
of pale smoke.
On entering, Tartarin placed his hand on his
heart and bowed in the most Moorish manner possible, rolling big, passionate
eyes... Baia looked at him for a moment without speaking, then letting go of the
amber mouthpiece, she turned her back, hid her face in her hands and one could
see only her neck, shaken by uncontrollable laughter.
Chapter 22.
If you go in the evening into some of the
coffee-houses of the Algerian upper town, you will hear even today, Moors speak
among themselves, with winks and chuckles, of a certain Sidi ben Tart'ri, an
amiable, rich European who—it now some years ago—lived in the upper town with a
little local girl called Baia.
This Sidi ben Tart'ri was of course none other
than Tartarin. Well what could you expect. This sort of thing happens even in
the lives of Saints and Heroes. The illustrious Tartarin was, like anyone else,
not exempt from these failings and that is why for two whole months, forgetful
of lions, forgetful of fame, he wallowed in oriental love, and slumbered, like
Hannibal in Capua, amid the delights of Algiers.
He had rented in the heart of the Arab quarter,
a pretty little local house with an interior courtyard, banana trees, cool
galleries and fountains. He lived there quietly in the company of his Moor, a
Moor himself from head to foot. Puffing at his hookah and munching
musk-flavoured condiments. Stretched on a divan opposite him, Baia with a guitar
in her hands droned monotonous songs, or to amuse her master she perhaps mimed a
belly-dance, holding in her hands a small mirror in which she admired her white
teeth and made faces at herself.
As the lady did not understand French and
Tartarin did not speak a word of Arabic, conversation languished somewhat and
the talkative Tarasconais had time to repent of any intemperate loquaciousness
of which he might have been guilty at Bezuquet's pharmacy or Costecalde the
gunsmith's shop. This penance even had a certain charm. There was something
almost voluptuous in going all day without speaking, hearing only the bubble of
the hookah, the strumming of the guitar and the gentle splashing of the fountain
amid the mosaic tiles of his courtyard.
Smoking, the Turkish bath and "l'amour"
occupied his time. They went out little. 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. Altogether our
Tartarin was perfectly happy. Tartarin-Sancho in particular, very fond of
Turkish pastries, declared himself entirely satisfied with his new existence.
Tartarin-Quixote had perhaps now and then some regrets, when he remembered
Tarascon and the promised lion skins... but they did not last for long, and to
dispel these moments of sadness all that was needed was a look from Baia or a
spoonful of her diabolic confections, scented and bewitching like some brew of
Circe's.
In the evenings prince Gregory came, to talk a
little about free Montenegro. Of indefatigable complaisance, this agreeable
nobleman undertook in the house the function of interpreter and, if need be,
even that of steward, and all for nothing. Apart from him, Tartarin had only
"Teurs" as visitors. All of those ferocious bandits which in the depths of their
dark shops he once found so frightening, turned out to be harmless tradesmen,
embroiderers, spice sellers, turners of pipe mouthpieces. Discrete, courteous
people, modest, shrewd, and good at cards. 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. All
about them a thousand other terraces, tranquil in the moonlight, dropped one
below the other down to the sea. Suddenly, like a burst of stars, a great clear
chant rose heavenward and on the minaret of the nearby mosque a handsome Muezzin
appeared, his white outline silhouetted against the deep blue of the night sky.
As he invoked the praise of Allah in a splendid voice which filled the horizon,
Baia laid aside her guitar and with her eyes fixed on the Muezzin seemed to be
rapt in prayer. For as long as the chant lasted she remained ecstatic, like an
Arabic St. Theresa. Tartarin watched her and thought that it must be a beautiful
and powerful religion which could give rise to such transports of faith.
Tarascon hide your face, your Tartarin dreams of becoming apostate.
Chapter 23.
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. Lulled by the creaking of the harness and swaying to the clip-clop
of the animal the good man progressed through the delightful countryside, his
hands crossed on his stomach, three-quarters asleep from the effect of warmth
and wellbeing. Suddenly, as he was entering the town, a loud hail woke him up.
"Hé! You, you great lump! You're Monsieur Tartarin aren't you?" At the name of
Tartarin and the sound of the Provencal accent Tartarin raised his head and saw,
a few feet away, the tanned features of Barbassou, the Captain of the Zouave,
who was drinking an absinthe and smoking his pipe at the door of a little café.
"Hé! Barbassou by God!" Said Tartarin, pulling up his mule.
Instead of replying Barbassou regarded him
wide-eyed for a few moments, and then he began to laugh and laugh, so that
Tartarin sat stunned among his water-melons. "What a get-up, my poor monsieur
Tartarin. It's true then what people say, that you have become a Teur? And
little Baia, does she still sing 'Marco la belle' all the time?" "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. "Well perhaps it isn't the same one," He said, "I've
probably got her mixed up with someone else... only look here, M. Tartarin, you
would be wise not to put too much trust in Algerian Moors, or Montenegrin
princes." Tartarin stood up in his stirrups, and made his grimace, "The prince
is my friend, Captain!" He said. "All right... all right... Don't let's
quarrel... would you like a drink?... no. Any message you would like me to take
back?... none. Well that's it then. Bon voyage.... Oh!... While I think of it, I
have some good French tobacco here, if you would like a few pipes-full take
some, help yourself, it will do you good, it's those blasted local tobaccos that
scramble your brain."
With that the Captain returned to his absinthe
and Tartarin pensively trotted his mule down the road to his little house.
Although in his loyal heart he refused to believe any of the insinuations made
by the Captain, they had upset him, and his rough oaths and country accent had
combined to awake in him a vague feeling of remorse. When he reached home, Baia
had gone to the baths, the negress seemed to him ugly, the house dismal, and
prey to an indefinable melancholy, he went and sat by the fountain and filled
his pipe with Barbassou's tobacco. The tobacco had been wrapped in a fragment of
paper torn from "The Semaphore" and when he spread it out the name of his home
town caught his eye.
"News from Tarascon," He read, "The town is in
a state of alarm. Tartarin the lion killer, who went to hunt the big cats in
Africa, has not been heard of for several months.... What has happened to our
heroic compatriot? One dare hardly ask oneself, knowing as we do his ardent
nature, his courage and love of adventure.... Has he, like so many others, been
swallowed up in the desert sands, or has he perhaps fallen victim to the
murderous teeth of those feline monsters, whose skins he promised to the
municipality.... A terrible incertitude! However, some African merchants who
came to the fair at Beaucaire, claim to have met, in the heart of the desert, a
white man whose description corresponds with his and who was heading for
Timbuctoo. May God preserve our Tartarin!"
When he read this, Tartarin blushed and
trembled. All Tarascon rose before his eyes. The club. The hat hunters. The
green armchair at Costecalde's shop: and soaring above, like the extended wings
of an eagle, the formidable moustache of the brave Commandant Bravida. Then to
see himself squatting slothfully on his mat, while he was believed to be engaged
in slaying lions, filled him with shame. Suddenly he leaped to his feet. "To the
lions!... To the lions!" He cried, and hurrying to the dusty corner where lay
idle his bivouac tent, his medicine chest, his preserved foods and his weapons,
he dragged them into the middle of the courtyard. Tartarin-Sancho had just
perished, only Tartarin-Quixote was left.
There was just time enough to inspect his
equipment, to don his arms and accoutrements, to put on his big boots, to write
a few lines to prince Gregory, confiding Baia to his care, to slip into an
envelope some banknotes, wet with tears, and the intrepid Tarasconais was in a
stage-coach, rolling down the road to Blidah, leaving the stupefied negress in
his house, gazing at the turban, the slippers and all the muslim rig-out of Sidi
Tart'ri, hanging discarded on the wall.
Chapter 24.
It was an ancient, old-fashioned stage-coach,
upholstered in the old way in heavy blue cloth, very faded, and with enormous
pom-poms, which after a few hours on the road dug uncomfortably into one's back.
Tartarin had an inside seat, where he installed himself as best he could, and
where, instead of the musky scent of the great cats, he could savour the ripe
perfume of the coach, compounded of a thousand odours of men, women, horses,
leather, food and damp straw.
The other passengers on the coach were a mixed
lot. A Trappist monk, some Jewish merchants, two Cocottes, returning to their
unit, the third Hussars, and a photographer from Orleansville.
No matter how charming and varied the company,
Tartarin did not feel like chatting and remained silent, his arm hooked into the
arm-strap and his weaponry between his knees.... His hurried departure, the dark
eyes of Baia, the dangerous chase on which he was about to engage, these
thoughts troubled his mind, and also there was something about this venerable
stage-coach, now domiciled in Africa, which recalled to him vaguely the Tarascon
of his youth. Trips to the country. Dinners by the banks of the Rhône, a host of
memories.
Little by little it grew dark. The guard lit
the lanterns. The old coach swayed and squeaked on its worn springs. The horses
trotted, the bells on their harness jingling, and from time to time there
sounded the clash of ironmongery from Tartarin's arms chest on the top of the
coach.
Sleepily Tartarin contemplated his fellow
passengers as they danced before his eyes, shaken by the jolting of the coach,
then his eyes closed and he heard no more, except vaguely, the rumble of the
axles and the groaning of the coach sides....
Suddenly an ancient female voice, rough, hoarse
and cracked, called the Tarasconais by name: "Monsieur Tartarin!... Monsieur
Tartarin!" "Who is calling me?" "It is I, Monsieur Tartarin, don't you recognise
me?... I am the stage-coach which once ran... it is now twenty years ago... the
service from Tarascon to Nimes.... How many times have I carried you and your
friends when you went hat shooting over by Joncquières or Bellegarde... I didn't
recognise you at first because of your bonnet and the amount of weight you have
put on, but as soon as you began to snore, you old rascal, I knew you right
away." "Bon!... Bon!" Replied Tartarin, somewhat vexed, but then softening, he
added: "But now, my poor old lady, what are you doing here?" "Ah! My dear M.
Tartarin, I did not come here of my own free will I can promise you. Once the
railway reached Beaucaire no one could find a use for me so I was shipped off to
Africa... and I am not the only one, nearly all the stage-coaches in France have
been deported like me; we were found too old fashioned and now here we all are,
leading a life of slavery." Here the old coach gave a long sigh, then she went
on: "I can't tell you monsieur Tartarin how much I miss my lovely Tarascon.
These were good times for me, the time of my youth. You should have seen me
leaving in the morning, freshly washed and polished, with new varnish on my
wheels, my lamps shining like suns and my tarpaulin newly dressed with oil. How
grand it was when the postillion cracked his whip and sang out, 'Lagadigadeou,
la Tarasque, la Tarasque' and the guard, with his ticket-punch slung on its
bandolier and his braided cap tipped over one ear, chucked his little yapping
dog onto the tarpaulin of the coach-roof and scrambled up himself crying 'Let's
go!... Let's go!' Then my four horses would start off with a jingle of bells,
barking and fanfares. Windows would open and all Tarascon would watch with pride
the stage-coach setting off along the king's highway.
"What a fine road it was, Monsieur Tartarin,
wide and well kept, with its kilometre markers, its heaps of roadmender's stones
at regular intervals, and to right and left vinyards and pretty groves of olive
trees. Then inns every few yards, post-houses every five minutes... and my
travellers! What fine folk!... Mayors and curés going to Nimes to see their
Prefect or Bishop, honest workmen, students on holiday, peasants in embroidered
smocks, all freshly shaved that morning, and up on top, all of you hat shooters,
who were always in such good form and who sang so well to the stars as we
returned home in the evening.
"Now it is a different story... God knows the
sort of people I carry. A load of miscreants from goodness knows where, who
infest me with vermin. Negroes, Bedouins, rascals and adventurers from every
country, colonists who stink me out with their pipes, and all of them talking a
language which even our Heavenly Father couldn't understand.... And then you see
how they treat me. Never brushed. Never washed. They grudge me the grease for my
axles, and instead of the fine big, quiet horses which I used to have, they give
me little Arab horses which have the devil in them, fighting, biting, dancing
about and running like goats, breaking my shafts with kicks. Aie!... Aie! They
are at it again now.... And the roads! It's still all right here, because we are
near Government House, but out there, nothing! No road of any sort. One goes as
best one can over hill and dale through dwarf palms and mastic trees. Not a
single fixed stop. One pulls up at wherever the guard fancies, sometimes at one
farm, sometimes at another. Sometimes this rogue takes me on a detour of two
leagues just so that he can go and drink with a friend. After that it's 'Whip up
postillion, we must make up for lost time.' The sun burns. The dust chokes...
Whip!... Whip! We crash. We tip over. More whip. We swim across rivers, we are
cold, soaked and half drowned... Whip!... Whip!... Whip! Then in the evening,
dripping wet... that's good for me at my age... I have to bed down in the yard
of some caravan halt, exposed to all the winds. At night jackals and hyenas come
to sniff at my lockers and creatures which fear the dawn hide in my
compartments. That's the life I lead, monsieur Tartarin, and I shall lead until
the day when, scorched by sun and rotted by humid nights, I shall fall at some
corner of this beastly road, where Arabs will boil their cous-cous on the
remains of my old carcase."
"Blidah!... Blidah!" Shouted the guard, opening
the coach door.
Chapter 25.
Indistinctly, through the steamed up windows,
Tartarin could see the pretty square of a neatly laid out little township,
surrounded by arcades and planted with orange trees, in the centre of which a
group of soldiers was drilling in the thin, pink haze of early morning. The
cafés were taking down their shutters, in one corner a vegetable market was
under way. It was charming, but in no way did it suggest lions. "To the south,
further to the south." Murmured Tartarin, settling back in his corner.
At that moment the coach door was opened,
letting in a gust of fresh air, which bore on its wings, amongst the scent of
orange blossom, a very small gentleman in a brown overcoat. Neat, elderly, thin
and wrinkled, with a face no bigger than a fist, a silk cravat five fingers
high, a leather brief-case and an umbrella. The perfect image of a village
notary. On seeing Tartarin's weaponry, the little gentleman, who was seated
opposite him, looked very surprised, and began to stare at our hero.
The horses were changed and the coach set
off... the little gentleman continued to stare. At length Tartarin became
offended and staring in his turn at the little gentleman he asked "Do you find
this surprising?"
"Not at all, but it does rather get in the
way." Was the reply, and the fact is that with his tent, his revolver, his two
rifles and their covers, not to mention his natural corpulence, Tartarin de
Tarascon did take up quite a lot of space.
This reply from the little gentleman annoyed
Tartarin, "Do you suppose that I would go after lions with an umbrella?" Asked
the great man proudly. The little gentleman looked at his umbrella, smiled and
and asked calmly, "You monsieur are...?" "Tartarin de Tarascon, lion hunter."
And in pronouncing these words the brave Tartarin shook the tassel of his
chechia as if it were a mane.
In the coach there was a startled response. The
Trappist crossed himself, the Cocottes uttered little squeaks of excitement and
the photographer edged closer to the lion killer, thinking that he might be a
good subject for a picture. The little gentleman was not in the least disturbed.
"Have you killed many lions, Monsieur Tartarin?" He asked quietly. Tartarin
adopted a lofty air, "Yes many of them. More than you have hairs on your head."
And all the passengers laughed at the sight of the three or four yellow hairs
which sprouted from the little gentleman's scalp.
The photographer then spoke up, "A terrible
profession yours, Monsieur Tartarin, you must have moments of danger sometimes
like that brave M. Bombonnel." "Ah!... yes... M. Bombonnel, the man who hunts
panthers." Said Tartarin, with some disdain. "Do you know him?" Asked the little
gentleman. "Ti!... Pardi!... To be sure I know him, we have hunted together more
than twenty times." "You hunt panthers also M. Tartarin?" "Occasionally, as a
pastime." Said Tartarin casually, and raising his head with a heroic gesture
which went straight to the hearts of the two Cocottes, he added "They cannot be
compared to lions." "One could say," Hazarded the photographer, "That a panther
is no more than a large pussy-cat." "Quite right." Said Tartarin, who was not
reluctant to lower the reputation of this M. Bombonnel, particularly in front of
the ladies.
At this moment the coach stopped. The guard
came to open the door and he addressed the little old man, "This is where you
want to get off Monsieur." He said very respectfully.
The little gentleman got up to leave, but
before he closed the door he said "Would you permit me to give you a word of
advice M. Tartarin?" "What is that Monsieur?" "Go back quickly to Tarascon, M.
Tartarin, you are wasting your time here... There are a few panthers left in
Algeria, but, fi donc! They are too small a quarry for you... as for lions, they
are finished. There are no more in Algeria, my friend Chassaing has just killed
the last one."
On that the little gentleman saluted, closed
the door and went off, laughing, with his brief-case and umbrella. "Guard!" Said
Tartarin, making his grimace. "Who on earth was that fellow?" "What! Don't you
know him?" Said the guard, "That's Monsieur Bombonnel!"
Chapter 26.
When the coach reached Milianah Tartarin got
out and left it to continue its journey to the south. Two days of being bumped
about and nights spent peering out of the window in the hope of seeing the
outline of a lion in the fields lining the road, had earned a little rest; and
then it must be admitted that after the misadventure over M. Bombonnel,
Tartarin, in spite of his weapons, his terrible grimace and his red chechia, had
not felt entirely at ease in the presence of the photographer and the two ladies
of the third Hussars.
He made his way along the wide streets of
Milianah, full of handsome trees and fountains, but while he looked for a
convenient hotel, he could not prevent himself from mulling over the words of M.
Bombonnel. What if it were true... what if there were no more lions in Algeria?
What then was the point of all this travel and all these discomforts?
Suddenly at a bend in the road our hero was
confronted by a remarkable spectacle. He found himself face to face with—believe
it or not—a superb lion which was seated regally at the door of a café, Its mane
tawny in the sunshine.
"Who says there are no more lions?" Cried
Tartarin, jumping back. On hearing this exclamation the lion lowered its head,
and taking in its jaws the wooden begging bowl which lay on the pavement before
it, extended it humbly in the direction of Tartarin, who was paralyzed by
astonishment... a passing Arab tossed in a few coppers. Then Tartarin
understood. He saw what his surprise had at first prevented him from seeing, a
crowd of people which was gathered round the poor tame lion, which was blind,
and the two big negroes, armed with cudgels, who led it about the town.
Tartarin's blood boiled. "Wretches!" He cried
"To debase this noble creature!" And running to the lion he snatched the sordid
begging bowl from the royal jaws.... The two negroes, believing they were
dealing with a thief, threw themselves on Tartarin with raised cudgels. It was a
terrible set-to. Women were screeching children laughing there were calls for
the police and the lion in its darkness joined in with a fearsome roar. The
unhappy Tartarin after a desperate struggle, rolled on the ground among copper
coins and road sweepings.
At this moment a man pushed through the crowd.
He dismissed the negroes with a word and the women and children with a gesture.
He helped Tartarin to his feet, brushed him down and seated him, out of breath,
on a bollard. "Good heavens... prince... Is it really you?" Said Tartarin,
rubbing his ribs. "Indeed yes my valiant friend... it is I. As soon as I
received your letter I confided Baia to her brother, hired a post-chaise, came
fifty leagues flat out and here I am just in time to save you from the brutality
of these louts.... For God's sake what have you been doing to get yourself
dragged into a mess like this?" "What could you expect me to do, prince, when I
saw this unfortunate lion with the begging bowl in its teeth, humiliated,
enslaved, ridiculed, serving as a laughing stock for this unsavoury rabble...?"
"But you are mistaken my noble friend." Said the prince, "This lion on the
contrary is an object of respect and adoration. It is a sacred beast, a member
of a great convent of lions founded three centuries ago by Mahommed-ben-Aouda, a
sort of wild fierce monastry where strange monks rear and tame hundreds of lions
and send them throughout all north Africa, accompanied by mendicant brothers.
The alms which these brothers receive serve to maintain the monastry and its
mosque, and if those two negroes were in such a rage just now, it is because
they are convinced that if one sou, one single sou, of their takings is lost
through any fault of theirs, the lion which that are leading will immediately
devour them."
On hearing this unlikely but plausible tale,
Tartarin recovered his spirits. "It seems evident after all," He said "That in
spite of what M. Bombonnel said, there are still lions in Algeria." "To be sure
there are," said the prince, "And tomorrow we shall begin to search the plains
by the river Cheliff and you shall see." "What!... prince. Do you mean to join
in the hunt yourself?" "Of course" Said the prince "Do you think I would leave
you to wander alone in the middle of Africa, among all those savage tribes, of
whose language and customs you know nothing? No! No! My dear Tartarin. I shall
not leave you again. Wherever you go I shall accompany you." "Oh!... prince!...
prince!" And Tartarin clasped the valiant Gregory in a warm embrace.
Chapter 27.
Very early the next morning the intrepid
Tartarin and the no less intrepid prince Gregory, followed by half a dozen negro
porters, left Milianah and descended towards the plain of the Chetiff by a steep
pathway, delightfully shaded by jasmine, carobs and wild olives, between the
hedges of little native gardens where a thousand bubbling springs trickled
melodiously from rock to rock, a veritable Eden.
Carrying as much in the way of arms as the
great Tartarin, the prince was further adorned by a magnificent and colourful
kepi, covered with gold braid and decorated with oak leaves embroidered in
silver thread, which gave his highness the appearance of a Mexican General, or a
Middle-European Station-Master. This fantastic kepi greatly intrigued Tartarin
and he asked humbly for an explanation.
"An indispensable form of headgear for the
traveller in Africa." The prince replied gravely; and while polishing the peak
on his coat-sleeve he instructed his innocent companion on the important role
played by the kepi in colonial administration, and the deference which its
appearance inspires. This to such an extent that the government has been obliged
to issue kepis to everyone from the canteen worker to the registrar-general. In
fact, according to the prince, to govern the country there was no necessity for
an elaborate regime. All that was needed was a fine gold-braided kepi glittering
on the end of a big stick.
Thus conversing and philosophising, they went
there way. The bare-footed porters leapt from rock to rock, shouting and
chattering. The armaments rattled in their case. The guns glittered in the sun..
The locals who passed bowed deeply before the magical kepi.... Up on the
ramparts of Milianah, the chief of the Arab bureau, who was walking with his
lady in the cool of the morning, hearing these unusual noises and seeing between
the branches the flash of sunlight on the weapons, feared a surprise attack;
whereupon he lowered the portcullis, beat the alarm and put the town in a state
of siege.
This was a good start to the expedition.
Regrettably, before the end of the day, the situation deteriorated. One of the
negroes was taken with the most fearful colic, having eaten the plasters in the
medicine chest. Another fell, dead drunk, by the wayside, as a result of
swigging spirits of camphor. A third, in charge of the log-book, deceived by the
gold lettering on the cover, thought he had hold of the treasures of Mecca and
made off with it at top speed.... Clearly some planning was needed, so the party
halted and took council in the shade of an old fig tree. "In my opinion" Said
the prince, trying unsuccessfully to dissolve a tablet of pemmican in a cooking
pot, "In my opinion, after this evening we should get rid of these negro
porters. There is an Arab market near here and our best plan would be to go
there and buy some bourriquots." "No!... No!... No bourriquots!" Interrupted
Tartarin, who had become very red at the memory of Noiraud, adding
hypocritically, "How can these little creatures carry all our equipment?"
The prince smiled, "You are mistaken my
illustrious friend," He said, "The bourriquot may seem to you a poor weak
creature, but it has a great heart... It needs it to support all it has to
bear... ask the Arabs. This is their idea of our administration. On top they
say, is the governor with a big stick which he uses to thump his staff. The
staff in turn thump the soldiers. The soldiers thump the colonist. The colonist
thumps the Arab, the Arab the negro, and the Negro thumps the bourriquot. The
poor little bourriquot having no one to thump, bares its back and puts up with
it. So you can see it is well able to carry all our gear."
"That's all very well." Replied Tartarin, "But
I don't think that donkeys add much colour to the general appearance of our
caravan. Now if we could have a camel...!"
"Just as you wish." Said his highness, and they
set off for the market.
The market was held some distance away on the
bank of the Cheliff. There were five or six thousand Arabs milling around in the
sun, trading noisily among piles of olives, pots of honey, sacks of spices and
heaps of cigars. There were fires at which whole sheep were roasting, dripping
with butter. There were open air butcheries where almost naked negroes, their
feet paddling in blood and their arms red to the elbow, were cutting up the
carcases of goats hanging from hooks... In one corner, in a tent repaired in a
thousand different colours, was a Moorish official with a big book and
spectacles. Over there is a crowd. There are cries of rage. It is a roulette
game that has been set up on a corn bin and the tribesmen gathered about it have
started fighting with knives. Elsewhere, there are cheers, laughter and stamping
of feet, a merchant and his mule have fallen into the river and are in danger of
drowning.... There are scorpions, crows, dogs and flies, millions of flies, but
no camels.
Eventually a camel was discovered which some
nomads were trying to dispose of. This was a real desert camel, with little
hair, a sad expression and a hump which through long shortage of fodder hung
flaccidly to one side. Tartarin was so taken with it that he wanted the two
partners to be mounted. This proved to be a mistake.
The camel knelt, the trunks were strapped on,
the prince installed himself on the creature's neck and Tartarin was hoisted up
to the top of the hump, between two cases, from where he proudly saluted the
assembled market and gave the signal for departure.... Heavens above!.... If
only Tarascon could see him now!
The camel rose, stretched out its long legs and
took off. Calamity! The camel pitched and rolled like a frigate in a rough sea
and the chechia responded to the motion as it had on the Zouave. "Prince...
prince" Murmured Tartarin, ashen-faced, and clutching the scanty hair of the
hump, "Prince... let us get down, I feel... I feel I am going to disgrace
France." But the camel was in full flight and nothing was going to stop it. Four
thousand Arabs were running behind, bare-footed, waving, laughing like idiots,
six hundred thousand white teeth glistening in the sun.... The great man of
Tarascon had to resign himself to the inevitable, and France was disgraced.
Chapter 28.
Despite the picturesque nature of their new
mode of transport our lion hunters were forced to dismount, out of regard for
the chechia. They continued their journey as before, on foot, and the caravan
proceeded tranquilly toward the south with Tartarin in front, the prince in the
rear and between them the camel with the baggage.
The expedition lasted for a month. For a whole
month, Tartarin, hunting for non-existent lions, wandered from village to
village in the immense plain of the Chetiff, across this extraordinary,
cock-eyed French Algeria, where the perfumes of ancient Araby are mingled with a
powerful stink of Absinthe and barrack-room; Abraham and Zouzou combined, a
strange mixture like a page of the Old Testament rewritten by Sergeant Le Ramée
or Corporal Pitou.... A curious spectacle for those who would care to look.... A
savage and decadent people whom we are civilising by giving them our own vices.
The cruel and uncontrolled authority of Pashas, inflated with self-importance in
their cordons of the legion of honour, who at their whim have people beaten on
the soles of their feet. The so-called justice of bespectacled Cadis, traitors
to the koran and to the law, who sell their judgements as did Esau his
birthright for a plate of cous-cous. Drunken and libertine headmen, former
batmen to General Yussif someone or other, who guzzle champagne in the company
of harlots, and indulge in feasts of roast mutton, while before their tents the
whole tribe is starving and disputes with the dogs the leavings of the
seigniorial banquet.
Then, all around, uncultivated plain. Scorched
grass. Bushes bare of leaves. Scrub. Cactus. Mastic trees... The granary of
France?... A granary empty of grain and rich only in jackals and bugs. Abandoned
villages. Bewildered tribesfolk who run they know not where, fleeing from famine
and sowing corpses along the road. Here and there a French settlement, the
houses dilapidated, the fields untilled and raging hordes of locusts who eat the
very curtains from the windows, while the colonists are all in cafés, drinking
absinthe and discussing projects for the reform of the constitution.
That is what Tartarin could have seen, if he
had taken the trouble, but obsessed with his fantasy the man from Tarascon
marched straight ahead, his vision limited to searching for these monstrous
felines, of which there was no trace.
Since the bivouac tent obstinately refused to
open and the pemmican tablets to dissolve, the hunting party was compelled to
stop daily at tribal villages. Everywhere, thanks to the prince's kepi, they
were received with open arms. They were lodged by chieftains in strange palaces,
great white buildings without windows, where were piled up hookahs and mahogany
commodes, Smyrna carpets and adjustable oil lamps, cedar-wood chests full of
Turkish sequins and clocks decorated in the style of Louis Phillipe. Everywhere
Tartarin was treated to fêtes and official receptions. In his honour whole
villages turned out, firing volleys in the air, their burnous gleaming in the
sun: after which the good chieftain would come to present the bill.
Nowhere, however, were there any more lions
than there are on the Pont Neuf in Paris: but Tartarin was not discouraged, he
pushed bravely on to the south. His days were spent scouring the scrub,
rummaging among the dwarf palms with the end of his carbine and going "Frt!...
Frt!" At each bush... Then every evening a stand-to of two or three hours... A
wasted effort. No lions appeared.
One evening, however, at about six o'clock, as
they were going through a wood of mastic trees, where fat quail, made lazy by
the heat were jumping up from the grass, Tartarin thought he heard... but so far
off... so distorted by the wind... so faint, the wonderful roar which he had
heard so many times back home in Tarascon, behind the menagerie Mitaine.
At first he thought he had imagined it, but in
a moment, still far distant, but now more distinct, the roaring began again, and
this time one could hear, all around, the barking of village dogs; while,
stricken by terror and rattling the boxes of arms and preserves, the camel's
hump trembled. There could be no more doubt.... It was a lion! Quick!... Quick!
Into position! Not a moment to lose!
There was, close by them, an old Marabout (the
tomb of a holy man) with a white dome: the big yellow slippers of the deceased
lying in a recess above the door, together with a bizarre jumble of votive
offerings which hung along the walls: fragments of burnous, some gold thread, a
tuft of red hair. There Tartarin installed the prince and the camel, and
prepared to look for a hide. He was determined to face the lion single-handed,
so he earnestly requested His Highness not to leave the spot, and for safe
keeping he handed to him his wallet, a fat wallet stuffed with valuable papers
and banknotes. This done our hero sought his post.
About a hundred yards in front of the Marabout,
on the banks of an almost dry river, a clump of oleanders stirred in the faint
twilight breeze, and it was there that Tartarin concealed himself in ambush,
kneeling on one knee, in what he felt was an appropriate position, his rifle in
his hands and his big hunting knife stuck into the sandy soil of the river bank
in front of him.
Night was falling. The rosy daylight turned to
violet and then to a sombre blue.... Below, amongst the stones of the river bed,
there glistened like a hand-mirror a little pool of clear water: a drinking
place for the wild animals. On the slope of the opposite bank one could see
indistinctly the path which they had made through the trees: a view which
Tartarin found a bit unnerving. Add to this the vague noises of the African
night, the rustle of branches, the thin yapping of jackals, and in the sky a
flock of cranes passing with cries like children being murdered. You must admit
that this could be unsettling, and Tartarin was unsettled, he was even very
unsettled! His teeth chattered and the rifle shook in his hands; well... there
are evenings when one is not at one's best, and where would be the merit if
heroes were never afraid?
Tartarin was, admittedly, afraid, but in spite
of his fear he held on for an hour... two hours, but heroism has its breaking
point. In the dry river bed, close to him, Tartarin heard the sound of footsteps
rattling the pebbles. Terror overtook him. He rose to his feet, fired both
barrels blindly into the night and ran at top speed to the Marabout, leaving his
knife stuck in the ground as a memorial to the most overwhelming panic that ever
affected a hero.
"A moi! prince!... A Moi!... The lion!"...
There was no answer. "Prince!... prince! Are you there?".... The prince was not
there. Against the white wall of the Marabout was only the silhouette of the
worthy camel's hump. The prince Gregory had disappeared, taking with him the
wallet and the banknotes. His highness had been waiting for a month for such an
opportunity.
Chapter 29.
The day after this adventurous yet tragic
evening, when at first light our hero awoke and realised that the prince and his
money had gone and would not return; when he saw himself alone in this little
white tomb, betrayed, robbed and abandoned in the middle of savage Algeria with
a one-humped camel and some loose change as his total resources, for the first
time some misgivings entered his mind. He began to have doubts about Montenegro,
about friendship, fame and even lions. Overcome by misery he shed bitter tears.
While he was sitting disconsolately at the door
of the Marabout with his head in his hands, his rifle between his knees and
watched over by the camel... behold! The undergrowth opposite was thrust aside
and the thunderstruck Tartarin saw not ten paces away a gigantic lion, which
advanced towards him uttering roars which shook the ragged offerings on the wall
of the Marabout and even the slippers of the holy man in their recess. Only
Tartarin remained unshaken. "At last!" He cried, jumping to his feet with his
rifle butt to his shoulder... Pan!... Pan!... Pft!... Pft!... The lion had two
explosive bullets in its head! Fragments of lion erupted like fireworks into the
burning African sky, and as they fell to earth, Tartarin saw two furious
negroes, who ran towards him with raised cudgels. The two negroes of Milianah...
Oh! Misère!... It was the the tame lion, the poor blind lion of the convent of
Mahommed that the bullets of the Tarasconais had felled.
This time Tartarin had the narrowest of
escapes. Drunk with fanatical fury, the two negro mendicants would surely have
had him in pieces had not the God of the Christians sent him a Guardian Angel in
the shape of the District Police Officer from Orleansville, who arrived down the
pathway, his sabre tucked under his arm, at that very moment. The sight of the
municipal kepi had an immediate calming effect on the two negroes. Stern and
majestic the representative of the law took down the particulars of the affair,
had the remains of the lion loaded onto the camel, and ordered the plaintiff and
the accused to follow him to Orleansville, where the whole matter was placed in
the hands of the legal authorities.
There then commenced a long and involved
process. After the tribal Algeria in which he had been wandering, Tartarin now
made the acquaintance of the no less peculiar and cock-eyed Algeria of the
towns: litigious and legalistic. He encountered a sleazy justicary who stitched
up shady deals in the back rooms of cafés. The Bohemian society of the gentlemen
of the law; dossiers which stank of absinthe, white cravats speckled with drink
and coffee stains. He was embroiled with ushers, solicitors, and business
agents, all the locusts of officialdom, thin and ravenous, who strip the
colonist down to his boots and leave him shorn leaf by leaf like a stalk of
maize.
The first essential point to be decided was
whether the lion had been killed on civil or military territory. In the first
case Tartarin would come before a civil tribunal, in the second he would be
tried by court-martial: at the word court-martial Tartarin imagined himself
lying shot at the foot of the ramparts, or crouching in the depths of a
dungeon... A major difficulty was that the delimitation of these two areas was
extremely vague, but at last, after months of consultation, intrigue, and vigils
in the sun outside the offices of the Arab Bureau, it was established that on
the one hand the lion was, when killed, on military ground, but on the other
hand that Tartarin when he fired the fatal shot was in civilian territory. The
affair was therefore a civil matter, and Tartarin was freed on the payment of an
indemnity of two thousand five hundred francs, not including costs.
How was this to be paid? The little money left
after the prince's defection had long since gone on legal documents and judicial
absinthe. The unfortunate lion killer was now reduced to selling off his
armament rifle by rifle. He sold the daggers, the knives and coshes. A grocer
bought the preserved food, a chemist what was left of the medicine chest. Even
the boots went, with the bivouac tent, into the hands of a merchant of
bric-a-brac. Once everything had been paid, Tartarin was left with little but
the lion-skin and the camel. The lion-skin he packed up carefully and despatched
to Tarascon, to the address of the brave Commandant Bravida. As for the camel,
he counted on it to get him back to Algiers: not by riding it, but by selling it
to raise the fare for the stage-coach, which was at least better than
camel-back. Sadly the camel proved a difficult market, and no one offered to buy
it at any price.
Tartarin was determined to get back to Algiers,
even if it meant walking. He longed to see once more Baia's blue corslet, his
house, his fountain and to rest on the white tiles of his his little cloister
while he awaited money to be sent from France. In these circumstances the camel
did not desert him. This strange animal had developed an inexplicable affection
for its master, and seeing him set out from Orleansville it followed him
faithfully, regulating its pace to his and not quitting him by as much as a
footstep.
At first Tartarin found it touching. This
fidelity, this unshakable devotion seemed wholly admirable; besides which the
beast was no trouble and was able to find its own food. However, after a few
days Tartarin grew tired of having perpetually at his heels this melancholy
companion, who reminded him of all his misadventures. He began to be irritated.
He took a dislike to its air of sadness to its hump and its haughty bearing. In
he end he became so exasperated with it that his only wish was to be rid of it;
but the camel would not be dismissed. Tartarin tried to lose it, but the camel
always found him. He tried running away, but the camel could run faster. He
shouted "Clear off!" and threw stones: the camel stopped and regarded him with a
mournful expression, then after a few moments it resumed its pace and caught up
with him. Tartarin had to resign himself to its company.
When, after eight days of walking, Tartarin,
tired and dusty, saw gleaming in the distance the white terraces of Algiers,
when he found himself on the outskirts of the town, on the bustling Mustapha
road, amid the crowds who watched him go by with the camel in attendance, his
patience snapped, and taking advantage of some traffic congestion he ducked into
a field and hid in a ditch. In a few moments he saw above his head, on the
causeway, the camel striding along rapidly, its neck anxiously extended. Greatly
relieved to be rid of it, Tartarin entered the town by a side road which ran
along by the wall of his house.
On his arrival at his Moorish house, Tartarin
halted in astonishment. The day was ending, the streets deserted. Through the
low arched doorway, which the negress had forgotten to close, could be heard
laughter, the clinking of glasses, the popping of a champagne cork and the
cheerful voice of a woman singing loud and clear:
"Aimes-tu Marco la belle,
"La danse aux salons en fleurs..."
"Tron de Diou!" Said Tartarin, blenching, and
he rushed into the courtyard.
Unhappy Tartarin! What a spectacle awaited
him!.... Amid bottles, pastries, scattered cushions, tambourine, guitar, and
hookah, Baia stood, without her blue jacket or her corslet, dressed only in a
silver gauze blouse and big pink pantaloons, singing "Marco la belle" with a
naval officer's hat tipped over one ear... while on a rug at her feet surfeited
with love and confitures, was Barbassou, the infamous Barbassou, roaring with
laughter as he listened to her.
The arrival of Tartarin, haggard, thin, covered
in dust, with blazing eyes and bristling chechia cut short this enjoyable
Turco-Marseillaise orgy. Baia uttered a little cry, and like a startled leveret
she bolted into the house, but Barbassou was not in the least put out and
laughed more than ever: "Hé!... Hé!... Monsieur Tartarin. What did I tell you?
You can hear that she knows French all right."
Tartarin advanced, furious: "Captain!.." He
began; but then, leaning over the balcony with a rather vulgar gesture, Baia
threw down a few well-chosen words. Tartarin, deflated, sat down on a drum, his
Moor spoke in the argot of the Marseilles back-streets.
"When I warned you not to trust Algerian
women," Said Captain Barbassou sententiously, "The same applied to your
Montenegrin prince." Tartarin looked up, "Do you know where the prince is?" he
asked.
"Oh, he is not far away. He will spend the next
five years in the fine prison at Mustapha. The clown was foolish enough to be
caught stealing... and anyway this is not the first time His Highness has been
inside, he has already done three years in gaol somewhere, and... hang on!... I
believe it was in Tarascon!
"In Tarascon!" Cried Tartarin, suddenly
enlightened, "that is why I never saw him there. All he knew of Tarascon was
what he could see from a cell window."
"Hé!... without a doubt.... Ah! My poor M.
Tartarin, you have to keep both eyes wide open in this devilish country if you
don't want to be taken in. Like that business of the Muezzin."
"What business?... What Muezzin?"
"Ti!... Pardi!" The Muezzin opposite, who was
courting Baia; all Algiers knew about it. Not all the prayers he was chanting
were addressed to Allah, some were directed to the little one, and he was making
propositions under your nose. "It seems that everyone in this beastly country is
a crook", Wailed the unhappy Tartarin. Barbassou shrugged his shoulders, "My
dear fellow, you know how it is. All these sort of places are the same. If you
take my advice you will go back to Tarascon as quickly as possible."
"That's easy to say, but what am I to do for
money? Don't you know how they robbed me out there in the desert?"
"Don't worry about that," laughed the Captain,
"the Zouave is leaving tomorrow and I'll take you back if you want... does that
suit you, colleague?... All right... Good! There's only one thing left to do,
there is still some champagne and some pastries left. Come, sit down and let
bygones be bygones." After a little delay which his dignity required, our hero
accepted the offer. They sat down and poured out a drink. Hearing the clink of
glasses, Baia came down and finished singing Marco la Belle, and the party went
on until late in the night.
Chapter 30.
It is mid-day. The Zouave has steam up and is
ready to depart. Up above on the balcony of the café Valentin, a group of
officers aim the telescope, and come one by one, in order of seniority, to look
at the lucky little ship which is going to France. It is the principle
entertainment of the general staff. Down below, the water of the anchorage
sparkles.... The breeches of the old Turkish cannons, mounted along the quay,
glisten in the sunshine.... Passengers arrive.... Baggage is loaded onto
tenders.
Tartarin does not have any baggage. He comes
down from the Rue de la Marine by the little market, full of bananas and
water-melons, accompanied by his friend Captain Barbassou.
Tartarin de Tarascon has left on the Moorish
shore his arms, his equipment and his illusions, and is preparing to sail back
to Tarascon with nothing in his pockets but his hands. Scarcely, however, had he
set foot in the captain's launch, when a breathless creature scrambled down from
the square above and galloped towards him. It was the camel, the faithful camel,
which for twenty-four hours had been searching for its master.
When Tartarin saw it, he changed colour and
pretended not to know it; but the camel was insistent. It frisked along the
quay. It called to its friend and regarded him with tender looks. "Take me
away!" Its sad eyes seemed to say, "Take me away with you, far away from this
mock Arabia, this ridiculous Orient, full of locomotives and stage coaches,
where I as a second-class dromadary do not know what will become of me. You are
the last Teur, I am the last camel, let us never part, Oh my Tartarin!" "Is that
your camel?" Asked the Captain.
"No!... No!... Not mine." Replied Tartarin, who
trembled at the thought of entering Tarascon with this absurd escort; and
shamelessly repudiating the companion of his misfortunes he repelled with his
foot the soil of Algeria and pushed the boat out from the shore. The camel
sniffed at the water, flexed its joints and leapt headlong in behind the boat,
where it swam in convoy toward the Zouave, its hump floating on the water like a
gourd and it neck lying on the surface like the ram of a trireme.
The boat and the camel came alongside the
Zouave at the same time. "I don't know what I should do about this dromadary."
Said the captain, "I think I'll take it on board and present it to the zoo at
Marseille, I can't just leave it here." So by means of block and tackle the wet
camel was hoisted onto the deck of the Zouave, which then set sail.
Tartarin spent most of the time in his cabin.
Not that the sea was rough or that the chechia had to much to suffer, but
because whenever he appeared on the deck the camel made such a ridiculous fuss
of its master. You never saw a camel so attached to anyone as this.
Hour by hour, when he looked through the
porthole, Tartarin could see the Algerian sky turn paler, until one morning, in
a silvery mist, he heard to his delight the bells of Marseilles. The Zouave had
arrived.
Our man, who had no baggage, disembarked
without a word and hurried across Marseilles, fearing all the time that he might
be followed by the camel, and he did not breathe easily until he was seated in a
third-class railway carriage, on his way to Tarascon... a false sense of
security. They had not gone far from Marseilles when heads appeared at windows
and there were cries of astonishment, Tartarin looked out in turn and what did
he see but the inescapable camel coming down the line behind the train with a
remarkable turn of speed.
Tartarin resumed his seat and closed his eyes.
After this disastrous expedition he had counted on getting back home
unrecognised, but the presence of this confounded camel made it impossible. What
a return to make, Bon Dieu!... No money... No lions... Nothing but a camel!....
"Tarascon!... Tarascon!"... It was time to get out.
To Tartarin's utter astonishment, the heroic
chechia had barely appeared in the doorway, when it was greeted by a great cry
of "Vive Tartarin!... Vive Tartarin!" Which shook the glass vault of the station
roof. "Vive Tartarin!... Hurrah for the lion killer!" Then came fanfares and a
choir. Tartarin could have died, he thought this was a hoax: but no, all
Tarascon was there, tossing their hats in the air and shouting his praises.
There stood the brave Commandant Bravida, Costecalde the gunsmith, the President
Ladevèze, the chemist and all the noble body of hat shooters, who pressed round
their chief and carried him all the way down the steps.
How remarkable are the effects of the "mirage".
The skin of the blind lion sent to the Commandant was the cause of all this
tumult. At the sight of this modest trophy, displayed at the club, Tarascon and
beyond Tarascon the whole of the Midi had worked themselves into a state of
excitement. "The Semaphore" had spoken. A complete scenario had been invented.
This was no longer one lion killed by Tartarin, it was ten lions, twenty lions,
a whole troop of lions. So Tartarin, when he reached Marseilles was already
famous, and an enthusiastic telegram had warned his home town of his imminent
arrival.
The excitement of the populace reached its peak
when a fantastic animal, covered in dust and sweat, stumbled down the station
steps behind our hero. For a moment they thought that the Tarasque had returned.
Tartarin reassured his fellow citizens, "It is
my camel" He said, and already under the influence of the Tarascon sun, that
fine sun which induces fanciful exaggeration, he stroked the camel's hump and
added, "It is a noble creature, it saw me kill all my lions." So saying, he took
the arm of the Commandant, who was blushing with pride, and followed by his
camel, surrounded by hat shooters and acclaimed by the people, he proceeded
peacefully toward the little house of the baobab; and as he walked along he
began the story of his great expedition.
"There was one particular evening," He said,
"When I was out in the heart of the Sahara..." |
