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diff --git a/1862-h/1862-h.htm b/1862-h/1862-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6e458ec --- /dev/null +++ b/1862-h/1862-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,4591 @@ +<?xml version="1.0" encoding="utf-8"?> + +<!DOCTYPE html + PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd" > + +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" lang="en"> + <head> + <title> + Tartarin of Tarascon, by Alphonse Daudet + </title> + <style type="text/css" xml:space="preserve"> + + body { margin:5%; background:#faebd0; text-align:justify} + P { text-indent: 1em; margin-top: .25em; margin-bottom: .25em; } + H1,H2,H3,H4,H5,H6 { text-align: center; margin-left: 15%; margin-right: 15%; } + hr { width: 50%; text-align: center;} + .foot { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; text-indent: -3em; font-size: 90%; } + blockquote {font-size: 97%; font-style: italic; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%;} + .mynote {background-color: #DDE; color: #000; padding: .5em; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 95%;} + .toc { margin-left: 10%; margin-bottom: .75em;} + .toc2 { margin-left: 20%;} + div.fig { display:block; margin:0 auto; text-align:center; } + div.middle { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; } + .figleft {float: left; margin-left: 0%; margin-right: 1%;} + .figright {float: right; margin-right: 0%; margin-left: 1%;} + .pagenum {display:inline; font-size: 70%; font-style:normal; + margin: 0; padding: 0; position: absolute; right: 1%; + text-align: right;} + pre { font-style: italic; font-size: 90%; margin-left: 10%;} + +</style> + </head> + <body> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Tartarin of Tarascon, by Alphonse Daudet + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Tartarin of Tarascon + +Author: Alphonse Daudet + +Release Date: November 23, 2009 [EBook #1862] +Last Updated: October 1, 2016 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TARTARIN OF TARASCON *** + + + + +Produced by Donal O'Danachair, and David Widger + + + + + + +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h1> + TARTARIN OF TARASCON + </h1> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <h2> + By Alphonse Daudet + </h2> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <h2> + Contents + </h2> + <table summary=""> + <tr> + <td> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0001"> EPISODE THE FIRST, IN TARASCON </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0002"> EPISODE THE SECOND, AMONG “THE TURKS” </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0003"> EPISODE THE THIRD, AMONG THE LIONS </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_APPE"> APPENDIX </a> + </p> + </td> + </tr> + </table> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> <a name="link2H_4_0001" id="link2H_4_0001"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <h2> + EPISODE THE FIRST, IN TARASCON + </h2> + <p> + I. The Garden Round the Giant Trees. + </p> + <p> + MY first visit to Tartarin of Tarascon has remained a + never-to-be-forgotten date in my life; although quite ten or a dozen years + ago, I remember it better than yesterday. + </p> + <p> + At that time the intrepid Tartarin lived in the third house on the left as + the town begins, on the Avignon road. A pretty little villa in the local + style, with a front garden and a balcony behind, the walls glaringly white + and the venetians very green; and always about the doorsteps a brood of + little Savoyard shoe-blackguards playing hopscotch, or dozing in the broad + sunshine with their heads pillowed on their boxes. + </p> + <p> + Outwardly the dwelling had no remarkable features, and none would ever + believe it the abode of a hero; but when you stepped inside, ye gods and + little fishes! what a change! From turret to foundation-stone—I + mean, from cellar to garret,—the whole building wore a heroic front; + even so the garden! + </p> + <p> + O that garden of Tartarin’s! there’s not its match in Europe! Not a native + tree was there—not one flower of France; nothing hut exotic plants, + gum-trees, gourds, cotton-woods, cocoa and cacao, mangoes, bananas, palms, + a baobab, nopals, cacti, Barbary figs—well, you would believe + yourself in the very midst of Central Africa, ten thousand leagues away. + It is but fair to say that these were none of full growth; indeed, the + cocoa-palms were no bigger than beet root and the baobab (arbos gigantea—“giant + tree,” you know) was easily enough circumscribed by a window-pot; but, + notwithstanding this, it was rather a sensation for Tarascon, and the + townsfolk who were admitted on Sundays to the honour of contemplating + Tartarin’s baobab, went home chokeful of admiration. + </p> + <p> + Try to conceive my own emotion, which I was bound to feel on that day of + days when I crossed through this marvellous garden, and that was capped + when I was ushered into the hero’s sanctum. + </p> + <p> + His study, one of the lions—I should say, lions’ dens—of the + town, was at the end of the garden, its glass door opening right on to the + baobab. + </p> + <p> + You are to picture a capacious apartment adorned with firearms and steel + blades from top to bottom: all the weapons of all the countries in the + wide world—carbines, rifles, blunderbusses, Corsican, Catalan, and + dagger knives, Malay kreeses, revolvers with spring-bayonets, Carib and + flint arrows, knuckle-dusters, life-preservers, Hottentot clubs, Mexican + lassoes—now, can you expect me to name the rest? Upon the whole fell + a fierce sunlight, which made the blades and the brass butt-plate of the + muskets gleam as if all the more to set your flesh creeping. Still, the + beholder was soothed a little by the tame air of order and tidiness + reigning over the arsenal. Everything was in place, brushed, dusted, + labelled, as in a museum; from point to point the eye descried some + obliging little card reading: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + ————————————————————- + I Poisoned Arrows! I + I Do Not Touch! I + ————————————————————- + + Or, + + ————————————————————- + I Loaded! I + I Take care, please! I + ————————————————————- +</pre> + <p> + If it had not been for these cautions I never should have dared venture + in. + </p> + <p> + In the middle of the room was an occasional table, on which stood a + decanter of rum, a siphon of soda-water, a Turkish tobacco-pouch, “Captain + Cook’s Voyages,” the Indian tales of Fenimore Cooper and Gustave Aimard, + stories of hunting the bear, eagle, elephant, and so on. Lastly, beside + the table sat a man of between forty and forty-five, short, stout, + thick-set, ruddy, with flaming eyes and a strong stubbly beard; he wore + flannel tights, and was in his shirt sleeves; one hand held a book, and + the other brandished a very large pipe with an iron bowl-cap. Whilst + reading heaven only knows what startling adventure of scalp-hunters, he + pouted out his lower lip in a terrifying way, which gave the honest phiz + of the man living placidly on his means the same impression of kindly + ferocity which abounded throughout the house. + </p> + <p> + This man was Tartarin himself—the Tartarin of Tarascon, the great, + dreadnought, incomparable Tartarin of Tarascon. + </p> + <p> + II. A general glance bestowed upon the good town of Tarascon, and a + particular one on “the cap-poppers.” + </p> + <p> + AT the time I am telling of, Tartarin of Tarascon had not become the + present-day Tartarin, the great one so popular in the whole South of + France: but yet he was even then the cock of the walk at Tarascon. + </p> + <p> + Let us show whence arose this sovereignty. + </p> + <p> + In the first place you must know that everybody is shooting mad in these + parts, from the greatest to the least. The chase is the local craze, and + so it has ever been since the mythological times when the Tarasque, as the + county dragon was called, flourished himself and his tail in the town + marshes, and entertained shooting parties got up against him. So you see + the passion has lasted a goodish bit. + </p> + <p> + It follows that, every Sunday morning, Tarascon flies to arms, lets loose + the dogs of the hunt, and rushes out of its walls, with game-bag slung and + fowling-piece on the shoulder, together with a hurly-burly of hounds, + cracking of whips, and blowing of whistles and hunting-horns. It’s + splendid to see! Unfortunately, there’s a lack of game, an absolute + dearth. + </p> + <p> + Stupid as the brute creation is, you can readily understand that, in time, + it learnt some distrust. + </p> + <p> + For five leagues around about Tarascon, forms, lairs, and burrows are + empty, and nesting-places abandoned. You’ll not find a single quail or + blackbird, one little leveret, or the tiniest tit. And yet the pretty + hillocks are mightily tempting, sweet smelling as they are of myrtle, + lavender, and rosemary; and the fine muscatels plumped out with sweetness + even unto bursting, as they spread along the banks of the Rhone, are + deucedly tempting too. True, true; but Tarascon lies behind all this, and + Tarascon is down in the black books of the world of fur and feather. The + very birds of passage have ticked it off on their guide-books, and when + the wild ducks, coming down towards the Camargue in long triangles, spy + the town steeples from afar, the outermost flyers squawk out loudly: + </p> + <p> + “Look out! there’s Tarascon! give Tarascon the go-by, duckies!” + </p> + <p> + And the flocks take a swerve. + </p> + <p> + In short, as far as game goes, there’s not a specimen left in the land + save one old rogue of a hare, escaped by miracle from the massacres, who + is stubbornly determined to stick to it all his life! He is very well + known at Tarascon, and a name has been given him. “Rapid” is what they + call him. It is known that he has his form on M. Bompard’s grounds—which, + by the way, has doubled, ay, tripled, the value of the property—but + nobody has yet managed to lay him low. At present, only two or three + inveterate fellows worry themselves about him. The rest have given him up + as a bad job, and old Rapid has long ago passed into the legendary world, + although your Tarasconer is very slightly superstitious naturally, and + would eat cock-robins on toast, or the swallow, which is Our Lady’s own + bird, for that matter, if he could find any. + </p> + <p> + “But that won’t do!” you will say. Inasmuch as game is so scarce, what can + the sportsmen do every Sunday? + </p> + <p> + What can they do? + </p> + <p> + Why, goodness gracious! they go out into the real country two or three + leagues from town. They gather in knots of five or six, recline tranquilly + in the shade of some well, old wall, or olive tree, extract from their + game-bags a good-sized piece of boiled beef, raw onions, a sausage, and + anchovies, and commence a next to endless snack, washed down with one of + those nice Rhone wines, which sets a toper laughing and singing. After + that, when thoroughly braced up, they rise, whistle the dogs to heel, set + the guns on half cock, and go “on the shoot”—another way of saying + that every man plucks off his cap, “shies” it up with all his might, and + pops it on the fly with No. 5, 6, or 2 shot, according to what he is + loaded for. + </p> + <p> + The man who lodges most shot in his cap is hailed as king of the hunt, and + stalks back triumphantly at dusk into Tarascon, with his riddled cap on + the end of his gun-barrel, amid any quantity of dog-barks and horn-blasts. + </p> + <p> + It is needless to say that cap-selling is a fine business in the town. + There are even some hatters who sell hunting-caps ready shot, torn, and + perforated for the bad shots; but the only buyer known is the chemist + Bezuquet. This is dishonourable! + </p> + <p> + As a marksman at caps, Tartarin of Tarascon never had his match. + </p> + <p> + Every Sunday morning out he would march in a new cap, and back he would + strut every Sunday evening with a mere thing of shreds. The loft of Baobab + Villa was full of these glorious trophies. Hence all Tarascon acknowledged + him as master; and as Tartarin thoroughly understood hunting, and had read + all the handbooks of all possible kinds of venery, from cap-popping to + Burmese tiger-shooting, the sportsmen constituted him their great + cynegetical judge, and took him for referee and arbitrator in all their + differences. + </p> + <p> + Between three and four daily, at Costecalde the gunsmith’s, a stout stern + pipe-smoker might be seen in a green leather-covered arm-chair in the + centre of the shop crammed with cap-poppers, they all on foot and + wrangling. This was Tartarin of Tarascon delivering judgement—Nimrod + plus Solomon. + </p> + <p> + III. “Naw, naw, naw!” The general glance protracted upon the good town. + </p> + <p> + AFTER the craze for sporting, the lusty Tarascon race cherishes one love: + ballad-singing. There’s no believing what a quantity of ballads is used up + in that little region. All the sentimental stuff turning into sere and + yellow leaves in the oldest portfolios, are to be found in full pristine + lustre in Tarascon. Ay, the entire collection. Every family has its own + pet, as is known to the town. + </p> + <p> + For instance, it is an established fact that this is the chemist + Bezuquet’s family’s: + </p> + <p> + “Thou art the fair star that I adore!” + </p> + <p> + The gunmaker Costecalde’s family’s: + </p> + <p> + “Would’st thou come to the land Where the log-cabins rise?” + </p> + <p> + The official registrar’s family’s: + </p> + <p> + “If I wore a coat of invisible green, Do you think for a moment I could be + seen?” + </p> + <p> + And so on for the whole of Tarascon. Two or three times a week there were + parties where they were sung. The singularity was their being always the + same, and that the honest Tarasconers had never had an inclination to + change them during the long, long time they had been harping on them. They + were handed down from father to son in the families, without anybody + improving on them or bowdlerising them: they were sacred. Never did it + occur to Costecalde’s mind to sing the Bezuquets’, or the Bezuquets to try + Costecalde’s. And yet you may believe that they ought to know by heart + what they had been singing for two-score years! But, nay! everybody stuck + to his own,and they were all contented. + </p> + <p> + In ballad-singing, as in cap-popping, Tartarin was still the foremost. His + superiority over his fellow-townsmen consisted in his not having any one + song of his own, but in knowing the lot, the whole, mind you! But—there’s + a but—it was the devil’s own work to get him to sing them. + </p> + <p> + Surfeited early in life with his drawing-room successes, our hero + preferred by far burying himself in his hunting story-books, or spending + the evening at the club, to making a personal exhibition before a Nimes + piano between a pair of home-made candles. These musical parades seemed + beneath him. Nevertheless, at whiles, when there was a harmonic party at + Bezuquet’s, he would drop into the chemist’s shop, as if by chance, and, + after a deal of pressure, consent to do the grand duo in Robert le Diable + with old Madame Bezuquet. Whoso never heard that never heard anything! For + my part, even if I lived a hundred years, I should always see the mighty + Tartarin solemnly stepping up to the piano, setting his arms akimbo, + working up his tragic mien, and, beneath the green reflection from the + show-bottles in the window, trying to give his pleasant visage the fierce + and satanic expression of Robert the Devil. Hardly would he fall into + position before the whole audience would be shuddering with the foreboding + that something uncommon was at hand. After a hush, old Madame Bezuquet + would commence to her own accompaniment: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Robert, my love is thine! + To thee I my faith did plight, + Thou seest my affright,— + Mercy for thine own sake, + And mercy for mine!” + </pre> + <p> + In an undertone she would add: “Now, then, Tartarin!” Whereupon Tartarin + of Tarascon, with crooked arms, clenched fists, and quivering nostrils, + would roar three times in a formidable voice, rolling like a thunderclap + in the bowels of the instrument: + </p> + <p> + “No! no! no!” which, like the thorough southerner he was, he pronounced + nasally as “Naw! naw! naw!” Then would old Madame Bezuquet again sing: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Mercy for thine own sake, + And mercy for mine!” + </pre> + <p> + “Naw! naw! naw!” bellowed Tartarin at his loudest, and there the gem + ended. + </p> + <p> + Not long, you see; but it was so handsomely voiced forth, so clearly + gesticulated, and so diabolical, that a tremor of terror overran the + chemist’s shop, and the “Naw! naw! naw!” would be encored several times + running. + </p> + <p> + Upon this Tartarin would sponge his brow, smile on the ladies, wink to the + sterner sex, and withdraw upon his triumph to go remark at the club with a + trifling, offhand air: + </p> + <p> + “I have just come from the Bezuquets’, where I was forced to sing ‘em the + duo from Robert le Diable.” + </p> + <p> + The cream of the joke was that he really believed it! + </p> + <p> + IV. “They!” + </p> + <p> + CHIEFLY to the account of these diverse talents did Tartarin owe his lofty + position in the town of Tarascon. Talking of captivating, though, this + deuce of a fellow knew how to ensnare everybody. Why, the army, at + Tarascon, was for Tartarin. The brave commandant, Bravida, honorary + captain retired—in the Military Clothing Factory Department—called + him a game fellow; and you may well admit that the warrior knew all about + game fellows, he played such a capital knife and fork on game of all + kinds. + </p> + <p> + So was the legislature on Tartarin’s side. Two or three times, in open + court, the old chief judge, Ladevese, had said, in alluding to him: + </p> + <p> + “He is a character!” + </p> + <p> + Lastly, the masses were for Tartarin. He had become the swell bruiser, the + aristocratic pugilist, the crack bully of the local Corinthians for the + Tarasconers, from his build, bearing, style—that aspect of a + guard’s-trumpeter’s charger which fears no noise; his reputation as a hero + coming from nobody knew whence or for what, and some scramblings for + coppers and a few kicks to the little ragamuffins basking at his doorway. + </p> + <p> + Along the waterside, when Tartarin came home from hunting on Sunday + evenings, with his cap on the muzzle of his gun, and his fustian + shooting-jacket belted in tightly, the sturdy river-lightermen would + respectfully bob, and blinking towards the huge biceps swelling out his + arms, would mutter among one another in admiration: + </p> + <p> + “Now, there’s a powerful chap if you like! he has double-muscles!” + </p> + <p> + “Double muscles!” why, you never heard of such a thing outside of + Tarascon! + </p> + <p> + For all this, with all his numberless parts, double-muscles, the popular + favour, and the so precious esteem of brave Commandant Bravida, ex-captain + (in the Army Clothing Factory), Tartarin was not happy: this life in a + petty town weighed upon him and suffocated him. + </p> + <p> + The great man of Tarascon was bored in Tarascon. + </p> + <p> + The fact is, for a heroic temperament like his, a wild adventurous spirit + which dreamt of nothing but battles, races across the pampas, mighty + battues, desert sands, blizzards and typhoons, it was not enough to go out + every Sunday to pop at a cap, and the rest of the time to ladle out + casting-votes at the gunmaker’s. Poor dear great man! If this existence + were only prolonged, there would be sufficient tedium in it to kill him + with consumption. + </p> + <p> + In vain did he surround himself with baobabs and other African trees, to + widen his horizon, and some little to forget his club and the + market-place; in vain did he pile weapon upon weapon, and Malay kreese + upon Malay kreese; in vain did he cram with romances, endeavouring like + the immortal Don Quixote to wrench himself by the vigour of his fancy out + of the talons of pitiless reality. Alas! all that he did to appease his + thirst for deeds of daring only helped to augment it. The sight of all the + murderous implements kept him in a perpetual stew of wrath and exaltation. + His revolvers, repeating rifles, and ducking-guns shouted “Battle! + battle!” out of their mouths. Through the twigs of his baobab, the tempest + of great voyages and journeys soughed and blew bad advice. To finish him + came Gustave Aimard, Mayne Reid, and Fenimore Cooper. + </p> + <p> + Oh, how many times did Tartarin with a howl spring up on the sultry summer + afternoons, when he was reading alone amidst his blades, points, and + edges; how many times did he dash down his book and rush to the wall to + unhook a deadly arm! The poor man forgot he was at home in Tarascon, in + his underclothes, and with a handkerchief round his head. He would + translate his readings into action, and, goading himself with his own + voice, shout out whilst swinging a battle-axe or tomahawk: + </p> + <p> + “Now, only let ‘em come!” + </p> + <p> + “Them”? who were they? + </p> + <p> + Tartarin did not himself any too clearly understand. “They” was all that + should be attacked and fought with, all that bites, claws, scalps, whoops, + and yells—the Sioux Indians dancing around the war-stake to which + the unfortunate pale-face prisoner is lashed. The grizzly of the Rocky + Mountains, who wobbles on his hind legs, and licks himself with a tongue + full of blood. The Touareg, too, in the desert, the Malay pirate, the + brigand of the Abruzzi—in short, “they” was warfare, travel, + adventure, and glory. + </p> + <p> + But, alas!! it was to no avail that the fearless Tarasconer called for and + defied them; never did they come. Odsboddikins! what would they have come + to do in Tarascon? + </p> + <p> + Nevertheless Tartarin always expected to run up against them, particularly + some evening in going to the club. + </p> + <p> + V. How Tartarin went round to his club. + </p> + <p> + LITTLE, indeed, beside Tartarin of Tarascon, arming himself capa-pie to go + to his club at nine, an hour after the retreat had sounded on the bugle, + was the Templar Knight preparing for a sortie upon the infidel, the + Chinese tiger equipping himself for combat, or the Comanche warrior + painting up for going on the war-path. “All hands make ready for action!” + as the men-of-war’s men say. + </p> + <p> + In his left hand Tartarin took a steel-pointed knuckle-duster; in the + right he carried a sword-cane; in his left pocket a life-preserver; in the + right a revolver. On his chest, betwixt outer and under garment, lay a + Malay kreese. But never any poisoned arrows—they are weapons + altogether too unfair. + </p> + <p> + Before starting, in the silence and obscurity of his study, he exercised + himself for a while, warding off imaginary cuts and thrusts, lunging at + the wall, and giving his muscles play; then he took his master-key and + went through the garden leisurely; without hurrying, mark you. “Cool and + calm—British courage, that is the true sort, gentlemen.” At the + garden end he opened the heavy iron door, violently and abruptly so that + it should slam against the outer wall. If “they” had been skulking behind + it, you may wager they would have been jam. Unhappily, they were not + there. + </p> + <p> + The way being open, out Tartarin would sally, quickly glancing to the + right and left, ere banging the door to and fastening it smartly with + double-locking. Then, on the way. + </p> + <p> + Not so much as a cat upon the Avignon road—all the doors closed, and + no lights in the casements. All was black, except for the parish lamps, + well spaced apart, blinking in the river mist. + </p> + <p> + Calm and proud, Tartarin of Tarascon marched on in the night, ringing his + heels with regularity, and sending sparks out of the paving-stones with + the ferule of his stick. Whether in avenues, streets, or lanes, he took + care to keep in the middle of the road—an excellent method of + precaution, allowing one to see danger coming, and, above all, to avoid + any droppings from windows, as happens after dark in Tarascon and the Old + Town of Edinburgh. On seeing so much prudence in Tartarin, pray do not + conclude that Tartarin had any fear—dear, no! he only was on his + guard. + </p> + <p> + The best proof that Tartarin was not scared is, that instead of going to + the club by the shortest cut, he went over the town by the longest and + darkest way round, through a mass of vile, paltry alleys, at the mouth of + which the Rhone could be seen ominously gleaming. The poor knight + constantly hoped that, beyond the turn of one of these cut-throats’ + haunts, “they” would leap from the shadow and fall on his back. I warrant + you, “they” would have been warmly received, though; but, alack! by reason + of some nasty meanness of destiny, never indeed did Tartarin of Tarascon + enjoy the luck to meet any ugly customers—not so much as a dog or a + drunken man—nothing at all! + </p> + <p> + Still, there were false alarms somewhiles. He would catch a sound of steps + and muffled voices. + </p> + <p> + “Ware hawks!” Tartarin would mutter, and stop short, as if taking root on + the spot, scrutinising the gloom, sniffing the wind, even glueing his ear + to the ground in the orthodox Red Indian mode. The steps would draw + nearer, and the voices grow more distinct, till no more doubt was + possible. “They” were coming—in fact, here “they” were! + </p> + <p> + Steady, with eye afire and heaving breast, Tartarin would gather himself + like a jaguar in readiness to spring forward whilst uttering his war-cry, + when, all of a sudden, out of the thick of the murkiness, he would hear + honest Tarasconian voices quite tranquilly hailing him with: + </p> + <p> + “Hullo! you, by Jove! it’s Tartarin! Good night, old fellow!” + </p> + <p> + Maledictions upon it! It was the chemist Bezuquet, with his family, coming + from singing their family ballad at Costecalde’s. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, good even, good even!” Tartarin would growl, furious at his blunder, + and plunging fiercely into the gloom with his cane waved on high. + </p> + <p> + On arriving in the street where stood his club-house, the dauntless one + would linger yet a moment, walking up and down before the portals ere + entering. But, finally, weary of awaiting “them,” and certain “they” would + not show “themselves,” he would fling a last glare of defiance into the + shades and snarl wrathfully: + </p> + <p> + “Nothing, nothing at all! there never is nothing!” + </p> + <p> + Upon which double negation, which he meant as a stronger affirmative, the + worthy champion would walk in to play his game of bezique with the + commandant. + </p> + <p> + VI. The two Tartarins. + </p> + <p> + ANSWER me, you will say, how the mischief is it that Tartarin of Tarascon + never left Tarascon with all this mania for adventure, need of powerful + sensations, and folly about travel, rides, and journeys from the Pole to + the Equator? + </p> + <p> + For that is a fact: up to the age of five-and-forty, the dreadless + Tarasconian had never once slept outside his own room. He had not even + taken that obligatory trip to Marseilles which every sound Provencal makes + upon coming of age. The most of his knowledge included Beaucaire, and yet + that’s not far from Tarascon, there being merely the bridge to go over. + Unfortunately, this rascally bridge has so often been blown away by the + gales, it is so long and frail, and the Rhone has such a width at this + spot that—well, faith! you understand! Tartarin of Tarascon + preferred terra firma. + </p> + <p> + We are afraid we must make a clean breast of it: in our hero there were + two very distinct characters. Some Father of the Church has said: “I feel + there are two men in me.” He would have spoken truly in saying this about + Tartarin, who carried in his frame the soul of Don Quixote, the same + chivalric impulses, heroic ideal, and crankiness for the grandiose and + romantic; but, worse is the luck! he had not the body of the celebrated + hidalgo, that thin and meagre apology for a body, on which material life + failed to take a hold; one that could get through twenty nights without + its breast-plate being unbuckled off, and forty-eight hours on a handful + of rice. On the contrary, Tartarin’s body was a stout honest bully of a + body, very fat, very weighty, most sensual and fond of coddling, highly + touchy, full of low-class appetite and homely requirements—the + short, paunchy body on stumps of the immortal Sancho Panza. + </p> + <p> + Don Quixote and Sancho Panza in the one same man! you will readily + comprehend what a cat-and-dog couple they made! what strife! what + clapper-clawing! Oh, the fine dialogue for Lucian or Saint-Evremond to + write, between the two Tartarins—Quixote-Tartarin and + Sancho-Tartarin! Quixote-Tartarin firing up on the stories of Gustave + Aimard, and shouting: “Up and at ‘em!” and Sancho-Tartarin thinking only + of the rheumatics ahead, and murmuring: “I mean to stay at home.” + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + THE DUET. + + QUIXOTE-TARTARIN. SANCHO-TARTARIN. + (Highly excited.) (Quite calmly.) + Cover yourself with glory, Tartarin, cover yourself + Tartarin. with flannel. + + (Still more excitedly.) (Still more calmly.) + O for the terrible double- O for the thick knitted + barrelled rifle! O for waistcoats! and warm + bowie-knives, lassoes, knee-caps! O for the + and moccasins! welcome padded caps + with ear-flaps! + + (Above all self-control.) (Ringing up the maid.) + A battle-axe! fetch me a Now, then, Jeannette, do + battle-axe! bring up that chocolate! +</pre> + <p> + Whereupon Jeannette would appear with an unusually good cup of chocolate, + just right in warmth, sweetly smelling, and with the play of light on + watered silk upon its unctuous surface, and with succulent grilled steak + flavoured with anise-seed, which would set Sancho-Tartarin off on the + broad grin, and into a laugh that drowned the shouts of Quixote-Tartarin. + </p> + <p> + Thus it came about that Tartarin of Tarascon never had left Tarascon. + </p> + <p> + VII. Tartarin—The Europeans at Shanghai—Commerce—The + Tartars—Can Tartarin of Tarascon be an Impostor?—The Mirage. + </p> + <p> + UNDER one conjunction of circumstances, Tartarin did, however, once almost + start out upon a great voyage. + </p> + <p> + The three brothers Garcio-Camus, relatives of Tarascon, established in + business at Shanghai, offered him the managership of one of their branches + there. This undoubtedly presented the kind of life he hankered after. + Plenty of active business, a whole army of under-strappers to order about, + and connections with Russia, Persia, Turkey in Asia—in short, to be + a merchant prince! + </p> + <p> + In Tartarin’s mouth, the title of Merchant Prince thundered out as + something stunning! + </p> + <p> + The house of Garcio-Camus had the further advantage of sometimes being + favoured with a call from the Tartars. Then the doors would be slammed + shut, all the clerks flew to arms, up ran the consular flag, and zizz! + phit! bang! out of the windows upon the Tartars. + </p> + <p> + I need not tell you with what enthusiasm Quixote-Tartarin clutched this + proposition; sad to say, Sancho-Tartarin did not see it in the same light, + and, as he was the stronger party, it never came to anything. But in the + town there was much talk about it. Would he go or would he not? “I’ll lay + he will!”—and “I’ll wager he won’t!” It was the event of the week. + In the upshot, Tartarin did not depart, but the matter redounded to his + credit none the less. Going or not going to Shanghai was all one to + Tarascon. Tartarin’s journey was so much talked about that people got to + believe he had done it and returned, and at the club in the evening + members would actually ask for information on life at Shanghai, the + manners and customs and climate, about opium, and commerce. + </p> + <p> + Deeply read up, Tartarin would graciously furnish the particulars desired, + and, in the end, the good fellow was not quite sure himself about not + having gone to Shanghai, so that, after relating for the hundredth time + how the Tartars came down on the trading post, it would most naturally + happen him to add: + </p> + <p> + “Then I made my men take up arms and hoist the consular flag, and zizz! + phit! bang! out of the windows upon the Tartars.” + </p> + <p> + On hearing this, the whole club would quiver. + </p> + <p> + “But according to that, this Tartarin of yours is an awful liar.” + </p> + <p> + “No, no, a thousand times over, no! Tartarin was no liar.” + </p> + <p> + “But the man ought to know that he has never been to Shanghai”— + </p> + <p> + “Why, of course, he knows that; but still”— + </p> + <p> + “But still,” you see—mark that! It is high time for the law to be + laid down once for all on the reputation as drawers of the long bow which + Northerners fling at Southerners. There are no Baron Munchausens in the + south of France, neither at Nimes nor Marseilles, Toulouse nor Tarascon. + The Southerner does not deceive but is self-deceived. He does not always + tell the cold-drawn truth, but he believes he does. His falsehood is not + any such thing, but a kind of mental mirage. + </p> + <p> + Yes, purely mirage! The better to follow me, you should actually follow me + into the South, and you will see I am right. You have only to look at that + Lucifer’s own country, where the sun transmogrifies everything, and + magnifies it beyond life-size. The little hills of Provence are no bigger + than the Butte Montmartre, but they will loom up like the Rocky Mountains; + the Square House at Nimes—a mere model to put on your sideboard—will + seem grander than St. Peter’s. You will see—in brief, the only + exaggerator in the South is Old Sol, for he does enlarge everything he + touches. What was Sparta in its days of splendour? a pitiful hamlet. What + was Athens? at the most, a second-class town; and yet in history both + appear to us as enormous cities. This is a sample of what the sun can do. + </p> + <p> + Are you going to be astonished after this that the same sun falling upon + Tarascon should have made of an ex-captain in the Army Clothing Factory, + like Bravida, the “brave commandant;” of a sprout an Indian fig-tree; and + of a man who had missed going to Shanghai one who had been there? + </p> + <p> + VIII. Mitaine’s Menagerie—A Lion from the Atlas at Tarascon—A + Solemn and Fearsome Confrontation. + </p> + <p> + EXHIBITING Tartarin of Tarascon, as we are, in his private life, before + Fame kissed his brow and garlanded him with her well-worn laurel wreath, + and having narrated his heroic existence in a modest state, his delights + and sorrows, his dreams and his hopes, let us hurriedly skip to the + grandest pages of his story, and to the singular event which was to give + the first flight to his incomparable career. + </p> + <p> + It happened one evening at Costecalde the gunmaker’s, where Tartarin was + engaged in showing several sportsmen the working of the needle-gun, then + in its first novelty. The door suddenly flew open, and in rushed a + bewildered cap-popper, howling “A lion, a lion!” General was the alarm, + stupor, uproar and tumult. Tartarin prepared to resist cavalry with the + bayonet, whilst Costecalde ran to shut the door. The sportsman was + surrounded and pressed and questioned, and here follows what he told them: + Mitaine’s Menagerie, returning from Beaucaire Fair, had consented to stay + over a few days at Tarascon, and was just unpacking, to set up the show on + the Castle-green, with a lot of boas, seals, crocodiles, and a magnificent + lion from the Atlas Mountains. + </p> + <p> + An African lion in Tarascon? + </p> + <p> + Never in the memory of living man had the like been seen. Hence our + dauntless cap-poppers looked at one another how proudly! What a beaming on + their sunburned visages! and in every nook of Costecalde’s shop what + hearty congratulatory grips of the hand were silently exchanged! The + sensation was so great and unforeseen that nobody could find a word to say—not + even Tartarin. + </p> + <p> + Blanched and agitated, with the needle-gun still in his fist, he brooded, + erect before the counter. A lion from the Atlas Range at pistol range from + him, a couple of strides off? a lion, mind you—the beast heroic and + ferocious above all others, the King of the Brute Creation, the crowning + game of his fancies, something like the leading actor in the ideal company + which played such splendid tragedies in his mind’s eye. A lion, heaven be + thanked! and from the Atlas, to boot! It was more than the great Tartarin + could bear. + </p> + <p> + Suddenly a flush of blood flew into his face. His eyes flashed. With one + convulsive movement he shouldered the needle-gun, and turning towards the + brave Commandant Bravida (formerly captain in the Army Clothing + Department, please to remember), he thundered to him— + </p> + <p> + “Let’s go have a look at him, commandant.” + </p> + <p> + “Here, here, I say! that’s my gun—my needle-gun you are carrying + off,” timidly ventured the wary Costecalde; but Tartarin had already got + round the corner, with all the cap-poppers proudly lock-stepping behind + him. + </p> + <p> + When they arrived at the menagerie, they found a goodly number of people + there. Tarascon, heroic but too long deprived of sensational shows, had + rushed upon Mitaine’s portable theatre, and had taken it by storm. Hence + the voluminous Madame Mitaine was highly contented. In an Arab costume, + her arms bare to the elbow, iron anklets on, a whip in one hand and a + plucked though live pullet in the other, the noted lady was doing the + honours of the booth to the Tarasconians; and, as she also had “double + muscles,” her success was almost as great as her animals. + </p> + <p> + The entrance of Tartarin with the gun on his shoulder was a damper. + </p> + <p> + All our good Tarasconians, who had been quite tranquilly strolling before + the cages, unarmed and with no distrust, without even any idea of danger, + felt momentary apprehension, naturally enough, on beholding their mighty + Tartarin rush into the enclosure with his formidable engine of war. There + must be something to fear when a hero like he was, came weaponed; so, in a + twinkling, all the space along the cage fronts was cleared. The youngsters + burst out squalling for fear, and the women looked round for the nearest + way out. The chemist Bezuquet made off altogether, alleging that he was + going home for his gun. + </p> + <p> + Gradually, however, Tartarin’s bearing restored courage. With head erect, + the intrepid Tarasconian slowly and calmly made the circuit of the booth, + passing the seal’s tank without stopping, glancing disdainfully on the + long box filled with sawdust in which the boa would digest its raw fowl, + and going to take his stand before the lion’s cage. + </p> + <p> + A terrible and solemn confrontation, this! The lion of Tarascon and the + lion of Africa face to face! + </p> + <p> + On the one part, Tartarin erect, with his hamstrings in tension, and his + arms folded on his gun barrel; on the other, the lion, a gigantic + specimen, humped up in the straw, with blinking orbs and brutish mien, + resting his huge muzzle and tawny full-bottomed wig on his forepaws. Both + calm in their gaze. + </p> + <p> + Singular thing! whether the needle-gun had given him “the needle,” if the + popular idiom is admissible, or that he scented an enemy of his race, the + lion, who had hitherto regarded the Tarasconians with sovereign scorn, and + yawned in their faces, was all at once affected by ire. At first he + sniffed; then he growled hollowly, stretching out his claws; rising, he + tossed his head, shook his mane, opened a capacious maw, and belched a + deafening roar at Tartarin. + </p> + <p> + A yell of fright responded, as Tarascon precipitated itself madly towards + the exit, women and children, lightermen, cap-poppers, even the brave + Commandant Bravida himself. But, alone, Tartarin of Tarascon had not + budged. There he stood, firm and resolute, before the cage, lightnings in + his eyes, and on his lip that gruesome grin with which all the town was + familiar. In a moment’s time, when all the cap-poppers, some little + fortified by his bearing and the strength of the bars, re-approached their + leader, they heard him mutter, as he stared Leo out of countenance: + </p> + <p> + “Now, this is something like a hunt!” + </p> + <p> + All the rest of that day, never a word farther could they draw from + Tartarin of Tarascon. + </p> + <p> + IX. Singular effects of Mental Mirage. + </p> + <p> + CONFINING his remarks to the sentence last recorded, Tartarin had + unfortunately still said overmuch. + </p> + <p> + On the morrow, there was nothing talked about through town but the + near-at-hand departure of Tartarin for Algeria and lion-hunting. You are + all witness, dear readers, that the honest fellow had not breathed a word + on that head; but, you know, the mirage had its usual effect. In brief, + all Tarascon spoke of nothing but the departure. + </p> + <p> + On the Old Walk, at the club, in Costecalde’s, friends accosted one + another with a startled aspect: + </p> + <p> + “And furthermore, you know the news, at least?” + </p> + <p> + “And furthermore, rather? Tartarin’s setting out, at least?” + </p> + <p> + For at Tarascon all phrases begin with “and furthermore,” and conclude + with “at least,” with a strong local accent. Hence, on this occasion more + than upon others, these peculiarities rang out till the windows shivered. + </p> + <p> + The most surprised of men in the town on hearing that Tartarin was going + away to Africa, was Tartarin himself. But only see what vanity is! Instead + of plumply answering that he was not going at all, and had not even had + the intention, poor Tartarin, on the first of them mentioning the journey + to him, observed with a neat little evasive air, “Aha! maybe I shall—but + I do not say as much.” The second time; a trifle more familiarised with + the idea, he replied, “Very likely;” and the third time, “It’s certain.” + </p> + <p> + Finally, in the evening, at Costecalde’s and the club, carried away by the + egg-nogg, cheers, and illumination; intoxicated by the impression that + bare announcement of his departure had made on the town, the hapless + fellow formally declared that he was sick of banging away at caps, and + that he would shortly be on the trail of the great lions of the Atlas. A + deafening hurrah greeted this assertion. Whereupon more egg-nogg, bravoes, + handshaking, slappings of the shoulder, and a torchlight serenade up to + midnight before Baobab Villa. + </p> + <p> + It was Sancho-Tartarin who was anything but delighted. This idea of travel + in Africa and lion-hunting made him shudder beforehand; and when the house + was re-entered, and whilst the complimentary concert was sounding under + the windows, he had a dreadful “row” with Quixote-Tartarin, calling him a + cracked head, a visionary, imprudent, and thrice an idiot, and detailing + by the card all the catastrophes awaiting him on such an expedition—shipwreck, + rheumatism, yellow fever, dysentery, the black plague, elephantiasis, and + the rest of them. + </p> + <p> + In vain did Quixote-Tartarin vow that he had not committed any imprudence—that + he would wrap himself up well, and take even superfluous necessaries with + him. Sancho-Tartarin would listen to nothing. The poor craven saw himself + already torn to tatters by the lions, or engulfed in the desert sands like + his late royal highness Cambyses, and the other Tartarin only managed to + appease him a little by explaining that the start was not immediate, as + nothing pressed. + </p> + <p> + It is clear enough, indeed, that none embark on such an enterprise without + some preparations. A man is bound to know whither he goes, hang it all! + and not fly off like a bird. Before anything else, the Tarasconian wanted + to peruse the accounts of great African tourists, the narrations of Mungo + Park, Du Chaillu, Dr. Livingstone, Stanley, and so on. + </p> + <p> + In them, he learnt that these daring explorers, before donning their + sandals for distant excursions, hardened themselves well beforehand to + support hunger and thirst, forced marches, and all kinds of privation. + Tartarin meant to act like they did, and from that day forward he lived + upon water broth alone. The water broth of Tarascon is a few slices of + bread drowned in hot water, with a clove of garlic, a pinch of thyme, and + a sprig of laurel. Strict diet, at which you may believe poor Sancho made + a wry face. + </p> + <p> + To the regimen of water broth Tartarin of Tarascon joined other wise + practices. To break himself into the habit of long marches, he constrained + himself to go round the town seven or eight times consecutively every + morning, either at the fast walk or run, his elbows well set against his + body, and a couple of white pebbles in the mouth, according to the antique + usage. + </p> + <p> + To get inured to fog, dew, and night coolness, he would go down into his + garden every dusk, and stop out there till ten or eleven, alone with his + gun, on the lookout, behind the baobab. + </p> + <p> + Finally, so long as Mitaine’s wild beast show tarried in Tarascon, the + cap-poppers who were belated at Costecalde’s might spy in the shadow of + the booth, as they crossed the Castle-green, a mysterious figure stalking + up and down. It was Tartarin of Tarascon, habituating himself to hear + without emotion the roarings of the lion in the sombre night. + </p> + <p> + X. Before the Start. + </p> + <p> + PENDING Tartarin’s delay of the event by all sorts of heroic means, all + Tarascon kept an eye upon him, and nothing else was busied about. + Cap-popping was winged, and ballad-singing dead. The piano in Bezuquet’s + shop mouldered away under a green fungus, and the Spanish flies dried upon + it, belly up. Tartarin’s expedition had a put a stopper on everything. + </p> + <p> + Ah, you ought to have seen his success in the parlours. He was snatched + away by one from another, fought for, loaned and borrowed, ay, stolen. + There was no greater honour for the ladies than to go to Mitaine’s + Menagerie on Tartarin’s arms, and have it explained before the lion’s den + how such large game are hunted, where they should be aimed at, at how many + paces off; if the accidents were numerous, and the like of that. + </p> + <p> + Tartarin furnished all the elucidation desired. He had read “The Life of + Jules Gerard, the Lion-Slayer,” and had lion-hunting at his finger ends, + as if he had been through it himself. Hence he orated upon these matters + with great eloquence. + </p> + <p> + But where he shone the brightest was at dinner at Chief Judge Ladeveze’s, + or brave Commandant Bravida’s (the former captain in the Army Clothing + Factory, you will keep in mind), when coffee came in, and all the chairs + were brought up closer together, whilst they chatted of his future hunts. + </p> + <p> + Thereupon, his elbow on the cloth, his nose over his Mocha, our hero would + discourse in a feeling tone of all the dangers awaiting him thereaway. He + spoke of the long moonless night lyings-in-wait, the pestilential fens, + the rivers envenomed by leaves of poison-plants, the deep snow-drifts, the + scorching suns, the scorpions, and rains of grasshoppers; he also + descanted on the peculiarities of the great lions of the Atlas, their way + of fighting, their phenomenal vigour; and their ferocity in the mating + season. + </p> + <p> + Heating with his own recital, he would rise from table, bounding to the + middle of the dining-room, imitating the roar of a lion and the going off + of a rifle crack! bang! the zizz of the explosive bullet—gesticulating + and roaring about till he had overset the chairs. + </p> + <p> + Everybody turned pale around the board: the gentlemen looking at one + another and wagging their heads, the ladies shutting their eyes with + pretty screams of fright, the elderly men combatively brandishing their + canes; and, in the side apartments, the little boys, who had been put to + bed betimes, were greatly startled by the sudden outcries and imitated + gun-fire, and screamed for lights. Meanwhile, Tartarin did not start. + </p> + <p> + XI. “Let’s have it out with swords gentleman, not pins!” + </p> + <p> + A DELICATE question: whether Tartarin really had any intention of going, + and one which the historian of Tartarin would be highly embarrassed to + answer. In plain words, Mitaine’s Menagerie had left Tarascon over three + months, and still the lion-slayer had not started. After all, blinded by a + new mirage, our candid hero may have imagined in perfectly good faith that + he had gone to Algeria. On the strength of having related his future + hunts, he may have believed he had performed them as sincerely as he + fancied he had hoisted the consular flag and fired on the Tartars, zizz, + phit, bang! at Shanghai. + </p> + <p> + Unfortunately, granting Tartarin was this time again dupe of an illusion, + his fellow-townsfolk were not. When, after the quarter’s expectation, they + perceived that the hunter had not packed even a collar-box, they commenced + murmuring. + </p> + <p> + “This is going to turn out like the Shanghai expedition,” remarked + Costecalde, smiling. + </p> + <p> + The gunsmith’s comment was welcomed all over town, for nobody believed any + longer in their late idol. The simpletons and poltroons—all the + fellows of Bezuquet’s stamp, whom a flea would put to flight, and who + could not fire a shot without closing their eyes—were conspicuously + pitiless. In the club-rooms or on the esplanade, they accosted poor + Tartarin with bantering mien: + </p> + <p> + “And furthermore, when is that trip coming off?” + </p> + <p> + In Costecalde’s shop, his opinions gained no credence, for the cap-poppers + renounced their chief! + </p> + <p> + Next, epigrams dropped into the affair. Chief Judge Ladevese, who + willingly paid court in his leisure hours to the native Muse, composed in + local dialect a song which won much success. It told of a sportsman called + “Master Gervais,” whose dreaded rifle was bound to exterminate all the + lions in Africa to the very last. Unluckily, this terrible gun was of a + strange kind: “though loaded daily, it never went off.” + </p> + <p> + “It never went off”—you will catch the drift. + </p> + <p> + In less than no time, this ditty became popular; and when Tartarin came + by, the longshoremen and the little shoeblacks before his door sang in + chorus— + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Muster Jarvey’s roifle + Allus gittin’ chaarged; + Muster Jarvey’s roifle + ‘il hev to git enlaarged; + Muster Jarvey’s roifle’s + Loaded oft—don’t scoff; + Muster Jarvey’s roifle + Nivver do go off!” + </pre> + <p> + But it was shouted out from a safe distance, on account of the double + muscles. + </p> + <p> + Oh, the fragility of Tarascon’s fads! + </p> + <p> + The great object himself feigned to see and hear nothing; but, under the + surface, this sullen and venomous petty warfare much afflicted him. He + felt aware that Tarascon was slipping out of his grip, and that popular + favour was going to others; and this made him suffer horribly. + </p> + <p> + Ah, the huge bowl of popularity! it’s all very well to have a seat in + front of it, but what a scalding you catch when it is overturned! + </p> + <p> + Notwithstanding his pain, Tartarin smiled and peacefully jogged on in the + same life as if nothing untoward had happened. Still, the mask of jovial + heedlessness glued by pride on his face would sometimes be suddenly + detached. Then, in lieu of laughter, one saw grief and indignation. Thus + it was that one morning, when the little blackguards yelped “Muster + Jarvey’s Roifle” beneath his window, the wretches’ voices rose even into + the poor great man’s room, where he was shaving before the glass. + (Tartarin wore a full beard, but as it grew very thick, he was obliged to + keep it trimmed orderly.) + </p> + <p> + All at once the window was violently opened, and Tartarin appeared in + shirt-sleeves and nightcap, smothered in lather, flourishing his razor and + shaving-brush, and roaring with a formidable voice: + </p> + <p> + “Let’s have it out with swords, gentlemen, not pins!” + </p> + <p> + Fine words, worthy of history’s record, with only the blemish that they + were addressed to little scamps not higher than their boot-boxes, and who + were quite incapable of holding a smallsword. + </p> + <p> + XII. A memorable Dialogue in the little Baobab Villa. + </p> + <p> + AMID the general falling off, the army alone stuck out firmly for + Tartarin. Brave Commandant Bravida (the former captain in the Army + Clothing Department) continued to show him the same esteem as ever. “He’s + game!” he persisted in saying—an assertion, I beg to believe, fully + worth the chemist Bezuquet’s. Not once did the brave officer let out any + allusion to the trip to Africa; but when the public clamour grew too loud, + he determined to have his say. + </p> + <p> + One evening the luckless Tartarin was in his study, in a brown study + himself, when he saw the commandant stride in, stern, wearing black + gloves, buttoned up to his ears. + </p> + <p> + “Tartarin,” said the ex-captain authoritatively, “Tartarin, you’ll have to + go!” + </p> + <p> + And there he dwelt, erect in the doorway frame, grand and rigid as + embodied Duty. Tartarin of Tarascon comprehended all the sense in + “Tartarin, you’ll have to ago!” + </p> + <p> + Very pale, he rose and looked around with a softened eye upon the cosy + snuggery, tightly closed in, full of warmth and tender light—upon + the commodious easy chair, his books, the carpet, the white blinds of the + windows, beyond which trembled the slender twigs of the little garden. + Then, advancing towards the brave officer, he took his hand, grasped it + energetically, and said in a voice somewhat tearful, but stoical for all + that: + </p> + <p> + “I am going, Bravida.” + </p> + <p> + And go he did, as he said he would. Not straight off though, for it takes + time to get the paraphernalia together. + </p> + <p> + To begin with, he ordered of Bompard two large boxes bound with brass, and + an inscription to be on them: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + ————————————————————- + I TARTARIN, OF TARASCON I + I Firearms, &c. I + ————————————————————- +</pre> + <p> + The binding in brass and the lettering took much time. He also ordered at + Tastavin’s a showy album, in which to keep a diary and his impressions of + travel; for a man cannot help having an idea or two strike him even when + he is busy lion-hunting. + </p> + <p> + Next, he had over from Marseilles a downright cargo of tinned eatables, + pemmican compressed in cakes for making soup, a new pattern shelter-tent, + opening out and packing up in a minute, sea-boots, a couple of umbrellas, + a waterproof coat, and blue spectacles to ward off ophthalmia. To + conclude, Bezuquet the chemist made him up a miniature portable medicine + chest stuffed with diachylon plaister, arnica, camphor, and medicated + vinegar. + </p> + <p> + Poor Tartarin! he did not take these safeguards on his own behalf; but he + hoped, by dint of precaution and delicate attentions, to allay + Sancho-Tartarin’s fury, who, since the start was fixed, never left off + raging day or night. + </p> + <p> + XIII. The Departure. + </p> + <p> + EFTSOON arrived the great and solemn day. From dawn all Tarascon had been + on foot, encumbering the Avignon road and the approaches to Baobab Villa. + People were up at the windows, on the roofs, and in the trees; the Rhone + bargees, porters, dredgers, shoeblacks, gentry, tradesfolk, warpers and + weavers, taffety-workers, the club members, in short the whole town; + moreover, people from Beaucaire had come over the bridge, market-gardeners + from the environs, carters in their huge carts with ample tilts, + vinedressers upon handsome mules, tricked out with ribbons, streamers, + bells, rosettes, and jingles, and even, here and there, a few pretty maids + from Arles, come on the pillion behind their sweethearts, with bonny blue + ribbons round the head, upon little iron-grey Camargue horses. + </p> + <p> + All this swarm squeezed and jostled before our good Tartarin’s door, who + was going to slaughter lions in the land of the Turks. + </p> + <p> + For Tarascon, Algeria, Africa, Greece, Persia, Turkey, and Mesopotamia, + all form one great hazy country, almost a myth, called the land of the + Turks. They say “Tur’s,” but that’s a linguistic digression. + </p> + <p> + In the midst of all this throng, the cap-poppers bustled to and fro, proud + of their captain’s triumph, leaving glorious wakes where they had passed. + </p> + <p> + In front of the Indian fig-tree house were two large trucks. From time to + time the door would open, and allow several persons to be spied, gravely + lounging about the little garden. At every new box the throng started and + trembled. The articles were named in a loud voice: + </p> + <p> + “That there’s the shelter-tent; these the potted meats; that’s the + physic-chest; these the gun-cases,”—the cap-poppers giving + explanations. + </p> + <p> + All of a sudden, about ten o’clock, there was a great stir in the + multitude, for the garden gate banged open. + </p> + <p> + “Here he is! here he is!” they shouted. + </p> + <p> + It was he indeed. When he appeared upon the threshold, two outcries of + stupefaction burst from the assemblage: + </p> + <p> + “He’s a Turk!” “He’s got on spectacles!” + </p> + <p> + In truth, Tartarin of Tarascon had deemed it his duty, on going to + Algeria, to don the Algerian costume. Full white linen trousers, small + tight vest with metal buttons, a red sash two feet wide around the waist, + the neck bare and the forehead shaven, and a vast red fez, or chechia, on + his head, with something like a long blue tassel thereto. Together with + this, two heavy guns, one on each shoulder, a broad hunting-knife in the + girdle, a bandolier across the breast, a revolver on the hip, swinging in + its patent leather case—that is all. No, I cry your pardon, I was + forgetting the spectacles—a pantomimically large pair of azure + barnacles, which came in partly to temper what was rather too fierce in + the bearing of our hero. + </p> + <p> + “Long life to Tartarin! hip, hip, hurrah for Tartarin!” roared the + populace. + </p> + <p> + The great man smiled, but did not salute, on account of the firearms + hindering him. Moreover, he knew now on what popular favour depends; it + may even be that in the depths of his soul he cursed his terrible + fellow-townsfolk, who obliged him to go away and leave his pretty little + pleasure-house with whitened walls and green venetians. But there was no + show of this. + </p> + <p> + Calm and proud, although a little pallid, he stepped out on the footway, + glanced at the hand-carts, and, seeing all was right, lustily took the + road to the railway-station, without even once looking back towards Baobab + Villa. Behind him marched the brave Commandant Bravida, Ladevese the Chief + Judge, Costecalde the gunsmith next, and then all the sportsmen who pop at + caps, preceding the hand-carts and the rag, tag, and bobtail. + </p> + <p> + Before the station the station-master awaited them, an old African veteran + of 1830, who shook Tartarin’s hand many times with fervency. + </p> + <p> + The Paris-to-Marseilles express was not yet in, so Tartarin and his staff + went into the waiting-rooms. To prevent the place being overrun, the + station-master ordered the gates to be closed. + </p> + <p> + During a quarter of an hour, Tartarin promenaded up and down in the rooms + in the midst of his brother marksmen, speaking to them of his journey and + his hunting, and promising to send them skins; they put their names down + in his memorandum-book for a lionskin apiece, as waltzers book for a + dance. + </p> + <p> + Gentle and placid as Socrates on the point of quaffing the hemlock, the + intrepid Tarasconian had a word and a smile for each. He spoke simply, + with an affable mien; it looked as if, before departing, he meant to leave + behind him a wake of charms, regrets, and pleasant memories. On hearing + their leader speak in this way, all the sportsmen felt tears well up, and + some were stung with remorse, to wit, Chief Judge Ladevese and the chemist + Bezuquet. The railway employees blubbered in the corners, whilst the outer + public squinted through the bars and bellowed: “Long live Tartarin!” + </p> + <p> + At length the bell rang. A dull rumble was heard, and a piercing whistle + shook the vault. + </p> + <p> + “The Marseilles express, gen’lemen!” + </p> + <p> + “Good-bye, Tartarin! Good luck, old fellow!” + </p> + <p> + “Good-bye to you all!” murmured the great man, as, with his arms around + the brave Commandant Bravida, he embraced his dear native place + collectively in him. Then he leaped out upon the platform, and clambered + into a carriage full of Parisian ladies, who were ready to die with fright + at sight of this stranger with so many pistols and rifles. + </p> + <p> + XIV. The Port of Marseilles—“All aboard, all aboard!” + </p> + <p> + UPON the 1st of December 18—, in clear, brilliant, splendid weather, + under a south winter sun, the startled inhabitants of Marseilles beheld a + Turk come down the Canebiere, or their Regent Street. A Turk, a regular + Turk—never had such a one been seen; and yet, Heaven knows, there is + no lack of Turks at Marseilles. + </p> + <p> + The Turk in question—have I any necessity of telling you it was the + great Tartarin of Tarascon?—waddled along the quays, followed by his + gun-cases, medicine-chest, and tinned comestibles, to reach the + landing-stage of the Touache Company and the mail steamer the Zouave, + which was to transport him over the sea. + </p> + <p> + With his ears still ringing with the home applause, intoxicated by the + glare of the heavens and the reek of the sea, Tartarin fairly beamed as he + stepped out with a lofty head, and between his guns on his shoulders, + looking with all his eyes upon that wondrous, dazzling harbour of + Marseilles, which he saw for the first time. The poor fellow believed he + was dreaming. He fancied his name was Sinbad the Sailor, and that he was + roaming in one of those fantastic cities abundant in the “Arabian Nights.” + As far as eye could reach there spread a forest of masts and spars, + cris-crossing in every way. + </p> + <p> + Flags of all countries floated—English, American, Russian, Swedish, + Greek and Tunisian. + </p> + <p> + The vessels lay alongside the wharves—ay, head on, so that their + bowsprits stuck up out over the strand like rows of bayonets. Over it, + too, sprawled the mermaids, goddesses, madonnas, and other figure-heads in + carved and painted wood which gave names to the ships—all worn by + sea-water, split, mildewed, and dripping. Ever and anon, between the + hulls, a patch of harbour like watered silk splashed with oil. In the + intervals of the yards and booms, what seemed swarms of flies prettily + spotted the blue sky. These were the shipboys, hailing one another in all + languages. + </p> + <p> + On the waterside, amidst thick green or black rivulets coming down from + the soap factories loaded with oil and soda, bustled a mass of + custom-house officers, messengers, porters, and truckmen with their + bogheys, or trolleys, drawn by Corsican ponies. + </p> + <p> + There were shops selling quaint articles, smoky shanties where sailors + were cooking their own queer messes, dealers in pipes, monkeys, parrots, + ropes, sailcloth, fanciful curios, amongst which were mingled + higgledy-piggledy old culverins, huge gilded lanterns, worn-out + pulley-blocks, rusty flukeless anchors, chafed cordage, battered + speaking-trumpets, and marine glasses almost contemporary with the Ark. + Sellers of mussels and clams squatted beside their heaps of shellfish and + yawped their goods. Seamen rolled by with tar-pots, smoking soup-bowls, + and big baskets full of cuttlefish, from which they went to wash the ink + in the milky waters of the fountains. + </p> + <p> + Everywhere a prodigious collection of all kinds of goods: silks, minerals, + wood in stacks, lead in pigs, cloths, sugars, caruba wood logs, colza + seed, liquorice sticks, sugar-canes. The East and the West cheek by jowl, + even to pyramids of Dutch cheeses which the Genoese were dyeing red by + contact with their hands. + </p> + <p> + Yonder was the corn market: porters discharging sacks down the shoots of + lofty elevators upon the pier, and loose grain rolling as a golden torrent + through a blonde dust. Men in red skullcaps were sifting it as they caught + it in large asses’-skin sieves, and loading it upon carts which took their + millward way, followed by a regiment of women and youngsters with wisps + and gleaning baskets. Farther on, the dry docks, where large vessels were + laid low on their sides till their yards dipped in the water; they were + singed with thorn-bushes to free them of sea weed; there rose an odour of + pitch, and the deafening clatter of the sheathers coppering the bottoms + with broad sheets of yellow metal. + </p> + <p> + At whiles a gap in between the masts, in which Tartarin could see the + haven mouth, where the vessels came and went: a British frigate off for + Malta, dainty and thoroughly washed down, with the officer in primrose + gloves, or a large home-port brig hauling out in the midst of uproar and + oaths, whilst the fat captain, in a high silk hat and frockcoat, ordered + the operations in Provencal dialect. Other craft were making forth under + all sail, and, still farther out, more were slowly looming up in the + sunshine as if they were sailing in the air. + </p> + <p> + All the time a frightful riot, the rumbling of carts, the “Haul all, haul + away!” of the shipmen, oaths, songs, steamboat whistles, the bugles and + drums in Forts Saint Jean and Saint Nicolas, the bells of the Major, the + Accoules, and Saint Victor; with the mistral atop of all, catching up the + noises and clamour, and rolling them up together with a furious shaking, + till confounded with its own voice, which intoned a mad, wild, heroic + melody like a grand charging tune—one that filled hearers with a + longing to be off, and the farther the better—a craving for wings. + </p> + <p> + It was to the sound of this splendid blast that the intrepid Tartarin + Tarasco of Tarascon embarked for the land of lions. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0002" id="link2H_4_0002"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + EPISODE THE SECOND, AMONG “THE TURKS” + </h2> + <p> + I. The Passage—The Five Positions of the Fez—The Third Evening + Out—Mercy upon us! + </p> + <p> + JOYFUL would I be, my dear readers, if I were a painter—a great + artist, I mean—in order to set under your eyes, at the head of this + second episode, the various positions taken by Tartarin’s red cap in the + three days’ passage it made on board of the Zouave, between France and + Algeria. + </p> + <p> + First would I show you it at the steaming out, upon deck, arrogant and + heroic as it was, forming a glory round that handsome Tarasconian head. + Next would I show you it at the harbour-mouth, when the bark began to + caper upon the waves; I would depict it for you all of a quake in + astonishment, and as though already experiencing the preliminary qualms of + sea-sickness. Then, in the Gulf of the Lion, proportionably to the nearing + the open sea, where the white caps heaved harder, I would make you behold + it wrestling with the tempest, and standing on end upon the hero’s + cranium, with its mighty mane of blue wool bristling out in the spray and + breeze. Position Fourth: at six in the afternoon, with the Corsican coast + in view; the unfortunate chechia hangs over the ship’s side, and + lamentably stares down as though to plumb the depths of ocean. Finally and + lastly, the Fifth Position: at the back of a narrow state-room, in a + box-bed so small it seemed one drawer in a nest of them, something + shapeless rolled on the pillow with moans of desolation. This was the fez—the + fez so defiant at the sailing, now reduced to the vulgar condition of a + nightcap, and pulled down over the very ears of the head of a pallid and + convulsed sufferer. + </p> + <p> + How the people of Tarascon would have kicked themselves for having + constrained the great Tartarin to leave home, if they had but seen him + stretched in the bunk in the dull, wan gleam through the dead-light, amid + the sickly odour of cooking and wet wood—the heart-heaving perfume + of mail-boats; if they had but heard him gurgle at every turn of the + screw, wail for tea every five minutes, and swear at the steward in a + childish treble! + </p> + <p> + On my word of honour as a story-teller, the poor Turk would have made a + paste-board dummy pity him. Suddenly, overcome by the nausea, the hapless + victim had not even the power to undo the Algerian girdle-cloth, or lay + aside his armoury; the lumpy-handled hunting-sword pounded his ribs, and + the leather revolver-case made his thigh raw. To finish him arose the + taunts of Sancho-Tartarin, who never ceased to groan and inveigh: + </p> + <p> + “Well, for the biggest kind of imbecile, you are the finest specimen! I + told you truly how it would be. Ha, ha! you were bound to go to Africa, of + course! Well, old merriman, now you are going to Africa, how do you like + it?” + </p> + <p> + The cruellest part of it was that, from the retreat where he was moaning, + the hapless invalid could hear the passengers in the grand saloon + laughing, munching, singing, and playing at cards. On board the Zouave the + company was as jolly as numerous, composed of officers going back to join + their regiments, ladies from the Marseilles Alcazar Music Hall, + strolling-players, a rich Mussulman returning from Mecca, and a very + jocular Montenegrin prince, who favoured them with imitations of the low + comedians of Paris. Not one of these jokers felt the sea-sickness, and + their time was passed in quaffing champagne with the steamer captain, a + good fat born Marseillais, who had a wife and family as well at Algiers as + at home, and who answered to the merry name of Barbassou. + </p> + <p> + Tartarin of Tarascon hated this pack of wretches; their mirthfulness + deepened his ails. + </p> + <p> + At length, on the third afternoon, there was such an extraordinary + hullabaloo on the deck that our hero was roused out of his long torpor. + The ship’s bell was ringing and the seamen’s heavy boots ran over the + planks. + </p> + <p> + “Go ahead! Stop her! Turn astern!” barked the hoarse voice of Captain + Barbassou; and then, “Stop her dead!” + </p> + <p> + There was an abrupt check of movement, a shock, and no more, save the + silent rolling of the boat from side to side like a balloon in the air. + This strange stillness alarmed the Tarasconian. + </p> + <p> + “Heaven ha’ mercy upon us!” he yelled in a terrifying voice, as, + recovering his strength by magic, he bounded out of his berth, and rushed + upon deck with his arsenal. + </p> + <p> + II. “To arms! to arms” + </p> + <p> + ONLY the arrival, not a foundering. + </p> + <p> + The Zouave was just gliding into the roadstead—a fine one of black, + deep water, but dull and still, almost deserted. On elevated ground ahead + rose Algiers, the White City, with its little houses of a dead + cream-colour huddling against one another lest they slid into the sea. It + was like Meudon slope with a laundress’s washing hung out to dry. Over it + a vast blue satin sky—and such a blue! + </p> + <p> + A little restored from his fright, the illustrious Tartarin gazed on the + landscape, and listened with respect to the Montenegrin prince, who stood + by his side, as he named the different parts of the capital, the Kasbah, + the upper town, and the Rue Bab-Azoon. A very finely-brought-up prince was + this Montenegrin; moreover, knowing Algeria thoroughly, and fluently + speaking Arabic. Hence Tartarin thought of cultivating his acquaintance. + </p> + <p> + All at once, along the bulwark against which they were leaning, the + Tarasconian perceived a row of large black hands clinging to it from over + the side. Almost instantly a Negro’s woolly head shot up before him, and, + ere he had time to open his mouth, the deck was overwhelmed on every side + by a hundred black or yellow desperadoes, half naked, hideous, and + fearsome. Tartarin knew who these pirates were—“they,” of course, + the celebrated “they” who had too often been hunted after by him in the + by-ways of Tarascon. At last they had decided to meet him face to face. At + the outset surprise nailed him to the spot. But when he saw the outlaws + fall upon the luggage, tear off the tarpaulin covering, and actually + commence the pillage of the ship, then the hero awoke. Whipping out his + hunting-sword, “To arms! to arms!” he roared to the passengers; and away + he flew, the foremost of all, upon the buccaneers. “Ques aco? What’s the + stir? What’s the matter with you?” exclaimed Captain Barbassou, coming out + of the ‘tweendecks. + </p> + <p> + “About time you did turn up, captain! Quick, quick, arm your men!” + </p> + <p> + “Eh, what for? dash it all!” + </p> + <p> + “Why, can’t you see?” + </p> + <p> + “See what?” + </p> + <p> + “There, before you, the corsairs” + </p> + <p> + Captain Barbassou stared, bewildered. At this juncture a tall blackamoor + tore by with our hero’s medicine-chest upon his back. + </p> + <p> + “You cut-throat! just wait for me!” yelled the Tarasconer as he ran after, + with the knife uplifted. + </p> + <p> + But Barbassou caught him in the spring, and holding him by the waist-sash, + bade him be quiet. + </p> + <p> + “Tron de ler! by the throne on high! they’re no pirates. It’s long since + there were any pirates hereabout. Those dark porters are light porters. + Ha, ha!” + </p> + <p> + “P—p-porters?” + </p> + <p> + “Rather, only come after the luggage to carry it ashore. So put up your + cook’s galley knife, give me your ticket, and walk off behind that nigger—an + honest dog, who will see you to land, and even into a hotel, if you like.” + </p> + <p> + A little abashed, Tartarin handed over his ticket, and falling in behind + the representative of the Dark Continent, clambered down by the + hanging-ladder into a big skiff dancing alongside. All his effects were + already there—boxes, trunks, gun-cases, tinned food,—so + cramming up the boat that there was no need to wait for any other + passengers. The African scrambled upon the boxes, and squatted there like + a baboon, with his knees clutched by his hands. Another Negro took the + oars. Both laughingly eyed Tartarin, and showed their white teeth. + </p> + <p> + Standing in the stern-sheets, making that terrifying face which had + daunted his fellow-countrymen, the great Tarasconian feverishly fumbled + with his hunting-knife haft; for, despite what Barbassou had told him, he + was only half at ease as regarded the intention of these ebony-skinned + porters, who so little resembled their honest mates of Tarascon. + </p> + <p> + Five minutes afterwards the skiff landed Tartarin, and he set foot upon + the little Barbary wharf, where, three hundred years before, a Spanish + galley-slave yclept Miguel Cervantes devised, under the cane of the + Algerian taskmaster, a sublime romance which was to bear the title of “Don + Quixote.” + </p> + <p> + III. An Invocation to Cervantes—The Disembarkation—Where are + the Turks?—Not a sign of them—Disenchantment + </p> + <p> + O MIGUEL CERVANTES SAAVEDRA, if what is asserted be true, to wit, that + wherever great men have dwelt some emanation of their spirits wanderingly + hovers until the end of ages, then what remained of your essence on the + Barbary coast must have quivered with glee on beholding Tartarin of + Tarascon disembark, that marvellous type of the French Southerner, in whom + was embodied both heroes of your work, Don Quixote and Sancho Panza. + </p> + <p> + The air was sultry on this occasion. On the wharf, ablaze with sunshine, + were half a dozen revenue officers, some Algerians expecting news from + France, several squatting Moors who drew at long pipes, and some Maltese + mariners dragging large nets, between the meshes of which thousands of + sardines glittered like small silver coins. + </p> + <p> + But hardly had Tartarin set foot on earth before the quay sprang into life + and changed its aspect. A horde of savages, still more hideous than the + pirates upon the steamer, rose between the stones on the strand and rushed + upon the new-comer. Tall Arabs were there, nude under woollen blankets, + little Moors in tatters, Negroes, Tunisians, Port Mahonese, M’zabites, + hotel servants in white aprons, all yelling and shouting, hooking on his + clothes, fighting over his luggage, one carrying away the provender, + another his medicine-chest, and pelting him in one fantastic medley with + the names of preposterously-entitled hotels. + </p> + <p> + Bewildered by all this tumult, poor Tartarin wandered to and fro, swore + and stormed, went mad, ran after his property, and not knowing how to make + these barbarians understand him, speechified them in French, Provencal, + and even in dog Latin: “Rosa, the rose; bonus, bona, bonum!”—all + that he knew—but to no purpose. He was not heeded. Happily, like a + god in Homer, intervened a little fellow in a yellow-collared tunic, and + armed with a long running-footman’s cane, who dispersed the whole + riff-raff with cudgel-play. He was a policeman of the Algerian capital. + Very politely, he suggested Tartarin should put up at the Hotel de + l’Europe, and he confided him to its waiters, who carted him and his + impedimenta thither in several barrows. + </p> + <p> + At the first steps he took in Algiers, Tartarin of Tarascon opened his + eyes widely. Beforehand he had pictured it as an Oriental city—a + fairy one, mythological, something between Constantinople and Zanzibar; + but it was back into Tarascon he fell. Cafes, restaurants, wide streets, + four-storey houses, a little market-place, macadamised, where the infantry + band played Offenbachian polkas, whilst fashionably clad gentlemen + occupied chairs, drinking beer and eating pancakes, some brilliant ladies, + some shady ones, and soldiers—more soldiers—no end of + soldiers, but not a solitary Turk, or, better to say, there was a solitary + Turk, and that was he. + </p> + <p> + Hence he felt a little abashed about crossing the square, for everybody + looked at him. The musicians stopped, the Offenbachian polka halting with + one foot in the air. + </p> + <p> + With both guns on his shoulders, and the revolver flapping on his hip, as + fierce and stately as Robinson Crusoe, Tartarin gravely passed through the + groups; but on arriving at the hotel his powers failed him. All spun and + mingled in his head: the departure from Tarascon, the harbour of + Marseilles, the voyage, the Montenegrin prince, the corsairs. They had to + help him up into a room and disarm and undress him. They began to talk of + sending for a medical adviser; but hardly was our hero’s head upon the + pillow than he set to snoring, so loudly and so heartily that the landlord + judged the succour of science useless, and everybody considerately + withdrew. + </p> + <p> + IV. The First Lying in Wait. + </p> + <p> + THREE o’clock was striking by the Government clock when Tartarin awoke. He + had slept all the evening, night, and morning, and even a goodish piece of + the afternoon. It must be granted, though, that in the last three days the + red fez had caught it pretty hot and lively! + </p> + <p> + Our hero’s first thought on opening his eyes was, “I am in the land of the + lions!” And—well, why should we not say it?—at the idea that + lions were nigh hereabouts, within a couple of steps, almost at hand’s + reach, and that he would have to disentangle a snarled skein with them, + ugh! a deadly chill struck him, and he dived intrepidly under the + coverlet. + </p> + <p> + But, before a moment was over, the outward gaiety, the blue sky, the + glowing sun that streamed into the bedchamber, a nice little breakfast + that he ate in bed, his window wide open upon the sea, the whole flavoured + with an uncommonly good bottle of Crescia wine—it very speedily + restored him his former pluckiness. + </p> + <p> + “Let’s out and at the lion!” he exclaimed, throwing off the clothes and + briskly dressing himself. + </p> + <p> + His plan was as follows: he would go forth from the city without saying a + word to a soul, plunge into the great desert, await nightfall to ambush + himself, and bang away at the first lion who walked up. Then would he + return to breakfast in the morning at the hotel, receive the felicitations + of the natives, and hire a cart to bring in the quarry. + </p> + <p> + So he hurriedly armed himself, attached upright on his back the + shelter-tent (which, when rolled up, left its centre pole sticking out a + clear foot above his head), and descended to the street as stiffly as + though he had swallowed it. Not caring to ask the way of anybody, from + fear of letting out his project, he turned fairly to the right, and + threaded the Bab-Azoon arcade to the very end, where swarms of Algerian + Jews watched him pass from their corner ambushes like so many spiders; + crossing the Theatre place, he entered the outer ward, and lastly came + upon the dusty Mustapha highway. + </p> + <p> + Upon this was a quaint conglomeration: omnibuses, hackney coaches, + corricolos, the army service waggons, huge hay-carts drawn by bullocks, + squads of Chasseurs d’Afrique, droves of microscopic asses, trucks of + Alsatian emigrants, spahis in scarlet cloaks—all filed by in a + whirlwind cloud of dust, amidst shouts, songs, and trumpetcalls, between + two rows of vile-looking booths, at the doors of which lanky Mahonnais + women might be seen doing their hair, drinking-dens filled with soldiers, + and shops of butchers and knackers. + </p> + <p> + “What rubbish, to din me about the Orient!” grumbled the great Tartarin; + “there are not even as many Turks here as at Marseilles.” + </p> + <p> + All of a sudden he saw a splendid camel strut by him quite closely, + stretching its long legs and puffing out its throat like a turkey-cock, + and that made his heart throb. Camels already, eh? Lions could not be far + Off now; and, indeed, in five minutes’ time he did see a whole band of + lion-hunters coming his way under arms. + </p> + <p> + “Cowards!” thought our hero as he skirted them; “downright cowards, to go + at a lion in companies and with dogs!” + </p> + <p> + For it never could occur to him that anything but lions were objects of + the chase in Algeria. For all that, these Nimrods wore such complacent + phizzes of retired tradesmen, and their style of lion-hunting with dogs + and game-bags was so patriarchal, that the Tarasconian, a little + perplexed, deemed it incumbent to question one of the gentlemen. + </p> + <p> + “And furthermore, comrade, is the sport good?” + </p> + <p> + “Not bad,” responded the other, regarding the speaker’s imposing warlike + equipment with a scared eye. + </p> + <p> + “Killed any?” + </p> + <p> + “Rather! Not so bad—only look.” Whereupon the Algerian sportsman + showed that it was rabbits and woodcock stuffing out the bag. + </p> + <p> + “What! do you call that your bag? Do you put such-like in your bag?” + </p> + <p> + “Where else should I put ‘em?” + </p> + <p> + “But it’s such little game.” + </p> + <p> + “Some run small and some run large,” observed the hunter. + </p> + <p> + In haste to catch up with his companions, he joined them with several long + strides. The dauntless Tartarin remained rooted in the middle of the road + with stupefaction. “Pooh!” he ejaculated, after a moment’s reflection, + “these are jokers. They haven’t killed anything whatever,” and he went his + way. + </p> + <p> + Already the houses became scarcer, and so did the passengers. Dark came on + and objects were blurred, though Tartarin walked on for half an hour more, + when he stopped, for it was night. A moonless night, too, but sprinkled + with stars. On the highroad there was nobody. The hero concluded that + lions are not stage-coaches, and would not of their own choice travel the + main ways. So he wheeled into the fields, where there were brambles and + ditches and bushes at every step, but he kept on nevertheless. + </p> + <p> + But suddenly he halted. + </p> + <p> + “I smell lions about here!” said our friend, sniffing right and left. + </p> + <p> + V. Bang, bang! + </p> + <p> + CERTAINLY a great wilderness, bristling with odd plants of that Oriental + kind which look like wicked creatures. Under the feeble starlight their + magnified shadows barred the ground in every way. On the right loomed up + confusedly the heavy mass of a mountain—perhaps the Atlas range. On + the heart-hand, the invisible sea hollowly rolling. The very spot to + attract wild beasts. + </p> + <p> + With one gun laid before him and the other in his grasp, Tartarin of + Tarascon went down on one knee and waited an hour, ay, a good couple, and + nothing turned up. Then he bethought him how, in his books, the great + lion-slayers never went out hunting without having a lamb or a kid along + with them, which they tied up a space before them, and set bleating or + baa-ing by jerking its foot with a string. Not having any goat, the + Tarasconer had the idea of employing an imitation, and he set to crying in + a tremulous voice: + </p> + <p> + “Baa-a-a!” + </p> + <p> + At first it was done very softly, because at bottom he was a little + alarmed lest the lion should hear him; but as nothing came, he baa-ed more + loudly. Still nothing. Losing patience, he resumed many times running at + the top of his voice, till the “Baa, baa, baa!” came out with so much + power that the goat began to be mistakable for a bull. + </p> + <p> + Unexpectedly, a few steps in front, some gigantic black thing appeared. He + was hushed. This thing lowered its head, sniffed the ground, bounded up, + rolled over, and darted off at the gallop, but returned and stopped short. + Who could doubt it was the lion? for now its four short legs could plainly + be seen, its formidable mane and its large eyes gleaming in the gloom. + </p> + <p> + Up went his gun into position. Fire’s the word! and bang, bang! it was + done. And immediately there was a leap back and the drawing of the + hunting-knife. To the Tarasconian’s shot a terrible roaring replied. + </p> + <p> + “He’s got it!” cried our good Tartarin as, steadying himself on his sturdy + supporters, he prepared to receive the brute’s charge. + </p> + <p> + But it had more than its fill, and galloped off; howling. He did not + budge, for he expected to see the female mate appear, as the story-books + always lay it down she should. + </p> + <p> + Unhappily, no female came. After two or three hours’ waiting the + Tarasconian grew tired. The ground was damp, the night was getting cool, + and the sea-breeze pricked sharply. + </p> + <p> + “I have a good mind to take a nap till daylight,” he said to himself. + </p> + <p> + To avoid catching rheumatism, he had recourse to his patent tent. But + here’s where Old Nick interfered! This tent was of so very ingenious a + construction that he could not manage to open it. In vain did he toil over + it and perspire an hour through—the confounded apparatus would not + come unfolded. There are some umbrellas which amuse themselves under + torrential rains with just such tricks upon you. Fairly tired out with the + struggle, the victim dashed down the machine and lay upon it, swearing + like the regular Southron he was. “Tar, tar, rar, tar! tar, rar, tar!” + </p> + <p> + “What on earth’s that?” wondered Tartarin, suddenly aroused. + </p> + <p> + It was the bugles of the Chasseurs d’Afrique sounding the turn-out in the + Mustapha barracks. The stupefied lion-slayer rubbed his eyes, for he had + believed himself out in the boundless wilderness; and do you know where he + really was?—in a field of artichokes, between a cabbage-garden and a + patch of beets. His Sahara grew kitchen vegetables. + </p> + <p> + Close to him, on the pretty verdant slope of Upper Mustapha, the snowy + villas glowed in the rosy rising sun: anybody would believe himself in the + neighbourhood of Marseilles, amongst its bastides and bastidons. + </p> + <p> + The commonplace and kitchen-gardenish aspect of this sleep-steeped country + much astonished the poor man, and put him in bad humour. + </p> + <p> + “These folk are crazy,” he reasoned, “to plant artichokes in the + prowling-ground of lions; for, in short, I have not been dreaming. Lions + have come here, and there’s the proof.” + </p> + <p> + What he called the proof was blood-spots left behind the beast in its + flight. Bending over this ruddy trail with his eye on the lookout and his + revolver in his fist, the valiant Tarasconian went from artichoke to + artichoke up to a little field of oats. In the trampled grass was a pool + of blood, and in the midst of the pool, lying on its flank, with a large + wound in the head, was a—guess what? + </p> + <p> + “A lion, of course!” + </p> + <p> + Not a bit of it! An ass!—one of those little donkeys so common in + Algeria, where they are called bourriquots. + </p> + <p> + VI. Arrival of the Female—A Terrible Combat—“Game Fellows Meet + Here!” + </p> + <p> + LOOKING on his hapless victim, Tartarin’s first impulse was one of + vexation. There is such a wide gap between a lion and poor Jack! His + second feeling was one of pity. The poor bourriquot was so pretty and + looked so kindly. The hide on his still warm sides heaved and fell like + waves. Tartarin knelt down, and strove with the end of his Algerian sash + to stanch the blood; and all you can imagine in the way of touchingness + was offered by the picture of this great man tending this little ass. + </p> + <p> + At the touch of the silky cloth the donkey, who had not twopennyworth of + life in him, opened his large grey eye and winked his long ears two or + three times, as much as to say, “Oh, thank you!” before a final spasm + shook it from head to tail, whereafter it stirred no more. + </p> + <p> + “Noiraud! Blackey!” suddenly screamed a voice, choking with anguish, as + the branches in a thicket hard by moved at the same time. + </p> + <p> + Tartarin had no more than enough time to rise and stand upon guard. This + was the female! + </p> + <p> + She rushed up, fearsome and roaring, under form of an old Alsatian woman, + her hair in a kerchief, armed with large red umbrella, and calling for her + ass, till all the echoes of Mustapha rang. It certainly would have been + better for Tartarin to have had to deal with a lioness in fury than this + old virago. In vain did the luckless sportsman try to make her understand + how the blunder had occurred, and he had mistaken “Noiraud” for a lion. + The harridan believed he was making fun of her, and uttering energetical + “Der Teufels!” fell upon our hero to bang him with the gingham. A little + bewildered, Tartarin defended himself as best he could, warding off the + blows with his rifle, streaming with perspiration, panting, jumping about, + and crying out: + </p> + <p> + “But, Madame, but”— + </p> + <p> + Much good his buts were! Madame was dull of hearing, and her blows + continued hard as ever. + </p> + <p> + Fortunately a third party arrived on the battlefield, the Alsatian’s + husband, of the same race; a roadside innkeeper, as well as a very good + ready-reckoner, which was better. When he saw what kind of a customer he + had to deal with—a slaughterer who only wanted to pay the value of + his victim—he disarmed his better-half, and they came to an + understanding. + </p> + <p> + Tartarin gave two hundred francs, the donkey being worth about ten—at + least that is the current price in the Arab markets. Then poor Blackey was + laid to rest at the root of a fig-tree, and the Alsatian, raised to + joviality by the colour of the Tarascon ducats, invited the hero to have a + quencher with him in his wine-shop, which stood only a few steps off on + the edge of the highway. Every Sunday the sportsmen from the city came + there to regale of a morning, for the plain abounded with game, and there + was no better place for rabbits for two leagues around. + </p> + <p> + “How about lions?” inquired Tartarin. + </p> + <p> + The Alsatian stared at him, greatly astounded. + </p> + <p> + “Lions!” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, lions. Don’t you see them sometimes?” resumed the poor fellow, with + less confidence. + </p> + <p> + The Boniface burst out in laughter. + </p> + <p> + “Ho, ho! bless us! lions! What would we do with lions here?” + </p> + <p> + “Are there, then, none in Algeria?” + </p> + <p> + “‘Pon my faith, I never saw any, albeit I have been twenty years in the + colony. Still, I believe I have heard tell of such a thing—leastwise, + I fancy the newspapers said—but that is ever so much farther inland—down + South, you know”— + </p> + <p> + At this point they reached the hostelry, a suburban pothouse, with a + withered green bough over the door, crossed billiard-cues painted on the + wall, and this harmless sign over a picture of wild rabbits, feeding: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “GAME FELLOWS MEET HERE.” + </pre> + <p> + “Game fellows!” It made Tartarin think of Captain Bravida. + </p> + <p> + VII. About an Omnibus, a Moorish Beauty, and a Wreath of Jessamine. + </p> + <p> + COMMON people would have been discouraged by such a first adventure, but + men of Tartarin’s mettle do not easily get cast down. + </p> + <p> + “The lions are in the South, are they?” mused the hero. “Very well, then. + South I go.” + </p> + <p> + As soon as he had swallowed his last mouthful he jumped up, thanked his + host, nodded good-bye to the old hag without any ill-will, dropped a final + tear over the hapless Blackey, and quickly returned to Algiers, with the + firm intention of packing up and starting that very day for the South. + </p> + <p> + The Mustapha highroad seemed, unfortunately, to have stretched since + overnight; and what a sun and dust there were, and what a weight in that + shelter-tent! Tartarin did not feel to have the courage to walk to the + town, and he beckoned to the first omnibus coming along, and climbed in. + </p> + <p> + Oh, our poor Tartarin of Tarascon! how much better it would have been for + his name and fame not to have stepped into that fatal ark on wheels, but + to have continued on his road afoot, at the risk of falling suffocated + beneath the burden of the atmosphere, the tent, and his heavy + double-barrelled rifles. + </p> + <p> + When Tartarin got in the ‘bus was full. At the end, with his nose in his + prayer-book, sat a large and black-bearded vicar from town; facing him was + a young Moorish merchant smoking coarse cigarettes, and a Maltese sailor + and four or five Moorish women muffled up in white cloths, so that only + their eyes could be spied. + </p> + <p> + These ladies had been to offer up prayers in the Abdel Kader cemetery; but + this funereal visit did not seem to have much saddened them, for they + could be heard chuckling and chattering between themselves under their + coverings whilst munching pastry. Tartarin fancied that they watched him + narrowly. One in particular, seated over against him, had fixed her eyes + upon his, and never took them off all the drive. Although the dame was + veiled, the liveliness of the big black eyes, lengthened out by k’hol; a + delightfully slender wrist loaded with gold bracelets, of which a glimpse + was given from time to time among the folds; the sound of her voice, the + graceful, almost childlike, movements of the head, all revealed that a + young, pretty, and loveable creature bloomed underneath the veil. The + unfortunate Tartarin did not know where to shrink. The fond, mute gaze of + these splendrous Oriental orbs agitated him, perturbed him, and made him + feel like dying with flushes of heat and fits of cold shivers. + </p> + <p> + To finish him, the lady’s slipper meddled in the onslaught: he felt the + dainty thing wander and frisk about over his heavy hunting boots like a + tiny red mouse. What could he do? Answer the glance and the pressure, of + course. Ay, but what about the consequences? A loving intrigue in the East + is a terrible matter! With his romantic southern nature, the honest + Tarasconian saw himself already falling into the grip of the eunuchs, to + be decapitated, or better—we mean, worse—than that, sewn up in + a leather sack and sunk in the sea with his head under his arm beside him. + This somewhat cooled him. In the meantime the little slipper continued its + proceedings, and the eyes, widely open opposite him like twin black velvet + flowers, seemed to say: + </p> + <p> + “Come, cull us!” + </p> + <p> + The ‘bus stopped on the Theatre place, at the mouth of the Rue Bab-Azoon. + One by one, embedded in their voluminous trousers, and drawing their + mufflers around them with wild grace, the Moorish women alighted. + Tartarin’s confrontatress was the last to rise, and in doing so her + countenance skimmed so closely to our hero’s that her breath enveloped him—a + veritable nosegay of youth and freshness, with an indescribable after-tang + of musk, jessamine, and pastry. + </p> + <p> + The Tarasconian stood out no longer. Intoxicated with love, and ready for + anything, he darted out after the beauty. At the rumpling sound of his + belts and boots she turned, laid a finger on her veiled mouth, as one who + would say, “Hush!” and with the other hand quickly tossed him a little + wreath of sweet-scented jessamine flowers. Tartarin of Tarascon stooped to + pick it up; but as he was rather clumsy, and much overburdened with + implements of war, the operation took rather long. When he did straighten + up, with the jessamine garland upon his heart, the donatrix had vanished. + </p> + <p> + VIII. Ye Lions of the Atlas, repose in peace! + </p> + <p> + LIONS of the Atlas, sleep!—sleep tranquilly at the back of your + lairs amid the aloes and cacti. For a few days to come, any way, Tartarin + of Tarascon will not massacre you. For the time being, all his warlike + paraphernalia, gun-cases, medicine chest, alimentary preserves, dwelt + peacefully under cover in a corner of room 36 in the Hotel de l’Europe. + </p> + <p> + Sleep with no fear, great red lions, the Tarasconian is engaged in looking + up that Moorish charmer. Since the adventure in the omnibus, the + unfortunate swain perpetually fancied he felt the fidgeting of that pretty + red mouse upon his huge backwoods trapper’s foot; and the sea-breeze + fanning his lips was ever scented, do what he would, with a love-exciting + odour of sweet cakes and patchouli. + </p> + <p> + He hungered for his indispensable light of the harem! and he meant to + behold her anew. + </p> + <p> + But it was no joke of a task. To find one certain person in a city of a + hundred thousand souls, only known by the eyes, breath, and slipper,—none + but a son of Tarascon, panoplied by love, would be capable of attempting + such an adventure. + </p> + <p> + The plague is that, under their broad white mufflers, all the Moorish + women resemble one another; besides, they do not go about much, and to see + them, a man has to climb up into the native or upper town, the city of the + “Turks,” and that is a regular cut-throat’s den. + </p> + <p> + Little black alleys, very narrow, climbing perpendicularly up between + mysterious house-walls, whose roofs lean to touching and form a tunnel; + low doors, and sad, silent little casements well barred and grated. + Moreover, on both hands, stacks of darksome stalls, wherein ferocious + “Turks” smoked long pipes stuck between glittering teeth in piratical + heads with white eyes, and mumbled in undertones as if hatching wicked + attacks. + </p> + <p> + To say that Tartarin traversed this grisly place without any emotion would + be putting forth falsehood. On the contrary, he was much affected, and the + stout fellow only went up the obscure lanes, where his corporation took up + all the width, with the utmost precaution, his eye skinned, and his finger + on his revolver trigger, in the same manner as he went to the clubhouse at + Tarascon. At any moment he expected to have a whole gang of eunuchs and + janissaries drop upon his back, yet the longing to behold that dark damsel + again gave him a giant’s strength and boldness. + </p> + <p> + For a full week the undaunted Tartarin never quitted the high town. Yes; + for all that period he might have been seen cooling his heels before the + Turkish bath-houses, awaiting the hour when the ladies came forth in + troops, shivering and still redolent of soap and hot water; or squatting + at the doorways of mosques, puffing and melting in trying to get out of + his big boots in order to enter the temples. + </p> + <p> + Betimes at nightfall, when he was returning heart-broken at not having + discovered anything at either bagnio or mosque, our man from Tarascon, in + passing mansions, would hear monotonous songs, smothered twanging of + guitars, thumping of tambourines, and feminine laughter-peals, which would + make his heart beat. + </p> + <p> + “Haply she is there!” he would say to himself. + </p> + <p> + Thereupon, granting the street was unpeopled, he would go up to one of + these dwellings, lift the heavy knocker of the low postern, and timidly + rap. The songs and merriment would instantly cease. There would be audible + behind the wall nothing excepting low, dull flutterings as in a slumbering + aviary. + </p> + <p> + “Let’s stick to it, old boy,” our hero would think. “Something will befall + us yet.” + </p> + <p> + What most often befell him was the contents of the cold-water jug on the + head, or else peel of oranges and Barbary figs; never anything more + serious. + </p> + <p> + Well might the lions of the Atlas Mountains doze in peace. + </p> + <p> + IX. Prince Gregory of Montenegro. + </p> + <p> + IT was two long weeks that the unfortunate Tartarin had been seeking his + Algerian flame, and most likely he would have been seeking after her to + this day if the little god kind to lovers had not come to his help under + the shape of a Montenegrin nobleman. + </p> + <p> + It happened as follows. + </p> + <p> + Every Saturday night in winter there is a masked ball at the Grand Theatre + of Algiers, just as at the Paris Opera-House. It is the undying and + ever-tasteless county fancy dress ball—very few people on the floor, + several castaways from the Parisian students’ ballrooms or midnight + dance-houses, Joans of Arc following the army, faded characters out of the + Java costume-book of 1840, and half-a-dozen laundress’s underlings who are + aiming to make loftier conquests, but still preserve a faint perfume of + their former life—garlic and saffron sauce. The real spectacle is + not there, but in the green-room, transformed for the nonce into a hall of + green cloth or gaming saloon. + </p> + <p> + An enfevered and motley mob hustle one another around the long green + table-covers: Turcos out for the day and staking their double halfpence, + Moorish traders from the native town, Negroes, Maltese, colonists from the + inland, who have come forty leagues in order to risk on a turning card the + price of a plough or of a yoke of oxen; all a-quivering, pale, clenching + their teeth, and with that singular, wavering, sidelong look of the + gamester, become a squint from always staring at the same card in the + lay-out. + </p> + <p> + A little apart are the tribes of Algerian Jews, playing among + acquaintances. The men are in the Oriental costume; hideously varied with + blue stockings and velvet caps. The puffy and flabby women sit up stiffly + in tight golden bodices. Grouped around the tables, the whole tribe wail, + squeal, combine, reckon on the fingers, and play but little. Now and anon, + however, after long conferences, some old patriarch, with a beard like + those of saints by the Old Masters, detaches himself from the party and + goes to risk the family duro. As long as the game lasted there would be a + scintillation of Hebraic eyes directed on the board—dreadful black + diamonds, which made the gold pieces shiver, and ended by gently + attracting them, as if drawn by a thread. Then arose wrangles, quarrels, + battles, oaths of every land, mad outcries in all tongues, knives flashing + out, the guard marching in, and the money disappearing. + </p> + <p> + It was into the thick of this saturnalia that the great Tartarin came + straying one evening to find oblivion and heart’s ease. + </p> + <p> + He was roving alone through the gathering, brooding about his Moorish + beauty, when two angered voices arose suddenly from a gaming-table above + all the clamour and chink of coin. + </p> + <p> + “I tell you, M’sieu, that I am twenty francs short!” + </p> + <p> + “Stuff, M’sieu!” + </p> + <p> + “Stuff yourself; M’sieu!” + </p> + <p> + “You shall learn whom you are addressing, M’sieu!” + </p> + <p> + “I am dying to do that, M’sieu!” + </p> + <p> + “I am Prince Gregory of Montenegro, M’sieu.” + </p> + <p> + Upon this title Tartarin, much excited, cleft the throng and placed + himself in the foremost rank, proud and happy to find his prince again, + the Montenegrin noble of such politeness whose acquaintance he had begun + on board of the mail steamer. Unfortunately the title of Highness, which + had so dazzled the worthy Tarasconian, did not produce the slightest + impression upon the Chasseurs officer with whom the noble had his dispute. + </p> + <p> + “I am much the wiser!” observed the military gentleman sneeringly; and + turning to the bystanders he added: “‘Prince Gregory of Montenegro’—who + knows any such a person? Nobody!” + </p> + <p> + The indignant Tartarin took one step forward. + </p> + <p> + “Allow me. I know the prince,” said he, in a very firm voice, and with his + finest Tarasconian accent. + </p> + <p> + The light cavalry officer eyed him hard for a moment, and then, shrugging + his shoulders, returned: + </p> + <p> + “Come, that is good! Just you two share the twenty francs lacking between + you, and let us talk no more on the score.” + </p> + <p> + Whereupon he turned his back upon them and mixed with the crowd. The + stormy Tartarin was going to rush after him, but the prince prevented + that. + </p> + <p> + “Let him go. I can manage my own affairs.” + </p> + <p> + Taking the interventionist by the arm, he drew him rapidly out of doors. + When they were upon the square, Prince Gregory of Montenegro lifted his + hat off; extended his hand to our hero, and as he but dimly remembered his + name, he began in a vibrating voice: + </p> + <p> + “Monsieur Barbarin—” + </p> + <p> + “Tartarin!” prompted the other, timidly. + </p> + <p> + “Tartarin, Barbarin, no matter! Between us henceforward it is a league of + life and death!” + </p> + <p> + The Montenegrin noble shook his hand with fierce energy. You may infer + that the Tarasconian was proud. + </p> + <p> + “Prince, prince!” he repeated enthusiastically. + </p> + <p> + In a quarter of an hour subsequently the two gentlemen were installed in + the Platanes Restaurant, an agreeable late supper-house, with terraces + running out over the sea, where, before a hearty Russian salad, seconded + by a nice Crescia wine, they renewed the friendship. + </p> + <p> + You cannot image any one more bewitching than this Montenegrin prince. + Slender, fine, with crisp hair curled by the tongs, shaved “a week under” + and pumice-stoned on that, bestarred with out-of-the-way decorations, he + had the wily eye, the fondling gestures, and vaguely the accent of an + Italian, which gave him an air of Cardinal Mazarin without his chin-tuft + and moustaches. He was deeply versed in the Latin tongues, and lugged in + quotations from Tacitus, Horace, and Caesar’s Commentaries at every + opening. + </p> + <p> + Of an old noble strain, it appeared that his brothers had had him exiled + at the age of ten, on account of his liberal opinions, since which time he + had roamed the world for pleasure and instruction as a philosophical + noble. A singular coincidence! the prince had spent three years in + Tarascon; and as Tartarin showed amazement at never having met him at the + club or on the esplanade, His Highness evasively remarked that he never + went about. Through delicacy, the Tarasconian did not dare to question + further. All great existences have such mysterious nooks. + </p> + <p> + To sum up, this Signor Gregory was a very genial aristocrat. Whilst + sipping the rosy Crescia juice he patiently listened to Tartarin’s + expatiating on his lovely Moor, and he even promised to find her speedily, + as he had full knowledge of the native ladies. + </p> + <p> + They drank hard and lengthily in toasts to “The ladies of Algiers” and + “The freedom of Montenegro!” + </p> + <p> + Outside, upon the terrace, heaved the sea, and its rollers slapped the + strand in the darkness with much the sound of wet sails flapping. The air + was warm, and the sky full of stars. + </p> + <p> + In the plane-trees a nightingale was piping. + </p> + <p> + It was Tartarin who paid the piper. + </p> + <p> + X. “Tell me your father’s name, and I will tell you the name of that + flower.” + </p> + <p> + PRINCES of Montenegro are the ones to find the love-bird. + </p> + <p> + On the morrow early after this evening at the Platanes, Prince Gregory was + in the Tarasconian’s bedroom. + </p> + <p> + “Quick! Dress yourself quickly! Your Moorish beauty is found, Her name is + Baya. She’s scarce twenty—as pretty as a love, and already a widow.” + </p> + <p> + “A widow! What a slice of luck!” joyfully exclaimed Tartarin, who dreaded + Oriental husbands. + </p> + <p> + “Ay, but woefully closely guarded by her brother.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, the mischief!” + </p> + <p> + “A savage chap who vends pipes in the Orleans bazaar.” + </p> + <p> + Here fell a silence. + </p> + <p> + “A fig for that!” proceeded the prince; “you are not the man to be daunted + by such a trifle; and, anyhow, this old corsair can be pacified, I + daresay, by having some pipes bought of him. But be quick! On with your + courting suit, you lucky dog!” + </p> + <p> + Pale and agitated, with his heart brimming over with love, the Tarasconian + leaped out of his couch, and, as he hastily buttoned up his capacious + nether garment, wanted to know how he should act. + </p> + <p> + “Write straightway to the lady and ask for a tryst.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you mean to say she knows French?” queried the Tarasconian simpleton, + with the disappointed mien of one who had believed thoroughly in the + Orient. + </p> + <p> + “Not one word of it,” rejoined the prince imperturbably; “but you can + dictate the billet-doux, and I will translate it bit by bit.” + </p> + <p> + “O prince, how kind you are!” + </p> + <p> + The lover began striding up and down the bedroom in silent meditation. + </p> + <p> + Naturally a man does not write to a Moorish girl in Algiers in the same + way as to a seamstress of Beaucaire. It was a very lucky thing that our + hero had in mind his numerous readings, which allowed him, by amalgamating + the Red Indian eloquence of Gustave Aimard’s Apaches with Lamartine’s + rhetorical flourishes in the “Voyage en Orient,” and some reminiscences of + the “Song of Songs,” to compose the most Eastern letter that you could + expect to see. It opened with: + </p> + <p> + “Like unto the ostrich upon the sandy waste”— + </p> + <p> + and concluded by: + </p> + <p> + “Tell me your father’s name, and I will tell you the name of that flower.” + </p> + <p> + To this missive the romantic Tartarin would have much liked to join an + emblematic bouquet of flowers in the Eastern fashion; but Prince Gregory + thought it better to purchase some pipes at the brother’s, which could not + fail to soften his wild temper, and would certainly please the lady a very + great deal, as she was much of a smoker. + </p> + <p> + “Let’s be off at once to buy them!” said Tartarin, full of ardour. + </p> + <p> + “No, no! Let me go alone. I can get them cheaper.” + </p> + <p> + “Eh, what? Would you save me the trouble? O prince, prince, you do me + proud!” + </p> + <p> + Quite abashed, the good-hearted fellow offered his purse to the obliging + Montenegrin, urging him to overlook nothing by which the lady would be + gratified. + </p> + <p> + Unfortunately the suit, albeit capitally commenced, did not progress as + rapidly as might have been anticipated. It appeared that the Moorish + beauty was very deeply affected by Tartarin’s eloquence, and, for that + matter, three-parts won beforehand, so that she wished nothing better than + to receive him; but that brother of hers had qualms, and to lull them it + was necessary to buy pipes by the dozens; nay, the gross—well, we + had best say by the shipload at once. + </p> + <p> + “What the plague can Baya do with all these pipes?” poor Tartarin wanted + to know more than once; but he paid the bills all the same, and without + niggardliness. + </p> + <p> + At length, after having purchased a mountainous stack of pipes and poured + forth lakes of Oriental poesy, an interview was arranged. I have no need + to tell you with what throbbings of the heart the Tarasconian prepared + himself; with what carefulness he trimmed, brilliantined, and perfumed his + rough cap-popper’s beard, and how he did not forget—for everything + must be thought of—to slip a spiky life-preserver and two or three + six-shooters into his pockets. + </p> + <p> + The ever-obliging prince was coming to this first meeting in the office of + interpreter. + </p> + <p> + The lady dwelt in the upper part of the town. Before her doorway a boy + Moor of fourteen or less was smoking cigarettes; this was the brother in + question, the celebrated Ali. On seeing the pair of visitors arrive, he + gave a double knock on the postern gate and delicately glided away. + </p> + <p> + The door opened. A negress appeared, who conducted the gentlemen, without + uttering a word, across the narrow inner courtyard into a small cool room, + where the lady awaited them, reclining on a low ottoman. At first glance + she appeared smaller and stouter than the Moorish damsel met in the + omnibus by the Tarasconian. In fact, was it really the same? But the doubt + merely flashed through Tartarin’s brain like a stroke of lightning. + </p> + <p> + The dame was so pretty thus, with her feet bare, and plump fingers, fine + and pink, loaded with rings. Under her bodice of gilded cloth and the + folds of her flower-patterned dress was suggested a lovable creature, + rather blessed materially, rounded everywhere, and nice enough to eat. The + amber mouthpiece of a narghileh smoked at her lips, and enveloped her + wholly in a halo of light-coloured smoke. + </p> + <p> + On entering, the Tarasconian laid a hand on his heart and bowed as + Moorlike as possible, whilst rolling his large impassioned eyes. + </p> + <p> + Baya gazed on him for a moment without making any answer; but then, + dropping her pipe-stem, she threw her head back, hid it in her hands, and + they could only see her white neck rippling with a wild laugh like a bag + full of pearls. + </p> + <p> + XI. Sidi Tart’ri Ben Tart’ri. + </p> + <p> + SHOULD you ever drop into the coffee-houses of the Algerian upper town + after dark, even at this day, you would still hear the natives chatting + among themselves, with many a wink and slight laugh, of one Sidi Tart’ri + Ben Tart’ri, a rich and good-humoured European, who dwelt, a few years + back, in that neighbourhood, with a buxom witch of local origin, named + Baya. + </p> + <p> + This Sidi Tart’ri, who has left such a merry memory around the Kasbah, is + no other than our Tartarin, as will be guessed. + </p> + <p> + How could you expect things otherwise? In the lives of heroes, of saints, + too, it happens the same way—there are moments of blindness, + perturbation, and weakness. The illustrious Tarasconian was no more exempt + from this than another, and that is the reason during two months that, + oblivious of fame and lions, he revelled in Oriental amorousness, and + dozed, like Hannibal at Capua, in the delights of Algiers the white. + </p> + <p> + The good fellow took a pretty little house in the native style in the + heart of the Arab town, with inner courtyard, banana-trees, cool + verandahs, and fountains. He dwelt, afar from noise, in company with the + Moorish charmer, a thorough woman to the manner born, who pulled at her + hubble-bubble all day when she was not eating. + </p> + <p> + Stretched out on a divan in front of him, Baya would drone him monotonous + tunes with a guitar in her fist; or else, to distract her lord and master, + favour him with the Bee Dance, holding a hand-glass up, in which she + reflected her white teeth and the faces she made. + </p> + <p> + As the Esmeralda did not know a word of French, and Tartarin none in + Arabic, the conversation died away sometimes, and the Tarasconian had + plenty of leisure to do penance for the gush of language of which he had + been guilty in the shop of Bezuquet the chemist or that of Costecalde the + gunmaker. + </p> + <p> + But this penance was not devoid of charm, for he felt a kind of enjoyable + sullenness in dawdling away the whole day without speaking, and in + listening to the gurgling of the hookah, the strumming of the guitar, and + the faint splashing of the fountain on the mosaic pavement of the yard. + </p> + <p> + The pipe, the bath, and caresses filled his entire life. They seldom went + out of doors. Sometimes with his lady-love upon a pillion, Sidi Tart’ri + would ride upon a sturdy mule to eat pomegranates in a little garden he + had purchased in the suburbs. But never, without exception, did he go down + into the European quarter. This kind of Algiers appeared to him as ugly + and unbearable as a barracks at home, with its Zouaves in revelry, its + music-halls crammed with officers, and its everlasting clank of metal + sabre-sheaths under the arcades. + </p> + <p> + The sum total is, that our Tarasconian was very happy. + </p> + <p> + Sancho-Tartarin particularly, being very sweet upon Turkish pastry, + declared that one could not be more satisfied than by this new existence. + Quixote-Tartarin had some twinges at whiles on thinking of Tarascon and + the promises of lion-skins; but this remorse did not last, and to drive + away such dampening ideas there sufficed one glance from Baya, or a + spoonful of those diabolical dizzying and odoriferous sweetmeats like + Circe’s brews. + </p> + <p> + In the evening Gregory came to discourse a little about a free Black + Mountain. Of indefatigable obligingness, this amiable nobleman filled the + functions of an interpreter in the household, or those of a steward at a + pinch, and all for nothing for the sheer pleasure of it. Apart from him, + Tartarin received none but “Turks.” All those fierce-headed pirates who + had given him such frights from the backs of their black stalls turned + out, when once he made their acquaintance, to be good inoffensive + tradesmen, embroiderers, dealers in spice, pipe-mouthpiece turners—well-bred + fellows, humble, clever, close, and first-class hands at homely card + games. Four or five times a week these gentry would come and spend the + evening at Sidi Tart’ri’s, winning his small change, eating his cakes and + dainties, and delicately retiring on the stroke of ten with thanks to the + Prophet. + </p> + <p> + Left alone, Sidi Tart’ri and his faithful spouse by the broomstick wedding + would finish the evening on their terrace, a broad white roof which + overlooked the city. + </p> + <p> + All around them a thousand of other such white flats, placid beneath the + moonshine, were descending like steps to the sea. The breeze carried up + tinkling of guitars. + </p> + <p> + Suddenly, like a shower of firework stars, a full, clear melody would be + softly sprinkled out from the sky, and on the minaret of the neighbouring + mosque a handsome muezzin would appear, his blanched form outlined on the + deep blue of the night, as he chanted the glory of Allah with a marvellous + voice, which filled the horizon. + </p> + <p> + Thereupon Baya would let go her guitar, and with her large eyes turned + towards the crier, seem to imbibe the prayer deliciously. As long as the + chant endured she would remain thrilled there in ecstasy, like an Oriental + saint. The deeply impressed Tartarin would watch her pray, and conclude + that it must be a splendid and powerful creed that could cause such + frenzies of faith. + </p> + <p> + Tarascon, veil thy face! here is a son of thine on the point of becoming a + renegade! + </p> + <p> + XII. The Latest Intelligence from Tarascon. + </p> + <p> + PARTING from his little country seat, Sidi Tart’ri was returning alone on + his mule on a fine afternoon, when the sky was blue and the zephyrs warm. + His legs were kept wide apart by ample saddle-bags of esparto cloth, + swelled out with cedrats and water-melons. Lulled by the ring of his large + stirrups, and rocking his body to the swing and swaying of the beast, the + good fellow was thus traversing an adorable country, with his hands folded + on his paunch, three-quarters gone, through heat, in a comfortable doze. + All at once, on entering the town, a deafening appeal aroused him. + </p> + <p> + “Ahoy! What a monster Fate is! Anybody’d take this for Monsieur Tartarin.” + </p> + <p> + On this name, and at the jolly southern accent, the Tarasconian lifted his + head, and perceived, a couple of steps away, the honest tanned visage of + Captain Barbassou, master of the Zouave, who was taking his absinthe at + the door of a little coffee-house. + </p> + <p> + “Hey! Lord love you, Barbassou!” said Tartarin, pulling up his mule. + </p> + <p> + Instead of continuing the dialogue, Barbassou stared at him for a space + ere he burst into a peal of such hilarity that Sidi Tart’ri sat back + dumbfounded on his melons. + </p> + <p> + “What a stunning turban, my poor Monsieur Tartarin! Is it true, what they + say of your having turned Turk? How is little Baya? Is she still singing + ‘Marco la Bella’?” + </p> + <p> + “Marco la Bella!” repeated the indignant Tartarin. “I’ll have you to know, + captain, that the person you mention is an honourable Moorish lady, and + one who does not know a word of French.” + </p> + <p> + “Baya does not know French! What lunatic asylum do you hail from, then?” + </p> + <p> + The good captain broke into still heartier laughter; but, seeing the chops + of poor Sidi Tart’ri fall he changed his course. + </p> + <p> + “Howsoever, may happen it is not the same lass. Let’s reckon that I have + mixed ‘em up. Still, mark you, Monsieur Tartarin, you will do well, + nonetheless, to distrust Algerian Moors and Montenegrin princes.” + </p> + <p> + Tartarin rose in the stirrups, making a wry face. + </p> + <p> + “The prince is my friend, captain.” + </p> + <p> + “Come, come, don’t wax wrathy. Won’t you have some bitters to sweeten you? + No? Haven’t you anything to say to the folks at home, neither? Well, then, + a pleasant journey. By the way, mate, I have some good French ‘bacco upon + me, and if you would like to carry away a few pipefuls, you have only to + take some. Take it, won’t you? It’s your beastly Oriental ‘baccoes that + have befogged your brain.” + </p> + <p> + Upon this the captain went back to his absinthe, whilst the moody Tartarin + trotted slowly on the road to his little house. Although his great soul + refused to credit anything, Barbassou’s insinuations had vexed him, and + the familiar adjurations and home accent had awakened vague remorse. + </p> + <p> + He found nobody at home, Baya having gone out to the bath. The negress + appeared sinister and the dwelling saddening. A prey to inexpressible + melancholy, he went and sat down by the fountain to load a pipe with + Barbassou’s tobacco. It was wrapped up in a piece of the Marseilles + Semaphore newspaper. On flattening it out, the name of his native place + struck his eyes. + </p> + <p> + “Our Tarascon correspondent writes:— + </p> + <p> + “The city is in distress. There has been no news for several months from + Tartarin the lion-slayer, who set off to hunt the great feline tribe in + Africa. What can have become of our heroic fellow-countryman? Those hardly + dare ask who know, as we do, how hot-headed he was, and what boldness and + thirst for adventures were his. Has he, like many others, been smothered + in the sands, or has he fallen under the murderous fangs of one of those + monsters of the Atlas Range of which he had promised the skins to the + municipality? What a dreadful state of uncertainty! It is true some Negro + traders, come to Beaucaire Fair, assert having met in the middle of the + deserts a European whose description agreed with his; he was proceeding + towards Timbuctoo. May Heaven preserve our Tartarin!” + </p> + <p> + When he read this, the son of Tarascon reddened, blanched, and shuddered. + All Tarascon appeared unto him: the club, the cap-poppers, Costecalde’s + green arm-chair, and, hovering over all like a spread eagle, the imposing + moustaches of brave Commandant Bravida. + </p> + <p> + At seeing himself here, as he was, cowardly lolling on a mat, whilst his + friends believed him slaughtering wild beasts, Tartarin of Tarascon was + ashamed of himself, and could have wept had he not been a hero. + </p> + <p> + Suddenly he leaped up and thundered: + </p> + <p> + “The lion, the lion! Down with him!” + </p> + <p> + And dashing into the dusty lumber-hole where mouldered the shelter-tent, + the medicine-chest, the potted meats, and the gun-cases, he dragged them + out into the middle of the court. + </p> + <p> + Sancho-Tartarin was no more: Quixote-Tartarin occupied the field of active + life. + </p> + <p> + Only the time to inspect his armament and stores, don his harness, get + into his heavy boots, scribble a couple of words to confide Baya to the + prince, and slip a few bank-notes sprinkled with tears into the envelope, + and then the dauntless Tarasconian rolled away in the stage-coach on the + Blidah road, leaving the house to the negress, stupor-stricken before the + pipe, the turban, and babooshes—all the Moslem shell of Sidi Tart’ri + which sprawled piteously under the little white trefoils of the gallery. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0003" id="link2H_4_0003"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + EPISODE THE THIRD, AMONG THE LIONS + </h2> + <p> + I. What becomes of the Old Stage-coaches. + </p> + <p> + COME to look closely at the vehicle, it was an old stage-coach all of the + olden time, upholstered in faded deep blue cloth, with those enormous + rough woollen balls which, after a few hours’ journey, finally establish a + raw spot in the small of your back. + </p> + <p> + Tartarin of Tarascon had a corner of the inside, where he installed + himself most free-and-easily: and, preliminarily to inspiring the rank + emanations of the great African felines, the hero had to content himself + with that homely old odour of the stage-coach, oddly composed of a + thousand smells, of man and woman, horses and harness, eatables and + mildewed straw. + </p> + <p> + There was a little of everything inside—a Trappist monk, some Jew + merchants, two fast ladies going to join their regiment, the Third + Hussars, a photographic artist from Orleansville, and so on. But, however + charming and varied was the company, the Tarasconian was not in the mood + for chatting; he remained quite thoughtful, with an arm in the arm-rest + sling-strap and his guns between his knees. All churned up his wits—the + precipitate departure, Baya’s eyes of jet, the terrible chase he was about + to undertake, to say nothing of this European coach; with its Noah’s Ark + aspect, rediscovered in the heart of Africa, vaguely recalling the + Tarascon of his youth, with its races in the suburbs, jolly dinners on the + river-side—a throng of memories, in short. + </p> + <p> + Gradually night came on. The guard lit up the lamps. The rusty diligence + danced creakingly on its old springs; the horses trotted and their bells + jangled. From time to time in the boot arose a dreadful clank of iron: + that was the war material. + </p> + <p> + Tartarin of Tarascon, nearly overcome, dwelt a moment scanning the + fellow-passengers, comically shaken by the jolts, and dancing before him + like the shadows in galanty-shows, till his eyes grew cloudy and his mind + befogged, and only vaguely he heard the wheels grind and the sides of the + conveyance squeak complainingly. + </p> + <p> + Suddenly a voice called Tartarin by his name, the voice of an old fairy + godmother, hoarse, broken, and cracked. + </p> + <p> + “Monsieur Tartarin!” three times. + </p> + <p> + “Who’s calling me?” + </p> + <p> + “It’s I, Monsieur Tartarin. Don’t you recognise me? I am the old + stage-coach who used to do the road betwixt Nimes and Tarascon twenty year + agone. How many times I have carried you and your friends when you went to + shoot at caps over Joncquieres or Bellegarde way! I did not know you again + at the first, on account of your Turk’s cap and the flesh you have + accumulated; but as soon as you began snoring—what a rascal is + good-luck!—I twigged you straight away.” + </p> + <p> + “All right, that’s all right enough!” observed the Tarasconian, a shade + vexed; but softening, he added, “But to the point, my poor old girl; + whatever did you come out here for?” + </p> + <p> + “Pooh! my good Monsieur Tartarin, I assure you I never came of my own free + will. As soon as the Beaucaire railway was finished I was considered good + for nought, and shipped away into Algeria. And I am not the only one + either! Bless you, next to all the old stage-coaches of France have been + packed off like me. We were regarded as too much the conservative—‘the + slow-coaches’—d’ye see, and now we are here leading the life of a + dog. This is what you in France call the Algerian railways.” + </p> + <p> + Here the ancient vehicle heaved a long-drawn sigh before proceeding. “My + wheels and linchpin! Monsieur Tartarin, how I regret my lovely Tarascon! + That was the good time for me, when I was young!—You ought to have + seen me starting off in the morning, washed with no stint of water and all + a-shine, with my wheels freshly varnished, my lamps blazing like a brace + of suns, and my boot always rubbed up with oil! It was indeed lovely when + the postillion cracked his whip to the tune of ‘Lagadigadeou, the + Tarasque! the Tarasque!’ and the guard, his horn in its sling and laced + cap cocked well over one ear, chucking his little dog, always in a fury, + upon the top, climbed up himself with a shout: ‘Right-away!’ + </p> + <p> + “Then would my four horses dash off to the medley of bells, barks, and + horn-blasts, and the windows fly open for all Tarascon to look with pride + upon the royal mail coach dart over the king’s highway. + </p> + <p> + “What a splendid road that was, Monsieur Tartarin, broad and well kept, + with its mile-stones, its little heaps of road-metal at regular distances, + and its pretty clumps of vines and olive-trees on either hand! Then, + again, the roadside inns so close together, and the changes of horses + every five minutes! And what jolly, honest chaps my patrons were!—village + mayors and parish priests going up to Nimes to see their prefect or + bishop, taffety-weavers returning openly from the Mazet, collegians out on + holiday leave, peasants in worked smock-frocks, all fresh shaven for the + occasion that morning; and up above, on the top, you gentlemen-sportsmen, + always in high spirits, and singing each your own family ballad to the + stars as you came back in the dark. + </p> + <p> + “Deary me! it’s a change of times now! Lord knows what rubbish I am + carting here, come from nobody guesses where! They fill me with small + deer, these negroes, Bedouin Arabs, swashbucklers, adventurers from every + land, and ragged settlers who poison me with their pipes, and all + jabbering a language that the Tower of Babel itself could make nothing of! + And, furthermore, you should see how they treat me—I mean, how they + never treat me: never a brush or a wash. They begrudge me grease for my + axles. Instead of my good fat quiet horses of other days, little Arab + ponies, with the devil in their frames, who fight and bite, caper as they + run like so many goats, and break my splatterboard all to smithereens with + their lashing out behind. Ouch! ouch! there they are at it again! + </p> + <p> + “And such roads! Just here it is bearable, because we are near the + governmental headquarters; but out a bit there’s nothing, Monsieur—not + the ghost of a road at all. We get along as best we can over hill and + dale, over dwarf palms and mastic-trees. Ne’er a fixed change of horses, + the stopping being at the whim of the guard, now at one farm, again at + another. + </p> + <p> + “Somewhiles this rogue goes a couple of leagues out of the way to have a + glass of absinthe or champoreau with a chum. After which, ‘Crack on, + postillion!’ to make up for the lost time. Though the sun be broiling and + the dust scorching, we whip on! We catch in the scrub and spill over, but + whip on! We swim rivers, we catch cold, we get swamped, we drown, but + whip! whip! whip! Then in the evening, streaming—a nice thing for my + age, with my rheumatics—I have to sleep in the open air of some + caravanseral yard, open to all the winds. In the dead o’ night jackals and + hyaenas come sniffing of my body; and the marauders who don’t like dews + get into my compartment to keep warm. + </p> + <p> + “Such is the life I lead, my poor Monsieur Tartarin, and that I shall lead + to the day when—burnt up by the sun and rotted by the damp nights + until unable to do anything else, I shall fall in some spot of bad road, + where the Arabs will boil their kouskous with the bones of my old carcass”— + </p> + <p> + “Blidah! Blidah!” called out the guard as he opened the door. + </p> + <p> + II. A little gentleman drops in and “drops upon” Tartarin. + </p> + <p> + VAGUELY through the mud-dimmed glass Tartarin of Tarascon caught a glimpse + of a second-rate but pretty town market-place, regular in shape, + surrounded by colonnades and planted with orange-trees, in the midst of + which what seemed toy leaden soldiers were going through the morning + exercise in the clear roseate mist. The cafes were shedding their + shutters. In one corner there was a vegetable market. It was bewitching, + but it did not smack of lions yet. + </p> + <p> + “To the South! farther to the South!” muttered the good old desperado, + sinking back in his corner. + </p> + <p> + At this moment the door opened. A puff of fresh air rushed in, bearing + upon its wings, in the perfume of the orange-blossoms, a little person in + a brown frock-coat, old and dry, wrinkled and formal, his face no bigger + than your fist, his neckcloth of black silk five fingers wide, a notary’s + letter-case, and umbrella—the very picture of a village solicitor. + </p> + <p> + On perceiving the Tarasconian’s warlike equipment, the little gentleman, + who was seated over against him, appeared excessively surprised, and set + to studying him with burdensome persistency. + </p> + <p> + The horses were taken out and the fresh ones put in, whereupon the coach + started off again. The little weasel still gazed at Tartarin, who in the + end took snuff at it. + </p> + <p> + “Does this astonish you?” he demanded, staring the little gentleman full + in the face in his turn. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, dear, no! it only annoys me,” responded the other, very tranquilly. + </p> + <p> + And the fact is, that, with his shelter-tent, revolvers, pair of guns in + their cases, and hunting-knife, not to speak of his natural corpulence, + Tartarin of Tarascon did take up a lot of room. + </p> + <p> + The little gentleman’s reply angered him. + </p> + <p> + “Do you by any chance fancy that I am going lion-hunting with your + umbrella?” queried the great man haughtily. + </p> + <p> + The little man looked at his umbrella, smiled blandly, and still with the + same lack of emotion, inquired: + </p> + <p> + “Oho, then you are Monsieur”— + </p> + <p> + “Tartarin of Tarascon, lion-killer!” + </p> + <p> + In uttering these words the dauntless son of Tarascon shook the blue + tassel of his fez like a mane. + </p> + <p> + Through the vehicle was a spell of stupefaction. + </p> + <p> + The Trappist brother crossed himself, the dubious women uttered little + screams of affright, and the Orleansville photographer bent over towards + the lion-slayer, already cherishing the unequalled honour of taking his + likeness. + </p> + <p> + The little gentleman, though, was not awed. + </p> + <p> + “Do you mean to say that you have killed many lions, Monsieur Tartarin?” + he asked, very quietly. + </p> + <p> + The Tarasconian received his charge in the handsomest manner. + </p> + <p> + “Is it many have I killed, Monsieur? I wish you had only as many hairs on + your head as I have killed of them.” + </p> + <p> + All the coach laughed on observing three yellow bristles standing up on + the little gentleman’s skull. + </p> + <p> + In his turn, the Orleansville photographer struck in: + </p> + <p> + “Yours must be a terrible profession, Monsieur Tartarin. You must pass + some ugly moments sometimes. I have heard that poor Monsieur Bombonnel”—“Oh, + yes, the panther-killer,” said Tartarin, rather disdainfully. + </p> + <p> + “Do you happen to be acquainted with him?” inquired the insignificant + person. + </p> + <p> + “Eh! of course! Know him? Why, we have been out on the hunt over twenty + times together.” + </p> + <p> + The little gentleman smiled. + </p> + <p> + “So you also hunt panthers, Monsieur Tartarin?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “Sometimes, just for pastime,” said the fiery Tarasconian. “But,” he + added, as he tossed his head with a heroic movement that inflamed the + hearts of the two sweethearts of the regiment, “that’s not worth + lion-hunting.” + </p> + <p> + “When all’s said and done,” ventured the photographer, “a panther is + nothing but a big cat.” + </p> + <p> + “Right you are!” said Tartarin, not sorry to abate the celebrated + Bombonnel’s glory a little, particularly in the presence of ladies. + </p> + <p> + Here the coach stopped. The conductor came to open the door, and addressed + the insignificant little gentleman most respectfully, saying: + </p> + <p> + “We have arrived, Monsieur.” + </p> + <p> + The little gentleman got up, stepped out, and said, before the door was + closed again: + </p> + <p> + “Will you allow me to give you a bit of advice, Monsieur Tartarin?” + </p> + <p> + “What is it, Monsieur?” + </p> + <p> + “Faith! you wear the look of a good sort of fellow, so I would, rather + than not, let you have it. Get you back quickly to Tarascon, Monsieur + Tartarin, for you are wasting your time here. There do remain a few + panthers in the colony, but, out upon the big cats! they are too small + game for you. As for lion-hunting, that’s all over. There are none left in + Algeria, my friend Chassaing having lately knocked over the last.” + </p> + <p> + Upon which the little gentleman saluted, closed the door, and trotted away + chuckling, with his document-wallet and umbrella. + </p> + <p> + “Guard,” asked Tartarin, screwing up his face contemptuously, “who under + the sun is that poor little mannikin?” + </p> + <p> + “What! don’t you know him? Why, that there’s Monsieur Bombonnel!” + </p> + <p> + III. A Monastery of Lions. + </p> + <p> + AT Milianah, Tartarin of Tarascon alighted, leaving the stage-coach to + continue its way towards the South. + </p> + <p> + Two days’ rough jolting, two nights spent with eyes open to spy out of + window if there were not discoverable the dread figure of a lion in the + fields beyond the road—so much sleeplessness well deserved some + hours repose. Besides, if we must tell everything, since his misadventure + with Bombonnel, the outspoken Tartarin felt ill at ease, notwithstanding + his weapons, his terrifying visage, and his red cap, before the + Orleansville photographer and the two ladies fond of the military. + </p> + <p> + So he proceeded through the broad streets of Milianah, full of fine trees + and fountains; but whilst looking up a suitable hotel, the poor fellow + could not help musing over Bombonnel’s words. Suppose they were true! + Suppose there were no more lions in Algeria? What would be the good then + of so much running about and fatigue? + </p> + <p> + Suddenly, at the turn of a street, our hero found himself face to face + with—with what? Guess! “A donkey, of course!” A donkey? A splendid + lion this time, waiting before a coffee-house door, royally sitting up on + his hind-quarters, with his tawny mane gleaming in the sun. + </p> + <p> + “What possessed them to tell me that there were no more of them?” + exclaimed the Tarasconian, as he made a backward jump. + </p> + <p> + On hearing this outcry the lion lowered his head, and taking up in his + mouth a wooden bowl that was before him on the footway, humbly held it out + towards Tartarin, who was immovable with stupefaction. A passing Arab + tossed a copper into the bowl, and the lion wagged his tail. Thereupon + Tartarin understood it all. He saw what emotion had prevented him + previously perceiving: that the crowd was gathered around a poor tame + blind lion, and that two stalwart Negroes, armed with staves, were + marching him through the town as a Savoyard does a marmot. + </p> + <p> + The blood of Tarascon boiled over at once. + </p> + <p> + “Wretches that you are!” he roared in a voice of thunder, “thus to debase + such noble beasts!” + </p> + <p> + Springing to the lion, he wrenched the loathsome bowl from between his + royal jaws. The two Africans, believing they had a thief to contend with, + rushed upon the foreigner with uplifted cudgels. There was a dreadful + conflict: the blackamoors smiting, the women screaming, and the youngsters + laughing. An old Jew cobbler bleated out of the hollow of his stall, “Dake + him to the shustish of the beace!” The lion himself; in his dark state, + tried to roar as his hapless champion, after a desperate struggle, rolled + on the ground among the spilt pence and the sweepings. + </p> + <p> + At this juncture a man cleft the throng, made the Negroes stand back with + a word, and the women and urchins with a wave of the hand, lifted up + Tartarin, brushed him down, shook him into shape, and sat him breathless + upon a corner-post. + </p> + <p> + “What, prince, is it you?” said the good Tartarin, rubbing his ribs. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, indeed, it is I, my valiant friend. As soon as your letter was + received, I entrusted Baya to her brother, hired a post-chaise, flew fifty + leagues as fast as a horse could go, and here I am, just in time to snatch + you from the brutality of these ruffians. What have you done, in the name + of just Heaven, to bring this ugly trouble upon you?” + </p> + <p> + “What done, prince? It was too much for me to see this unfortunate lion + with a begging-bowl in his mouth, humiliated, conquered, buffeted about, + set up as a laughing-stock to all this Moslem rabble”— + </p> + <p> + “But you are wrong, my noble friend. On the contrary, this lion is an + object of respect and adoration. This is a sacred beast who belongs to a + great monastery of lions, founded three hundred years ago by Mahomet Ben + Aouda, a kind of fierce and forbidding La Trappe, full of roarings and + wild-beastly odours, where strange monks rear and feed lions by hundreds, + and send them out all over Northern Africa, accompanied by begging + brothers. The alms they receive serve for the maintenance of the monastery + and its mosques; and the two Negroes showed so much displeasure just now + because it was their conviction that the lion under their charge would + forthwith devour them if a single penny of their collection were lost or + stolen through any fault of theirs.” + </p> + <p> + On hearing this incredible and yet veracious story Tartarin of Tarascon + was delighted, and sniffed the air noisily. “What pleases me in this,” he + remarked, as the summing up of his opinion, “is that, whether Monsieur + Bombonnel likes it or not, there are still lions in Algeria.”— + </p> + <p> + “I should think there were!” ejaculated the prince enthusiastically. “We + will start to-morrow beating up the Shelliff Plain, and you will see lions + enough!” + </p> + <p> + “What, prince! have you an intention to go a-hunting, too?” + </p> + <p> + “Of course! Do you think I am going to leave you to march by yourself into + the heart of Africa, in the midst of ferocious tribes of whose languages + and usages you are ignorant! No, no, illustrious Tartarin, I shall quit + you no more. Go where you will, I shall make one of the party.” + </p> + <p> + “O Prince! prince!” + </p> + <p> + The beaming Tartarin hugged the devoted Gregory to his breast at the proud + thought of his going to have a foreign prince to accompany him in his + hunting, after the example of Jules Gerard, Bombonnel, and other famous + lion-slayers. + </p> + <p> + IV. The Caravan on the March. + </p> + <p> + LEAVING Milianah at the earliest hour next morning, the intrepid Tartarin + and the no less intrepid Prince Gregory descended towards the Shelliff + Plain through a delightful gorge shaded with jessamine, carouba, tuyas, + and wild olive-trees, between hedges of little native gardens and + thousands of merry, lively rills which scampered down from rock to rock + with a singing splash—a bit of landscape meet for the Lebanon. + </p> + <p> + As much loaded with arms as the great Tartarin, Prince Gregory had, over + and above that, donned a queer but magnificent military cap, all covered + with gold lace and a trimming of oak-leaves in silver cord, which gave His + Highness the aspect of a Mexican general or a railway station-master on + the banks of the Danube. + </p> + <p> + This plague of a cap much puzzled the beholder; and as he timidly craved + some explanation, the prince gravely answered: + </p> + <p> + “It is a kind of headgear indispensable for travel in Algeria.” + </p> + <p> + Whilst brightening up the peak with a sweep of his sleeve, he instructed + his simple companion in the important part which the military cap plays in + the French connection with the Arabs, and the terror this article of army + insignia alone has the privilege of inspiring, so that the Civil Service + has been obliged to put all its employees in caps, from the extra-copyist + to the receiver-general. To govern Algeria (the prince is still speaking) + there is no need of a strong head, or even of any head at all. A military + cap does it alone, if showy and belaced, and shining at the top of a + non-human pole, like Gessler’s. + </p> + <p> + Thus chatting and philosophising, the caravan proceeded. The barefooted + porters leaped from rock to rock with ape-like screams. The guncases + clanked, and the guns themselves flashed. The natives who were passing, + salaamed to the ground before the magic cap. Up above, on the ramparts of + Milianah, the head of the Arab Department, who was out for an airing with + his wife, hearing these unusual noises, and seeing the weapons gleam + between the branches, fancied there was a revolt, and ordered the + drawbridge to be raised, the general alarm to be sounded, and the whole + town put under a state of siege. A capital commencement for the caravan! + </p> + <p> + Unfortunately, before the day ended, things went wrong. Of the black + luggage-bearers, one was doubled up with atrocious colics from having + eaten the diachylon out of the medicine-chest: another fell on the + roadside dead drunk with camphorated brandy; the third, carrier of the + travelling-album, deceived by the gilding on the clasps into the + persuasion that he was flying with the treasures of Mecca, ran off into + the Zaccar on his best legs. + </p> + <p> + This required consideration. The caravan halted, and held a council in the + broken shadow of an old fig-tree. + </p> + <p> + “It’s my advice that we turn up Negro porters from this evening forward,” + said the prince, trying without success to melt a cake of compressed meat + in an improved patent triple-bottomed sauce-pan. “There is, haply, an Arab + trader quite near here. The best thing to do is to stop there, and buy + some donkeys.” + </p> + <p> + “No, no; no donkeys,” quickly interrupted Tartarin, becoming quite red at + memory of Noiraud. “How can you expect,” he added, hypocrite that he was, + “that such little beasts could carry all our apparatus?” + </p> + <p> + The prince smiled. + </p> + <p> + “You are making a mistake, my illustrious friend. However weakly and + meagre the Algerian bourriquot may appear to you, he has solid loins. He + must have them so to support all that he does. Just ask the Arabs. Hark to + how they explain the French colonial organisation. ‘On the top,’ they say, + ‘is Mossoo, the Governor, with a heavy club to rap the staff; the staff, + for revenge, canes the soldier; the soldier clubs the settler, and he + hammers the Arab; the Arab smites the Negro, the Negro beats the Jew, and + he takes it out of the donkey. The poor bourriquot having nobody to + belabour, arches up his back and bears it all.’ You see clearly now that + he can bear your boxes.” + </p> + <p> + “All the same,” remonstrated Tartarin, “it strikes me that jackasses will + not chime in nicely with the effect of our caravan. I want something more + Oriental. For instance, if we could only get a camel”— + </p> + <p> + “As many as you like,” said His Highness; and off they started for the + Arab mart. + </p> + <p> + It was held a few miles away, on the banks of the Shelliff. There were + five or six thousand Arabs in tatters here, grovelling in the sunshine and + noisily trafficking, amid jars of black olives, pots of honey, bags of + spices; and great heaps of cigars; huge fires were roasting whole sheep, + basted with butter; in open air slaughter-houses stark naked Negroes, with + ruddy arms and their feet in gore, were cutting up kids hanging from + crosspoles, with small knives. + </p> + <p> + In one corner, under a tent patched with a thousand colours, a Moorish + clerk of the market in spectacles scrawled in a large book. Here was a + cluster of men shouting with rage: it was a spinning-jenny game, set on a + corn-measure, and Kabyles were ready to cut one another’s throats over it. + Yonder were laughs and contortions of delight: it was a Jew trader on a + mule drowning in the Shelliff. Then there were dogs, scorpions, ravens, + and flies—rather flies than anything else. + </p> + <p> + But a plentiful lack of camels abounded. They finally unearthed one, + though, of which the M’zabites were trying to get rid—the real ship + of the desert, the classical, standard camel, bald, woe-begone, with a + long Bedouin head, and its hump, become limp in consequence of unduly long + fasts, hanging melancholically on one side. + </p> + <p> + Tartarin considered it so handsome that he wanted the entire party to get + upon it. Still his Oriental craze! + </p> + <p> + The beast knelt down for them to strap on the boxes. + </p> + <p> + The prince enthroned himself on the animal’s neck. For the sake of the + greater majesty, Tartarin got them to hoist him on the top of the hump + between two boxes, where, proud, and cosily settled down, he saluted the + whole market with a lofty wave of the hand, and gave the signal of + departure. + </p> + <p> + Thunderation! if the people of Tarascon could only have seen him! + </p> + <p> + The camel rose, straightened up its long knotty legs, and stepped out. + </p> + <p> + Oh, stupor! At the end of a few strides Tartarin felt he was losing + colour, and the heroic chechia assumed one by one its former positions in + the days of sailing in the Zouave. This devil’s own camel pitched and + tossed like a frigate. + </p> + <p> + “Prince! prince!” gasped Tartarin pallid as a ghost, as he clung to the + dry tuft of the hump, “prince, let’s get down. I find—I feel that I + m-m-must get off; or I shall disgrace France.” + </p> + <p> + A deal of good that talk was—the camel was on the go, and nothing + could stop it. Behind it raced four thousand barefooted Arabs, waving + their hands and laughing like mad, so that they made six hundred thousand + white teeth glitter in the sun. + </p> + <p> + The great man of Tarascon had to resign himself to circumstances. He sadly + collapsed on the hump, where the fez took all the positions it fancied, + and France was disgraced. + </p> + <p> + V. The Night-watch in a Poison-tree Grove. + </p> + <p> + SWEETLY picturesque as was their new steed, our lion-hunters had to give + it up, purely out of consideration for the red cap, of course. So they + continued the journey on foot as before, the caravan tranquilly proceeding + southwardly by short stages, the Tarasconian in the van, the Montenegrin + in the rear, and the camel, with the weapons in their cases, in the ranks. + </p> + <p> + The expedition lasted nearly a month. + </p> + <p> + During that seeking for lions which he never found, the dreadful Tartarin + roamed from douar to douar on the immense plain of the Shelliff, through + the odd but formidable French Algeria, where the old Oriental perfumes are + complicated by a strong blend of absinthe and the barracks, Abraham and + “the Zouzou” mingled, something fairy-tale-like and simply burlesque, like + a page of the Old Testament related by Tommy Atkins. + </p> + <p> + A curious sight for those who have eyes that can see. + </p> + <p> + A wild and corrupted people whom we are civilising by teaching them our + vices. The ferocious and uncontrolled authority of grotesque bashaws, who + gravely use their grand cordons of the Legion of Honour as handkerchiefs, + and for a mere yea or nay order a man to be bastinadoed. It is the justice + of the conscienceless, bespectacled cadis under the palm-tree, Maw-worms + of the Koran and Law, who dream languidly of promotion and sell their + decrees, as Esau did his birthright, for a dish of lentils or sweetened + kouskous. Drunken and libertine cadis are they, formerly servants to some + General Yusuf or the like, who get intoxicated on champagne, along with + laundresses from Port Mahon, and fatten on roast mutton, whilst before + their tents the whole tribe waste away with hunger, and fight with the + harriers for the bones of the lordly feast. + </p> + <p> + All around spread the plains in waste, burnt grass, leafless shrubs, + thickets of cactus and mastic—“the Granary of France!”—a + granary void of grain, alas! and rich alone in vermin and jackals. + Abandoned camps, frightened tribes fleeing from them and famine, they know + not whither, and strewing the road with corpses. At long intervals French + villages, with the dwellings in ruins, the fields untilled, the maddened + locusts gnawing even the window-blinds, and all the settlers in the + drinking-places, absorbing absinthe and discussing projects of reform and + the Constitution. + </p> + <p> + This is what Tartarin might have seen had he given himself the trouble; + but, wrapped up entirely in his leonine-hunger, the son of Tarascon went + straight on, looking to neither right nor left, his eyes steadfastly fixed + on the imaginary monsters which never really appeared. + </p> + <p> + As the shelter-tent was stubborn in not unfolding, and the compressed + meat-cakes would not dissolve, the caravan was obliged to stop, morn and + eve, at tribal camps. Everywhere, thanks to the gorgeous cap of Prince + Gregory, our hunters were welcomed with open arms. They lodged in the + aghas’ odd palaces, large white windowless farmhouses, where they found, + pell-mell, narghilehs and mahogany furniture, Smyrna carpets and moderator + lamps, cedar coffers full of Turkish sequins, and French statuette-decked + clocks in the Louis Philippe style. + </p> + <p> + Everywhere, too, Tartarin was given splendrous galas, diffas, and + fantasias, which, being interpreted, mean feasts and circuses. In his + honour whole goums blazed away powder, and floated their burnouses in the + sun. When the powder was burnt, the agha would come and hand in his bill. + This is what is called Arab hospitality. + </p> + <p> + But always no lions, no more than on London Bridge. + </p> + <p> + Nevertheless, the Tarasconian did not grow disheartened. Ever bravely + diving more deeply into the South, he spent the days in beating up the + thickets, probing the dwarf-palms with the muzzle of his rifle, and saying + “Boh!” to every bush. And every evening, before lying down, he went into + ambush for two or three hours. Useless trouble, however, for the lion did + not show himself. + </p> + <p> + One evening, though, going on six o’clock, as the caravan scrambled + through a violet-hued mastic-grove, where fat quails tumbled about in the + grass, drowsy through the heat, Tartarin of Tarascon fancied he heard + though afar and very vague, and thinned down by the breeze—that + wondrous roaring to which he had so often listened by Mitaine’s Menagerie + at home. + </p> + <p> + At first the hero feared he was dreaming; but in an instant further the + roaring recommenced more distinct, although yet remote; and this time the + camel’s hump shivered in terror, and made the tinned meats and arms in the + cases rattle, whilst all the dogs in the camps were heard howling in every + corner of the horizon. + </p> + <p> + Beyond doubt this was the lion. + </p> + <p> + Quick, quick! to the ambush. There was not a minute to lose. + </p> + <p> + Near at hand there happened to be an old marabout’s, or saint’s, tomb, + with a white cupola, and the defunct’s large yellow slippers placed in a + niche over the door, and a mass of odd offerings—hems of blankets, + gold thread, red hair—hung on the wall. + </p> + <p> + Tartarin of Tarascon left his prince and his camel and went in search of a + good spot for lying in wait. Prince Gregory wanted to follow him, but the + Tarasconian refused, bent on confronting Leo alone. But still he besought + His Highness not to go too far away, and, as a measure of foresight, he + entrusted him with his pocket-book, a good-sized one, full of precious + papers and bank-notes, which he feared would get torn by the lion’s claws. + This done, our hero looked up a good place. + </p> + <p> + A hundred steps in front of the temple a little clump of rose-laurel shook + in the twilight haze on the edge of a rivulet all but dried up. There it + was that Tartarin went and ensconced himself, one knee on the ground, + according to the regular rule, his rifle in his hand, and his huge + hunting-knife stuck boldly before him in the sandy bank. + </p> + <p> + Night fell. + </p> + <p> + The rosy tint of nature changed into violet, and then into dark blue. A + pretty pool of clear water gleamed like a hand-glass over the + river-pebbles; this was the watering-place of the wild animals. + </p> + <p> + On the other slope the whitish trail was dimly to be discerned which their + heavy paws had traced in the brush—a mysterious path which made + one’s flesh creep. Join to this sensation that from the vague swarming + sound in African forests, the swishing of branches, the velvety-pads of + roving creatures, the jackal’s shrill yelp, and up in the sky, two or + three hundred feet aloft, vast flocks of cranes passing on with screams + like poor little children having their weasands slit. You will own that + there were grounds for a man being moved. + </p> + <p> + Tartarin was so, and even more than that, for the poor fellow’s teeth + chattered, and on the cross-bar of his hunting-knife, planted upright in + the bank, as we repeat, his rifle-barrel rattled like a pair of castanets. + Do not ask too much of a man! There are times when one is not in the mood; + and, moreover, where would be the merit if heroes were never afraid? + </p> + <p> + Well, yes, Tartarin was afraid, and all the time, too, for the matter of + that. Nevertheless, he held out for an hour; better, for two; but heroism + has its limits. Nigh him, in the dry part of the rivulet-bed, the + Tarasconian unexpectedly heard the sound of steps and of pebbles rolling. + This time terror lifted him off the ground. He banged away both barrels at + haphazard into the night, and retreated as fast as his legs would carry + him to the marabout’s chapel-vault, leaving his knife standing up in the + sand like a cross commemorative of the grandest panic that ever assailed + the soul of a conqueror of hydras. + </p> + <p> + “Help! this Way, prince; the lion is on me!” + </p> + <p> + There was silence. “Prince, prince, are you there?” + </p> + <p> + The prince was not there. On the white moonlit wall of the fane the camel + alone cast the queer-shaped shadow of his protuberance. Prince Gregory had + cut and run with the wallet of bank-notes. His Highness had been for the + month past awaiting this opportunity. + </p> + <p> + VI. Bagged him at Last. + </p> + <p> + IT was not until early on the morrow of this adventurous and dramatic eve + that our hero awoke, and acquired assurance doubly sure that the prince + and the treasure had really gone off, without any prospect of return. When + he saw himself alone in the little white tombhouse, betrayed, robbed, + abandoned in the heart of savage Algeria, with a one-humped camel and some + pocket-money as all his resources, then did the representative of Tarascon + for the first time doubt. He doubted Montenegro, friendship, glory, and + even lions; and the great man blubbered bitterly. + </p> + <p> + Whilst he was pensively seated on the sill of the sanctuary, holding his + head between his hands and his gun between his legs, with the camel + mooning at him, the thicket over the way was divided, and the + stupor-stricken Tartarin saw a gigantic lion appear not a dozen paces off. + It thrust out its high head and emitted powerful roars, which made the + temple walls shake beneath their votive decorations, and even the saint’s + slippers dance in their niche. + </p> + <p> + The Tarasconian alone did not tremble. + </p> + <p> + “At last you’ve come!” he shouted, jumping up and levelling the rifle. + </p> + <p> + Bang, bang! went a brace of shells into its head. + </p> + <p> + It was done. For a minute, on the fiery background of the African sky, + there was a dreadful firework display of scattered brains, smoking blood, + and tawny hair. When all fell, Tartarin perceived two colossal Negroes + furiously running towards him, brandishing cudgels. They were his two + Negro acquaintances of Milianah! + </p> + <p> + Oh, misery! + </p> + <p> + This was the domesticated lion, the poor blind beggar of the Mohammed + Monastery, whom the Tarasconian’s bullets had knocked over. + </p> + <p> + This time, spite of Mahound, Tartarin escaped neatly. Drunk with fanatical + fury, the two African collectors would have surely beaten him to pulp had + not the god of chase and war sent him a delivering angel in the shape of + the rural constable of the Orleansville commune. By a bypath this garde + champetre came up, his sword tucked under his arm. + </p> + <p> + The sight of the municipal cap suddenly calmed the Negroes’ choler. + Peaceful and majestic, the officer with the brass badge drew up a report + on the affair, ordered the camel to be loaded with what remained of the + king of beasts, and the plaintiffs as well as the delinquent to follow + him, proceeding to Orleansville, where all was deposited with the + law-courts receiver. + </p> + <p> + There issued a long and alarming case! + </p> + <p> + After the Algeria of the native tribes which he had overrun, Tartarin of + Tarascon became thence acquainted with another Algeria, not less weird and + to be dreaded—the Algeria in the towns, surcharged with lawyers and + their papers. He got to know the pettifogger who does business at the back + of a cafe—the legal Bohemian with documents reeking of wormwood + bitters and white neckcloths spotted with champoreau; the ushers, the + attorneys, all the locusts of stamped paper, meagre and famished, who eat + up the colonist body and boots—ay, to the very straps of them, and + leave him peeled to the core like an Indian cornstalk, stripped leaf by + leaf. + </p> + <p> + Before all else it was necessary to ascertain whether the lion had been + killed on the civil or the military territory. In the former case the + matter regarded the Tribunal of Commerce; in the second, Tartarin would be + dealt with by the Council of War: and at the mere name the impressionable + Tarasconian saw himself shot at the foot of the ramparts or huddled up in + a casemate-silo. + </p> + <p> + The puzzle lay in the limitation of the two territories being very hazy in + Algeria. + </p> + <p> + At length, after a month’s running about, entanglements, and waiting under + the sun in the yards of Arab Departmental offices, it was established + that, whereas the lion had been killed on the military territory, on the + other hand Tartarin was in the civil territory when he shot. So the case + was decided in the civil courts, and our hero was let off on paying two + thousand five hundred francs damages, costs not included. + </p> + <p> + How could he pay such a sum? + </p> + <p> + The few piashtres escaped from the prince’s sweep had long since gone in + legal documents and judicial libations. The unfortunate lion-destroyer was + therefore reduced to selling the store of guns by retail, rifle by rifle; + so went the daggers, the Malay kreeses, and the life-preservers. A grocer + purchased the preserved aliments; an apothecary what remained of the + medicaments. The big boots themselves walked off after the improved tent + to a dealer of curiosities, who elevated them to the dignity of “rarities + from Cochin-China.” + </p> + <p> + When everything was paid up, only the lion’s skin and the camel remained + to Tartarin. The hide he had carefully packed, to be sent to Tarascon to + the address of brave Commandant Bravida, and, later on, we shall see what + came of this fabulous trophy. As for the camel, he reckoned on making use + of him to get back to Algiers, not by riding on him, but by selling him to + pay his coach-fare—the best way to employ a camel in travelling. + Unhappily the beast was difficult to place, and no one would offer a + copper for him. + </p> + <p> + Still Tartarin wanted to regain Algiers by hook or crook. He was in haste + again to behold Baya’s blue bodice, his little snuggery and his fountains, + as well as to repose on the white trefoils of his little cloister whilst + awaiting money from France. So our hero did not hesitate; distressed but + not downcast, he undertook to make the journey afoot and penniless by + short stages. + </p> + <p> + In this enterprise the camel did not cast him off. The strange animal had + taken an unaccountable fancy for his master, and on seeing him leave + Orleansville, he set to striding steadfastly behind him, regulating his + pace by this, and never quitting him by a yard. + </p> + <p> + At the first outset Tartarin found this touching; such fidelity and + devotion above proof went to his heart, all the more because the creature + was accommodating, and fed himself on nothing. Nevertheless, after a few + days, the Tarasconian was worried by having this glum companion + perpetually at his heels, to remind him of his misadventures. Ire arising, + he hated him for his sad aspect, hump and gait of a goose in harness. To + tell the whole truth, he held him as his Old Man of the Sea, and only + pondered on how to shake him off; but the follower would not be shaken + off. Tartarin attempted to lose him, but the camel always found him; he + tried to outrun him, but the camel ran faster. He bade him begone, and + hurled stones at him. The camel stopped with a mournful mien, but in a + minute resumed the pursuit, and always ended by overtaking him. Tartarin + had to resign himself. + </p> + <p> + For all that, when, after eight full days of tramping, the dusty and + harassed Tarasconian espied the first white housetops of Algiers glimmer + from afar in the verdure, and when he got to the city gates on the noisy + Mustapha Avenue, amid the Zouaves, Biskris, and Mahonnais, all swarming + around him and staring at him trudging by with his camel, overtasked + patience escaped him. + </p> + <p> + “No! no!” he growled, “it is not likely! I cannot enter Algiers with such + an animal!” + </p> + <p> + Profiting by a jam of vehicles, he turned off into the fields and jumped + into a ditch. In a minute or so he saw over his head on the highway the + camel flying off with long strides and stretching his neck with a wistful + air. + </p> + <p> + Relieved of a great weight thereby, the hero sneaked out of his covert, + and entered the town anew by a circuitous path which skirted the wall of + his own little garden. + </p> + <p> + VII. Catastrophes upon Catastrophes. + </p> + <p> + ENTIRELY astonished was Tartarin before his Moorish dwelling when he + stopped. + </p> + <p> + Day was dying and the street deserted. Through the low pointed-arch + doorway which the negress had forgotten to close, laughter was heard; and + the clink of wine-glasses, the popping of champagne corks; and, floating + over all the jolly uproar, a feminine voice singing clearly and joyously: + </p> + <p> + “Do you like, Marco la Bella, to dance in the hall hung with bloom?” + </p> + <p> + “Throne of heaven!” ejaculated the Tarasconian, turning pale, as he rushed + into the enclosure. + </p> + <p> + Hapless Tartarin! what a sight awaited him! Beneath the arches of the + little cloister, amongst bottles, pastry, scattered cushions, pipes, + tambourines, and guitars, Baya was singing “Marco la Bella” with a ship + captain’s cap over one ear. She had on no blue vest or bodice; indeed, her + only wear was a silvery gauze wrapper and full pink trousers. At her feet, + on a rug, surfeited with love and sweetmeats, Barbassou, the infamous + skipper Barbassou, was bursting with laughter at hearing her. + </p> + <p> + The apparition of Tartarin, haggard, thinned, dusty, his flaming eyes, and + the bristling up fez tassel, sharply interrupted this tender + Turkish-Marseillais orgie. Baya piped the low whine of a frightened + leveret, and ran for safety into the house. But Barbassou did not wince; + he only laughed the louder, saying: + </p> + <p> + “Ha, ha, Monsieur Tartarin! What do you say to that now? You see she does + know French.” + </p> + <p> + Tartarin of Tarascon advanced furiously, crying: + </p> + <p> + “Captain!” + </p> + <p> + “Digo-li que vengue, moun bon!—Tell him what’s happened, old dear!” + screamed the Moorish woman, leaning over the first floor gallery with a + pretty low-bred gesture! + </p> + <p> + The poor man, overwhelmed, let himself collapse upon a drum. His genuine + Moorish beauty not only knew French, but the French of Marseilles! + </p> + <p> + “I told you not to trust the Algerian girls,” observed Captain Barbassou + sententiously! “They’re as tricky as your Montenegrin prince.” + </p> + <p> + Tartarin lifted his head + </p> + <p> + “Do you know where the prince is?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, he’s not far off. He has gone to live five years in the handsome + prison of Mustapha. The rogue let himself be caught with his hand in the + pocket. Anyways, this is not the first time he has been clapped into the + calaboose. His Highness has already done three years somewhere, and—stop + a bit! I believe it was at Tarascon.” + </p> + <p> + “At Tarascon!” cried out her worthiest son, abruptly enlightened. “That’s + how he only knew one part of the Town.” + </p> + <p> + “Hey? Of course. Tarascon—a jail bird’s-eye view from the state + prison. I tell you, my poor Monsieur Tartarin, you have to keep your + peepers jolly well skinned in this deuce of a country, or be exposed to + very disagreeable things. For a sample, there’s the muezzin’s game with + you.” + </p> + <p> + “What game? Which muezzin?” + </p> + <p> + “Why your’n, of course! The chap across the way who is making up to Baya. + That newspaper, the Akbar, told the yarn t’other day, and all Algiers is + laughing over it even now. It is so funny for that steeplejack up aloft in + his crow’s-nest to make declarations of love under your very nose to the + little beauty whilst singing out his prayers, and making appointments with + her between bits of the Koran.” + </p> + <p> + “Why, then, they’re all scamps in this country!” howled the unlucky + Tarasconian. + </p> + <p> + Barbassou snapped his fingers like a philosopher. + </p> + <p> + “My dear lad, you know, these new countries are ‘rum!’ But, anyhow, if + you’ll believe me, you’d best cut back to Tarascon at full speed.” + </p> + <p> + “It’s easy to say, ‘Cut back.’ Where’s the money to come from? Don’t you + know that I was plucked out there in the desert?” + </p> + <p> + “What does that matter?” said the captain merrily. “The Zouave sails + tomorrow, and if you like I will take you home. Does that suit you, mate? + Ay? Then all goes well. You have only one thing to do. There are some + bottles of fizz left, and half the pie. Sit you down and pitch in without + any grudge.” + </p> + <p> + After the minute’s wavering which self-respect commanded, the Tarasconian + chose his course manfully. Down he sat, and they touched glasses. Baya, + gliding down at that chink, sang the finale of “Marco la Bella,” and the + jollification was prolonged deep into the night. + </p> + <p> + About 3 A.M., with a light head but a heavy foot, our good Tarasconian was + returning from seeing his friend the captain off when, in passing the + mosque, the remembrance of his muezzin and his practical jokes made him + laugh, and instantly a capital idea of revenge flitted through his brain. + </p> + <p> + The door was open. He entered, threaded long corridors hung with mats, + mounted and kept on mounting till he finally found himself in a little + oratory, where an openwork iron lantern swung from the ceiling, and + embroidered an odd pattern in shadows upon the blanched walls. + </p> + <p> + There sat the crier on a divan, in his large turban and white pelisse, + with his Mostaganam pipe, and a bumper of absinthe before him, which he + whipped up in the orthodox manner, whilst awaiting the hour to call true + believers to prayer. At view of Tartarin, he dropped his pipe in terror. + </p> + <p> + “Not a word, knave!” said the Tarasconian, full of his project. “Quick! + Off with turban and coat!” + </p> + <p> + The Turkish priest-crier tremblingly handed over his outer garments, as he + would have done with anything else. Tartarin donned them, and gravely + stepped out upon the minaret platform. + </p> + <p> + In the distance the sea shone. The white roofs glittered in the moonbeams. + On the sea breeze was heard the strumming of a few belated guitars. The + Tarasconian muezzin gathered himself up for the effort during a space, and + then, raising his arms, he set to chanting in a very shrill voice: + </p> + <p> + “La Allah il Allah! Mahomet is an old humbug! The Orient, the Koran, + bashaws, lions, Moorish beauties—they are all not worth a fly’s + skip! There is nothing left but gammoners. Long live Tarascon!” + </p> + <p> + Whilst the illustrious Tartarin, in his queer jumbling of Arabic and + Provencal, flung his mirthful maledictions to the four quarters, sea, + town, plain and mountain, the clear, solemn voices of the other muezzins + answered him, taking up the strain from minaret to minaret, and the + believers of the upper town devoutly beat their bosoms. + </p> + <p> + VIII. Tarascon again! + </p> + <p> + MID-DAY has come. + </p> + <p> + The Zouave had her steam up, ready to go. Upon the balcony of the Valentin + Cafe, high above, the officers were levelling telescopes, and, with the + colonel at their head, looking at the lucky little craft that was going + back to France. This is the main distraction of the staff. On the lower + level, the roads glittered. The old Turkish cannon breaches, stuck up + along the waterside, blazed in the sun. The passengers hurried, Biskris + and Mahonnais piled their luggage up in the wherries. + </p> + <p> + Tartarin of Tarascon had no luggage. Here he comes down the Rue de la + Marine through the little market, full of bananas and melons, accompanied + by his friend Barbassou. The hapless Tarasconian left on the Moorish + strand his gun-cases and his illusions, and now he had to sail for + Tarascon with his hands in his otherwise empty pockets. He had barely + leaped into the captain’s cutter before a breathless beast slid down from + the heights of the square and galloped towards him. It was the faithful + camel, who had been hunting after his master in Algiers during the last + four-and-twenty hours. + </p> + <p> + On seeing him, Tartarin changed countenance, and feigned not to know him, + but the camel was not going to be put off. He scampered along the quay; he + whinnied for his friend, and regarded him with affection. + </p> + <p> + “Take me away,” his sad eyes seemed to say, “take me away in your ship, + far, far from this sham Arabia, this ridiculous Land of the East, full of + locomotives and stage coaches, where a camel is so sorely out of keeping + that I do not know what will become of me. You are the last real Turk, and + I am the last camel. Do not let us part, O my Tartarin!” + </p> + <p> + “Is that camel yours?” the captain inquired. + </p> + <p> + “Not a bit of it!” replied Tartarin, who shuddered at the idea of entering + Tarascon with that ridiculous escort; and, impudently denying the + companion of his misfortunes, he spurned the Algerian soil with his foot, + and gave the cutter the shoving-off start. The camel sniffed of the water, + extended its neck, cracked its joints, and, jumping in behind the row-boat + at haphazard, he swam towards the Zouave with his humpback floating like a + bladder, and his long neck projecting over the wave like the beak of a + galley. + </p> + <p> + Cutter and camel came alongside the mail steamer together. + </p> + <p> + “This dromedary regularly cuts me up,” observed Captain Barbassou, quite + affected. “I have a good mind to take him aboard and make a present of him + to the Zoological Gardens at Marseilles.” + </p> + <p> + And so they hauled up the camel with many blocks and tackles upon the + deck, being increased in weight by the brine, and the Zouave started. + </p> + <p> + Tartarin spent the two days of the crossing by himself in his stateroom, + not because the sea was rough, or that the red fez had too much to suffer, + but because the deuced camel, as soon as his master appeared above decks, + showed him the most preposterous attentions. You never did see a camel + make such an exhibition of a man as this. + </p> + <p> + From hour to hour, through the cabin portholes, where he stuck out his + nose now and then, Tartarin saw the Algerian blue sky pale away; until one + morning, in a silvery fog, he heard with delight Marseilles bells ringing + out. The Zouave had arrived and cast anchor. + </p> + <p> + Our man, having no luggage, got off without saying anything, hastily + slipped through Marseilles for fear he was still pursued by the camel, and + never breathed till he was in a third-class carriage making for Tarascon. + </p> + <p> + Deceptive security! + </p> + <p> + Hardly were they two leagues from the city before every head was stuck out + of window. There were outcries and astonishment. Tartarin looked in his + turn, and what did he descry! the camel, reader, the inevitable camel, + racing along the line behind the train, and keeping up with it! The + dismayed Tartarin drew back and shut his eyes. + </p> + <p> + After this disastrous expedition of his he had reckoned on slipping into + his house incognito. But the presence of this burdensome quadruped + rendered the thing impossible. What kind of a triumphal entry would he + make? Good heavens! not a sou, not a lion, nothing to show for it save a + camel! + </p> + <p> + “Tarascon! Tarascon!” + </p> + <p> + He was obliged to get down. + </p> + <p> + O amazement! + </p> + <p> + Scarce had the hero’s red fez popped out of the doorway before a loud + shout of “Tartarin for ever!” made the glazed roof of the railway station + tremble. “Long life to Tartarin, the lion-slayer!” And out burst the + windings of horns and the choruses of the local musical societies. + </p> + <p> + Tartarin felt death had come: he believed in a hoax. But, no! all Tarascon + was there, waving their hats, all of the same way of thinking. Behold the + brave Commandant Bravida, Costecalde the armourer, the Chief Judge, the + chemist, and the whole noble corps of cap-poppers, who pressed around + their leader, and carried him in triumph out through the passages. + </p> + <p> + Singular effects of the mirage!—the hide of the blind lion sent to + Bravida was the cause of all this riot. With that humble fur exhibited in + the club-room, the Tarasconians, and, at the back of them, the whole South + of France, had grown exalted. The Semaphore newspaper had spoken of it. A + drama had been invented. It was not merely a solitary lion which Tartarin + had slain, but ten, nay, twenty—pooh! a herd of lions had been made + marmalade of. Hence, on disembarking at Marseilles, Tartarin was already + celebrated without being aware of it, and an enthusiastic telegram had + gone on before him by two hours to his native place. + </p> + <p> + But what capped the climax of the popular gladness was to see a fancifully + shaped animal, covered with foam and dust, appear behind the hero, and + stumble down the station stairs. + </p> + <p> + Tarascon for an instant believed that its dragon was come again. + </p> + <p> + Tartarin set his fellow-citizens at ease. + </p> + <p> + “This is my camel,” he said. + </p> + <p> + Already feeling the influence of the splendid sun of Tarascon, which makes + people tell “bouncers” unwittingly, he added, as he fondled the camel’s + hump: + </p> + <p> + “It is a noble beast! It saw me kill all my lions!” + </p> + <p> + Whereupon he familiarly took the arm of the commandant, who was red with + pleasure; and followed by his camel, surrounded by the cap-hunters, + acclaimed by all the population, he placidly proceeded towards the Baobab + Villa; and, on the march, thus commenced the account of his mighty + hunting: + </p> + <p> + “Once upon an evening, you are to imagine that, out in the depths of the + Sahara”— + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_APPE" id="link2H_APPE"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + APPENDIX + </h2> + <h3> + Obituary of Alphonse Daudet. + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 17th December 1897 + DEATH OF A FRENCH NOVELIST. + ALPHONSE DAUDET. +</pre> + <p> + M. Alphonse Daudet, the eminent French novelist and playwright, died + suddenly yesterday evening while at dinner The cause of death was syncope + due to failure of the heart. + </p> + <p> + Alphonse Daudet was born of poor parents at Nimes in 1840. He studied in + the Lyons Lyceum, and then became usher in a school at Alais. Going to + Paris to seek his fortune in literature in 1858, he succeeded in + publishing a book of verses entitled Les Amoreuses, which led to his + employment by several newspapers. He published many novels and tales, and + about half a dozen plays. His most popular work is “Les Morticoles.” His + son, Leon Daudet, is a litterateur of promise. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Tartarin of Tarascon, by Alphonse Daudet + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TARTARIN OF TARASCON *** + +***** This file should be named 1862-h.htm or 1862-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/1/8/6/1862/ + +Produced by Donal O’Danachair, and David Widger + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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