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+The Project Gutenberg EBook of Tartarin de 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 de Tarascon
+
+Author: Alphonse Daudet
+
+Translator: Oliver C. Colt
+
+Release Date: March 21, 2006 [EBook #2375]
+Last Updated: October 1, 2016
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: UTF-8
+
+*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TARTARIN DE TARASCON ***
+
+
+
+
+Produced by Oliver C. Colt and David Widger
+
+
+
+
+
+TARTARIN DE TARASCON
+
+By A. Daudet.
+
+
+Translated by Oliver C. Colt.
+
+
+
+
+
+Introduction.
+
+The tale of Tartarin de Tarascon was written by Alphonse Daudet in 1872,
+and was one of the many works which he produced. In it he pokes gentle
+fun at a type of Frenchman who comes from the Midi, the area where he
+himself was born. Tartarin has characteristics which may remind the
+English-speaking reader of Toad of Toad Hall, a boastful braggart,
+easily deceived, but good-hearted au fond.
+
+The world he inhabits is, of course, very different from ours. There is
+no radio or television, the motor car is no more than a plaything for
+the rich. There is only the beginnings of a telephone system. Much sea
+transport is still by sailing ship and the idea of mass air travel is in
+the realm of science-fiction. France lost the Franco-Prussian war at the
+battle of Sedan in 1870, which accounts for the flood of refugees from
+Alsasce. She had also, in the 19th century rush to carve up the African
+continent, seized among other places, Algeria, which she held in
+subjection by force of arms. So-called Big Game Hunters were regarded
+with some admiration, and indeed it was a much more perilous activity
+than it is today, when high power repeating rifles with telescopic
+sights make motor-borne “Sportsmen” little more than butchers.
+
+Daudet’s humour is on the whole inoffensive, but anti-semitism was rife
+in certain circles in France. It was the era of the Dreyfus scandal, and
+he indulges in one or two tasteless gibes at the expense of the Jews,
+which I have suppressed or at least amended. He also has a passage which
+might well offend the delicate susceptabilities of the less tolerant
+believers in Islam, although to anyone with a nodding acquaintance with
+the tents of that faith, the incident is so far-fetched as to neutralise
+“The willing suspension of disbelief” I have therefore decided to
+eliminate it from this version of the story. It is not very amusing and
+is no great loss.
+
+Although Daudet’s humour is in the main kindly, he does not spare the
+French colonial administration of the time. His treatment of the subject
+is acidly satirical. It may be said that Daudet seems to know little
+about firearms, less about lions and nothing about camels, but he is not
+striving for verisimilitude. After all, the adventures of James Bond do
+not mirror the reality of international espionage, nor do the exploits
+of Bertie Wooster and Jeeves truely reflect life in the upper echelons
+of British society.
+
+This is not a schoolroom exercise in translation. It might be more
+accurately described as a version in English. I have not tampered with
+the story line nor made any changes in the events related, but where
+I thought it necessary I have not shrunk from altering the words and
+phrases used in the original to describe them. All translation must be
+a matter of paraphrase. What sounds well in one language may sound
+ridiculous if translated literally into another, and it is for the
+translator to judge how far this process of paraphrase may be carried.
+
+I have attempted to produce a text which will entertain the average
+reader. Those who want to know exactly what Daudet wrote must consult
+the French original.
+
+
+
+
+TARTARIN DE TARASCON
+
+
+
+Chapter 1.
+
+
+Although it is now some twelve or fifteen years since my first meeting
+with Tartarin de Tarascon, the memory of the encounter remains as fresh
+as if it had been yesterday.
+
+At that time Tartarin lived near the entrance to the town, in the third
+house on the left on the Avignon road, a pretty little Tarascon villa,
+with a garden in front, a balcony behind, very white walls and green
+shutters.
+
+From outside the place looked perfectly ordinary, one would never have
+believed that it was the home of a hero, but when one went inside,
+well... My goodness! The whole establishment had an heroic air, even the
+garden!
+
+Ah...! The Garden... there was not another like it in Europe. Not one
+indigenous tree grew there, not one French flower; nothing but exotic
+plants, gum trees, calabashes, cotton trees, coconut palms, mangos,
+bananas, cactuses, figs and a baobab. One might have thought oneself in
+the middle of Africa, thousands of miles from Tarascon. Of course none
+of these trees was fully grown, the coconut palm was about the size of
+a swede and the baobab (arbos gigantica) fitted comfortably into a
+pot full of earth and gravel. No matter.... For Tarascon it was quite
+splendid, and those citizens who were admitted, on Sundays, to have the
+privilege of inspecting Tartarin’s baobab went home full of admiration.
+
+You may imagine my emotions as I walked through this remarkable
+garden... they were nothing, however, to what I felt on being admitted to
+the sanctum of the great man himself.
+
+This building, one of the curiosities of the town, was at the end of the
+garden, to which it opened through a glass door. Picture a large room
+hung from floor to ceiling with firearms and swords; weapons from every
+country in the world. Guns, carbines, rifles, blunderbusses,
+knives, spears, revolvers, daggers, arrows, assegais, knobkerries,
+knuckledusters and I know not what.
+
+The brilliant sunlight glittered on the steel blades of sabres and the
+polished butts of firearms. It was really quite a menacing scene... what
+was a little reassuring was the good order and discipline which ruled
+over this arsenal. Everything was neat tidy and dusted. Here and there a
+simple notice, reading “Poison arrows, Do not touch.” or “Beware. Loaded
+firearms.” made one feel it safe to approach.
+
+In the middle of the room was a table. On the table was a flagon of
+rum, a turkish tobacco pouch, The voyages of Captain Cook, stories
+of adventure, treatises on falconry, descriptions of big-game hunts
+etc... and finally seated at the table was the man himself. Forty
+to forty-five years of age, short, fat, stocky and ruddy, clad in
+shirt-sleeves and flannel trousers, with a close-clipped wiry beard
+and a flamboyant eye. In one hand he held a book and with the other he
+brandished an enormous pipe, its bowl covered by a metal cap; and as
+he read some stirring tale of the pursuit of hairy creatures, he made,
+pushing out his lower lip, a fierce grimace which gave his features,
+those of a comfortable Tarascon “Rentier”, the same air of hearty
+ferocity which was evident throughout the whole house. This man was
+Tartarin... Tartarin de Tarascon... the intrepid, great and incomparable
+Tartarin de Tarascon.
+
+At that time Tartarin was not the Tartarin which he is today, the great
+Tartarin de Tarascon who is so popular throughout the Midi of France,
+however, even at this epoch, he was already the king of Tarascon.
+
+Let us examine how he acquired his crown. You will be aware, for a
+start, that everyone in these parts is a hunter. From the highest to the
+lowest hunting is a passion with the Tarasconais and has been ever since
+the legendary Tarasque prowled in the marshes near the town and was
+hunted down by the citizens.
+
+Now, every Sunday morning, the men of Tarascon take up arms and leave
+town, bag on back and gun on shoulder, with an excited collection of
+dogs, with ferrets, with trumpets and hunting horns, it is a splendid
+spectacle.... Sadly, however, there is a shortage of game... in fact
+there is a total absence of game....  Animals may be dumb but they are
+not stupid, so for miles around Tarascon the burrows are empty and the
+nests abandoned. There is not a quail, not a blackbird, not the smallest
+rabbit nor even the tiniest wheatear.
+
+These pretty little Tarascon hills, scented with lavender, myrtle and
+rosemary are very tempting, and those fine muscat grapes, swollen
+with sugar, which line the banks of the Rhone, are wonderfully
+appetising... yes, but there is Tarascon in he distance, and in the world
+of fur and feather Tarascon is bad news. The birds of passage seem to
+have marked it with a cross on their maps, and when the long wedges of
+wild duck, heading for the Camargue, see far off the town’s steeples,
+the whole flight veers away. In short there is nothing left by way of
+game in this part of the country but an old rascal of a hare, who has
+escaped by some miracle the guns of Tarascon and appears determined to
+stay there. This hare is well known. He has been given a name. He
+is called “Speedy”. He is known to live on land belonging to
+M. Bompard... which, by the way, has doubled or even tripled its value.
+No one has yet been able to catch him, and at the present time there
+are not more than two or three fanatics who go after him. The rest have
+given up and Speedy has become something of a protected species, though
+the Tarasconais are not very conservation minded and would make a stew
+of the rarest of creatures, if they managed to shoot one.
+
+Now, you may say, “Since game is in such short supply, what do these
+Tarasconais sportsmen do every Sunday?” What do they do? Eh! Mon Dieu!
+They go out into the country, several miles from the town. They assemble
+in little groups of five or six. They settle down comfortably in
+some shady spot. They take out of their game-bags a nice piece of
+boeuf-en-daube, some raw onions, a sausage and some anchovies and they
+begin a very long luncheon, washed down by one of these jolly Rhone
+wines, which encourage singing and laughter.
+
+When all have had enough, they whistle for the dogs, load their guns and
+commence the shoot. That is to say each of these gentlemen takes off his
+hat, sends it spinning through the air with all his strength and takes
+a pot-shot at it. The one who hits his hat most frequently is proclaimed
+king of the hunt and returns to Tarascon that evening in triumph, his
+perforated hat hanging from the end of his gun and to the accompaniment
+of much barking and blowing of trumpets.
+
+One need hardly tell you that there is a brisk trade in hats in the
+town, and there are even hatters who sell hats already full of holes and
+tears for use by the less skillful, but scarcely anyone is known to buy
+them except Bezuquet the chemist.
+
+As a hat shooter Tartarin had no equal. Every Sunday morning he left
+with a new hat. Every evening he returned with a rag. In the little
+house of the baobab, the attic was full of these glorious trophies.
+All of Tarascon recognised him as their master in this respect. The
+gentlemen elected him as their chief justice in matters relating to
+the chase and arbitrator in any dispute, so that every day, between the
+hours of three and four in the afternoon, at Costecalde the gunsmith’s
+one could see the plump figure of a man, seated gravely on a green
+leather arm-chair, in the middle of the shop, which was full of hat
+hunters standing about and arguing. It was Tartarin delivering justice.
+Nimrod doubling as Soloman.
+
+
+
+
+Chapter 2.
+
+In addition to their passion for hunting the good people of Tarascon
+had another passion, which was for drawing-room ballads. The number of
+ballads which were sung in this part of the world passed all belief. All
+the old sentimental songs, yellowing in ancient cardboard boxes, could
+be found in Tarascon alive and flourishing. Each family had its own
+ballad and in the town this was well understood. One knew, for example,
+that for Bezuquet the chemist it was:-“Thou pale star whom I adore.”
+
+For the gunsmith Costecalde:-“Come with me to the forest glade.”
+
+For the Town Clark:--“If I was invisible, no one would see me.” (a comic
+song) Two or three times a week people would gather in one house or
+another and sing, and the remarkable thing is that the songs were always
+the same. No matter for how long they had been singing them, the people
+of Tarascon had no desire to change them. They were handed down in
+families from father to son and nobody dared to interfere with them,
+they were sacrosanct. They were never even borrowed. It would never
+occur to the Bezuquets to sing the Costecaldes’ song or to the
+Costecaldes to sing that of the Bezuquets. You might suppose that
+having known them for some forty years they might sometimes sing them to
+themselves, but no, everyone stuck to his own.
+
+In the matter of ballads, as in that of hats, Tartarin played a leading
+role. His superiority over his fellow citizens arose from the fact that
+he did not have a song of his own, and so he could take part in all of
+them, only it was extremely difficult to get him to sing at all.
+
+Returning early from some drawing-room success, our hero preferred to
+immerse himself in his books on hunting or spend the evening at the
+club rather than join in a sing-song round a Nimes piano, between two
+Tarascon candles. He felt that musical evenings were a little beneath
+him.
+
+Sometimes, however, when there was music at Bezuquet the chemists,
+he would drop in as if by chance, and after much persuasion he would
+consent to take part in the great duet from “Robert le Diable” with
+madame Bezuquet the elder.
+
+Anyone who has not heard this has heard nothing. For my part, if I live
+to be a hundred, I shall always recall the great Tartarin approaching
+the piano with solemn steps, leaning his elbow upon it, making his
+grimace and in the greenish light reflected from the chemist’s jars,
+trying to give his homely face the savage and satanic expression of
+Robert le Diable.
+
+As soon as he had taken up his position, a quiver of expectation ran
+through the gathering. One felt that something great was about to
+happen.
+
+After a moment of silence, madame Bezuquet the elder, accompanying
+herself on the piano, began:
+
+“Robert, thou whom I adore
+
+And in whom I trust,
+
+You see my fear (twice)
+
+Have mercy on yourself
+
+And mercy on me.”
+
+She added, sotto voce, “Its you now Tartarin.”
+
+Then Tartarin, with arm extended, clenched fist and quivering nostrils,
+said three times in a formidable voice which rolled like a clap of
+thunder in the entrails of the piano “Non! Non! Non!” Which as a good
+southerner he pronounced “Nan. Nan. Nan” Upon which madame Bezuquet
+repeated “Mercy on yourself and on me” “Nan! Nan! Nan!” Bellowed
+Tartarin even more loudly... and the matter ended there.... It was not
+very long, but it was so well presented, so well acted, so diabolic that
+a frisson ran round the pharmacy and he was made to repeat his “Nan.
+Nan. Nan.” four or five times.
+
+Afterwards Tartarin wiped his forehead, smiled at the ladies, winked at
+the men and went off triumphantly to the club, where, with a casual air,
+he would say, “I’ve just come from the Bezuquets. They had me singing in
+the duet from Robert le Diable.” What is more he believed it.
+
+
+
+
+Chapter 3.
+
+It was to the possession of these various talents that Tartarin owed his
+high standing in the town. There were, however, other ways in which he
+had made his mark on society.
+
+In Tarascon the army supported Tartarin. The gallant Commandant Bravida
+(Quartermaster. Ret) said of him “He’s a stout fellow,” and one may
+suppose that having kitted out so many stout fellows in his time, he
+knew what he was talking about.
+
+The magistrature supported Tartarin. Two or three times, on a full
+bench, the aged president Ladevèze had said of him “He’s quite a
+character”.
+
+Finally, the people supported Tartarin, his stolid appearance, the
+heroic reputation he had somehow acquired, the distribution of small
+sums of money and a few clips round the ear to the youngsters who hung
+around his doorstep, had made him lord of the neighbourhood and king
+of the Tarascon market-place. On the quay, on sunday evenings, when
+Tartarin returned from the hunt, his hat dangling from the end of his
+gun, the stevedores would nod to him respectfully and eying the arms
+bulging the sleeves of his tightly buttoned jacket, would murmur to one
+another, “He’s strong he is. He’s got double muscles.” The possession of
+double muscles is something you hear about only in Tarascon.
+
+However, in spite of his numerous talents, double muscles, popular
+favour and the so precious esteem of the gallant Commandant Bravida
+(Quartermaster. Ret) Tartarin was not happy. This small-town life
+weighed him down, stifled him. The great man of Tarascon was bored
+with Tarascon. The fact is that for an heroic nature such as his, for a
+daring and adventurous spirit which dreamt of battles, explorations, big
+game hunting, desert sands, hurricanes and typhoons, to go every Sunday
+hat shooting and for the rest of the time dispense justice at Costecalde
+the gunsmith’s was... well... hardly satisfying. It was enough indeed to
+send one into a decline.
+
+In vain, in order to widen his horizon and forget for a while the club
+and the market square, did he surround himself with African plants; in
+vain did he pile up a collection of weapons; in vain did he pore over
+tales of daring-do trying to escape by the power of his imagination from
+the pitiless grip of reality. Alas all that he did to satisfy his lust
+for adventure seemed only to increase it. The sight of his weapons kept
+him in a perpetual state of furious agitation. His rifles, his arrows
+and his spears rang out war-cries. In the branches of the baobab the
+wind whispered enticingly of great voyages.
+
+How often on these heavy summer afternoons, when he was alone, reading
+amongst his weaponry, did Tartarin jump to his feet and throwing down
+his book rush to the wall to arm himself, then, quite forgetting that
+he was in his own house at Tarascon, cry, brandishing a gun or a spear,
+“Let them all come”!!... Them?... What them? Tartarin did not quite know
+himself, “Them” was everything that attacked, that bit, that clawed.
+“Them” was the Indian brave dancing round the stake to which his
+wretched prisoner was tied. It was the grizzly bear, shuffling and
+swaying, licking bloodstained lips. The Toureg of the desert, the Malay
+pirate, the Corsican bandit. In a word it was “Them!”
+
+Alas it was fruitless for the fearless Tartarin to challenge them... they
+never appeared; but though it seemed unlikely that they would come
+to Tarascon, Tartarin was always ready for them, particularly in the
+evenings when he went to the club.
+
+
+
+
+Chapter 4.
+
+The knight of the temple preparing for a sortie against the Saracen. The
+Chinese warrior equipping himself for battle. The Comanchee brave taking
+to the warpath were as nothing compared to Tartarin de Tarascon arming
+himself to go to the club at nine o’clock on a dark evening, an hour
+after the bugle had blown the retreat. He was cleared for action as the
+sailors say.
+
+On his left hand he had a metal knuckleduster. In his right he carried
+a sword-stick. In his left pocket there was a cosh and in his right a
+revolver. Stuck into his waistband was a knife. Before setting out, in
+the privacy of his den, he carried out a few exercises. He made a pass
+at the wall with his sword-stick, drew his revolver, flexed his
+muscles and then taking his identity papers he crossed the
+garden... steadily... unhurriedly... à l’Anglais. That is the mark of true
+courage.
+
+At the end of the garden he opened the heavy iron gate. He opened it
+brusquely, violently, so that it banged against the wall. If “They” had
+been behind it, it would have made a fine mess of them. Unfortunately
+they were not behind it.
+
+Having opened the gate Tartarin went out, cast a quick look right and
+left, closed the gate swiftly and double locked it. Then he set off.
+
+On the Avignon road there was not so much as a cat. Doors were shut and
+curtains drawn across windows. Here and there a street light blinked in
+the mist rising from the Rhône.
+
+Superb and calm Tartarin de Tarascon strode through the night, his heels
+striking the road with measured tread and the metal tip of his cane
+raising sparks from the paving-stones. On boulevards, roads or lanes he
+was always careful to walk in the middle of the causeway, an excellent
+precaution which allows one to see approaching danger and moreover to
+avoid things which at night, in the streets of Tarascon, sometimes fall
+from windows. Seeing this prudence you should not entertain the notion
+that Tartarin was afraid. No! He was just being cautious.
+
+The clearest evidence that Tartarin was unafraid is that he went to the
+club not by the short way but by the longest and darkest way, through
+a tangle of mean little streets, at the end of which one glimpsed the
+sinister gleam of the Rhone. He almost hoped that at a bend in one of
+these alleys “They” would come rushing from the shadows to attack him
+from behind. They would have had a hot reception I can promise you;
+but sadly Tartarin was never fated to encounter any danger... not even a
+dog... not even a drunk... Nothing.
+
+Sometimes however there was an alarm. The sound of footsteps... Muffled
+voices. Tartarin comes to a halt, peering into the shadows, sniffing
+the air, straining his ears. The steps draw nearer, the voices more
+distinct... there can be no doubt... VThey” are here. With heaving
+breast and eyes ablaze Tartarin is gathering himself like a jaguar and
+preparing to leap on his foes, when suddenly out of the gloom a good
+Tarasconais voice calls “Look! There’s Tartarin! Hulloa there Tartarin!”
+ Malediction! It is Bezuquet the chemist and his family who have been
+singing their ballad at the Costecaldes. “Bon soir, bon soir” growls
+Tartarin, furious at his mistake, and shouldering his cane he disappears
+angrily into the night.
+
+Arrived at the club the fearless Tarasconais waits a little longer,
+walking up and down in front of the door before entering. In the
+end, tired of waiting for “them” and certain that they will not show
+themselves, he throws a last look of defiance into the dark and mutters
+crossly “Nothing... nothing... always nothing” With that our hero goes in
+to play bezique with the Commandant.
+
+
+
+
+Chapter 5.
+
+With this lust for adventure, this need for excitement, this longing for
+journeys to Lord knows where, how on earth, you may ask, does it happen
+that Tartarin had never left Tarascon? For it is a fact that up to the
+age of forty-five the bold Tarasconais had never slept away from his
+home town. He had never even made the ritual journey to Marseille which
+every good Provencal makes when he comes of age. He might, of course,
+have visited Beaucaire, albeit Beaucaire is not very far from Tarascon,
+as one has only to cross the bridge over the Rhône. Regrettably,
+however, this wretched bridge is so often swept by high winds, is so
+long and so flimsy and the river at that point is so wide that... Ma
+foi... you will understand...!
+
+At this point I think one has to admit that there were two sides to our
+hero’s character. On the one hand was the spirit of Don Quixote, devoted
+to chivalry, to heroic ideals, to grandiose romantic folly, but lacking
+the body of the celebrated hidalgo, that thin, bony apology of a body,
+careless of material wants, capable of going for twenty nights without
+unbuckling its breastplate and surviving for twenty-four hours on a
+handful of rice. Tartarin, on the other hand, had a good solid body,
+fat, heavy, sybaritic, soft and complaining, full of bourgeois appetites
+and domestic necessities, the short-legged, full-bellied body of Sancho
+Panza.
+
+Don Quixote and Sancho Panza in the same man! You may imagine the
+arguments, the quarrels, the fights. Carried away by some lurid tale
+of adventure, Tartarin-Quixote would clamour to be off to the fields of
+glory, to set sail for distant lands, but then Tartarin-Sancho ringing
+for the maid servant, would say “Jeanette, my chocolate.” Upon which
+Jeanette would return with a fine cup of chocolate, hot, silky and
+scented, and some succulent grilled snacks, flavoured with anise;
+greatly pleasing Tartarin-Sancho and silencing the cries of
+Tartarin-Quixote.
+
+That is how it happens that Tartarin de Tarascon had never left
+Tarascon.
+
+
+
+
+Chapter 6.
+
+There was one occasion when Tartarin nearly went on a long
+journey. The three brothers Garcio-Camus, Tarasconais who were in
+business in Shanghai, offered him the management of one of their
+establishments. Now this was the sort of life he needed. Important
+transactions. An office full of clerks to control. Relations with
+Russia, Persia, Turkey. In short, Big Business, which in Tartarin’s eyes
+was of enormous proportions.
+
+The establishment had another advantage in that it was sometimes
+attacked by bandits. On these occasions the gates were slammed shut, the
+staff armed themselves, the consular flag was hoisted and “Pan! Pan!”
+ They fired through the windows at the bandits.
+
+I need hardly tell you with what enthusiasm Tartarin-Quixote greeted
+this proposal; unfortunately Tartarin-Sancho did not see the matter in
+the same light, and as his views prevailed the affair came to nothing.
+
+At the time there was a great deal of talk in the town. Was he going or
+not going? It was a matter for eager discussion.
+
+Although in the end Tartarin did not go, the event brought him a great
+deal of credit. To have nearly gone to Shanghai and actually to have
+gone there was for Tarascon much the same thing. As a result of so much
+talk about Tartarin’s journey, people ended by believing that he had
+just returned, and in the evenings at the club the members would ask him
+for a description of the life in Shanghai, the customs, the climate, and
+big business.
+
+Tartarin, who had gathered much information from the brothers was happy
+to reply to their questions, and before long he was not entirely sure
+himself whether he had been to Shanghai or not; so much so that when
+describing for the hundredth time the raid by bandits he got to the
+point of saying “Then I dished out arms to my staff. Hoisted the
+consular flag and we fired ‘Pan! Pan!’ Through the windows at the
+bandits.” On hearing this the members would exchange suitably solemn
+looks.
+
+Tartarin then, you will say, is just a frightful liar. No!.... A
+thousand times no! How is that? you may say, he must know vey well that
+he has not been to Shanghai... to be sure he knows... only.... Perhaps the
+time has come when we should settle the question of the reputation for
+lying which has been given to the people of the Midi.
+
+There are no liars in the Midi, neither at Marseille, nor Nimes, nor
+Toulouse, nor Tarascon. The man of the Midi does not lie, he deceives
+himself. He does not always speak the truth but he believes he speaks
+it. His untruth, for him, is not a lie, it is a sort of mirage. To
+understand better you must visit the Midi yourself. You will see a
+countryside where the sun transfigures everything and makes it larger
+than life-size. The little hills of Provence, no bigger than the Butte
+Montmartre will seem to you gigantic. The Maison Carrée at Nimes, a
+pretty little Roman temple, will seem to you as big as Notre Dame. You
+will see that the only liar in the Midi, if there is one, is the sun;
+everything that he touches he exaggerates. Can you be surprised that
+this sun shining down on Tarascon has been able to make a retired
+Captain Quartermaster into the gallant Commandant Bravida, to make a
+thing like a turnip into a baobab and a man who almost went to Shanghai
+into one who has really been there.
+
+
+
+
+Chapter 7.
+
+Now that we have shown Tartarin as he was in his private life, before
+fame had crowned his head with laurels. Now that we have recounted the
+story of his heroic existance in modest surroundings, the story of his
+joys and sorrows, his dreams and his hopes, let us hurry forward to the
+important pages of his history and to the event which lent wings to his
+destiny.
+
+It was one evening at Costecalde the gunsmith’s; Tartarin was explaining
+to some listeners the working of a pin-fire rifle, then something quite
+new, when suddenly the door was opened and a hat hunter rushed into
+the room in a great state shouting “A lion! a lion!” General amazement,
+fright, tumult and confusion. Tartarin grabbed a bayonet, Costecalde ran
+to close the door. The newcomer was surrounded and questioned nosily.
+What they learned was that the Menagerie Mitaine, returning from the
+fair at Beaucaire, had arranged to make a stop of several days at
+Tarascon, and had just set itself up in the Place du Château with a
+collection of snakes, seals, crocodiles, and a magnificent African
+lion.... An African lion at Tarascon!... such a thing had never been seen
+before, never in living memory.
+
+The brave band of hat hunters gazed proudly at one another. Their manly
+features glowed with pleasure and, in every corner of the shop, firm
+handshakes were silently exchanged. The emotion was so overwhelming, so
+unforseen that no one could find a word to say. Not even Tartarin. Pale
+and trembling, with the new rifle clutched in his hands, he stood in a
+trance at the shop counter. A lion!... an African lion!... nearby... a few
+paces away... A lion, the ferocious king of the beasts... the quarry of
+his dreams... one of the leading actors in that imaginary cast which
+played out such fine dramas in his fantasies. It was too much for
+Tartarin to bear. Suddenly the blood flooded to his cheeks. His eyes
+blazed, and with a convulsive gesture he slapped the rifle onto his
+shoulder, then turning to the brave Commandant Bravida (quartermaster.
+Ret) he said in a voice of thunder, “Come, Commandant, let us go and
+see this.” “Excuse me. Excuse me. My new rifle.” The prudent Costecalde
+hazarded timidly, but Tartarin was already in the street, and behind him
+all the hat hunters fell proudly into step.
+
+When they arrived at the menagerie it was already crowded. The brave
+people of Tarascon, too long deprived of sensational spectacles, had
+descended on the place and taken it by storm. The big madame Mitaine
+was in her element; dressed in an oriental costume, her arms bare to the
+elbows and with iron bracelets round her ankles, she had a whip in one
+hand and in the other a live chicken. She welcomed the Tarasconais to
+the show, and as she too had “Double muscles” she aroused almost as much
+interest as the animals in her charge.
+
+The arrival of Tartarin with the rifle on his shoulder produced
+something of a chill, all the bold Tarasconais who had been walking
+tranquilly before the cages, unarmed, trusting, with no notion of
+danger, became suddenly alarmed at the sight of the great Tartarin
+entering the place, carrying this lethal weapon. There must be something
+to fear if he, their hero.... In the blink of an eye the area in front of
+the cages was deserted, children were crying with fright and the ladies
+were eying the doorway. Bezuquet the chemist left hurridly, saying that
+he was going to fetch a gun.
+
+Little by little, however, the attitude of Tartarin restored their
+courage. Calm and erect, the intrepid Tarasconais strolled round the
+menagerie. He passed the seals without stopping. He cast a contemptuous
+eye on the container full of noise, where the boa was swallowing its
+chicken, and at last halted in front of the lion’s cage.... A dramatic
+confrontation.... The lion of Tarascon and the lion of the Atlas
+mountains face to face.
+
+On one side stood Tartarin, his legs planted firmly apart, his arms
+resting on his rifle, on the other was the lion, a gigantic lion,
+sprawling in the straw, blinking its eyes drowsily and resting its
+enormous yellow-haired muzzle on its front paws... they regarded one
+another calmly... then something odd happened. Perhaps it was the sight
+of the rifle, perhaps it recognised an enemy of its kind, but the lion
+which up until then had looked on the people of Tarascon with sovereign
+disdain, yawning in their faces, seemed to feel a stirring of anger.
+First it sniffed and uttered a rumbling growl, it stretched out its
+forefeet and unsheathed its claws, then it got up, raised its head,
+shook its mane, opened its huge maw and directed at Tartarin a most
+ear-splitting roar.
+
+This was greeted by a cry of terror. Tarascon, in panic, rushed for the
+doors. Everyone, men, women, children, the hat shooters and even the
+brave Commandant Bravida himself. Only Tartarin did not move... he
+remained firm and resolute before the cage, a light shining in his eyes,
+and wearing that grim expression which the town knew so well. After a
+few moments, the hat shooters, somewhat reassured by his attitude and
+the solidity of the cage bars, rejoined their chief, to hear him mutter
+“Now that is something worth hunting.” And that was all that he said.
+
+
+
+
+Chapter 8.
+
+Although at the memagerie he had said nothing more, he had already
+said too much. The following day all the talk of the town was of the
+impending departure of Tartarin for Africa, to shoot lions.
+
+You will bear witness that the good fellow had not breathed a word
+of this, but you know how it is... the mirage.... In short the whole of
+Tarascon could talk of nothing else.
+
+On the pavement, at the club, at Costecalde’s shop, people accosted one
+another with an air of excitement.
+
+“Et autrement, have you heard the latest, au moins?”
+
+“Et autrement, what now, is Tartarin going, au moins?” For in Tarascon
+every remark begins with “Et autrement” which is pronounced “autremain”
+ and ends with “au moins” which is pronounced “au mouain” and in these
+days the sound of “autremain” and “au mouain” was enough to rattle the
+windows.
+
+The most surprised person in the town to hear that he was leaving for
+Africa was Tartarin, but now see the effects of vanity. Instead of
+replying that he was not going and had never intended to go, poor
+Tartarin, on the first occasion that the subject was broached adopted a
+somewhat evasive air, “Hé!... Hé!... perhaps... I can’t say.” On the
+second occasion, now a little more accustomed to the idea, he replied
+“Probably” and on the third “Yes, definitely.”
+
+Eventually, one evening at the club, carried away by some glasses of
+egg-nog, the public interest and the plaudits, he declared formally that
+he was tired of shooting at hats and was going shortly in pursuit of the
+great lions of Africa.
+
+A loud cheer greeted this declaration, then came more egg-nog,
+handshakes, embraces and torchlight serenades until midnight before the
+little house of the baobab.
+
+Tartarin-Sancho, however, was far from pleased. The idea of travelling
+to Africa and hunting lions scared him stiff and when they went into the
+house, and while the serenade of honour was still going on outside, he
+made the most frightful scene with Tartarin-Quixote, calling him a crazy
+dreamer, a rash triple idiot and detailing one by one the catastrophes
+which would await him on such an expedition. Shipwreck, fever,
+dysentery, plague, elephantiasis and so on... it was useless for
+Tartarin-Quixote to swear that he would be careful, that he would dress
+warmly, that he would take with him everything that might be needed,
+Tartarin-Sancho refused to listen. The poor fellow saw himself already
+torn to pieces by lions or swallowed up in the sands of the desert, and
+the other Tartarin could pacify him only a little by pointing out that
+these were plans for the future, that there was no hurry, that they had
+not yet actually started.
+
+Obviously one cannot embark on such an expedition without some
+preparation. One cannot take off like a bird. As a first measure
+Tartarin set about reading the reports of the great African explorers,
+the journals of Livingstone, Burton, Caillé‚ and the like, there he saw
+that those intrepid travellers, before they put their boots on for these
+distant excursions, prepared themselves in advance to undergo hunger,
+thirst, long treks and privations of all sorts.
+
+Tartarin decided to follow their example and took to a diet of “Eau
+bouillie”. What is called eau bouillie in Tarascon consists of several
+slices of bread soaked in warm water, with a clove of garlic, a little
+thyme and a bay leaf. It is not very palatable and you may imagine how
+Tartarin-Sancho enjoyed it.
+
+Tartarin de Tarascon combined this with several other sensible methods
+of training. For instance, to habituate himself to long marches he would
+go round his morning constitutional seven or eight times, sometimes at a
+brisk walk, sometimes at the trot with two pebbles in his mouth. Then to
+accustom himself to nocturnal chills and the mists of dawn, he went into
+the garden and stayed there until ten or eleven at night, alone with his
+rifle, on watch behind the baobab.
+
+Finally, for as long as the menagerie remained in Tarascon, those hat
+hunters who had stayed late at Costecalde’s could see in the shadows, as
+they passed the Place du Château, a figure pacing up and down behind
+the cages... it was Tartarin training himself to listen unmoved to the
+roaring of lions in the African night.
+
+
+
+
+Chapter 9.
+
+While Tartarin was preparing himself by these strenuous methods, all
+Tarascon had its eyes on him. Nothing else was of interest. Hat shooting
+was abandoned, the ballads languished; in Bezuquet the chemist’s the
+piano was silent beneath a green dust cover, with cantharides flies
+drying, belly up, on the top... Tartarin’s expedition had brought
+everything to a halt.
+
+You should have seen the success of our hero in the drawing-rooms. He
+was seized, squabbled over, borrowed and stolen. There was no greater
+triumph for the ladies than to go, on the arm of Tartarin, to the
+menagerie Mitaine and to have him explain, in front of the lion’s cage,
+how one goes about hunting these great beasts, at what point one
+aims and at what distance, whether there are many accidents, and so
+on... through his reading Tartarin had gained almost as much knowledge
+about lion hunting as if he had actually engaged in it himself, and so
+he spoke of these matters with much authority.
+
+Where Tartarin really excelled, however, was after dinner at the home of
+president Ladevèze or the brave Commandant Bravida (quartermaster. Ret)
+when coffee had been served and the chairs pulled together, then with
+his elbow on the table, between sips of his coffee, our hero gave a
+moving description of all the dangers which awaited him “Over there”
+ He spoke of long moonless watches, of pestilential marshes, of rivers
+poisoned by the leaves of oleanders, of snows, scorching suns, scorpions
+and clouds of locusts; he also spoke of the habits of the great lions
+of the Atlas, their phenomenal strength, their ferocity in the mating
+season.... Then, carried away by his own words, he would rise from the
+table and bound into the middle of the room, imitating the roar of the
+lion, the noise of the rifle “Pan! Pan!” The whistle of the bullet.
+Gesticulating, shouting, knocking over chairs... while at the table faces
+are grave, the men looking at one another and nodding their heads, the
+ladies closing their eyes with little cries of alarm. A grandfather
+brandishes his walking-stick in a bellicose manner and, in the next
+room, the small children who have been put to bed earlier are startled
+out of their sleep by the banging and bellowing, and greatly frightened
+demand lights.
+
+Tartarin, however, showed no sign of leaving for Africa... did he really
+have any intention of going? That is a delicate question and one to
+which his biographer would find difficulty in replying. The fact is that
+the menagerie had now been gone for three months but the killer of lions
+had not budged... could it be that our innocent hero, blinded perhaps
+by a new mirage, honestly believed that he had been to Africa, and
+by talking so much about his hunting expedition believed that it had
+actually taken place. Unfortunately, if this was the case and Tartarin
+had once more fallen victim to the mirage, the people of Tarascon had
+not. When it was observed that after three months of waiting the hunter
+had not packed a single bag, people began to talk.
+
+“This will turn out to be another Shanghai.” Said Costecalde, smiling,
+and this remark spread round the town like wildfire, for people had lost
+their belief in Tartarin. The ignorant, the chicken-hearted, people like
+Bezuquet, whom a flea could put to flight, and who could not fire a gun
+without closing both eyes, these above all were pitiless. At the club,
+on the esplanade, they accosted poor Tartarin with little mocking
+remarks, “Et autremain, what about this trip then?” At Costecalde’s
+shop his opinion was no longer law. The hat hunters had deserted their
+leader.
+
+Then there were the epigrams. President Ladevèze who in his spare time
+dabbled in provencal poetry, composed a little song in dialect which
+was a great success. It concerned a certain hunter named master Gervaise
+whose redoubtable rifle was to exterminate every last lion in Africa.
+Sadly this rifle had a singular fault, although always loaded it never
+went off.... It never went off... you will understand the allusion. This
+song achieved instant popularity, and when Tartarin was passing, the
+stevedores on the quay and the grubby urchins hanging round his door
+would chant this insulting little ditty... only they sang it from a safe
+distance because of the double muscles.
+
+The great man himself pretended to see nothing, to hear nothing.
+Although at heart this underhand, venomous campaign hurt him deeply, in
+spite of his suffering, he continued to go about his life with a smile;
+but sometimes the mask of cheerful indifference which pride had pinned
+on his features slipped, then instead of laughter one saw indignation
+and grief. So it was one morning when some street urchins were chanting
+their jeers beneath the window of the room where our poor hero was
+trimming his beard. Suddenly the window was thrown open and Tartarin’s
+head appeared, his face covered in soapsuds, waving a razor and shaving
+brush and shouting “Sword-thrusts, gentlemen, sword-thrusts, not
+pin-pricks!” Fine words but wasted on a bunch of brats about two bricks
+tall.
+
+Amid the general defection, the army alone stood firmly by Tartarin,
+the brave Commandant Bravida continued to treat him with esteem. “He’s a
+stout fellow,” He persisted in saying, and this affirmation was worth
+a good deal more, I should imagine, than anything said by Bezuquet the
+chemist.
+
+The gallant Commandant had never uttered a word about the African
+journey, but at last, when the public clamour became too loud to ignore,
+he decided to speak.
+
+One evening, the unhappy Tartarin was alone in his study thinking sad
+thoughts, when the Commandant appeared, somberly dressed and gloved,
+with every button fastened “Tartarin!” said the former captain, with
+authority, “Tartarin, you must go!” and he stood, upright and rigid in
+the doorway, the very embodiment of duty.
+
+All that was implied in that “Tartarin you must go” Tartarin understood.
+Very pale, he rose to his feet and cast a tender look round his
+pleasant study, so snug, so warm, so well lit, and at the the large,
+so comfortable armchair, at his books, his carpet and at the big white
+blinds of his window, beyond which swayed the slender stems of the
+little garden. Then advancing to the the brave Commandant, he took his
+hand, shook it vigorously and in a voice close to tears said stoically,
+“I shall go, Bravida.” And he did go as he had said he would. Though not
+before he had gathered the necessary equipment.
+
+First, he ordered from Blompard two large cases lined with copper and
+with a large plaque inscribed TARTARIN DE TARASCON. FIREARMS. The
+lining and the engraving took a long time. He ordered from M. Tastevin
+a magnificent log-book in which to write his journal. Then he sent to
+Marseille for a whole cargo of preserved food, for pemmican tablets
+to make soup, for a bivouac tent of the latest design, which could be
+erected or struck in a few minutes, a pair of sea-boots, two umbrellas,
+a waterproof and a pair of dark glasses to protect his eyes. Finally,
+Bezuquet the chemist made up a medicine chest full of sticking plaster,
+pills and lotions. All these preparations were made in the hope that
+by these and other delicate attentions he could appease the fury of
+Tartarin-Sancho, which, since the departure had been decided, had raged
+unabated by day and by night.
+
+
+
+
+Chapter 10.
+
+At last the great day arrived. From first light the whole of Terascon
+was afoot, blocking the Avignon road and the approaches to the little
+house of the baobab. There were people at windows, on roofs, up trees.
+Bargees from the Rhône, stevedores, boot-blacks, clerks, weavers,
+the club members, in fact the whole town. Then there were people from
+Beaucaire who had come across the bridge, market-gardeners from
+the suburbs, carts with big hoods, vignerons mounted on fine mules
+ornamented with ribbons, tassels, bows and bells, and even here and
+there some pretty girls from Arles, with blue kerchiefs round their
+heads, riding on the crupper behind their sweethearts on the small
+iron-grey horses of the Camargue. All this crowd pushed and jostled
+before Tartarin’s gate, the gate of this fine M. Tartarin who was going
+to kill lions in the country of the “Teurs”. (In Tarascon: Africa,
+Greece, Turkey and Mesopotamia formed a vast, vague almost mythical
+country which was called the Teurs... that is the Turks). Throughout
+this mob the hat shooters came and went, proud of the triumph of their
+leader, and leaving in their wake, as it were, little trails of glory.
+
+In front of the house of the baobab there were two large handcarts. From
+time to time the gate was opened and one could see men walking busily
+about in the garden. They carried out trunks, cases and carpet-bags
+which they piled onto the carts. On the arrival of each new package the
+crowd stirred and a description of the article was shouted out. “That’s
+his tent! There’s the preserved foods! The medicine chest! The arms
+chest!” While the hat shooters gave a running commentary.
+
+Suddenly, at about ten o’clock, there was a great movement in the crowd.
+The garden gate swung back violently on its hinges.... “It’s him!....
+Its him!” they cried.
+
+It was indeed him. When he appeared on the threshold, two cries
+of amazement rose from the crowd:--“He’s a Teur!.... He’s wearing
+sun-glasses!”.... Tartarin, it is true, had believed that as he was going
+to Algeria he should adopt Algerian costume. Large baggy pantaloons of
+white cloth, a small tight jacket with metal buttons, a red sash wound
+round his stomach and on his head a gigantic “Chechia” (a red floppy
+bonnet) with an immensely long blue tassel dangling from its crown.
+Added to this, he carried two rifles, one on each shoulder, a hunting
+knife stuck into the sash round his middle, a cartridge-bag slung on
+one side and a revolver in a leather holster on the other. That was
+it. Ah!... forgive me... I forgot the sun-glasses, a huge pair of blue
+sun-glasses which were just the very thing to correct any suggestion of
+extravagance in his turnout.
+
+“Vive Tartarin!... Vive Tartarin!” Yelled the people. The great man
+smiled but did not wave, partly because of the rifles, which were giving
+him some trouble and partly because he had learned what little value one
+can place on popular favour. Perhaps even, in the depths of his soul, he
+cursed these terrible compatriots who were forcing him to leave, to quit
+his pretty little house with its green shutters and white walls, but if
+so he did not show it. Calm and proud, though a little pale, he marched
+down the pathway, inspected his handcarts and seeing that all was in
+order set off jauntily on the road to the station, without looking back
+even once at the house of the baobab.
+
+On his arrival at the station he was greeted by the station-master,
+a former soldier, who shook him warmly by the hand several times. The
+Paris-Marseille express had not yet arrived, so Tartarin and his general
+staff went into the waiting-room. To keep back the following crowd the
+station-master closed the barriers.
+
+For fifteen minutes Tartarin paced back and forward, surrounded by the
+hat shooters. He spoke to them of his coming expedition, promising to
+send them skins, and entering their orders in his note-book as if they
+were a list of groceries. As tranquil as was Socrates at the moment
+when he drank the hemlock, the bold Tartarin had a word for everyone.
+He spoke simply and affably, as if before departing he wished to leave
+behind a legacy of charm, happy memories and regrets. To hear their
+chief speak thus brought tears to the eyes of the hat shooters, and to
+some, such as the president Ladevèze and the chemist Bezuquet, even a
+twinge of remorse. Some of the station staff were dabbing their eyes in
+corners, while outside the crowd peered through the railings and shouted
+“Vive Tartarin!”
+
+Then a bell rang. There was a rumbling noise of wheels. A piercing
+whistle split the heavens... All aboard!... All aboard!... Goodbye
+Tartarin!... Goodbye Tartarin!. “Goodbye everyone” murmured the great
+man, and on the cheeks of the brave Commandant Bravida he planted a
+farewell salute to his beloved Tarascon. Then he hurried along the
+platform and got into a carriage full of Parisian ladies, who almost
+died of fright at the appearance of this strange man with his revolver
+and rifles.
+
+
+
+
+Chapter 11.
+
+On the first day of December 186-, in the clear bright winter sunshine
+of Provence, the startled inhabitants of Marseille witnessed the arrival
+of a Teur. Never had they seen one like this before, though God knows
+there is no shortage of Teurs in Marseille. The Teur, need I tell you,
+was none other than Tartarin de Tarascon, who was proceeding down the
+quay followed by his case of arms, his medicine chest and his preserved
+foods, in search of the embarkation point of the Compagnie Touache and
+the ferry-boat “Le Zouave” which was to carry him away.
+
+His ears still ringing with the cheers of Tarascon and bemused by the
+brightness of the sky and the smell of the sea, Tartarin marched along,
+his rifles slung on his shoulders, gazing around in wonder at this
+marvellous port of Marseille, which he was seeing for the first time and
+which quite dazzled him. He almost felt that he was dreaming and that
+like Sinbad he was wandering in one of the fabulous cities of the
+Thousand and one Nights.
+
+As far as the eye could see, there stretched a jumble of masts and
+yards, criss-crossing in all directions. The flags of a multitude of
+nations fluttering in the wind. The ships level with the quay, their
+bowsprits projecting over the edge like a row of bayonets, and below
+them the carved and painted wooden figureheads of nymphs, goddesses
+and saintly virgins from which the ships took their names. From time to
+time, between the hulls one could see a patch of sea, like a great sheet
+of cloth spattered with oil, while in the entanglement of yardarms a
+host of seagulls made pretty splashes of white against the blue sky.
+On the quay, amid the streams which trickled from the soapworks, thick,
+green, streaked with black, full of oil and soda, there was a whole
+population of customs officers, shipping agents, and stevedores with
+trollies drawn by little Corsican ponies. There were shops selling
+strange sweetmeats. Smoke enshrouded huts where seamen were cooking.
+There were merchants selling monkeys, parrots, rope, sailcloth and
+fantastic collections of bric-a-brac where, heaped up pell-mell, were
+old culverins, great gilded lanterns, old blocks and tackle, old rusting
+anchors, old rigging, old megaphones, old telescopes, dating from the
+time of Jean Bart.
+
+There were women selling shellfish, crouched bawling beside their wares,
+sailors passing, some with pots of tar, some with steaming pots of stew,
+others with baskets full of squid which they were taking to wash in the
+fresh water of the fountains. Everywhere prodigious heaps of merchandise
+of every kind. Silks, minerals, baulks of timber, ingots of lead,
+carobs, rape-seed, liquorice, sugar cane, great piles of dutch cheeses.
+East and west hugger-mugger.
+
+Here is the grain berth. Stevedores empty the sacks onto the quay from
+a scaffold, the grain pours down in a golden torrent raising a cloud of
+pale dust, and is loaded by men wearing red fezes into carts, which
+set off followed by a regiment of women and children with brushes and
+buckets for gleaning.
+
+There is the careening basin. The huge vessels lie over on one side and
+are flamed with fires of brushwood to rid them of seaweed, while their
+yardarms soak in the water. There is a smell of pitch and the deafening
+hammering of shipwrights lining the hulls with sheets of copper.
+
+Sometimes, between the masts, a gap opened and Tartarin could see the
+harbour mouth and the movement of ships. An English frigate leaving for
+Malta, spruce and scrubbed, with officers in yellow gloves, or a big
+Marseilles brig, casting off amid shouting and cursing, with, in the
+bows, a fat captain in an overcoat and a top hat, supervising the
+manoeuvre in broad provencal. There were ships outward bound, running
+before the wind with all sails set, there were others, far out at sea,
+beating their way in and seeming in the sunshine to be floating on air.
+
+Then, all the time the most fearsome racket. The rumbling of cart
+wheels, the cries of the sailors, oaths, songs, the sirens of
+steam-boats, the drums and bugles of Fort St. Jean and Fort St. Nicolas,
+the bells of nearby churches and, up above, the mistral, which took all
+of these sounds, rolled them together, shook them up and mingled
+them with its own voice to make mad, wild, heroic music, like a great
+fanfare, urging one to set sail for distant lands, to spread one’s wings
+and go. It was to the sound of this fine fanfare that Tartarin embarked
+for the country of lions.
+
+
+
+
+Chapter 12.
+
+I wish that I was a painter, a really good painter, so that I could
+present to you a picture of the different positions adopted by
+Tartarin’s chechia during the three days of the passage from France to
+Algeria.
+
+I would show it to you first at the departure, proud and stately as it
+was then, crowning that noble Tarascon head. I would show it next when,
+having left the harbour, the Zouave began to lift on the swell. I would
+show it fluttering and astonished, as if feeling the first premonitions
+of distress.
+
+Then, in the gulf of Lion, when the Zouave was further offshore and
+the sea a little rougher, I would present it at grips with the storm,
+clutching, bewildered, at the head of our hero, its long blue woollen
+tassel streaming in the spume and gusting wind.
+
+The fourth position. Six in the evening. Off the coast of Corsica. The
+wretched chechia is leaning over the rail and sadly contemplating the
+depths of the ocean.
+
+Fifth and last position. Down in a narrow cabin, in a little bed which
+has the appearance of a drawer in a commode, something formless and
+desolate rolls about, moaning, on the pillow. It is the chechia, the
+heroic chechia, now reduced to the vulgar status of a night-cap, and
+jammed down to the ears of a pallid and convulsing invalid.
+
+Ah! If the townsfolk of Tarascon could have seen the great Tartarin,
+lying in his commode drawer, in the pale, dismal light which filtered
+through the porthole, amongst the stale smell of cooking and wet wood,
+the depressing odour of the ferry boat. If they had heard him groan
+at every turn of the propeller, ask for tea every five minutes, and
+complain to the steward in the weak voice of a child, would they have
+regretted having forced him to leave? On my word, the poor Tuer deserved
+pity. Overcome by sea-sickness, he had not the will even to loosen
+his sash or rid himself of his weapons. The hunting knife with the big
+handle dug into his ribs. His revolver bruised his leg, and the final
+straw was the nagging of Tartarin-Sancho, who never ceased whining and
+carping:--“Imbecile! Va! I warned you didn’t I?.... But you had to go to
+Africa!.... Well now you’re on your way, how do you like it?”
+
+What was every bit as cruel was that, shut in his cabin, between his
+groans he could hear the other passengers in the saloon, laughing,
+eating, singing, playing cards. The society in the Zouave was as
+cheerful as it was diverse. There were some officers on their way to
+rejoin their units, a bevy of tarts from Marseille, a rich Mahommedan
+merchant, returning from Mecca, some strolling players, a Montenegran
+prince, a great joker this, who did impersonations.... Not one of these
+people was sea-sick and they spent the time drinking champagne with the
+captain of the Zouave, a fat “Bon viveur” from Marseille, who had an
+establishment there and another in Algiers, and who rejoiced in the name
+of Barbassou. Tartarin hated all these people. Their gaity redoubled his
+misery.
+
+At last, in the afternoon of the third day, there was some unusual
+activity on board the ship, which roused our hero from his torpor. The
+bell in the bows rang out... the heavy boots of the sailors could be
+heard running on the deck... “Engine ahead!... engine astern!.” Shouted
+the hoarse voice of Captain Barbassou. Then “Stop engine!”
+
+The engine stopped, there was a little tremor and then nothing. The
+ferry lay rocking gently from side to side, like a balloon in the air.
+This strange silence horrified Tartarin. “My God! We are sinking!” He
+cried in a voice of terror, and recovering his strength as if by magic,
+he rushed up onto the deck.
+
+
+
+
+Chapter 13.
+
+The Zouave was not sinking. She had just dropped her anchor in a fine
+anchorage of deep, dark water. Opposite, on the hillside, was Algiers,
+its little matt-white houses running down to the sea, huddled one
+against the other, like a pile of white washing laid out on a river
+bank. Up above a great sky of satin blue... but oh!... So blue!
+
+Tartarin, somewhat recovered from his fright, gazed at the landscape,
+while listening respectfully to the Montenegrin prince, who standing
+beside him, pointed out the different quarters of the town. The Casbah,
+the upper town, the Rue Bab-Azoum. Very well educated this prince of
+Montenegro. What is more he knew Algiers well and spoke Arabic. Tartarin
+had decided to cultivate his acquaintance when suddenly, along the rail
+on which they were leaning, he saw a row of big black hands grasping it
+from below. Almost immediately a curly black head appeared in front of
+him and before he could open his mouth the deck was invaded from all
+side by a swarm of pirates; black, yellow, half naked, hideous and
+terrible. Tartarin knew at once that it was “Them” The fearsome “Them”
+ who he had so often expected at night in the streets of Tarascon. Now
+they had arrived.
+
+At first surprise glued him to the spot, but when he saw the pirates
+hurl themselves on the baggage, tear off the tarpaulin covers and begin
+to pillage the ship, our hero came to life. Drawing his hunting knife
+and shouting “Aux armes!... Aux armes!” To his fellow passengers, he
+prepared to lead an assault on the raiders. “Ques aco?... What’s the
+matter with you?” Said Captain Barbassou as he came off the bridge.
+“Ah!... There you are Captain.... Quick! Quick! Arm your men!” “Hé!... Do
+what? Why for God’s sake?” “But don’t you see?” “See what?” “There,
+in front of you... the pirates!” Captain Barbassou regarded him with
+astonishment..... At that moment a huge monster of a black man ran past
+carrying the medicine chest. “Wretch! Wait till I catch you!” Yelled
+Tartarin, starting forward with his knife held aloft. Barbassou caught
+him and held him by his sash. “Calm down for Chrissake.” He said,
+“These are not pirates, there have been no pirates for ages, these are
+stevedores.” “Stevedores?” “Hé! Yes, stevedores who have come to collect
+the baggage and take it ashore. Put away your cutlass, give me your
+ticket and follow that negro, an excellent fellow, who will take you
+ashore and even to your hotel if you wish.”
+
+Somewhat confused Tartarin surrendered his ticket and following the
+negro he went down the gangplank into a large boat which was bobbing
+alongside the ferry. All his baggage was there, his trunks, cases of
+weapons and preserved food, as they took up all the room in the boat,
+there was no need to wait for other passengers. The negro climbed onto
+the baggage and squatted there with his arms wrapped round his knees.
+Another negro took the oars... the two of them regarded Tartarin, laughing
+and showing their white teeth.
+
+Standing in the stern, wearing his fiercest expression, Tartarin
+nervously fingered the handle of his hunting knife, for in spite of what
+Barbassou had told him, he was only half reassured about the intentions
+of these ebony-skinned stevedores, who looked so different from honest
+longshoremen of Tarascon.
+
+Three minutes later the boat reached land and Tartarin set foot on the
+little Barbary quay, where three hundred years earlier a galley-slave
+named Michael Cervantes, under the whip of an Algerian galley-master,
+had begun to plan the wonderful story of Don Quixote.
+
+
+
+
+Chapter 14.
+
+If by any chance the ghost of Micheal Cervantes was abroad on that bit
+of the Barbary coast, it must have been delighted at the arrival of this
+splendid specimen of a Frenchman from the Midi, in whom were combined
+the two heroes of his book, Don Quixote and Sancho Panza.
+
+It was a warm day. On the quay, bathed in sunshine, were five or
+six customs officers, some settlers awaiting news from France, some
+squatting Moors, smoking their long pipes, some Maltese fishermen,
+hauling in a large net, in the meshes of which thousands of sardines
+glittered like pieces of silver; but scarcely had Tartarin set
+foot there when the quay sprang into life and changed entirely its
+appearance.
+
+A band of savages, more hideous even than the pirates of the boat,
+seemed to rise from the very cobble-stones to hurl themselves on the
+newcomer. Huge Arabs, naked beneath their long woolen garments, little
+Moors dressed in rags, Negroes, Tunisians, hotel waiters in white
+aprons, pushing and shouting, plucking at his clothes, fighting over his
+luggage; one grabbing his preserves another his medicine chest and, in a
+screeching babel of noise, throwing at his head the improbable names
+of hotels.... Deafened by this tumult, Tartarin ran hither and
+thither,struggling, fuming, and cursing after his baggage, and not
+knowing how to communicate with these barbarians, harangued them in
+French, Provencal and even what he could remember of Latin. It was a
+wasted effort, no one was listening.... Happily, however, a little man
+dressed in a tunic with a yellow collar and armed with a long cane
+arrived on the scene and dispersed the rabble with blows from his stick.
+He was an Algerian policeman. Very politely he arranged for Tartarin to
+go to the Hotel de l’Europe, and confided him to the care of some locals
+who led him away with all his baggage loaded on several barrows.
+
+As he took his first steps in Algiers, Tartarin looked about him
+wide-eyed. He had imagined beforehand a fairylike Arabian city,
+something between Constantinople and Zanzibar... but here he was back
+in Tarascon. Some cafés some restaurants, wide streets, houses of four
+stories, a small tarmac square where a military band played Offenbach
+polkas, men seated on chairs, drinking beer and nibbling snacks, a few
+ladies, a sprinkling of tarts and soldiers, more soldiers, everywhere
+soldiers... and not a single “Teur” in sight except for him... so he found
+walking across the square a bit embarrassing. Everyone stared.... The
+military band stopped playing and the Offenbach polka came to a halt
+with one foot in the air.
+
+With his two rifles on his shoulders, his revolver by his side,
+unflinching and stately he passed through the throng, but on reaching
+the hotel his strength deserted him. The departure from Tarascon. The
+harbour at Marseille. The crossing. The Montenegrin prince. The pirates,
+all whirled in confusion round his brain. He had to be taken up to his
+room, disarmed and undressed... there was even talk of sending for a
+doctor, but hardly had his head touched the pillow than he began to
+snore so loudly and vigorously that the hotel manager decided that
+medical assistance was not required, and everyone discreetly withdrew.
+
+
+
+
+Chapter 15.
+
+The bell of the government clock was sounding three when Tartarin awoke.
+He had slept all evening, all night, all morning and even a good part of
+the afternoon. It has, of course, to be admitted that over the preceding
+three days the chechia had had a pretty rough time.
+
+His first thought on waking was “Here I am, in lion country!” and it
+must be confessed that this notion that he was surrounded by lions
+and was about to go in pursuit of them produced a marked chill, and he
+buried himself safely under the bedclothes.
+
+Soon, however, the gaiety of the scene outside, the sky so blue, the
+bright sunshine which flooded into his room through the large window
+which opened towards the sea, and a good meal which he had served in
+bed, washed down by a carafe of wine, quickly restored his courage. “To
+the lions! To the lions!” He cried, and throwing off the bed clothes he
+dressed himself hurriedly.
+
+His plan of action was this. Leave town and go well out into the desert.
+Wait until nightfall. Lie in hiding, and at the first lion that comes
+along... Pan! Pan!.... Return in the morning. Lunch at hotel. Receive the
+congratulations of the Algerians and hire a cart to go and collect the
+kill.
+
+He armed himself hastily, strapped onto his back the bivouac tent, the
+pole of which stuck up above his head, and then, held rigid by this
+contraption, he went down to the street. He turned sharply to the right
+and walked to the end of the shopping arcade of Bab-Azoum, where a
+series of Algerian store-keepers watched him pass, concealed in corners
+of their dark boutiques like spiders. He went through the Place du
+théatre, through the suburbs and eventually reached the dusty main road
+to Mustapha.
+
+Here was a fantastic confusion of traffic. There were coaches, cabs,
+curricles, military supply wagons, great carts of hay drawn by oxen,
+some squadrons of Chasseurs d’Afrique, troops of microscopic little
+donkeys, negresses selling galettes, loads of emigrants from Alsasce,
+some Spahis in red cloaks. All passing in a great cloud of dust, with
+cries, songs and trumpet calls, between two rows of miserable shacks,
+where could be seen prostitutes applying their make-up at their doors,
+tap-rooms full of soldiers and the stalls of butchers and slaughtermen.
+The tales I have been told about this place are quite untrue, thought
+Tartarin, there are fewer “Teurs” here than there are in Marseille.
+
+Suddenly he saw striding past him, long-legged and proud as a turkey
+cock, a magnificent camel. The sight quickened his pulse; where there
+were camels lions could not be far away, and indeed within five minutes
+he saw coming towards him with guns on their shoulders, a whole company
+of lion hunters with their dogs.
+
+A cowardly lot, thought Tartarin, as he came alongside them... hunting
+lions in a group and with dogs... for it had never occurred to him that
+In Algeria one could hunt anything but lions. However these hunters
+looked like comfortably retired businessmen, and Tartarin, curious about
+this way of hunting lions with dogs and game-bags, took it on himself to
+address one of them.
+
+“Et autrement, my friend, a good day?”
+
+“Not bad” Replied the other, looking with some surprise at the heavy
+armament of our Tarascon warrior.
+
+“You have killed some of them?”
+
+“Yes... a few... as you can see.” And the Algerian pointed to his
+game-bag, bulging with rabbits and woodcock.
+
+“How is that?... you put them in your game-bag?”
+
+“Where would you like me to put them?”
+
+“But then they... they must be very small!”
+
+“Some big, some small.” Said the hunter, and as he was in a hurry to
+catch up with his companions and go home, he made off at high speed.
+Tartarin stood, stupefied, in the middle of the road. Then after a
+moment of thought “Bah!” He said to himself, “These people are trying to
+have me on, they haven’t shot anything.” And he continued on his way.
+
+Already the houses were becoming more scattered, the passers-by less
+frequent. Night was falling. Objects becoming less distinct.... He
+marched on for another half an hour, and then he stopped. It was now
+completely dark, a moonless night spangled with stars. There was no one
+on the road, but in spite of that Tartarin reckoned that lions were
+not like coaches and would not stick to the highway. He set off across
+country. At every step there were ditches, thorns and bushes. No matter,
+he walked on until at last he reached a spot he thought suited to his
+purpose. A likely place for lions.
+
+
+
+
+Chapter 16.
+
+He was in a vast, wild desert, bristling with bizarre plants. African
+plants, which have the appearance of savage animals. In the faint light
+from the stars their shadows spread over the ground in all directions.
+On the right was the confused, looming mass of a mountain, the Atlas
+perhaps, to the left could be heard the dull surge of the invisible sea.
+An ideal spot to tempt wild animals!
+
+Placing one rifle on the ground before him and taking the other in his
+hands, Tartarin settled down and waited... he waited for an hour... two
+hours.... Then he remembered that in his books the famous lion hunters
+always used a kid as bait, which they tethered at some distance in front
+of them and made to bleat by pulling on a string attached to its leg.
+Lacking a kid, he had the idea of trying an imitation and began to bleat
+in a goat-like manner, “Mé!... Mé!....” At first very quietly, because, in
+the depths of his heart he was a little afraid that the lion might
+hear him... then seeing that nothing happened he bleated more loudly,
+“Mé!... Mé!... Mé!....” And then louder still, “MÉ!... MÉ!... MÉ!...”
+
+Suddenly, a few paces in front of him, something black and gigantic
+materialised. He shut up... the thing crouched, sniffed the ground,
+leapt up, turned and ran off at a gallop... then it came back and stopped
+short. It was a lion! There could be no doubt. Now one could see quite
+clearly the four short legs, the formidable forequarters and two
+huge eyes gleaming in the darkness.... Aim!... Fire!...
+Pan!... Pan!.... Tartarin backed away, drawing his hunting knife
+
+Following Tartarin’s shot there was a terrible outcry, “I’ve got him!”
+ Cried the good Tarasconais and prepared himself to receive a possible
+attack, but the creature had had enough and it fled at top speed,
+bellowing.... He, however, did not budge: he was waiting for the
+female... as happened in all his books. Unfortunately the female failed
+to turn up, and after two or three hours of waiting Tartarin became
+tired. The ground was damp, the night was growing cool, there was a nip
+in the breeze from the sea... “Perhaps I should have a nap while I wait
+for daylight” he said to himself, and to provide some shelter he had
+recourse to the bivouac tent. A difficulty now arose, the bivouac tent
+was of such an ingenious design that he was quite unable to erect it. He
+struggled and sweated for a long time, but there was no way in which he
+could get the thing up, so at last he threw it on the ground and lay on
+top of it, cursing it in Provencal.
+
+Ta!... Ta!... Ta!... Tarata! “Ques aco?” said Tartarin, waking up with a
+start. It was the trumpets of the Chasseurs d’Afrique sounding reveille
+in the barracks at Mustapha. The lion killer rubbed his eyes in
+amazement. He who had believed that he was in the middle of a
+desert... do you know where he was?... In a field full of artichokes,
+between a cauliflower and a swede... his Sahara was a vegetable patch.
+
+Nearby, on the pretty green coast of upper Mustapha, white Algerian
+villas gleamed in the dawn light, one might have been among the suburban
+houses in the outskirts of Marseille. The bourgeois appearance of the
+sleeping countryside greatly astonished Tartarin and put him in a bad
+humour. “These people are crazy”, he said to himself, “To plant their
+artichokes in an area infested by lions. For I was not dreaming, there
+are lions here and there is the proof”.
+
+The proof was a trail of blood which the fleeing beast had left behind
+it. Following this blood-spoor, with watchful eye and revolver in hand,
+the valiant Tarasconais went from artichoke to artichoke until he arrived
+at a small field of oats.... In a patch of flattened grain was a pool
+of blood and in the middle of the pool, lying on its side with a large
+wound to its head, was... what?... a lion?... No Parbleu!... A donkey!
+One of the tiny donkeys so common in Algeria, which there are called
+“Bourriquots”.
+
+
+
+
+Chapter 17.
+
+Tartarin’s first reaction at the sight of his unfortunate victim was
+one of annoyance. There is after all a considerable difference between
+a lion and a bourriquot. This was quickly replaced by a feeling of pity.
+The poor bourriqout was so pretty, so gentle, its warm flanks rising and
+falling as it breathed. Tartarin knelt down and with the end of his sash
+he tried to staunch the blood from its wound. The sight of this great
+man tending the little donkey was the most touching thing you could
+imagine. At the soothing contact of the sash, the bourriquot, which
+was already at death’s door, opened a big grey eye and twitched once
+or twice its long ears, as if to say “Thank you!... Thank you!”. Then a
+final tremor shook it from head to tail and it moved no more.
+
+“Noiraud!... Noiraud!” Came a sudden cry from a strident, anxious voice,
+and the branches of some nearby bushes were thrust aside. Tartarin had
+barely time to get up and put himself on guard. It was the female!...
+She arrived, roaring and terrible, in the guise of an elderly Alsation
+lady in a rabbit-skin coat, armed with a red umbrella and calling for
+her donkey in a voice which woke all the echoes of Mustapha. Certainly
+it might have been better for Tartarin to have had to deal with an angry
+lioness than this infuriated old lady. In vain he tried to explain what
+had happened... how he had mistaken Noiraud for a lion, she thought he
+was trying to make fun of her and, uttering loud cries of indignation,
+she set about our hero with blows from her umbrella. Tartarin, in
+confusion, defended himself as best he could, parrying the blows
+with his rifle, sweating, puffing, jumping about and crying “But
+Madame!... But Madame!”. To no avail. Madame was deaf to his pleas and
+redoubled her efforts.
+
+Happily a third party arrived on the field of battle. It was the husband
+of the Alsation lady, also an Alsation.... A tavern keeper and a shrewd
+man of business. When he saw with whom he was dealing and that the
+assassin was willing to pay for his crime, he disarmed his spouse and
+took her to one side. Tartarin gave two hundred francs. The donkey was
+worth at least ten, which is the going price for bourriquots in the Arab
+market. Then the poor Noiraud was buried beneath a fig tree, and the
+Alsation, put in a good humour at the sight of so much money, invited
+our hero to break a crust at his tavern, which was not far away at the
+edge of the main road. The Algerian hunters went there every Sunday
+for luncheon; for the countryside was full of game, and for two leagues
+about the city there was not a better place for rabbits. “And the
+lions?” Asked Tartarin. The Alsation looked at him with surprise... “The
+lions?” “Yes, the lions, do you see them sometimes?” Tartarin replied,
+with a little less assurance. The tavern-keeper burst out laughing,
+“Lions!... Lions!... What is all this about lions?” “Are there no lions
+in Algeria then?” “Moi foi! I have been here for twenty years and I have
+never seen any.... though I did once hear... I think there was a report
+in the newspaper... but it was long ago... somewhere in the south”....
+
+At that moment they reached the tavern, a wayside pot house, the sort of
+thing one can see by any main road. It had a very faded sign above the
+door, some billiard cues painted on the wall and the inoffensive name
+“Au rendezvous des lapins”.
+
+
+
+
+Chapter 18.
+
+This first adventure would have been enough to discourage many people,
+but seasoned characters such as Tartarin are not so easily disheartened.
+The lions are in the south, thought our hero, very well I shall go to
+the south.
+
+As soon as he had swallowed his last morsel, he got up, thanked his
+host, took leave of the old lady without any ill-feeling, shed a last
+tear over the unfortunate Noiraud and headed quickly for Algiers, with
+the firm intention of packing his trunks and departing that same day for
+the south.
+
+Sadly, the main Mustapha road seemed to have grown longer during the
+night. There was so much sunshine, so much dust, the bivouac tent was
+so heavy, that Tartarin could not face the walk back to the town and
+he hailed the first horse-drawn omnibus which came along and climbed
+in.... Poor Tartarin! How much better it would have been for his
+reputation if he had not entered that fateful vehicle, and had continued
+his journey on foot, even at the risk of collapsing from the heat and
+the weight of his two double-barreled rifles and the bivouac tent.
+
+With Tartarin aboard, the omnibus was now full. At the far end was an
+Algerian priest with a big black beard, his nose stuck in his breviary.
+Opposite was a young Moorish merchant, puffing at a large cigarette,
+then a Maltese seaman, and four or five Moorish women, with white linen
+masks, whose eyes alone were visible. These ladies had been on a visit
+to the cemetery of Abd-el-Kader, but this did not seem to have depressed
+them. Behind their masks they laughed and chattered among themselves and
+munched pastries.
+
+It seemed to Tartarin that they cast many glances in his direction, and
+one in particular, who was seated opposite him, fixed her gaze on him
+and did not remove it.
+
+Although the lady was veiled, the liveliness of her large dark eyes,
+emphasised by kohl, a delicate little wrist, encircled by gold
+bracelets, which one glimpsed from time to time amidst her draperies,
+the sound of her voice, the graceful movements of her head, all
+suggested that beneath her garments was someone young, pretty and
+loveable.
+
+The embarrassed Tartarin did not know which way to turn. The silent
+caress of these beautiful dark eyes set his heart aflutter. He blushed
+and paled by turns. Then to complete his downfall he felt on his
+massive boot the lady’s dainty slipper scurrying about like a little
+red mouse.... What was he to do?... Reply to these looks, this touch?...
+Yes... but an amorous intrigue in this part of the world can have
+terrible consequences. In his imagination Tartarin already saw himself
+seized by eunuchs, decapitated or even worse, sewn into a sack and
+tossed into the sea with his head beside him.
+
+This thought cooled his ardour a little, but the little slipper
+continued to tease and the he eyes opened very wide, like two black
+velvet flowers which seemed to say “Come and gather us!”
+
+The omnibus stopped. It had arrived at the Place du théatre, at the
+entrance to the Rue Bab Azoum. One by one, enveloped in their billowing
+garments and drawing their veils about them with savage grace, the Moors
+dismounted. Tartarin’s neighbour was the last to leave and as she rose
+to go her face was so close to that of our hero that their breaths
+mingled and he was aware of a bouquet of youth, jasmine, musk and
+pastries.
+
+He could no longer resist. Drunk with love and ready to face anything,
+he scrambled after the Moor... At the sound of his clumsy footsteps she
+turned and put her finger to her lips, as if to say “Hush” and with
+the other hand she tossed him a little scented garland made of jasmine
+flowers. Tartarin bent to pick it up, but as he was somewhat overweight
+and much encumbered by his weapons, the operation took a little
+time... When he rose, the garland pressed to his heart, the little Moor
+had disappeared.
+
+
+
+
+Chapter 19.
+
+Sleep, lions of the Atlas! Sleep tranquilly in your lairs amongst the
+aloes and the cactus! It wil be some time before Tartarin de Tarascon
+comes to slaughter you. At the moment his equipment, his arms, his
+medicine chest, the preserved food and the bivouac tent are piled
+up peacefully in a corner of room 36 in the Hotel de l’Europe. Sleep
+without fear, great tawny lions! The Tarasconais is searching for his
+Moor.
+
+Since the events in the omnibus, the unhappy man seems to feel
+constantly on his feet the scurrying of the little red mouse, and the
+sea breeze which wafts across his face seems somehow perfumed by an
+amorous odour of patisserie and anise. He must find his Dulcinea; but to
+find in a city of one hundred thousand inhabitants a person of whom one
+knows only the scent of their breath, the appearance of their slippers
+and the colour of their eyes is no light undertaking. Only a lovesick
+Tarasconais would attempt such a task. To make matters worse, it must be
+confessed that beneath their masks all Moorish ladies tend to look very
+much the same; and then they do not go out a great deal, and if one
+wants to see them one must go to the upper town, the Arab town, the town
+of the Teurs.
+
+A real cut-throat place that upper town. Little dark alley-ways, very
+narrow, climbing steeply between two rows of silent, mysterious houses
+whose roofs touch to make a tunnel. Low doorways and small windows,
+opaque and barred, and then, to right and left, little shops within
+whose deep shade fierce “Teurs” with piratical faces, glittering eyes
+and gleaming teeth, smoke their hookahs and converse in low tones, as
+if planning some wicked deed.... To say that Tartarin walked through this
+fearsome township unmoved would be to lie. He was on the contrary moved
+a good deal, and in those obscure alleys where his large stomach took
+up almost the entire width, the brave fellow advanced with the greatest
+caution, his eyes alert, his finger on the trigger of his revolver, just
+as he used to be at Tarascon on his way to the club. At any moment he
+expected to be jumped on from behind by a whole gang of janissaries and
+eunuchs, but his desire to find the lady endowed him with the courage
+and determination of a giant.
+
+For eight days the intrepid Tartarin did not quit his search. Sometimes
+he could be seen hanging about the turkish baths, waiting for the women
+to emerge in chattering groups, scented from the bath. Sometimes he
+appeared at the entrance of a mosque, puffing and blowing as he removed
+his heavy boots before entering the sacred premises. On other occasions,
+at nightfall, when he was returning to the hotel, downcast at having
+discovered nothing at the mosque or the baths, he would hear, as he
+passed one of the Moorish houses, monotonous songs, the muffled sound
+of guitars, the rattle of tambourines and the light laughter of women,
+which made his heart beat faster. “Perhaps she is there” He would say to
+himself, and approaching the house he would lift the heavy knocker and
+let it fall timidly.
+
+Immediately the song and the laughter stop. Nothing can be heard within
+but faint vague cluckings as if in a sleeping hen-house. Hold on thinks
+our hero, something is about to happen, but what happened mostly was a
+big pot of cold water on his head, or orange peel and fig skins.... Sleep
+lions!
+
+
+
+
+Chapter 20.
+
+For two long weeks the unhappy Tartarin searched for his Algerian
+lady-love, and it is likely that he would be searching still, if that
+providence which looks after lovers had not come to his aid in the guise
+of a Montenegrin gentleman.
+
+The Théatre in Algiers, like the “Opera” in Paris, organises every
+Saturday night during the winter a Bal Masqué‚. This is, however,
+a provincial version. There are few people in the dance-hall; the
+occasional drifter from out of town, unemployed stevedores, some rustic
+tarts, who are in business but who still retain from their more virtuous
+days a faint aroma of garlic and saffron sauce... the real spectacle is
+in the foyer, which has been converted for the occasion into a gambling
+saloon.
+
+A feverish, multicoloured crowd jostles about the long green cloths.
+Algerian soldiers on leave, gambling their meagre pay. Moorish merchants
+from the upper town. Negroes. Maltese. Colonists who have come a hundred
+miles to wager the price of a cart or a pair of oxen on the turn of a
+card. Pale, tense and anxious as they watch the game.
+
+There are Algerian Jews, gambling en famille. The men in oriental
+costume, the women in gold coloured bodices. They gather round the
+table, chatter and and plan, count on their fingers, but play little.
+From time to time, and only after long consultation, an elderly, bearded
+patriarch goes to place the family stake. Then as long as play lasts
+there is a concentration of dark hebraic eyes on the table, which
+would seem to draw the gold pieces lying there as if by an invisible
+thread....
+
+Then there are the quarrels. Fights. Oaths in many languages. Knives
+are drawn. A guard arrives. Money is missing.... In the midst of this
+saturnalia wandered poor Tartarin, who had come that evening in search
+of forgetfulness and peace of heart.
+
+As he went about through the crowd, thinking of his Moor, suddenly, at
+one of the gaming tables, above the cries and the chinking of coins, two
+angry voices were raised. “I tell you, there are twenty francs of mine
+missing, m’sieu!” “M’sieu!!!” “Well, what have you to say, m’sieu?” “Do
+you know to whom you are talking, m’sieu?” “I should be delighted to
+find out, m’sieu!” “I am prince Gregory of Montenegro, m’sieu!”
+
+At this name, Tartarin, much moved, pushed through the crowd until he
+reached the front row, delighted to have found once more his prince, the
+distinguished Montenegrin nobleman whose acquaintance he had made on the
+packet-boat.
+
+Unfortunately this title of prince which had so dazzled the worthy
+Tarasconais, did not produce the least impression on the officer of the
+Chasseurs with whom the prince was in dispute. “A likely story” said the
+officer with a sneer, and then turning to the onlookers, “Prince
+Gregory of Montenegro, who has ever heard of him?... No one!” Tartarin,
+indignant, took a pace forward. “Pardon... I know the prince.” He said
+firmly in his best Tarrascon accent.
+
+The officer of the Chasseurs stared him in the face for a few moments,
+then shrugging his shoulders, he said “Well now, is’nt that just
+fine?... Share out the twenty francs between you and we’ll leave it at
+that.” So saying he turned on his heel and was lost in the crowd.
+
+Tartarin, furious, wanted to go after him, but the prince prevented him.
+“Leave it... It’s my affair.” He said, and taking Tartarin by the arm he
+led him outside.
+
+When they had reached the square, prince Gregory of Montenegro took off
+his hat, held out his hand to our hero and vaguely recalling his name
+began in vibrant tones, “Monsieur Barbarin...” “Tartarin.” Breathed the
+other, timidly. “Tartarin... Barbarin, it makes no difference, we are
+now friends for life.” And the noble Montenegrin shook his hand
+with ferocious energy. Tartarin was was overwhelmed by pride.
+“Prince.... Prince” He murmured in confusion.
+
+Fifteen minutes later the two gentlemen were seated in the Restaurant
+des Platanes, an agreeable spot whose terraces sloped down toward the
+sea, and there before a large Russian salad and a bottle of good wine
+they renewed their acquaintance.
+
+You cannot imagine anything more beguiling than this Montenegrin prince.
+Slim, elegant, his hair curled and waved, smooth-shaven and powdered and
+decked with strange orders, he had a sharp eye an ingratiating manner
+and spoke with a vaguely Italian accent, faintly suggestive of a
+renaissance Cardinal. Of ancient aristocratic lineage, his brothers,
+it seemed, had driven him into exile at the age of ten, because of
+his liberal opinions; since when he had travelled the world for his
+instruction and pleasure... a philosopher prince. By a remarkable
+coincidence the prince had spent three years in Tarascon, but when
+Tartarin expressed astonishment at never having seen him at the club or
+on the promonade, “I didn’t go out much” Said the prince in a somewhat
+evasive manner, and Tartarin discretely asked no more questions.
+Important people, he knew, had diplomatic secrets.
+
+All in all a very fine prince this Gregory. While sipping his wine he
+listened patiently to Tartarin, who told him of his Moorish love, and
+as he claimed to have contacts among these ladies, he even undertook to
+help look for her.
+
+They drank long and deep. They drank to the ladies of Algeria. They
+drank to free Montenegro. Outside, below the terrace, the sea rolled,
+the waves slapping wetly on the beach. The air was warm, the sky bright
+with stars, in the plane trees a nightingale sang... It was Tartarin who
+paid the bill.
+
+
+
+
+Chapter 21.
+
+The Montenegrin prince was as good as his word. Shortly after the
+reunion at the Restaurant des Platanes he arrived early one morning at
+Tartarin’s room. “Quick!... quick!... get dressed” he said, “Your Moor has
+been found... her name is Baia... as pretty as a picture, twenty years
+old and already a widow.” “A widow!.... Well that’s a bit of luck” Said
+Tartarin who was a little uneasy at the thought of Moorish husbands.
+“Yes, but closely guarded by her brother” “Oh! That’s a bit awkward”
+ “A ferocious Moor who sells hookahs in the bazaar” There was a silence,
+“Good!” Said the prince, “You’re not the chap to be put off by a little
+thing like that, and anyway we can perhaps buy off this villain by
+purchasing some of his pipes. So come on, get dressed... you lucky dog!”
+
+Pale and excited, his heart full of love, Tartarin jumped out of bed and
+as he climbed into his ample underwear he asked “What shall I do now?”
+ “Write to the lady quite simply and ask for a meeting” “She understands
+French then?” Said Tartarin with an air of disappointment. For his
+dreams had been of an Arabian Houri, uncontaminated by the west. “She
+doesn’t understand a word” Replied the prince imperturbably, “but you
+will dictate the letter to me and I shall translate it.” “Oh prince,
+how good you are.” And Tartarin strode about the room silent and deep in
+thought.
+
+As you may imagine one does not write to a Moorish lady as one might to
+a little shop-girl in Beaucaire. Happily our hero was able to cull from
+his reading many phrases of oriental rhetoric and combining these with
+some distant memories of the “Song of Songs” he was able to compose the
+most flowery epistle you could wish for, full of unlikely similes and
+improbable metaphors. With this romantic missive Tartarin would have
+liked to combine a bouquet of flowers with emblematic meanings, but
+prince Gregory thought it would be better to buy some pipes from the
+brother, which could not fail to soften the savage temperament of the
+gentleman and would please the lady, who greatly enjoyed smoking. “Let
+us go quickly then and buy some pipes,” Said Tartarin. “No, no.” Replied
+the prince, “Let me go alone, I shall get them at a better price.” “Oh
+prince! How good you are to take such trouble.” And the trusting fellow
+held out his purse to the obliging Montenegrin, exhorting him to neglect
+nothing which might make the lady happy.
+
+Unfortunately, the affair which had started so well, did not progress as
+rapidly as one might have wished. Very touched, it seemed, by Tartarin’s
+eloquence, and already three parts won over, she would have liked
+nothing better than to have received him, but her brother had scruples,
+and to lay these to rest it was necessary to buy an astonishing number
+of pipes. Sometimes Tartarin wondered what on earth the lady did with
+them all, but he paid up nevertheless, and without stinting.
+
+At last, after the purchase of many pipes and the composing of many
+sheets of oriental prose, a rendezvous was arranged. I need hardly tell
+you with what fluttering of heart Tartarin prepared himself; with what
+care he trimmed, washed and scented his beard, without forgetting--for
+one must always be prepared--to slip into his pockets a life-preserver
+and a revolver. The ever-obliging prince attended this first meeting in
+the role of interpreter
+
+The lady lived in the upper part of the town. Outside her door lounged a
+young Moor of fourteen or fifteen, smoking a cigarette, it was Ali, her
+brother. When the two visitors arrived he knocked twice on the postern
+and retired from the scene. The door was opened and a negress appeared,
+who, without saying a word, conducted the two gentlemen across a narrow
+interior courtyard to a small, cool room where the lady awaited them,
+posed on a divan.
+
+At first glance it seemed to Tartarin that she was smaller and sturdier
+than the Moor on the omnibus... were they in fact the same? But this
+suspicion was only momentary: the lady was so pretty, with her bare
+feet and her plump fingers, rosy and delicate, loaded with rings; while
+beneath her bodice of gold cloth and the blossoms of her flowered robe
+was the suggestion of a charming form, a little chubby, dainty and
+curvaceous. The amber mouthpiece of a narghile was between her lips and
+she was enveloped in a cloud of pale smoke.
+
+On entering, Tartarin placed his hand on his heart and bowed in the most
+Moorish manner possible, rolling big, passionate eyes... Baia looked
+at him for a moment without speaking, then letting go of the amber
+mouthpiece, she turned her back, hid her face in her hands and one could
+see only her neck, shaken by uncontrollable laughter.
+
+
+
+
+Chapter 22.
+
+If you go in the evening into some of the coffee-houses of the Algerian
+upper town, you will hear even today, Moors speak among themselves,
+with winks and chuckles, of a certain Sidi ben Tart’ri, an amiable,
+rich European who--it now some years ago--lived in the upper town with a
+little local girl called Baia.
+
+This Sidi ben Tart’ri was of course none other than Tartarin. Well what
+could you expect. This sort of thing happens even in the lives of Saints
+and Heroes. The illustrious Tartarin was, like anyone else, not exempt
+from these failings and that is why for two whole months, forgetful of
+lions, forgetful of fame, he wallowed in oriental love, and slumbered,
+like Hannibal in Capua, amid the delights of Algiers.
+
+He had rented in the heart of the Arab quarter, a pretty little local
+house with an interior courtyard, banana trees, cool galleries and
+fountains. He lived there quietly in the company of his Moor, a
+Moor himself from head to foot. Puffing at his hookah and munching
+musk-flavoured condiments. Stretched on a divan opposite him, Baia with
+a guitar in her hands droned monotonous songs, or to amuse her master
+she perhaps mimed a belly-dance, holding in her hands a small mirror in
+which she admired her white teeth and made faces at herself.
+
+As the lady did not understand French and Tartarin did not speak a
+word of Arabic, conversation languished somewhat and the talkative
+Tarasconais had time to repent of any intemperate loquaciousness of
+which he might have been guilty at Bezuquet’s pharmacy or Costecalde
+the gunsmith’s shop. This penance even had a certain charm. There was
+something almost voluptuous in going all day without speaking, hearing
+only the bubble of the hookah, the strumming of the guitar and the
+gentle splashing of the fountain amid the mosaic tiles of his courtyard.
+
+Smoking, the Turkish bath and “l’amour” occupied his time. They went out
+little. Sometimes Sidi Tart’ri, with his lady mounted on the crupper,
+went on mule-back to eat pomegranates in a little garden which he had
+bought in the neighbourhood... but never on any account did they go down
+to the European part of the town, which with its drunken Zouaves, its
+bordellos full of officers and the sound of sabres trailing on the
+ground beneath the arcade, seemed to him to be insupportably ugly.
+Altogether our Tartarin was perfectly happy. Tartarin-Sancho in
+particular, very fond of Turkish pastries, declared himself entirely
+satisfied with his new existence. Tartarin-Quixote had perhaps now and
+then some regrets, when he remembered Tarascon and the promised lion
+skins... but they did not last for long, and to dispel these moments of
+sadness all that was needed was a look from Baia or a spoonful of her
+diabolic confections, scented and bewitching like some brew of Circe’s.
+
+In the evenings prince Gregory came, to talk a little about free
+Montenegro. Of indefatigable complaisance, this agreeable nobleman
+undertook in the house the function of interpreter and, if need be, even
+that of steward, and all for nothing. Apart from him, Tartarin had only
+“Teurs” as visitors. All of those ferocious bandits which in the depths
+of their dark shops he once found so frightening, turned out to be
+harmless tradesmen, embroiderers, spice sellers, turners of pipe
+mouthpieces. Discrete, courteous people, modest, shrewd, and good at
+cards. Four or five times a week they would spend the evening with
+Tartarin, winning his money and eating his confitures, and on the stroke
+of ten leaving politely, giving thanks to the Prophet.
+
+After they had left, Sidi Tart’ri and his faithful spouse would finish
+the evening on their terrace, a large white-walled terrace which formed
+the roof of the building and looked out over the town. All about them
+a thousand other terraces, tranquil in the moonlight, dropped one below
+the other down to the sea. Suddenly, like a burst of stars, a great
+clear chant rose heavenward and on the minaret of the nearby mosque a
+handsome Muezzin appeared, his white outline silhouetted against the
+deep blue of the night sky. As he invoked the praise of Allah in a
+splendid voice which filled the horizon, Baia laid aside her guitar and
+with her eyes fixed on the Muezzin seemed to be rapt in prayer. For
+as long as the chant lasted she remained ecstatic, like an Arabic
+St. Theresa. Tartarin watched her and thought that it must be a beautiful
+and powerful religion which could give rise to such transports of faith.
+Tarascon hide your face, your Tartarin dreams of becoming apostate.
+
+
+
+
+Chapter 23.
+
+One fine afternoon of blue sky and warm breeze, Sidi Tart’ri, astride
+his mule, was returning alone from his little garden, his legs spread
+widely over hay filled bags which were further swollen by citrus and
+water-melon. Lulled by the creaking of the harness and swaying to the
+clip-clop of the animal the good man progressed through the delightful
+countryside, his hands crossed on his stomach, three-quarters asleep
+from the effect of warmth and wellbeing. Suddenly, as he was entering
+the town, a loud hail woke him up. “Hé! You, you great lump! You’re
+Monsieur Tartarin aren’t you?” At the name of Tartarin and the sound of
+the Provencal accent Tartarin raised his head and saw, a few feet away,
+the tanned features of Barbassou, the Captain of the Zouave, who was
+drinking an absinthe and smoking his pipe at the door of a little café.
+“Hé! Barbassou by God!” Said Tartarin, pulling up his mule.
+
+Instead of replying Barbassou regarded him wide-eyed for a few moments,
+and then he began to laugh and laugh, so that Tartarin sat stunned among
+his water-melons. “What a get-up, my poor monsieur Tartarin. It’s true
+then what people say, that you have become a Teur? And little Baia, does
+she still sing ‘Marco la belle’ all the time?” “Marco la belle,” said
+Tartarin indignantly, “I’ll have you know Captain, that the person
+of whom you speak is an honest Moorish girl who doesn’t know a word of
+French!” “Baia?... Not a word of French?... Where have you come from?” And
+the Captain began to laugh again, more than ever. Then noticing the long
+face of poor Sidi Tart’ri, he changed tack. “Well perhaps it isn’t
+the same one,” He said, “I’ve probably got her mixed up with someone
+else... only look here, M. Tartarin, you would be wise not to put too much
+trust in Algerian Moors, or Montenegrin princes.” Tartarin stood up in
+his stirrups, and made his grimace, “The prince is my friend, Captain!”
+ He said. “All right... all right... Don’t let’s quarrel... would you like
+a drink?... no. Any message you would like me to take back?... none. Well
+that’s it then. Bon voyage.... Oh!... While I think of it, I have some
+good French tobacco here, if you would like a few pipes-full take some,
+help yourself, it will do you good, it’s those blasted local tobaccos
+that scramble your brain.”
+
+With that the Captain returned to his absinthe and Tartarin pensively
+trotted his mule down the road to his little house. Although in his
+loyal heart he refused to believe any of the insinuations made by the
+Captain, they had upset him, and his rough oaths and country accent had
+combined to awake in him a vague feeling of remorse. When he reached
+home, Baia had gone to the baths, the negress seemed to him ugly, the
+house dismal, and prey to an indefinable melancholy, he went and sat by
+the fountain and filled his pipe with Barbassou’s tobacco. The tobacco
+had been wrapped in a fragment of paper torn from “The Semaphore” and
+when he spread it out the name of his home town caught his eye.
+
+“News from Tarascon,” He read, “The town is in a state of alarm. Tartarin
+the lion killer, who went to hunt the big cats in Africa, has not
+been heard of for several months.... What has happened to our heroic
+compatriot? One dare hardly ask oneself, knowing as we do his ardent
+nature, his courage and love of adventure.... Has he, like so many
+others, been swallowed up in the desert sands, or has he perhaps fallen
+victim to the murderous teeth of those feline monsters, whose skins he
+promised to the municipality.... A terrible incertitude! However, some
+African merchants who came to the fair at Beaucaire, claim to have met,
+in the heart of the desert, a white man whose description corresponds
+with his and who was heading for Timbuctoo. May God preserve our
+Tartarin!”
+
+When he read this, Tartarin blushed and trembled. All Tarascon rose
+before his eyes. The club. The hat hunters. The green armchair at
+Costecalde’s shop: and soaring above, like the extended wings of an
+eagle, the formidable moustache of the brave Commandant Bravida. Then to
+see himself squatting slothfully on his mat, while he was believed to be
+engaged in slaying lions, filled him with shame. Suddenly he leaped to
+his feet. “To the lions!... To the lions!” He cried, and hurrying to the
+dusty corner where lay idle his bivouac tent, his medicine chest, his
+preserved foods and his weapons, he dragged them into the middle of the
+courtyard. Tartarin-Sancho had just perished, only Tartarin-Quixote was
+left.
+
+There was just time enough to inspect his equipment, to don his arms and
+accoutrements, to put on his big boots, to write a few lines to prince
+Gregory, confiding Baia to his care, to slip into an envelope some
+banknotes, wet with tears, and the intrepid Tarasconais was in a
+stage-coach, rolling down the road to Blidah, leaving the stupefied
+negress in his house, gazing at the turban, the slippers and all the
+muslim rig-out of Sidi Tart’ri, hanging discarded on the wall.
+
+
+
+
+Chapter 24.
+
+It was an ancient, old-fashioned stage-coach, upholstered in the old way
+in heavy blue cloth, very faded, and with enormous pom-poms, which after
+a few hours on the road dug uncomfortably into one’s back. Tartarin had
+an inside seat, where he installed himself as best he could, and where,
+instead of the musky scent of the great cats, he could savour the ripe
+perfume of the coach, compounded of a thousand odours of men, women,
+horses, leather, food and damp straw.
+
+The other passengers on the coach were a mixed lot. A Trappist monk,
+some Jewish merchants, two Cocottes, returning to their unit, the third
+Hussars, and a photographer from Orleansville.
+
+No matter how charming and varied the company, Tartarin did not feel
+like chatting and remained silent, his arm hooked into the arm-strap and
+his weaponry between his knees.... His hurried departure, the dark eyes
+of Baia, the dangerous chase on which he was about to engage, these
+thoughts troubled his mind, and also there was something about this
+venerable stage-coach, now domiciled in Africa, which recalled to him
+vaguely the Tarascon of his youth. Trips to the country. Dinners by the
+banks of the Rhône, a host of memories.
+
+Little by little it grew dark. The guard lit the lanterns. The old coach
+swayed and squeaked on its worn springs. The horses trotted, the bells
+on their harness jingling, and from time to time there sounded the clash
+of ironmongery from Tartarin’s arms chest on the top of the coach.
+
+Sleepily Tartarin contemplated his fellow passengers as they danced
+before his eyes, shaken by the jolting of the coach, then his eyes
+closed and he heard no more, except vaguely, the rumble of the axles and
+the groaning of the coach sides....
+
+Suddenly an ancient female voice, rough, hoarse and cracked, called the
+Tarasconais by name: “Monsieur Tartarin!... Monsieur Tartarin!” “Who is
+calling me?” “It is I, Monsieur Tartarin, don’t you recognise me?... I
+am the stage-coach which once ran... it is now twenty years ago... the
+service from Tarascon to Nimes.... How many times have I carried you
+and your friends when you went hat shooting over by Joncquières or
+Bellegarde... I didn’t recognise you at first because of your bonnet and
+the amount of weight you have put on, but as soon as you began to snore,
+you old rascal, I knew you right away.” “Bon!... Bon!” Replied Tartarin,
+somewhat vexed, but then softening, he added: “But now, my poor old
+lady, what are you doing here?” “Ah! My dear M. Tartarin, I did not come
+here of my own free will I can promise you. Once the railway reached
+Beaucaire no one could find a use for me so I was shipped off to
+Africa... and I am not the only one, nearly all the stage-coaches in
+France have been deported like me; we were found too old fashioned and
+now here we all are, leading a life of slavery.” Here the old coach gave
+a long sigh, then she went on: “I can’t tell you monsieur Tartarin how
+much I miss my lovely Tarascon. These were good times for me, the time
+of my youth. You should have seen me leaving in the morning, freshly
+washed and polished, with new varnish on my wheels, my lamps shining
+like suns and my tarpaulin newly dressed with oil. How grand it was
+when the postillion cracked his whip and sang out, ‘Lagadigadeou, la
+Tarasque, la Tarasque’ and the guard, with his ticket-punch slung on its
+bandolier and his braided cap tipped over one ear, chucked his little
+yapping dog onto the tarpaulin of the coach-roof and scrambled up
+himself crying ‘Let’s go!... Let’s go!’ Then my four horses would start
+off with a jingle of bells, barking and fanfares. Windows would open and
+all Tarascon would watch with pride the stage-coach setting off along
+the king’s highway.
+
+“What a fine road it was, Monsieur Tartarin, wide and well kept, with
+its kilometre markers, its heaps of roadmender’s stones at regular
+intervals, and to right and left vinyards and pretty groves of olive
+trees. Then inns every few yards, post-houses every five minutes... and
+my travellers! What fine folk!... Mayors and curés going to Nimes to see
+their Prefect or Bishop, honest workmen, students on holiday, peasants
+in embroidered smocks, all freshly shaved that morning, and up on top,
+all of you hat shooters, who were always in such good form and who sang
+so well to the stars as we returned home in the evening.
+
+“Now it is a different story... God knows the sort of people I carry. A
+load of miscreants from goodness knows where, who infest me with vermin.
+Negroes, Bedouins, rascals and adventurers from every country, colonists
+who stink me out with their pipes, and all of them talking a language
+which even our Heavenly Father couldn’t understand.... And then you
+see how they treat me. Never brushed. Never washed. They grudge me the
+grease for my axles, and instead of the fine big, quiet horses which I
+used to have, they give me little Arab horses which have the devil in
+them, fighting, biting, dancing about and running like goats, breaking
+my shafts with kicks. Aie!... Aie! They are at it again now.... And the
+roads! It’s still all right here, because we are near Government House,
+but out there, nothing! No road of any sort. One goes as best one can
+over hill and dale through dwarf palms and mastic trees. Not a single
+fixed stop. One pulls up at wherever the guard fancies, sometimes at one
+farm, sometimes at another. Sometimes this rogue takes me on a detour of
+two leagues just so that he can go and drink with a friend. After that
+it’s ‘Whip up postillion, we must make up for lost time.’ The sun burns.
+The dust chokes... Whip!... Whip! We crash. We tip over.
+More whip. We swim across rivers, we are cold, soaked and half
+drowned... Whip!... Whip!... Whip! Then in the evening, dripping wet...
+that’s good for me at my age... I have to bed down in the yard of some
+caravan halt, exposed to all the winds. At night jackals and hyenas
+come to sniff at my lockers and creatures which fear the dawn hide in
+my compartments. That’s the life I lead, monsieur Tartarin, and I shall
+lead until the day when, scorched by sun and rotted by humid nights, I
+shall fall at some corner of this beastly road, where Arabs will boil
+their cous-cous on the remains of my old carcase.”
+
+“Blidah!... Blidah!” Shouted the guard, opening the coach door.
+
+
+
+
+Chapter 25.
+
+Indistinctly, through the steamed up windows, Tartarin could see the
+pretty square of a neatly laid out little township, surrounded by
+arcades and planted with orange trees, in the centre of which a group of
+soldiers was drilling in the thin, pink haze of early morning. The cafés
+were taking down their shutters, in one corner a vegetable market was
+under way. It was charming, but in no way did it suggest lions. “To the
+south, further to the south.” Murmured Tartarin, settling back in his
+corner.
+
+At that moment the coach door was opened, letting in a gust of fresh
+air, which bore on its wings, amongst the scent of orange blossom,
+a very small gentleman in a brown overcoat. Neat, elderly, thin and
+wrinkled, with a face no bigger than a fist, a silk cravat five fingers
+high, a leather brief-case and an umbrella. The perfect image of a
+village notary. On seeing Tartarin’s weaponry, the little gentleman, who
+was seated opposite him, looked very surprised, and began to stare at
+our hero.
+
+The horses were changed and the coach set off... the little gentleman
+continued to stare. At length Tartarin became offended and staring in
+his turn at the little gentleman he asked “Do you find this surprising?”
+
+“Not at all, but it does rather get in the way.” Was the reply, and
+the fact is that with his tent, his revolver, his two rifles and their
+covers, not to mention his natural corpulence, Tartarin de Tarascon did
+take up quite a lot of space.
+
+This reply from the little gentleman annoyed Tartarin, “Do you suppose
+that I would go after lions with an umbrella?” Asked the great man
+proudly. The little gentleman looked at his umbrella, smiled and
+and asked calmly, “You monsieur are...?” “Tartarin de Tarascon, lion
+hunter.” And in pronouncing these words the brave Tartarin shook the
+tassel of his chechia as if it were a mane.
+
+In the coach there was a startled response. The Trappist crossed
+himself, the Cocottes uttered little squeaks of excitement and the
+photographer edged closer to the lion killer, thinking that he might be
+a good subject for a picture. The little gentleman was not in the least
+disturbed. “Have you killed many lions, Monsieur Tartarin?” He asked
+quietly. Tartarin adopted a lofty air, “Yes many of them. More than you
+have hairs on your head.” And all the passengers laughed at the sight
+of the three or four yellow hairs which sprouted from the little
+gentleman’s scalp.
+
+The photographer then spoke up, “A terrible profession yours, Monsieur
+Tartarin, you must have moments of danger sometimes like that brave
+M. Bombonnel.” “Ah!... yes... M. Bombonnel, the man who hunts panthers.”
+ Said Tartarin, with some disdain. “Do you know him?” Asked the little
+gentleman. “Ti!... Pardi!... To be sure I know him, we have hunted
+together more than twenty times.” “You hunt panthers also M. Tartarin?”
+ “Occasionally, as a pastime.” Said Tartarin casually, and raising his
+head with a heroic gesture which went straight to the hearts of the two
+Cocottes, he added “They cannot be compared to lions.” “One could say,”
+ Hazarded the photographer, “That a panther is no more than a large
+pussy-cat.” “Quite right.” Said Tartarin, who was not reluctant to lower
+the reputation of this M. Bombonnel, particularly in front of the ladies.
+
+At this moment the coach stopped. The guard came to open the door and
+he addressed the little old man, “This is where you want to get off
+Monsieur.” He said very respectfully.
+
+The little gentleman got up to leave, but before he closed the door
+he said “Would you permit me to give you a word of advice M. Tartarin?”
+ “What is that Monsieur?” “Go back quickly to Tarascon, M. Tartarin, you
+are wasting your time here... There are a few panthers left in Algeria,
+but, fi donc! They are too small a quarry for you... as for lions, they
+are finished. There are no more in Algeria, my friend Chassaing has just
+killed the last one.”
+
+On that the little gentleman saluted, closed the door and went off,
+laughing, with his brief-case and umbrella. “Guard!” Said Tartarin,
+making his grimace. “Who on earth was that fellow?” “What! Don’t you
+know him?” Said the guard, “That’s Monsieur Bombonnel!”
+
+
+
+
+Chapter 26.
+
+When the coach reached Milianah Tartarin got out and left it to continue
+its journey to the south. Two days of being bumped about and nights
+spent peering out of the window in the hope of seeing the outline of a
+lion in the fields lining the road, had earned a little rest; and then
+it must be admitted that after the misadventure over M. Bombonnel,
+Tartarin, in spite of his weapons, his terrible grimace and his
+red chechia, had not felt entirely at ease in the presence of the
+photographer and the two ladies of the third Hussars.
+
+He made his way along the wide streets of Milianah, full of handsome
+trees and fountains, but while he looked for a convenient hotel, he
+could not prevent himself from mulling over the words of M. Bombonnel.
+What if it were true... what if there were no more lions in Algeria? What
+then was the point of all this travel and all these discomforts?
+
+Suddenly at a bend in the road our hero was confronted by a remarkable
+spectacle. He found himself face to face with--believe it or not--a
+superb lion which was seated regally at the door of a café, Its mane
+tawny in the sunshine.
+
+“Who says there are no more lions?” Cried Tartarin, jumping back. On
+hearing this exclamation the lion lowered its head, and taking in
+its jaws the wooden begging bowl which lay on the pavement before it,
+extended it humbly in the direction of Tartarin, who was paralyzed by
+astonishment... a passing Arab tossed in a few coppers. Then Tartarin
+understood. He saw what his surprise had at first prevented him from
+seeing, a crowd of people which was gathered round the poor tame lion,
+which was blind, and the two big negroes, armed with cudgels, who led it
+about the town.
+
+Tartarin’s blood boiled. “Wretches!” He cried “To debase this noble
+creature!” And running to the lion he snatched the sordid begging bowl
+from the royal jaws.... The two negroes, believing they were dealing
+with a thief, threw themselves on Tartarin with raised cudgels. It was
+a terrible set-to. Women were screeching children laughing there were
+calls for the police and the lion in its darkness joined in with a
+fearsome roar. The unhappy Tartarin after a desperate struggle, rolled
+on the ground among copper coins and road sweepings.
+
+At this moment a man pushed through the crowd. He dismissed the negroes
+with a word and the women and children with a gesture. He helped
+Tartarin to his feet, brushed him down and seated him, out of breath,
+on a bollard. “Good heavens... prince... Is it really you?” Said Tartarin,
+rubbing his ribs. “Indeed yes my valiant friend... it is I. As soon as
+I received your letter I confided Baia to her brother, hired a
+post-chaise, came fifty leagues flat out and here I am just in time to
+save you from the brutality of these louts.... For God’s sake what have
+you been doing to get yourself dragged into a mess like this?” “What
+could you expect me to do, prince, when I saw this unfortunate lion with
+the begging bowl in its teeth, humiliated, enslaved, ridiculed, serving
+as a laughing stock for this unsavoury rabble...?” “But you are mistaken
+my noble friend.” Said the prince, “This lion on the contrary is an
+object of respect and adoration. It is a sacred beast, a member of
+a great convent of lions founded three centuries ago by
+Mahommed-ben-Aouda, a sort of wild fierce monastry where strange monks
+rear and tame hundreds of lions and send them throughout all north
+Africa, accompanied by mendicant brothers. The alms which these brothers
+receive serve to maintain the monastry and its mosque, and if those two
+negroes were in such a rage just now, it is because they are convinced
+that if one sou, one single sou, of their takings is lost through any
+fault of theirs, the lion which that are leading will immediately devour
+them.”
+
+On hearing this unlikely but plausible tale, Tartarin recovered his
+spirits. “It seems evident after all,” He said “That in spite of what M.
+Bombonnel said, there are still lions in Algeria.” “To be sure there are,”
+ said the prince, “And tomorrow we shall begin to search the plains by
+the river Cheliff and you shall see.” “What!... prince. Do you mean to
+join in the hunt yourself?” “Of course” Said the prince “Do you think I
+would leave you to wander alone in the middle of Africa, among all those
+savage tribes, of whose language and customs you know nothing? No! No!
+My dear Tartarin. I shall not leave you again. Wherever you go I shall
+accompany you.” “Oh!... prince!... prince!” And Tartarin clasped the
+valiant Gregory in a warm embrace.
+
+
+
+
+Chapter 27.
+
+Very early the next morning the intrepid Tartarin and the no less
+intrepid prince Gregory, followed by half a dozen negro porters, left
+Milianah and descended towards the plain of the Chetiff by a steep
+pathway, delightfully shaded by jasmine, carobs and wild olives, between
+the hedges of little native gardens where a thousand bubbling springs
+trickled melodiously from rock to rock, a veritable Eden.
+
+Carrying as much in the way of arms as the great Tartarin, the prince
+was further adorned by a magnificent and colourful kepi, covered with
+gold braid and decorated with oak leaves embroidered in silver thread,
+which gave his highness the appearance of a Mexican General, or a
+Middle-European Station-Master. This fantastic kepi greatly intrigued
+Tartarin and he asked humbly for an explanation.
+
+“An indispensable form of headgear for the traveller in Africa.” The
+prince replied gravely; and while polishing the peak on his coat-sleeve
+he instructed his innocent companion on the important role played by the
+kepi in colonial administration, and the deference which its appearance
+inspires. This to such an extent that the government has been obliged
+to issue kepis to everyone from the canteen worker to the
+registrar-general. In fact, according to the prince, to govern the
+country there was no necessity for an elaborate regime. All that was
+needed was a fine gold-braided kepi glittering on the end of a big
+stick.
+
+Thus conversing and philosophising, they went there way. The bare-footed
+porters leapt from rock to rock, shouting and chattering. The armaments
+rattled in their case. The guns glittered in the sun.. The locals who
+passed bowed deeply before the magical kepi.... Up on the ramparts of
+Milianah, the chief of the Arab bureau, who was walking with his lady in
+the cool of the morning, hearing these unusual noises and seeing between
+the branches the flash of sunlight on the weapons, feared a surprise
+attack; whereupon he lowered the portcullis, beat the alarm and put the
+town in a state of siege.
+
+This was a good start to the expedition. Regrettably, before the end of
+the day, the situation deteriorated. One of the negroes was taken with
+the most fearful colic, having eaten the plasters in the medicine
+chest. Another fell, dead drunk, by the wayside, as a result of swigging
+spirits of camphor. A third, in charge of the log-book, deceived by the
+gold lettering on the cover, thought he had hold of the treasures of
+Mecca and made off with it at top speed.... Clearly some planning was
+needed, so the party halted and took council in the shade of an old fig
+tree. “In my opinion” Said the prince, trying unsuccessfully to dissolve
+a tablet of pemmican in a cooking pot, “In my opinion, after this
+evening we should get rid of these negro porters. There is an Arab
+market near here and our best plan would be to go there and buy some
+bourriquots.” “No!... No!... No bourriquots!” Interrupted Tartarin, who
+had become very red at the memory of Noiraud, adding hypocritically,
+“How can these little creatures carry all our equipment?”
+
+The prince smiled, “You are mistaken my illustrious friend,” He said,
+“The bourriquot may seem to you a poor weak creature, but it has a great
+heart... It needs it to support all it has to bear... ask the Arabs. This
+is their idea of our administration. On top they say, is the governor
+with a big stick which he uses to thump his staff. The staff in turn
+thump the soldiers. The soldiers thump the colonist. The colonist thumps
+the Arab, the Arab the negro, and the Negro thumps the bourriquot. The
+poor little bourriquot having no one to thump, bares its back and puts
+up with it. So you can see it is well able to carry all our gear.”
+
+“That’s all very well.” Replied Tartarin, “But I don’t think that
+donkeys add much colour to the general appearance of our caravan. Now if
+we could have a camel...!”
+
+“Just as you wish.” Said his highness, and they set off for the market.
+
+The market was held some distance away on the bank of the Cheliff.
+There were five or six thousand Arabs milling around in the sun, trading
+noisily among piles of olives, pots of honey, sacks of spices and heaps
+of cigars. There were fires at which whole sheep were roasting, dripping
+with butter. There were open air butcheries where almost naked negroes,
+their feet paddling in blood and their arms red to the elbow, were
+cutting up the carcases of goats hanging from hooks... In one corner, in
+a tent repaired in a thousand different colours, was a Moorish official
+with a big book and spectacles. Over there is a crowd. There are cries
+of rage. It is a roulette game that has been set up on a corn bin and
+the tribesmen gathered about it have started fighting with knives.
+Elsewhere, there are cheers, laughter and stamping of feet, a
+merchant and his mule have fallen into the river and are in danger of
+drowning.... There are scorpions, crows, dogs and flies, millions of
+flies, but no camels.
+
+Eventually a camel was discovered which some nomads were trying to
+dispose of. This was a real desert camel, with little hair, a sad
+expression and a hump which through long shortage of fodder hung
+flaccidly to one side. Tartarin was so taken with it that he wanted the
+two partners to be mounted. This proved to be a mistake.
+
+The camel knelt, the trunks were strapped on, the prince installed
+himself on the creature’s neck and Tartarin was hoisted up to the top of
+the hump, between two cases, from where he proudly saluted the assembled
+market and gave the signal for departure.... Heavens above!.... If only
+Tarascon could see him now!
+
+The camel rose, stretched out its long legs and took off. Calamity! The
+camel pitched and rolled like a frigate in a rough sea and the chechia
+responded to the motion as it had on the Zouave. “Prince... prince”
+ Murmured Tartarin, ashen-faced, and clutching the scanty hair of the
+hump, “Prince... let us get down, I feel... I feel I am going to disgrace
+France.” But the camel was in full flight and nothing was going to
+stop it. Four thousand Arabs were running behind, bare-footed, waving,
+laughing like idiots, six hundred thousand white teeth glistening in
+the sun.... The great man of Tarascon had to resign himself to the
+inevitable, and France was disgraced.
+
+
+
+
+Chapter 28.
+
+Despite the picturesque nature of their new mode of transport our lion
+hunters were forced to dismount, out of regard for the chechia. They
+continued their journey as before, on foot, and the caravan proceeded
+tranquilly toward the south with Tartarin in front, the prince in the
+rear and between them the camel with the baggage.
+
+The expedition lasted for a month. For a whole month, Tartarin, hunting
+for non-existent lions, wandered from village to village in the immense
+plain of the Chetiff, across this extraordinary, cock-eyed French
+Algeria, where the perfumes of ancient Araby are mingled with a powerful
+stink of Absinthe and barrack-room; Abraham and Zouzou combined, a
+strange mixture like a page of the Old Testament rewritten by Sergeant
+Le Ramée or Corporal Pitou.... A curious spectacle for those who would
+care to look.... A savage and decadent people whom we are civilising
+by giving them our own vices. The cruel and uncontrolled authority of
+Pashas, inflated with self-importance in their cordons of the legion of
+honour, who at their whim have people beaten on the soles of their feet.
+The so-called justice of bespectacled Cadis, traitors to the koran and
+to the law, who sell their judgements as did Esau his birthright for
+a plate of cous-cous. Drunken and libertine headmen, former batmen to
+General Yussif someone or other, who guzzle champagne in the company of
+harlots, and indulge in feasts of roast mutton, while before their tents
+the whole tribe is starving and disputes with the dogs the leavings of
+the seigniorial banquet.
+
+Then, all around, uncultivated plain. Scorched grass. Bushes bare of
+leaves. Scrub. Cactus. Mastic trees... The granary of France?... A granary
+empty of grain and rich only in jackals and bugs. Abandoned villages.
+Bewildered tribesfolk who run they know not where, fleeing from famine
+and sowing corpses along the road. Here and there a French settlement,
+the houses dilapidated, the fields untilled and raging hordes of locusts
+who eat the very curtains from the windows, while the colonists are all
+in cafés, drinking absinthe and discussing projects for the reform of
+the constitution.
+
+That is what Tartarin could have seen, if he had taken the trouble, but
+obsessed with his fantasy the man from Tarascon marched straight ahead,
+his vision limited to searching for these monstrous felines, of which
+there was no trace.
+
+Since the bivouac tent obstinately refused to open and the pemmican
+tablets to dissolve, the hunting party was compelled to stop daily at
+tribal villages. Everywhere, thanks to the prince’s kepi, they were
+received with open arms. They were lodged by chieftains in strange
+palaces, great white buildings without windows, where were piled up
+hookahs and mahogany commodes, Smyrna carpets and adjustable oil lamps,
+cedar-wood chests full of Turkish sequins and clocks decorated in the
+style of Louis Phillipe. Everywhere Tartarin was treated to fêtes and
+official receptions. In his honour whole villages turned out, firing
+volleys in the air, their burnous gleaming in the sun: after which the
+good chieftain would come to present the bill.
+
+Nowhere, however, were there any more lions than there are on the Pont
+Neuf in Paris: but Tartarin was not discouraged, he pushed bravely on to
+the south. His days were spent scouring the scrub, rummaging among the
+dwarf palms with the end of his carbine and going “Frt!... Frt!” At each
+bush... Then every evening a stand-to of two or three hours... A wasted
+effort. No lions appeared.
+
+One evening, however, at about six o’clock, as they were going through
+a wood of mastic trees, where fat quail, made lazy by the heat were
+jumping up from the grass, Tartarin thought he heard... but so far
+off... so distorted by the wind... so faint, the wonderful roar which
+he had heard so many times back home in Tarascon, behind the menagerie
+Mitaine.
+
+At first he thought he had imagined it, but in a moment, still far
+distant, but now more distinct, the roaring began again, and this time
+one could hear, all around, the barking of village dogs; while, stricken
+by terror and rattling the boxes of arms and preserves, the camel’s hump
+trembled. There could be no more doubt.... It was a lion! Quick!... Quick!
+Into position! Not a moment to lose!
+
+There was, close by them, an old Marabout (the tomb of a holy man) with
+a white dome: the big yellow slippers of the deceased lying in a recess
+above the door, together with a bizarre jumble of votive offerings which
+hung along the walls: fragments of burnous, some gold thread, a tuft
+of red hair. There Tartarin installed the prince and the camel,
+and prepared to look for a hide. He was determined to face the lion
+single-handed, so he earnestly requested His Highness not to leave the
+spot, and for safe keeping he handed to him his wallet, a fat wallet
+stuffed with valuable papers and banknotes. This done our hero sought
+his post.
+
+About a hundred yards in front of the Marabout, on the banks of an
+almost dry river, a clump of oleanders stirred in the faint twilight
+breeze, and it was there that Tartarin concealed himself in ambush,
+kneeling on one knee, in what he felt was an appropriate position, his
+rifle in his hands and his big hunting knife stuck into the sandy soil
+of the river bank in front of him.
+
+Night was falling. The rosy daylight turned to violet and then to
+a sombre blue.... Below, amongst the stones of the river bed, there
+glistened like a hand-mirror a little pool of clear water: a drinking
+place for the wild animals. On the slope of the opposite bank one could
+see indistinctly the path which they had made through the trees: a view
+which Tartarin found a bit unnerving. Add to this the vague noises of
+the African night, the rustle of branches, the thin yapping of jackals,
+and in the sky a flock of cranes passing with cries like children being
+murdered. You must admit that this could be unsettling, and Tartarin was
+unsettled, he was even very unsettled! His teeth chattered and the rifle
+shook in his hands; well... there are evenings when one is not at one’s
+best, and where would be the merit if heroes were never afraid?
+
+Tartarin was, admittedly, afraid, but in spite of his fear he held on
+for an hour... two hours, but heroism has its breaking point. In the dry
+river bed, close to him, Tartarin heard the sound of footsteps rattling
+the pebbles. Terror overtook him. He rose to his feet, fired both
+barrels blindly into the night and ran at top speed to the Marabout,
+leaving his knife stuck in the ground as a memorial to the most
+overwhelming panic that ever affected a hero.
+
+“A moi! prince!... A Moi!... The lion!”... There was no answer.
+“Prince!... prince! Are you there?”.... The prince was not there. Against
+the white wall of the Marabout was only the silhouette of the worthy
+camel’s hump. The prince Gregory had disappeared, taking with him the
+wallet and the banknotes. His highness had been waiting for a month for
+such an opportunity.
+
+
+
+
+Chapter 29.
+
+The day after this adventurous yet tragic evening, when at first light
+our hero awoke and realised that the prince and his money had gone and
+would not return; when he saw himself alone in this little white tomb,
+betrayed, robbed and abandoned in the middle of savage Algeria with a
+one-humped camel and some loose change as his total resources, for the
+first time some misgivings entered his mind. He began to have doubts
+about Montenegro, about friendship, fame and even lions. Overcome by
+misery he shed bitter tears.
+
+While he was sitting disconsolately at the door of the Marabout with his
+head in his hands, his rifle between his knees and watched over by
+the camel... behold! The undergrowth opposite was thrust aside and the
+thunderstruck Tartarin saw not ten paces away a gigantic lion, which
+advanced towards him uttering roars which shook the ragged offerings on
+the wall of the Marabout and even the slippers of the holy man in their
+recess. Only Tartarin remained unshaken. “At last!” He cried, jumping
+to his feet with his rifle butt to his shoulder... Pan!... Pan!...
+Pft!... Pft!... The lion had two explosive bullets in its head!
+Fragments of lion erupted like fireworks into the burning African sky,
+and as they fell to earth, Tartarin saw two furious negroes, who ran
+towards him with raised cudgels. The two negroes of Milianah... Oh!
+Misère!... It was the the tame lion, the poor blind lion of the convent
+of Mahommed that the bullets of the Tarasconais had felled.
+
+This time Tartarin had the narrowest of escapes. Drunk with fanatical
+fury, the two negro mendicants would surely have had him in pieces had
+not the God of the Christians sent him a Guardian Angel in the shape
+of the District Police Officer from Orleansville, who arrived down the
+pathway, his sabre tucked under his arm, at that very moment. The
+sight of the municipal kepi had an immediate calming effect on the two
+negroes. Stern and majestic the representative of the law took down the
+particulars of the affair, had the remains of the lion loaded onto
+the camel, and ordered the plaintiff and the accused to follow him to
+Orleansville, where the whole matter was placed in the hands of the
+legal authorities.
+
+There then commenced a long and involved process. After the tribal
+Algeria in which he had been wandering, Tartarin now made the
+acquaintance of the no less peculiar and cock-eyed Algeria of the towns:
+litigious and legalistic. He encountered a sleazy justicary who stitched
+up shady deals in the back rooms of cafés. The Bohemian society of the
+gentlemen of the law; dossiers which stank of absinthe, white cravats
+speckled with drink and coffee stains. He was embroiled with ushers,
+solicitors, and business agents, all the locusts of officialdom, thin
+and ravenous, who strip the colonist down to his boots and leave him
+shorn leaf by leaf like a stalk of maize.
+
+The first essential point to be decided was whether the lion had been
+killed on civil or military territory. In the first case Tartarin
+would come before a civil tribunal, in the second he would be tried by
+court-martial: at the word court-martial Tartarin imagined himself
+lying shot at the foot of the ramparts, or crouching in the depths of
+a dungeon... A major difficulty was that the delimitation of these two
+areas was extremely vague, but at last, after months of consultation,
+intrigue, and vigils in the sun outside the offices of the Arab Bureau,
+it was established that on the one hand the lion was, when killed, on
+military ground, but on the other hand that Tartarin when he fired the
+fatal shot was in civilian territory. The affair was therefore a civil
+matter, and Tartarin was freed on the payment of an indemnity of two
+thousand five hundred francs, not including costs.
+
+How was this to be paid? The little money left after the prince’s
+defection had long since gone on legal documents and judicial absinthe.
+The unfortunate lion killer was now reduced to selling off his armament
+rifle by rifle. He sold the daggers, the knives and coshes. A grocer
+bought the preserved food, a chemist what was left of the medicine
+chest. Even the boots went, with the bivouac tent, into the hands of
+a merchant of bric-a-brac. Once everything had been paid, Tartarin
+was left with little but the lion-skin and the camel. The lion-skin he
+packed up carefully and despatched to Tarascon, to the address of the
+brave Commandant Bravida. As for the camel, he counted on it to get him
+back to Algiers: not by riding it, but by selling it to raise the fare
+for the stage-coach, which was at least better than camel-back. Sadly
+the camel proved a difficult market, and no one offered to buy it at any
+price.
+
+Tartarin was determined to get back to Algiers, even if it meant
+walking. He longed to see once more Baia’s blue corslet, his house, his
+fountain and to rest on the white tiles of his his little cloister while
+he awaited money to be sent from France. In these circumstances
+the camel did not desert him. This strange animal had developed an
+inexplicable affection for its master, and seeing him set out from
+Orleansville it followed him faithfully, regulating its pace to his and
+not quitting him by as much as a footstep.
+
+At first Tartarin found it touching. This fidelity, this unshakable
+devotion seemed wholly admirable; besides which the beast was no trouble
+and was able to find its own food. However, after a few days Tartarin
+grew tired of having perpetually at his heels this melancholy companion,
+who reminded him of all his misadventures. He began to be irritated.
+He took a dislike to its air of sadness to its hump and its haughty
+bearing. In he end he became so exasperated with it that his only wish
+was to be rid of it; but the camel would not be dismissed. Tartarin
+tried to lose it, but the camel always found him. He tried running
+away, but the camel could run faster. He shouted “Clear off!” and threw
+stones: the camel stopped and regarded him with a mournful expression,
+then after a few moments it resumed its pace and caught up with him.
+Tartarin had to resign himself to its company.
+
+When, after eight days of walking, Tartarin, tired and dusty, saw
+gleaming in the distance the white terraces of Algiers, when he found
+himself on the outskirts of the town, on the bustling Mustapha road,
+amid the crowds who watched him go by with the camel in attendance, his
+patience snapped, and taking advantage of some traffic congestion he
+ducked into a field and hid in a ditch. In a few moments he saw above
+his head, on the causeway, the camel striding along rapidly, its neck
+anxiously extended. Greatly relieved to be rid of it, Tartarin entered
+the town by a side road which ran along by the wall of his house.
+
+On his arrival at his Moorish house, Tartarin halted in astonishment. The
+day was ending, the streets deserted. Through the low arched doorway,
+which the negress had forgotten to close, could be heard laughter, the
+clinking of glasses, the popping of a champagne cork and the cheerful
+voice of a woman singing loud and clear:
+
+“Aimes-tu Marco la belle,
+
+“La danse aux salons en fleurs...”
+
+“Tron de Diou!” Said Tartarin, blenching, and he rushed into the
+courtyard.
+
+Unhappy Tartarin! What a spectacle awaited him!.... Amid bottles,
+pastries, scattered cushions, tambourine, guitar, and hookah, Baia
+stood, without her blue jacket or her corslet, dressed only in a silver
+gauze blouse and big pink pantaloons, singing “Marco la belle” with a
+naval officer’s hat tipped over one ear... while on a rug at her
+feet surfeited with love and confitures, was Barbassou, the infamous
+Barbassou, roaring with laughter as he listened to her.
+
+The arrival of Tartarin, haggard, thin, covered in dust, with blazing
+eyes and bristling chechia cut short this enjoyable Turco-Marseillaise
+orgy. Baia uttered a little cry, and like a startled leveret she bolted
+into the house, but Barbassou was not in the least put out and laughed
+more than ever: “Hé!... Hé!... Monsieur Tartarin. What did I tell you? You
+can hear that she knows French all right.”
+
+Tartarin advanced, furious: “Captain!..” He began; but then, leaning
+over the balcony with a rather vulgar gesture, Baia threw down a few
+well-chosen words. Tartarin, deflated, sat down on a drum, his Moor
+spoke in the argot of the Marseilles back-streets.
+
+“When I warned you not to trust Algerian women,” Said Captain Barbassou
+sententiously, “The same applied to your Montenegrin prince.” Tartarin
+looked up, “Do you know where the prince is?” he asked.
+
+“Oh, he is not far away. He will spend the next five years in the
+fine prison at Mustapha. The clown was foolish enough to be caught
+stealing... and anyway this is not the first time His Highness has been
+inside, he has already done three years in gaol somewhere, and... hang
+on!... I believe it was in Tarascon!
+
+“In Tarascon!” Cried Tartarin, suddenly enlightened, “that is why I never
+saw him there. All he knew of Tarascon was what he could see from a cell
+window.”
+
+“Hé!... without a doubt.... Ah! My poor M. Tartarin, you have to keep both
+eyes wide open in this devilish country if you don’t want to be taken
+in. Like that business of the Muezzin.”
+
+“What business?... What Muezzin?”
+
+“Ti!... Pardi!” The Muezzin opposite, who was courting Baia; all Algiers
+knew about it. Not all the prayers he was chanting were addressed
+to Allah, some were directed to the little one, and he was making
+propositions under your nose. “It seems that everyone in this beastly
+country is a crook”, Wailed the unhappy Tartarin. Barbassou shrugged his
+shoulders, “My dear fellow, you know how it is. All these sort of places
+are the same. If you take my advice you will go back to Tarascon as
+quickly as possible.”
+
+“That’s easy to say, but what am I to do for money? Don’t you know how
+they robbed me out there in the desert?”
+
+“Don’t worry about that,” laughed the Captain, “the Zouave is leaving
+tomorrow and I’ll take you back if you want... does that suit you,
+colleague?... All right... Good! There’s only one thing left to do, there
+is still some champagne and some pastries left. Come, sit down and let
+bygones be bygones.” After a little delay which his dignity required,
+our hero accepted the offer. They sat down and poured out a drink.
+Hearing the clink of glasses, Baia came down and finished singing Marco
+la Belle, and the party went on until late in the night.
+
+
+
+
+Chapter 30.
+
+It is mid-day. The Zouave has steam up and is ready to depart. Up
+above on the balcony of the café Valentin, a group of officers aim the
+telescope, and come one by one, in order of seniority, to look at
+the lucky little ship which is going to France. It is the principle
+entertainment of the general staff. Down below, the water of the
+anchorage sparkles.... The breeches of the old Turkish cannons, mounted
+along the quay, glisten in the sunshine.... Passengers arrive.... Baggage
+is loaded onto tenders.
+
+Tartarin does not have any baggage. He comes down from the Rue de
+la Marine by the little market, full of bananas and water-melons,
+accompanied by his friend Captain Barbassou.
+
+Tartarin de Tarascon has left on the Moorish shore his arms, his
+equipment and his illusions, and is preparing to sail back to Tarascon
+with nothing in his pockets but his hands. Scarcely, however, had he set
+foot in the captain’s launch, when a breathless creature scrambled down
+from the square above and galloped towards him. It was the camel, the
+faithful camel, which for twenty-four hours had been searching for its
+master.
+
+When Tartarin saw it, he changed colour and pretended not to know it;
+but the camel was insistent. It frisked along the quay. It called to its
+friend and regarded him with tender looks. “Take me away!” Its sad eyes
+seemed to say, “Take me away with you, far away from this mock Arabia,
+this ridiculous Orient, full of locomotives and stage coaches, where I
+as a second-class dromadary do not know what will become of me. You are
+the last Teur, I am the last camel, let us never part, Oh my Tartarin!”
+ “Is that your camel?” Asked the Captain.
+
+“No!... No!... Not mine.” Replied Tartarin, who trembled at the thought of
+entering Tarascon with this absurd escort; and shamelessly repudiating
+the companion of his misfortunes he repelled with his foot the soil of
+Algeria and pushed the boat out from the shore. The camel sniffed at the
+water, flexed its joints and leapt headlong in behind the boat, where it
+swam in convoy toward the Zouave, its hump floating on the water like a
+gourd and it neck lying on the surface like the ram of a trireme.
+
+The boat and the camel came alongside the Zouave at the same time. “I
+don’t know what I should do about this dromadary.” Said the captain, “I
+think I’ll take it on board and present it to the zoo at Marseille, I
+can’t just leave it here.” So by means of block and tackle the wet camel
+was hoisted onto the deck of the Zouave, which then set sail.
+
+Tartarin spent most of the time in his cabin. Not that the sea was
+rough or that the chechia had to much to suffer, but because whenever
+he appeared on the deck the camel made such a ridiculous fuss of its
+master. You never saw a camel so attached to anyone as this.
+
+Hour by hour, when he looked through the porthole, Tartarin could see
+the Algerian sky turn paler, until one morning, in a silvery mist, he
+heard to his delight the bells of Marseilles. The Zouave had arrived.
+
+Our man, who had no baggage, disembarked without a word and hurried
+across Marseilles, fearing all the time that he might be followed by
+the camel, and he did not breathe easily until he was seated in a
+third-class railway carriage, on his way to Tarascon... a false sense of
+security. They had not gone far from Marseilles when heads appeared at
+windows and there were cries of astonishment, Tartarin looked out in
+turn and what did he see but the inescapable camel coming down the line
+behind the train with a remarkable turn of speed.
+
+Tartarin resumed his seat and closed his eyes. After this disastrous
+expedition he had counted on getting back home unrecognised, but the
+presence of this confounded camel made it impossible. What a return
+to make, Bon Dieu!... No money... No lions... Nothing but a camel!....
+“Tarascon!... Tarascon!”... It was time to get out.
+
+To Tartarin’s utter astonishment, the heroic chechia had barely
+appeared in the doorway, when it was greeted by a great cry of “Vive
+Tartarin!... Vive Tartarin!” Which shook the glass vault of the station
+roof. “Vive Tartarin!... Hurrah for the lion killer!” Then came fanfares
+and a choir. Tartarin could have died, he thought this was a hoax: but
+no, all Tarascon was there, tossing their hats in the air and shouting
+his praises. There stood the brave Commandant Bravida, Costecalde the
+gunsmith, the President Ladevèze, the chemist and all the noble body of
+hat shooters, who pressed round their chief and carried him all the way
+down the steps.
+
+How remarkable are the effects of the “mirage”. The skin of the blind
+lion sent to the Commandant was the cause of all this tumult. At the
+sight of this modest trophy, displayed at the club, Tarascon and beyond
+Tarascon the whole of the Midi had worked themselves into a state of
+excitement. “The Semaphore” had spoken. A complete scenario had been
+invented. This was no longer one lion killed by Tartarin, it was ten
+lions, twenty lions, a whole troop of lions. So Tartarin, when he
+reached Marseilles was already famous, and an enthusiastic telegram had
+warned his home town of his imminent arrival.
+
+The excitement of the populace reached its peak when a fantastic animal,
+covered in dust and sweat, stumbled down the station steps behind our
+hero. For a moment they thought that the Tarasque had returned.
+
+Tartarin reassured his fellow citizens, “It is my camel” He said, and
+already under the influence of the Tarascon sun, that fine sun which
+induces fanciful exaggeration, he stroked the camel’s hump and added,
+“It is a noble creature, it saw me kill all my lions.” So saying,
+he took the arm of the Commandant, who was blushing with pride, and
+followed by his camel, surrounded by hat shooters and acclaimed by the
+people, he proceeded peacefully toward the little house of the baobab;
+and as he walked along he began the story of his great expedition.
+
+“There was one particular evening,” He said, “When I was out in the
+heart of the Sahara...”
+
+
+
+
+
+End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Tartarin de Tarascon, by Alphonse Daudet
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+The Project Gutenberg EBook of Tartarin de 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 de Tarascon
+
+Author: Alphonse Daudet
+
+Translator: Oliver C. Colt
+
+Release Date: March 21, 2006 [EBook #2375]
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1
+
+*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TARTARIN DE TARASCON ***
+
+
+
+
+Produced by Oliver C. Colt and David Widger
+
+
+
+
+
+TARTARIN DE TARASCON
+
+By A. Daudet.
+
+
+Translated by Oliver C. Colt.
+
+
+
+
+
+Introduction.
+
+The tale of Tartarin de Tarascon was written by Alphonse Daudet in 1872,
+and was one of the many works which he produced. In it he pokes gentle
+fun at a type of Frenchman who comes from the Midi, the area where he
+himself was born. Tartarin has characteristics which may remind the
+English-speaking reader of Toad of Toad Hall, a boastful braggart,
+easily deceived, but good-hearted au fond.
+
+The world he inhabits is, of course, very different from ours. There is
+no radio or television, the motor car is no more than a plaything for
+the rich. There is only the beginnings of a telephone system. Much sea
+transport is still by sailing ship and the idea of mass air travel is in
+the realm of science-fiction. France lost the Franco-Prussian war at the
+battle of Sedan in 1870, which accounts for the flood of refugees from
+Alsasce. She had also, in the 19th century rush to carve up the African
+continent, seized among other places, Algeria, which she held in
+subjection by force of arms. So-called Big Game Hunters were regarded
+with some admiration, and indeed it was a much more perilous activity
+than it is today, when high power repeating rifles with telescopic
+sights make motor-borne "Sportsmen" little more than butchers.
+
+Daudet's humour is on the whole inoffensive, but anti-semitism was rife
+in certain circles in France. It was the era of the Dreyfus scandal, and
+he indulges in one or two tasteless gibes at the expense of the Jews,
+which I have suppressed or at least amended. He also has a passage which
+might well offend the delicate susceptabilities of the less tolerant
+believers in Islam, although to anyone with a nodding acquaintance with
+the tents of that faith, the incident is so far-fetched as to neutralise
+"The willing suspension of disbelief" I have therefore decided to
+eliminate it from this version of the story. It is not very amusing and
+is no great loss.
+
+Although Daudet's humour is in the main kindly, he does not spare the
+French colonial administration of the time. His treatment of the subject
+is acidly satirical. It may be said that Daudet seems to know little
+about firearms, less about lions and nothing about camels, but he is not
+striving for verisimilitude. After all, the adventures of James Bond do
+not mirror the reality of international espionage, nor do the exploits
+of Bertie Wooster and Jeeves truely reflect life in the upper echelons
+of British society.
+
+This is not a schoolroom exercise in translation. It might be more
+accurately described as a version in English. I have not tampered with
+the story line nor made any changes in the events related, but where
+I thought it necessary I have not shrunk from altering the words and
+phrases used in the original to describe them. All translation must be
+a matter of paraphrase. What sounds well in one language may sound
+ridiculous if translated literally into another, and it is for the
+translator to judge how far this process of paraphrase may be carried.
+
+I have attempted to produce a text which will entertain the average
+reader. Those who want to know exactly what Daudet wrote must consult
+the French original.
+
+
+
+
+TARTARIN DE TARASCON
+
+
+
+Chapter 1.
+
+
+Although it is now some twelve or fifteen years since my first meeting
+with Tartarin de Tarascon, the memory of the encounter remains as fresh
+as if it had been yesterday.
+
+At that time Tartarin lived near the entrance to the town, in the third
+house on the left on the Avignon road, a pretty little Tarascon villa,
+with a garden in front, a balcony behind, very white walls and green
+shutters.
+
+From outside the place looked perfectly ordinary, one would never have
+believed that it was the home of a hero, but when one went inside,
+well... My goodness! The whole establishment had an heroic air, even the
+garden!
+
+Ah...! The Garden... there was not another like it in Europe. Not one
+indigenous tree grew there, not one French flower; nothing but exotic
+plants, gum trees, calabashes, cotton trees, coconut palms, mangos,
+bananas, cactuses, figs and a baobab. One might have thought oneself in
+the middle of Africa, thousands of miles from Tarascon. Of course none
+of these trees was fully grown, the coconut palm was about the size of
+a swede and the baobab (arbos gigantica) fitted comfortably into a
+pot full of earth and gravel. No matter.... For Tarascon it was quite
+splendid, and those citizens who were admitted, on Sundays, to have the
+privilege of inspecting Tartarin's baobab went home full of admiration.
+
+You may imagine my emotions as I walked through this remarkable
+garden... they were nothing, however, to what I felt on being admitted to
+the sanctum of the great man himself.
+
+This building, one of the curiosities of the town, was at the end of the
+garden, to which it opened through a glass door. Picture a large room
+hung from floor to ceiling with firearms and swords; weapons from every
+country in the world. Guns, carbines, rifles, blunderbusses,
+knives, spears, revolvers, daggers, arrows, assegais, knobkerries,
+knuckledusters and I know not what.
+
+The brilliant sunlight glittered on the steel blades of sabres and the
+polished butts of firearms. It was really quite a menacing scene... what
+was a little reassuring was the good order and discipline which ruled
+over this arsenal. Everything was neat tidy and dusted. Here and there a
+simple notice, reading "Poison arrows, Do not touch." or "Beware. Loaded
+firearms." made one feel it safe to approach.
+
+In the middle of the room was a table. On the table was a flagon of
+rum, a turkish tobacco pouch, The voyages of Captain Cook, stories
+of adventure, treatises on falconry, descriptions of big-game hunts
+etc... and finally seated at the table was the man himself. Forty
+to forty-five years of age, short, fat, stocky and ruddy, clad in
+shirt-sleeves and flannel trousers, with a close-clipped wiry beard
+and a flamboyant eye. In one hand he held a book and with the other he
+brandished an enormous pipe, its bowl covered by a metal cap; and as
+he read some stirring tale of the pursuit of hairy creatures, he made,
+pushing out his lower lip, a fierce grimace which gave his features,
+those of a comfortable Tarascon "Rentier", the same air of hearty
+ferocity which was evident throughout the whole house. This man was
+Tartarin... Tartarin de Tarascon... the intrepid, great and incomparable
+Tartarin de Tarascon.
+
+At that time Tartarin was not the Tartarin which he is today, the great
+Tartarin de Tarascon who is so popular throughout the Midi of France,
+however, even at this epoch, he was already the king of Tarascon.
+
+Let us examine how he acquired his crown. You will be aware, for a
+start, that everyone in these parts is a hunter. From the highest to the
+lowest hunting is a passion with the Tarasconais and has been ever since
+the legendary Tarasque prowled in the marshes near the town and was
+hunted down by the citizens.
+
+Now, every Sunday morning, the men of Tarascon take up arms and leave
+town, bag on back and gun on shoulder, with an excited collection of
+dogs, with ferrets, with trumpets and hunting horns, it is a splendid
+spectacle.... Sadly, however, there is a shortage of game... in fact
+there is a total absence of game....  Animals may be dumb but they are
+not stupid, so for miles around Tarascon the burrows are empty and the
+nests abandoned. There is not a quail, not a blackbird, not the smallest
+rabbit nor even the tiniest wheatear.
+
+These pretty little Tarascon hills, scented with lavender, myrtle and
+rosemary are very tempting, and those fine muscat grapes, swollen
+with sugar, which line the banks of the Rhone, are wonderfully
+appetising... yes, but there is Tarascon in he distance, and in the world
+of fur and feather Tarascon is bad news. The birds of passage seem to
+have marked it with a cross on their maps, and when the long wedges of
+wild duck, heading for the Camargue, see far off the town's steeples,
+the whole flight veers away. In short there is nothing left by way of
+game in this part of the country but an old rascal of a hare, who has
+escaped by some miracle the guns of Tarascon and appears determined to
+stay there. This hare is well known. He has been given a name. He
+is called "Speedy". He is known to live on land belonging to
+M. Bompard... which, by the way, has doubled or even tripled its value.
+No one has yet been able to catch him, and at the present time there
+are not more than two or three fanatics who go after him. The rest have
+given up and Speedy has become something of a protected species, though
+the Tarasconais are not very conservation minded and would make a stew
+of the rarest of creatures, if they managed to shoot one.
+
+Now, you may say, "Since game is in such short supply, what do these
+Tarasconais sportsmen do every Sunday?" What do they do? Eh! Mon Dieu!
+They go out into the country, several miles from the town. They assemble
+in little groups of five or six. They settle down comfortably in
+some shady spot. They take out of their game-bags a nice piece of
+boeuf-en-daube, some raw onions, a sausage and some anchovies and they
+begin a very long luncheon, washed down by one of these jolly Rhone
+wines, which encourage singing and laughter.
+
+When all have had enough, they whistle for the dogs, load their guns and
+commence the shoot. That is to say each of these gentlemen takes off his
+hat, sends it spinning through the air with all his strength and takes
+a pot-shot at it. The one who hits his hat most frequently is proclaimed
+king of the hunt and returns to Tarascon that evening in triumph, his
+perforated hat hanging from the end of his gun and to the accompaniment
+of much barking and blowing of trumpets.
+
+One need hardly tell you that there is a brisk trade in hats in the
+town, and there are even hatters who sell hats already full of holes and
+tears for use by the less skillful, but scarcely anyone is known to buy
+them except Bezuquet the chemist.
+
+As a hat shooter Tartarin had no equal. Every Sunday morning he left
+with a new hat. Every evening he returned with a rag. In the little
+house of the baobab, the attic was full of these glorious trophies.
+All of Tarascon recognised him as their master in this respect. The
+gentlemen elected him as their chief justice in matters relating to
+the chase and arbitrator in any dispute, so that every day, between the
+hours of three and four in the afternoon, at Costecalde the gunsmith's
+one could see the plump figure of a man, seated gravely on a green
+leather arm-chair, in the middle of the shop, which was full of hat
+hunters standing about and arguing. It was Tartarin delivering justice.
+Nimrod doubling as Soloman.
+
+
+
+
+Chapter 2.
+
+In addition to their passion for hunting the good people of Tarascon
+had another passion, which was for drawing-room ballads. The number of
+ballads which were sung in this part of the world passed all belief. All
+the old sentimental songs, yellowing in ancient cardboard boxes, could
+be found in Tarascon alive and flourishing. Each family had its own
+ballad and in the town this was well understood. One knew, for example,
+that for Bezuquet the chemist it was:-"Thou pale star whom I adore."
+
+For the gunsmith Costecalde:-"Come with me to the forest glade."
+
+For the Town Clark:--"If I was invisible, no one would see me." (a comic
+song) Two or three times a week people would gather in one house or
+another and sing, and the remarkable thing is that the songs were always
+the same. No matter for how long they had been singing them, the people
+of Tarascon had no desire to change them. They were handed down in
+families from father to son and nobody dared to interfere with them,
+they were sacrosanct. They were never even borrowed. It would never
+occur to the Bezuquets to sing the Costecaldes' song or to the
+Costecaldes to sing that of the Bezuquets. You might suppose that
+having known them for some forty years they might sometimes sing them to
+themselves, but no, everyone stuck to his own.
+
+In the matter of ballads, as in that of hats, Tartarin played a leading
+role. His superiority over his fellow citizens arose from the fact that
+he did not have a song of his own, and so he could take part in all of
+them, only it was extremely difficult to get him to sing at all.
+
+Returning early from some drawing-room success, our hero preferred to
+immerse himself in his books on hunting or spend the evening at the
+club rather than join in a sing-song round a Nimes piano, between two
+Tarascon candles. He felt that musical evenings were a little beneath
+him.
+
+Sometimes, however, when there was music at Bezuquet the chemists,
+he would drop in as if by chance, and after much persuasion he would
+consent to take part in the great duet from "Robert le Diable" with
+madame Bezuquet the elder.
+
+Anyone who has not heard this has heard nothing. For my part, if I live
+to be a hundred, I shall always recall the great Tartarin approaching
+the piano with solemn steps, leaning his elbow upon it, making his
+grimace and in the greenish light reflected from the chemist's jars,
+trying to give his homely face the savage and satanic expression of
+Robert le Diable.
+
+As soon as he had taken up his position, a quiver of expectation ran
+through the gathering. One felt that something great was about to
+happen.
+
+After a moment of silence, madame Bezuquet the elder, accompanying
+herself on the piano, began:
+
+"Robert, thou whom I adore
+
+And in whom I trust,
+
+You see my fear (twice)
+
+Have mercy on yourself
+
+And mercy on me."
+
+She added, sotto voce, "Its you now Tartarin."
+
+Then Tartarin, with arm extended, clenched fist and quivering nostrils,
+said three times in a formidable voice which rolled like a clap of
+thunder in the entrails of the piano "Non! Non! Non!" Which as a good
+southerner he pronounced "Nan. Nan. Nan" Upon which madame Bezuquet
+repeated "Mercy on yourself and on me" "Nan! Nan! Nan!" Bellowed
+Tartarin even more loudly... and the matter ended there.... It was not
+very long, but it was so well presented, so well acted, so diabolic that
+a frisson ran round the pharmacy and he was made to repeat his "Nan.
+Nan. Nan." four or five times.
+
+Afterwards Tartarin wiped his forehead, smiled at the ladies, winked at
+the men and went off triumphantly to the club, where, with a casual air,
+he would say, "I've just come from the Bezuquets. They had me singing in
+the duet from Robert le Diable." What is more he believed it.
+
+
+
+
+Chapter 3.
+
+It was to the possession of these various talents that Tartarin owed his
+high standing in the town. There were, however, other ways in which he
+had made his mark on society.
+
+In Tarascon the army supported Tartarin. The gallant Commandant Bravida
+(Quartermaster. Ret) said of him "He's a stout fellow," and one may
+suppose that having kitted out so many stout fellows in his time, he
+knew what he was talking about.
+
+The magistrature supported Tartarin. Two or three times, on a full
+bench, the aged president Ladev�ze had said of him "He's quite a
+character".
+
+Finally, the people supported Tartarin, his stolid appearance, the
+heroic reputation he had somehow acquired, the distribution of small
+sums of money and a few clips round the ear to the youngsters who hung
+around his doorstep, had made him lord of the neighbourhood and king
+of the Tarascon market-place. On the quay, on sunday evenings, when
+Tartarin returned from the hunt, his hat dangling from the end of his
+gun, the stevedores would nod to him respectfully and eying the arms
+bulging the sleeves of his tightly buttoned jacket, would murmur to one
+another, "He's strong he is. He's got double muscles." The possession of
+double muscles is something you hear about only in Tarascon.
+
+However, in spite of his numerous talents, double muscles, popular
+favour and the so precious esteem of the gallant Commandant Bravida
+(Quartermaster. Ret) Tartarin was not happy. This small-town life
+weighed him down, stifled him. The great man of Tarascon was bored
+with Tarascon. The fact is that for an heroic nature such as his, for a
+daring and adventurous spirit which dreamt of battles, explorations, big
+game hunting, desert sands, hurricanes and typhoons, to go every Sunday
+hat shooting and for the rest of the time dispense justice at Costecalde
+the gunsmith's was... well... hardly satisfying. It was enough indeed to
+send one into a decline.
+
+In vain, in order to widen his horizon and forget for a while the club
+and the market square, did he surround himself with African plants; in
+vain did he pile up a collection of weapons; in vain did he pore over
+tales of daring-do trying to escape by the power of his imagination from
+the pitiless grip of reality. Alas all that he did to satisfy his lust
+for adventure seemed only to increase it. The sight of his weapons kept
+him in a perpetual state of furious agitation. His rifles, his arrows
+and his spears rang out war-cries. In the branches of the baobab the
+wind whispered enticingly of great voyages.
+
+How often on these heavy summer afternoons, when he was alone, reading
+amongst his weaponry, did Tartarin jump to his feet and throwing down
+his book rush to the wall to arm himself, then, quite forgetting that
+he was in his own house at Tarascon, cry, brandishing a gun or a spear,
+"Let them all come"!!... Them?... What them? Tartarin did not quite know
+himself, "Them" was everything that attacked, that bit, that clawed.
+"Them" was the Indian brave dancing round the stake to which his
+wretched prisoner was tied. It was the grizzly bear, shuffling and
+swaying, licking bloodstained lips. The Toureg of the desert, the Malay
+pirate, the Corsican bandit. In a word it was "Them!"
+
+Alas it was fruitless for the fearless Tartarin to challenge them... they
+never appeared; but though it seemed unlikely that they would come
+to Tarascon, Tartarin was always ready for them, particularly in the
+evenings when he went to the club.
+
+
+
+
+Chapter 4.
+
+The knight of the temple preparing for a sortie against the Saracen. The
+Chinese warrior equipping himself for battle. The Comanchee brave taking
+to the warpath were as nothing compared to Tartarin de Tarascon arming
+himself to go to the club at nine o'clock on a dark evening, an hour
+after the bugle had blown the retreat. He was cleared for action as the
+sailors say.
+
+On his left hand he had a metal knuckleduster. In his right he carried
+a sword-stick. In his left pocket there was a cosh and in his right a
+revolver. Stuck into his waistband was a knife. Before setting out, in
+the privacy of his den, he carried out a few exercises. He made a pass
+at the wall with his sword-stick, drew his revolver, flexed his
+muscles and then taking his identity papers he crossed the
+garden... steadily... unhurriedly... � l'Anglais. That is the mark of true
+courage.
+
+At the end of the garden he opened the heavy iron gate. He opened it
+brusquely, violently, so that it banged against the wall. If "They" had
+been behind it, it would have made a fine mess of them. Unfortunately
+they were not behind it.
+
+Having opened the gate Tartarin went out, cast a quick look right and
+left, closed the gate swiftly and double locked it. Then he set off.
+
+On the Avignon road there was not so much as a cat. Doors were shut and
+curtains drawn across windows. Here and there a street light blinked in
+the mist rising from the Rh�ne.
+
+Superb and calm Tartarin de Tarascon strode through the night, his heels
+striking the road with measured tread and the metal tip of his cane
+raising sparks from the paving-stones. On boulevards, roads or lanes he
+was always careful to walk in the middle of the causeway, an excellent
+precaution which allows one to see approaching danger and moreover to
+avoid things which at night, in the streets of Tarascon, sometimes fall
+from windows. Seeing this prudence you should not entertain the notion
+that Tartarin was afraid. No! He was just being cautious.
+
+The clearest evidence that Tartarin was unafraid is that he went to the
+club not by the short way but by the longest and darkest way, through
+a tangle of mean little streets, at the end of which one glimpsed the
+sinister gleam of the Rhone. He almost hoped that at a bend in one of
+these alleys "They" would come rushing from the shadows to attack him
+from behind. They would have had a hot reception I can promise you;
+but sadly Tartarin was never fated to encounter any danger... not even a
+dog... not even a drunk... Nothing.
+
+Sometimes however there was an alarm. The sound of footsteps... Muffled
+voices. Tartarin comes to a halt, peering into the shadows, sniffing
+the air, straining his ears. The steps draw nearer, the voices more
+distinct... there can be no doubt..."They" are here. With heaving
+breast and eyes ablaze Tartarin is gathering himself like a jaguar and
+preparing to leap on his foes, when suddenly out of the gloom a good
+Tarasconais voice calls "Look! There's Tartarin! Hulloa there Tartarin!"
+Malediction! It is Bezuquet the chemist and his family who have been
+singing their ballad at the Costecaldes. "Bon soir, bon soir" growls
+Tartarin, furious at his mistake, and shouldering his cane he disappears
+angrily into the night.
+
+Arrived at the club the fearless Tarasconais waits a little longer,
+walking up and down in front of the door before entering. In the
+end, tired of waiting for "them" and certain that they will not show
+themselves, he throws a last look of defiance into the dark and mutters
+crossly "Nothing... nothing... always nothing" With that our hero goes in
+to play bezique with the Commandant.
+
+
+
+
+Chapter 5.
+
+With this lust for adventure, this need for excitement, this longing for
+journeys to Lord knows where, how on earth, you may ask, does it happen
+that Tartarin had never left Tarascon? For it is a fact that up to the
+age of forty-five the bold Tarasconais had never slept away from his
+home town. He had never even made the ritual journey to Marseille which
+every good Provencal makes when he comes of age. He might, of course,
+have visited Beaucaire, albeit Beaucaire is not very far from Tarascon,
+as one has only to cross the bridge over the Rh�ne. Regrettably,
+however, this wretched bridge is so often swept by high winds, is so
+long and so flimsy and the river at that point is so wide that... Ma
+foi... you will understand...!
+
+At this point I think one has to admit that there were two sides to our
+hero's character. On the one hand was the spirit of Don Quixote, devoted
+to chivalry, to heroic ideals, to grandiose romantic folly, but lacking
+the body of the celebrated hidalgo, that thin, bony apology of a body,
+careless of material wants, capable of going for twenty nights without
+unbuckling its breastplate and surviving for twenty-four hours on a
+handful of rice. Tartarin, on the other hand, had a good solid body,
+fat, heavy, sybaritic, soft and complaining, full of bourgeois appetites
+and domestic necessities, the short-legged, full-bellied body of Sancho
+Panza.
+
+Don Quixote and Sancho Panza in the same man! You may imagine the
+arguments, the quarrels, the fights. Carried away by some lurid tale
+of adventure, Tartarin-Quixote would clamour to be off to the fields of
+glory, to set sail for distant lands, but then Tartarin-Sancho ringing
+for the maid servant, would say "Jeanette, my chocolate." Upon which
+Jeanette would return with a fine cup of chocolate, hot, silky and
+scented, and some succulent grilled snacks, flavoured with anise;
+greatly pleasing Tartarin-Sancho and silencing the cries of
+Tartarin-Quixote.
+
+That is how it happens that Tartarin de Tarascon had never left
+Tarascon.
+
+
+
+
+Chapter 6.
+
+There was one occasion when Tartarin nearly went on a long
+journey. The three brothers Garcio-Camus, Tarasconais who were in
+business in Shanghai, offered him the management of one of their
+establishments. Now this was the sort of life he needed. Important
+transactions. An office full of clerks to control. Relations with
+Russia, Persia, Turkey. In short, Big Business, which in Tartarin's eyes
+was of enormous proportions.
+
+The establishment had another advantage in that it was sometimes
+attacked by bandits. On these occasions the gates were slammed shut, the
+staff armed themselves, the consular flag was hoisted and "Pan! Pan!"
+They fired through the windows at the bandits.
+
+I need hardly tell you with what enthusiasm Tartarin-Quixote greeted
+this proposal; unfortunately Tartarin-Sancho did not see the matter in
+the same light, and as his views prevailed the affair came to nothing.
+
+At the time there was a great deal of talk in the town. Was he going or
+not going? It was a matter for eager discussion.
+
+Although in the end Tartarin did not go, the event brought him a great
+deal of credit. To have nearly gone to Shanghai and actually to have
+gone there was for Tarascon much the same thing. As a result of so much
+talk about Tartarin's journey, people ended by believing that he had
+just returned, and in the evenings at the club the members would ask him
+for a description of the life in Shanghai, the customs, the climate, and
+big business.
+
+Tartarin, who had gathered much information from the brothers was happy
+to reply to their questions, and before long he was not entirely sure
+himself whether he had been to Shanghai or not; so much so that when
+describing for the hundredth time the raid by bandits he got to the
+point of saying "Then I dished out arms to my staff. Hoisted the
+consular flag and we fired 'Pan! Pan!' Through the windows at the
+bandits." On hearing this the members would exchange suitably solemn
+looks.
+
+Tartarin then, you will say, is just a frightful liar. No!.... A
+thousand times no! How is that? you may say, he must know vey well that
+he has not been to Shanghai... to be sure he knows... only.... Perhaps the
+time has come when we should settle the question of the reputation for
+lying which has been given to the people of the Midi.
+
+There are no liars in the Midi, neither at Marseille, nor Nimes, nor
+Toulouse, nor Tarascon. The man of the Midi does not lie, he deceives
+himself. He does not always speak the truth but he believes he speaks
+it. His untruth, for him, is not a lie, it is a sort of mirage. To
+understand better you must visit the Midi yourself. You will see a
+countryside where the sun transfigures everything and makes it larger
+than life-size. The little hills of Provence, no bigger than the Butte
+Montmartre will seem to you gigantic. The Maison Carr�e at Nimes, a
+pretty little Roman temple, will seem to you as big as Notre Dame. You
+will see that the only liar in the Midi, if there is one, is the sun;
+everything that he touches he exaggerates. Can you be surprised that
+this sun shining down on Tarascon has been able to make a retired
+Captain Quartermaster into the gallant Commandant Bravida, to make a
+thing like a turnip into a baobab and a man who almost went to Shanghai
+into one who has really been there.
+
+
+
+
+Chapter 7.
+
+Now that we have shown Tartarin as he was in his private life, before
+fame had crowned his head with laurels. Now that we have recounted the
+story of his heroic existance in modest surroundings, the story of his
+joys and sorrows, his dreams and his hopes, let us hurry forward to the
+important pages of his history and to the event which lent wings to his
+destiny.
+
+It was one evening at Costecalde the gunsmith's; Tartarin was explaining
+to some listeners the working of a pin-fire rifle, then something quite
+new, when suddenly the door was opened and a hat hunter rushed into
+the room in a great state shouting "A lion! a lion!" General amazement,
+fright, tumult and confusion. Tartarin grabbed a bayonet, Costecalde ran
+to close the door. The newcomer was surrounded and questioned nosily.
+What they learned was that the Menagerie Mitaine, returning from the
+fair at Beaucaire, had arranged to make a stop of several days at
+Tarascon, and had just set itself up in the Place du Ch�teau with a
+collection of snakes, seals, crocodiles, and a magnificent African
+lion.... An African lion at Tarascon!... such a thing had never been seen
+before, never in living memory.
+
+The brave band of hat hunters gazed proudly at one another. Their manly
+features glowed with pleasure and, in every corner of the shop, firm
+handshakes were silently exchanged. The emotion was so overwhelming, so
+unforseen that no one could find a word to say. Not even Tartarin. Pale
+and trembling, with the new rifle clutched in his hands, he stood in a
+trance at the shop counter. A lion!... an African lion!... nearby... a few
+paces away... A lion, the ferocious king of the beasts... the quarry of
+his dreams... one of the leading actors in that imaginary cast which
+played out such fine dramas in his fantasies. It was too much for
+Tartarin to bear. Suddenly the blood flooded to his cheeks. His eyes
+blazed, and with a convulsive gesture he slapped the rifle onto his
+shoulder, then turning to the brave Commandant Bravida (quartermaster.
+Ret) he said in a voice of thunder, "Come, Commandant, let us go and
+see this." "Excuse me. Excuse me. My new rifle." The prudent Costecalde
+hazarded timidly, but Tartarin was already in the street, and behind him
+all the hat hunters fell proudly into step.
+
+When they arrived at the menagerie it was already crowded. The brave
+people of Tarascon, too long deprived of sensational spectacles, had
+descended on the place and taken it by storm. The big madame Mitaine
+was in her element; dressed in an oriental costume, her arms bare to the
+elbows and with iron bracelets round her ankles, she had a whip in one
+hand and in the other a live chicken. She welcomed the Tarasconais to
+the show, and as she too had "Double muscles" she aroused almost as much
+interest as the animals in her charge.
+
+The arrival of Tartarin with the rifle on his shoulder produced
+something of a chill, all the bold Tarasconais who had been walking
+tranquilly before the cages, unarmed, trusting, with no notion of
+danger, became suddenly alarmed at the sight of the great Tartarin
+entering the place, carrying this lethal weapon. There must be something
+to fear if he, their hero.... In the blink of an eye the area in front of
+the cages was deserted, children were crying with fright and the ladies
+were eying the doorway. Bezuquet the chemist left hurridly, saying that
+he was going to fetch a gun.
+
+Little by little, however, the attitude of Tartarin restored their
+courage. Calm and erect, the intrepid Tarasconais strolled round the
+menagerie. He passed the seals without stopping. He cast a contemptuous
+eye on the container full of noise, where the boa was swallowing its
+chicken, and at last halted in front of the lion's cage.... A dramatic
+confrontation.... The lion of Tarascon and the lion of the Atlas
+mountains face to face.
+
+On one side stood Tartarin, his legs planted firmly apart, his arms
+resting on his rifle, on the other was the lion, a gigantic lion,
+sprawling in the straw, blinking its eyes drowsily and resting its
+enormous yellow-haired muzzle on its front paws... they regarded one
+another calmly... then something odd happened. Perhaps it was the sight
+of the rifle, perhaps it recognised an enemy of its kind, but the lion
+which up until then had looked on the people of Tarascon with sovereign
+disdain, yawning in their faces, seemed to feel a stirring of anger.
+First it sniffed and uttered a rumbling growl, it stretched out its
+forefeet and unsheathed its claws, then it got up, raised its head,
+shook its mane, opened its huge maw and directed at Tartarin a most
+ear-splitting roar.
+
+This was greeted by a cry of terror. Tarascon, in panic, rushed for the
+doors. Everyone, men, women, children, the hat shooters and even the
+brave Commandant Bravida himself. Only Tartarin did not move... he
+remained firm and resolute before the cage, a light shining in his eyes,
+and wearing that grim expression which the town knew so well. After a
+few moments, the hat shooters, somewhat reassured by his attitude and
+the solidity of the cage bars, rejoined their chief, to hear him mutter
+"Now that is something worth hunting." And that was all that he said.
+
+
+
+
+Chapter 8.
+
+Although at the memagerie he had said nothing more, he had already
+said too much. The following day all the talk of the town was of the
+impending departure of Tartarin for Africa, to shoot lions.
+
+You will bear witness that the good fellow had not breathed a word
+of this, but you know how it is... the mirage.... In short the whole of
+Tarascon could talk of nothing else.
+
+On the pavement, at the club, at Costecalde's shop, people accosted one
+another with an air of excitement.
+
+"Et autrement, have you heard the latest, au moins?"
+
+"Et autrement, what now, is Tartarin going, au moins?" For in Tarascon
+every remark begins with "Et autrement" which is pronounced "autremain"
+and ends with "au moins" which is pronounced "au mouain" and in these
+days the sound of "autremain" and "au mouain" was enough to rattle the
+windows.
+
+The most surprised person in the town to hear that he was leaving for
+Africa was Tartarin, but now see the effects of vanity. Instead of
+replying that he was not going and had never intended to go, poor
+Tartarin, on the first occasion that the subject was broached adopted a
+somewhat evasive air, "H�!... H�!... perhaps... I can't say." On the
+second occasion, now a little more accustomed to the idea, he replied
+"Probably" and on the third "Yes, definitely."
+
+Eventually, one evening at the club, carried away by some glasses of
+egg-nog, the public interest and the plaudits, he declared formally that
+he was tired of shooting at hats and was going shortly in pursuit of the
+great lions of Africa.
+
+A loud cheer greeted this declaration, then came more egg-nog,
+handshakes, embraces and torchlight serenades until midnight before the
+little house of the baobab.
+
+Tartarin-Sancho, however, was far from pleased. The idea of travelling
+to Africa and hunting lions scared him stiff and when they went into the
+house, and while the serenade of honour was still going on outside, he
+made the most frightful scene with Tartarin-Quixote, calling him a crazy
+dreamer, a rash triple idiot and detailing one by one the catastrophes
+which would await him on such an expedition. Shipwreck, fever,
+dysentery, plague, elephantiasis and so on... it was useless for
+Tartarin-Quixote to swear that he would be careful, that he would dress
+warmly, that he would take with him everything that might be needed,
+Tartarin-Sancho refused to listen. The poor fellow saw himself already
+torn to pieces by lions or swallowed up in the sands of the desert, and
+the other Tartarin could pacify him only a little by pointing out that
+these were plans for the future, that there was no hurry, that they had
+not yet actually started.
+
+Obviously one cannot embark on such an expedition without some
+preparation. One cannot take off like a bird. As a first measure
+Tartarin set about reading the reports of the great African explorers,
+the journals of Livingstone, Burton, Caill� and the like, there he saw
+that those intrepid travellers, before they put their boots on for these
+distant excursions, prepared themselves in advance to undergo hunger,
+thirst, long treks and privations of all sorts.
+
+Tartarin decided to follow their example and took to a diet of "Eau
+bouillie". What is called eau bouillie in Tarascon consists of several
+slices of bread soaked in warm water, with a clove of garlic, a little
+thyme and a bay leaf. It is not very palatable and you may imagine how
+Tartarin-Sancho enjoyed it.
+
+Tartarin de Tarascon combined this with several other sensible methods
+of training. For instance, to habituate himself to long marches he would
+go round his morning constitutional seven or eight times, sometimes at a
+brisk walk, sometimes at the trot with two pebbles in his mouth. Then to
+accustom himself to nocturnal chills and the mists of dawn, he went into
+the garden and stayed there until ten or eleven at night, alone with his
+rifle, on watch behind the baobab.
+
+Finally, for as long as the menagerie remained in Tarascon, those hat
+hunters who had stayed late at Costecalde's could see in the shadows, as
+they passed the Place du Ch�teau, a figure pacing up and down behind
+the cages... it was Tartarin training himself to listen unmoved to the
+roaring of lions in the African night.
+
+
+
+
+Chapter 9.
+
+While Tartarin was preparing himself by these strenuous methods, all
+Tarascon had its eyes on him. Nothing else was of interest. Hat shooting
+was abandoned, the ballads languished; in Bezuquet the chemist's the
+piano was silent beneath a green dust cover, with cantharides flies
+drying, belly up, on the top... Tartarin's expedition had brought
+everything to a halt.
+
+You should have seen the success of our hero in the drawing-rooms. He
+was seized, squabbled over, borrowed and stolen. There was no greater
+triumph for the ladies than to go, on the arm of Tartarin, to the
+menagerie Mitaine and to have him explain, in front of the lion's cage,
+how one goes about hunting these great beasts, at what point one
+aims and at what distance, whether there are many accidents, and so
+on... through his reading Tartarin had gained almost as much knowledge
+about lion hunting as if he had actually engaged in it himself, and so
+he spoke of these matters with much authority.
+
+Where Tartarin really excelled, however, was after dinner at the home of
+president Ladev�ze or the brave Commandant Bravida (quartermaster. Ret)
+when coffee had been served and the chairs pulled together, then with
+his elbow on the table, between sips of his coffee, our hero gave a
+moving description of all the dangers which awaited him "Over there"
+He spoke of long moonless watches, of pestilential marshes, of rivers
+poisoned by the leaves of oleanders, of snows, scorching suns, scorpions
+and clouds of locusts; he also spoke of the habits of the great lions
+of the Atlas, their phenomenal strength, their ferocity in the mating
+season.... Then, carried away by his own words, he would rise from the
+table and bound into the middle of the room, imitating the roar of the
+lion, the noise of the rifle "Pan! Pan!" The whistle of the bullet.
+Gesticulating, shouting, knocking over chairs... while at the table faces
+are grave, the men looking at one another and nodding their heads, the
+ladies closing their eyes with little cries of alarm. A grandfather
+brandishes his walking-stick in a bellicose manner and, in the next
+room, the small children who have been put to bed earlier are startled
+out of their sleep by the banging and bellowing, and greatly frightened
+demand lights.
+
+Tartarin, however, showed no sign of leaving for Africa... did he really
+have any intention of going? That is a delicate question and one to
+which his biographer would find difficulty in replying. The fact is that
+the menagerie had now been gone for three months but the killer of lions
+had not budged... could it be that our innocent hero, blinded perhaps
+by a new mirage, honestly believed that he had been to Africa, and
+by talking so much about his hunting expedition believed that it had
+actually taken place. Unfortunately, if this was the case and Tartarin
+had once more fallen victim to the mirage, the people of Tarascon had
+not. When it was observed that after three months of waiting the hunter
+had not packed a single bag, people began to talk.
+
+"This will turn out to be another Shanghai." Said Costecalde, smiling,
+and this remark spread round the town like wildfire, for people had lost
+their belief in Tartarin. The ignorant, the chicken-hearted, people like
+Bezuquet, whom a flea could put to flight, and who could not fire a gun
+without closing both eyes, these above all were pitiless. At the club,
+on the esplanade, they accosted poor Tartarin with little mocking
+remarks, "Et autremain, what about this trip then?" At Costecalde's
+shop his opinion was no longer law. The hat hunters had deserted their
+leader.
+
+Then there were the epigrams. President Ladev�ze who in his spare time
+dabbled in provencal poetry, composed a little song in dialect which
+was a great success. It concerned a certain hunter named master Gervaise
+whose redoubtable rifle was to exterminate every last lion in Africa.
+Sadly this rifle had a singular fault, although always loaded it never
+went off.... It never went off... you will understand the allusion. This
+song achieved instant popularity, and when Tartarin was passing, the
+stevedores on the quay and the grubby urchins hanging round his door
+would chant this insulting little ditty... only they sang it from a safe
+distance because of the double muscles.
+
+The great man himself pretended to see nothing, to hear nothing.
+Although at heart this underhand, venomous campaign hurt him deeply, in
+spite of his suffering, he continued to go about his life with a smile;
+but sometimes the mask of cheerful indifference which pride had pinned
+on his features slipped, then instead of laughter one saw indignation
+and grief. So it was one morning when some street urchins were chanting
+their jeers beneath the window of the room where our poor hero was
+trimming his beard. Suddenly the window was thrown open and Tartarin's
+head appeared, his face covered in soapsuds, waving a razor and shaving
+brush and shouting "Sword-thrusts, gentlemen, sword-thrusts, not
+pin-pricks!" Fine words but wasted on a bunch of brats about two bricks
+tall.
+
+Amid the general defection, the army alone stood firmly by Tartarin,
+the brave Commandant Bravida continued to treat him with esteem. "He's a
+stout fellow," He persisted in saying, and this affirmation was worth
+a good deal more, I should imagine, than anything said by Bezuquet the
+chemist.
+
+The gallant Commandant had never uttered a word about the African
+journey, but at last, when the public clamour became too loud to ignore,
+he decided to speak.
+
+One evening, the unhappy Tartarin was alone in his study thinking sad
+thoughts, when the Commandant appeared, somberly dressed and gloved,
+with every button fastened "Tartarin!" said the former captain, with
+authority, "Tartarin, you must go!" and he stood, upright and rigid in
+the doorway, the very embodiment of duty.
+
+All that was implied in that "Tartarin you must go" Tartarin understood.
+Very pale, he rose to his feet and cast a tender look round his
+pleasant study, so snug, so warm, so well lit, and at the the large,
+so comfortable armchair, at his books, his carpet and at the big white
+blinds of his window, beyond which swayed the slender stems of the
+little garden. Then advancing to the the brave Commandant, he took his
+hand, shook it vigorously and in a voice close to tears said stoically,
+"I shall go, Bravida." And he did go as he had said he would. Though not
+before he had gathered the necessary equipment.
+
+First, he ordered from Blompard two large cases lined with copper and
+with a large plaque inscribed TARTARIN DE TARASCON. FIREARMS. The
+lining and the engraving took a long time. He ordered from M. Tastevin
+a magnificent log-book in which to write his journal. Then he sent to
+Marseille for a whole cargo of preserved food, for pemmican tablets
+to make soup, for a bivouac tent of the latest design, which could be
+erected or struck in a few minutes, a pair of sea-boots, two umbrellas,
+a waterproof and a pair of dark glasses to protect his eyes. Finally,
+Bezuquet the chemist made up a medicine chest full of sticking plaster,
+pills and lotions. All these preparations were made in the hope that
+by these and other delicate attentions he could appease the fury of
+Tartarin-Sancho, which, since the departure had been decided, had raged
+unabated by day and by night.
+
+
+
+
+Chapter 10.
+
+At last the great day arrived. From first light the whole of Terascon
+was afoot, blocking the Avignon road and the approaches to the little
+house of the baobab. There were people at windows, on roofs, up trees.
+Bargees from the Rh�ne, stevedores, boot-blacks, clerks, weavers,
+the club members, in fact the whole town. Then there were people from
+Beaucaire who had come across the bridge, market-gardeners from
+the suburbs, carts with big hoods, vignerons mounted on fine mules
+ornamented with ribbons, tassels, bows and bells, and even here and
+there some pretty girls from Arles, with blue kerchiefs round their
+heads, riding on the crupper behind their sweethearts on the small
+iron-grey horses of the Camargue. All this crowd pushed and jostled
+before Tartarin's gate, the gate of this fine M. Tartarin who was going
+to kill lions in the country of the "Teurs". (In Tarascon: Africa,
+Greece, Turkey and Mesopotamia formed a vast, vague almost mythical
+country which was called the Teurs... that is the Turks). Throughout
+this mob the hat shooters came and went, proud of the triumph of their
+leader, and leaving in their wake, as it were, little trails of glory.
+
+In front of the house of the baobab there were two large handcarts. From
+time to time the gate was opened and one could see men walking busily
+about in the garden. They carried out trunks, cases and carpet-bags
+which they piled onto the carts. On the arrival of each new package the
+crowd stirred and a description of the article was shouted out. "That's
+his tent! There's the preserved foods! The medicine chest! The arms
+chest!" While the hat shooters gave a running commentary.
+
+Suddenly, at about ten o'clock, there was a great movement in the crowd.
+The garden gate swung back violently on its hinges.... "It's him!....
+Its him!" they cried.
+
+It was indeed him. When he appeared on the threshold, two cries
+of amazement rose from the crowd:--"He's a Teur!.... He's wearing
+sun-glasses!".... Tartarin, it is true, had believed that as he was going
+to Algeria he should adopt Algerian costume. Large baggy pantaloons of
+white cloth, a small tight jacket with metal buttons, a red sash wound
+round his stomach and on his head a gigantic "Chechia" (a red floppy
+bonnet) with an immensely long blue tassel dangling from its crown.
+Added to this, he carried two rifles, one on each shoulder, a hunting
+knife stuck into the sash round his middle, a cartridge-bag slung on
+one side and a revolver in a leather holster on the other. That was
+it. Ah!... forgive me... I forgot the sun-glasses, a huge pair of blue
+sun-glasses which were just the very thing to correct any suggestion of
+extravagance in his turnout.
+
+"Vive Tartarin!... Vive Tartarin!" Yelled the people. The great man
+smiled but did not wave, partly because of the rifles, which were giving
+him some trouble and partly because he had learned what little value one
+can place on popular favour. Perhaps even, in the depths of his soul, he
+cursed these terrible compatriots who were forcing him to leave, to quit
+his pretty little house with its green shutters and white walls, but if
+so he did not show it. Calm and proud, though a little pale, he marched
+down the pathway, inspected his handcarts and seeing that all was in
+order set off jauntily on the road to the station, without looking back
+even once at the house of the baobab.
+
+On his arrival at the station he was greeted by the station-master,
+a former soldier, who shook him warmly by the hand several times. The
+Paris-Marseille express had not yet arrived, so Tartarin and his general
+staff went into the waiting-room. To keep back the following crowd the
+station-master closed the barriers.
+
+For fifteen minutes Tartarin paced back and forward, surrounded by the
+hat shooters. He spoke to them of his coming expedition, promising to
+send them skins, and entering their orders in his note-book as if they
+were a list of groceries. As tranquil as was Socrates at the moment
+when he drank the hemlock, the bold Tartarin had a word for everyone.
+He spoke simply and affably, as if before departing he wished to leave
+behind a legacy of charm, happy memories and regrets. To hear their
+chief speak thus brought tears to the eyes of the hat shooters, and to
+some, such as the president Ladev�ze and the chemist Bezuquet, even a
+twinge of remorse. Some of the station staff were dabbing their eyes in
+corners, while outside the crowd peered through the railings and shouted
+"Vive Tartarin!"
+
+Then a bell rang. There was a rumbling noise of wheels. A piercing
+whistle split the heavens... All aboard!... All aboard!... Goodbye
+Tartarin!... Goodbye Tartarin!. "Goodbye everyone" murmured the great
+man, and on the cheeks of the brave Commandant Bravida he planted a
+farewell salute to his beloved Tarascon. Then he hurried along the
+platform and got into a carriage full of Parisian ladies, who almost
+died of fright at the appearance of this strange man with his revolver
+and rifles.
+
+
+
+
+Chapter 11.
+
+On the first day of December 186-, in the clear bright winter sunshine
+of Provence, the startled inhabitants of Marseille witnessed the arrival
+of a Teur. Never had they seen one like this before, though God knows
+there is no shortage of Teurs in Marseille. The Teur, need I tell you,
+was none other than Tartarin de Tarascon, who was proceeding down the
+quay followed by his case of arms, his medicine chest and his preserved
+foods, in search of the embarkation point of the Compagnie Touache and
+the ferry-boat "Le Zouave" which was to carry him away.
+
+His ears still ringing with the cheers of Tarascon and bemused by the
+brightness of the sky and the smell of the sea, Tartarin marched along,
+his rifles slung on his shoulders, gazing around in wonder at this
+marvellous port of Marseille, which he was seeing for the first time and
+which quite dazzled him. He almost felt that he was dreaming and that
+like Sinbad he was wandering in one of the fabulous cities of the
+Thousand and one Nights.
+
+As far as the eye could see, there stretched a jumble of masts and
+yards, criss-crossing in all directions. The flags of a multitude of
+nations fluttering in the wind. The ships level with the quay, their
+bowsprits projecting over the edge like a row of bayonets, and below
+them the carved and painted wooden figureheads of nymphs, goddesses
+and saintly virgins from which the ships took their names. From time to
+time, between the hulls one could see a patch of sea, like a great sheet
+of cloth spattered with oil, while in the entanglement of yardarms a
+host of seagulls made pretty splashes of white against the blue sky.
+On the quay, amid the streams which trickled from the soapworks, thick,
+green, streaked with black, full of oil and soda, there was a whole
+population of customs officers, shipping agents, and stevedores with
+trollies drawn by little Corsican ponies. There were shops selling
+strange sweetmeats. Smoke enshrouded huts where seamen were cooking.
+There were merchants selling monkeys, parrots, rope, sailcloth and
+fantastic collections of bric-a-brac where, heaped up pell-mell, were
+old culverins, great gilded lanterns, old blocks and tackle, old rusting
+anchors, old rigging, old megaphones, old telescopes, dating from the
+time of Jean Bart.
+
+There were women selling shellfish, crouched bawling beside their wares,
+sailors passing, some with pots of tar, some with steaming pots of stew,
+others with baskets full of squid which they were taking to wash in the
+fresh water of the fountains. Everywhere prodigious heaps of merchandise
+of every kind. Silks, minerals, baulks of timber, ingots of lead,
+carobs, rape-seed, liquorice, sugar cane, great piles of dutch cheeses.
+East and west hugger-mugger.
+
+Here is the grain berth. Stevedores empty the sacks onto the quay from
+a scaffold, the grain pours down in a golden torrent raising a cloud of
+pale dust, and is loaded by men wearing red fezes into carts, which
+set off followed by a regiment of women and children with brushes and
+buckets for gleaning.
+
+There is the careening basin. The huge vessels lie over on one side and
+are flamed with fires of brushwood to rid them of seaweed, while their
+yardarms soak in the water. There is a smell of pitch and the deafening
+hammering of shipwrights lining the hulls with sheets of copper.
+
+Sometimes, between the masts, a gap opened and Tartarin could see the
+harbour mouth and the movement of ships. An English frigate leaving for
+Malta, spruce and scrubbed, with officers in yellow gloves, or a big
+Marseilles brig, casting off amid shouting and cursing, with, in the
+bows, a fat captain in an overcoat and a top hat, supervising the
+manoeuvre in broad provencal. There were ships outward bound, running
+before the wind with all sails set, there were others, far out at sea,
+beating their way in and seeming in the sunshine to be floating on air.
+
+Then, all the time the most fearsome racket. The rumbling of cart
+wheels, the cries of the sailors, oaths, songs, the sirens of
+steam-boats, the drums and bugles of Fort St. Jean and Fort St. Nicolas,
+the bells of nearby churches and, up above, the mistral, which took all
+of these sounds, rolled them together, shook them up and mingled
+them with its own voice to make mad, wild, heroic music, like a great
+fanfare, urging one to set sail for distant lands, to spread one's wings
+and go. It was to the sound of this fine fanfare that Tartarin embarked
+for the country of lions.
+
+
+
+
+Chapter 12.
+
+I wish that I was a painter, a really good painter, so that I could
+present to you a picture of the different positions adopted by
+Tartarin's chechia during the three days of the passage from France to
+Algeria.
+
+I would show it to you first at the departure, proud and stately as it
+was then, crowning that noble Tarascon head. I would show it next when,
+having left the harbour, the Zouave began to lift on the swell. I would
+show it fluttering and astonished, as if feeling the first premonitions
+of distress.
+
+Then, in the gulf of Lion, when the Zouave was further offshore and
+the sea a little rougher, I would present it at grips with the storm,
+clutching, bewildered, at the head of our hero, its long blue woollen
+tassel streaming in the spume and gusting wind.
+
+The fourth position. Six in the evening. Off the coast of Corsica. The
+wretched chechia is leaning over the rail and sadly contemplating the
+depths of the ocean.
+
+Fifth and last position. Down in a narrow cabin, in a little bed which
+has the appearance of a drawer in a commode, something formless and
+desolate rolls about, moaning, on the pillow. It is the chechia, the
+heroic chechia, now reduced to the vulgar status of a night-cap, and
+jammed down to the ears of a pallid and convulsing invalid.
+
+Ah! If the townsfolk of Tarascon could have seen the great Tartarin,
+lying in his commode drawer, in the pale, dismal light which filtered
+through the porthole, amongst the stale smell of cooking and wet wood,
+the depressing odour of the ferry boat. If they had heard him groan
+at every turn of the propeller, ask for tea every five minutes, and
+complain to the steward in the weak voice of a child, would they have
+regretted having forced him to leave? On my word, the poor Tuer deserved
+pity. Overcome by sea-sickness, he had not the will even to loosen
+his sash or rid himself of his weapons. The hunting knife with the big
+handle dug into his ribs. His revolver bruised his leg, and the final
+straw was the nagging of Tartarin-Sancho, who never ceased whining and
+carping:--"Imbecile! Va! I warned you didn't I?.... But you had to go to
+Africa!.... Well now you're on your way, how do you like it?"
+
+What was every bit as cruel was that, shut in his cabin, between his
+groans he could hear the other passengers in the saloon, laughing,
+eating, singing, playing cards. The society in the Zouave was as
+cheerful as it was diverse. There were some officers on their way to
+rejoin their units, a bevy of tarts from Marseille, a rich Mahommedan
+merchant, returning from Mecca, some strolling players, a Montenegran
+prince, a great joker this, who did impersonations.... Not one of these
+people was sea-sick and they spent the time drinking champagne with the
+captain of the Zouave, a fat "Bon viveur" from Marseille, who had an
+establishment there and another in Algiers, and who rejoiced in the name
+of Barbassou. Tartarin hated all these people. Their gaity redoubled his
+misery.
+
+At last, in the afternoon of the third day, there was some unusual
+activity on board the ship, which roused our hero from his torpor. The
+bell in the bows rang out... the heavy boots of the sailors could be
+heard running on the deck... "Engine ahead!... engine astern!." Shouted
+the hoarse voice of Captain Barbassou. Then "Stop engine!"
+
+The engine stopped, there was a little tremor and then nothing. The
+ferry lay rocking gently from side to side, like a balloon in the air.
+This strange silence horrified Tartarin. "My God! We are sinking!" He
+cried in a voice of terror, and recovering his strength as if by magic,
+he rushed up onto the deck.
+
+
+
+
+Chapter 13.
+
+The Zouave was not sinking. She had just dropped her anchor in a fine
+anchorage of deep, dark water. Opposite, on the hillside, was Algiers,
+its little matt-white houses running down to the sea, huddled one
+against the other, like a pile of white washing laid out on a river
+bank. Up above a great sky of satin blue... but oh!... So blue!
+
+Tartarin, somewhat recovered from his fright, gazed at the landscape,
+while listening respectfully to the Montenegrin prince, who standing
+beside him, pointed out the different quarters of the town. The Casbah,
+the upper town, the Rue Bab-Azoum. Very well educated this prince of
+Montenegro. What is more he knew Algiers well and spoke Arabic. Tartarin
+had decided to cultivate his acquaintance when suddenly, along the rail
+on which they were leaning, he saw a row of big black hands grasping it
+from below. Almost immediately a curly black head appeared in front of
+him and before he could open his mouth the deck was invaded from all
+side by a swarm of pirates; black, yellow, half naked, hideous and
+terrible. Tartarin knew at once that it was "Them" The fearsome "Them"
+who he had so often expected at night in the streets of Tarascon. Now
+they had arrived.
+
+At first surprise glued him to the spot, but when he saw the pirates
+hurl themselves on the baggage, tear off the tarpaulin covers and begin
+to pillage the ship, our hero came to life. Drawing his hunting knife
+and shouting "Aux armes!... Aux armes!" To his fellow passengers, he
+prepared to lead an assault on the raiders. "Ques aco?... What's the
+matter with you?" Said Captain Barbassou as he came off the bridge.
+"Ah!... There you are Captain.... Quick! Quick! Arm your men!" "H�!... Do
+what? Why for God's sake?" "But don't you see?" "See what?" "There,
+in front of you... the pirates!" Captain Barbassou regarded him with
+astonishment..... At that moment a huge monster of a black man ran past
+carrying the medicine chest. "Wretch! Wait till I catch you!" Yelled
+Tartarin, starting forward with his knife held aloft. Barbassou caught
+him and held him by his sash. "Calm down for Chrissake." He said,
+"These are not pirates, there have been no pirates for ages, these are
+stevedores." "Stevedores?" "H�! Yes, stevedores who have come to collect
+the baggage and take it ashore. Put away your cutlass, give me your
+ticket and follow that negro, an excellent fellow, who will take you
+ashore and even to your hotel if you wish."
+
+Somewhat confused Tartarin surrendered his ticket and following the
+negro he went down the gangplank into a large boat which was bobbing
+alongside the ferry. All his baggage was there, his trunks, cases of
+weapons and preserved food, as they took up all the room in the boat,
+there was no need to wait for other passengers. The negro climbed onto
+the baggage and squatted there with his arms wrapped round his knees.
+Another negro took the oars... the two of them regarded Tartarin, laughing
+and showing their white teeth.
+
+Standing in the stern, wearing his fiercest expression, Tartarin
+nervously fingered the handle of his hunting knife, for in spite of what
+Barbassou had told him, he was only half reassured about the intentions
+of these ebony-skinned stevedores, who looked so different from honest
+longshoremen of Tarascon.
+
+Three minutes later the boat reached land and Tartarin set foot on the
+little Barbary quay, where three hundred years earlier a galley-slave
+named Michael Cervantes, under the whip of an Algerian galley-master,
+had begun to plan the wonderful story of Don Quixote.
+
+
+
+
+Chapter 14.
+
+If by any chance the ghost of Micheal Cervantes was abroad on that bit
+of the Barbary coast, it must have been delighted at the arrival of this
+splendid specimen of a Frenchman from the Midi, in whom were combined
+the two heroes of his book, Don Quixote and Sancho Panza.
+
+It was a warm day. On the quay, bathed in sunshine, were five or
+six customs officers, some settlers awaiting news from France, some
+squatting Moors, smoking their long pipes, some Maltese fishermen,
+hauling in a large net, in the meshes of which thousands of sardines
+glittered like pieces of silver; but scarcely had Tartarin set
+foot there when the quay sprang into life and changed entirely its
+appearance.
+
+A band of savages, more hideous even than the pirates of the boat,
+seemed to rise from the very cobble-stones to hurl themselves on the
+newcomer. Huge Arabs, naked beneath their long woolen garments, little
+Moors dressed in rags, Negroes, Tunisians, hotel waiters in white
+aprons, pushing and shouting, plucking at his clothes, fighting over his
+luggage; one grabbing his preserves another his medicine chest and, in a
+screeching babel of noise, throwing at his head the improbable names
+of hotels.... Deafened by this tumult, Tartarin ran hither and
+thither,struggling, fuming, and cursing after his baggage, and not
+knowing how to communicate with these barbarians, harangued them in
+French, Provencal and even what he could remember of Latin. It was a
+wasted effort, no one was listening.... Happily, however, a little man
+dressed in a tunic with a yellow collar and armed with a long cane
+arrived on the scene and dispersed the rabble with blows from his stick.
+He was an Algerian policeman. Very politely he arranged for Tartarin to
+go to the Hotel de l'Europe, and confided him to the care of some locals
+who led him away with all his baggage loaded on several barrows.
+
+As he took his first steps in Algiers, Tartarin looked about him
+wide-eyed. He had imagined beforehand a fairylike Arabian city,
+something between Constantinople and Zanzibar... but here he was back
+in Tarascon. Some caf�s some restaurants, wide streets, houses of four
+stories, a small tarmac square where a military band played Offenbach
+polkas, men seated on chairs, drinking beer and nibbling snacks, a few
+ladies, a sprinkling of tarts and soldiers, more soldiers, everywhere
+soldiers... and not a single "Teur" in sight except for him... so he found
+walking across the square a bit embarrassing. Everyone stared.... The
+military band stopped playing and the Offenbach polka came to a halt
+with one foot in the air.
+
+With his two rifles on his shoulders, his revolver by his side,
+unflinching and stately he passed through the throng, but on reaching
+the hotel his strength deserted him. The departure from Tarascon. The
+harbour at Marseille. The crossing. The Montenegrin prince. The pirates,
+all whirled in confusion round his brain. He had to be taken up to his
+room, disarmed and undressed... there was even talk of sending for a
+doctor, but hardly had his head touched the pillow than he began to
+snore so loudly and vigorously that the hotel manager decided that
+medical assistance was not required, and everyone discreetly withdrew.
+
+
+
+
+Chapter 15.
+
+The bell of the government clock was sounding three when Tartarin awoke.
+He had slept all evening, all night, all morning and even a good part of
+the afternoon. It has, of course, to be admitted that over the preceding
+three days the chechia had had a pretty rough time.
+
+His first thought on waking was "Here I am, in lion country!" and it
+must be confessed that this notion that he was surrounded by lions
+and was about to go in pursuit of them produced a marked chill, and he
+buried himself safely under the bedclothes.
+
+Soon, however, the gaiety of the scene outside, the sky so blue, the
+bright sunshine which flooded into his room through the large window
+which opened towards the sea, and a good meal which he had served in
+bed, washed down by a carafe of wine, quickly restored his courage. "To
+the lions! To the lions!" He cried, and throwing off the bed clothes he
+dressed himself hurriedly.
+
+His plan of action was this. Leave town and go well out into the desert.
+Wait until nightfall. Lie in hiding, and at the first lion that comes
+along... Pan! Pan!.... Return in the morning. Lunch at hotel. Receive the
+congratulations of the Algerians and hire a cart to go and collect the
+kill.
+
+He armed himself hastily, strapped onto his back the bivouac tent, the
+pole of which stuck up above his head, and then, held rigid by this
+contraption, he went down to the street. He turned sharply to the right
+and walked to the end of the shopping arcade of Bab-Azoum, where a
+series of Algerian store-keepers watched him pass, concealed in corners
+of their dark boutiques like spiders. He went through the Place du
+th�atre, through the suburbs and eventually reached the dusty main road
+to Mustapha.
+
+Here was a fantastic confusion of traffic. There were coaches, cabs,
+curricles, military supply wagons, great carts of hay drawn by oxen,
+some squadrons of Chasseurs d'Afrique, troops of microscopic little
+donkeys, negresses selling galettes, loads of emigrants from Alsasce,
+some Spahis in red cloaks. All passing in a great cloud of dust, with
+cries, songs and trumpet calls, between two rows of miserable shacks,
+where could be seen prostitutes applying their make-up at their doors,
+tap-rooms full of soldiers and the stalls of butchers and slaughtermen.
+The tales I have been told about this place are quite untrue, thought
+Tartarin, there are fewer "Teurs" here than there are in Marseille.
+
+Suddenly he saw striding past him, long-legged and proud as a turkey
+cock, a magnificent camel. The sight quickened his pulse; where there
+were camels lions could not be far away, and indeed within five minutes
+he saw coming towards him with guns on their shoulders, a whole company
+of lion hunters with their dogs.
+
+A cowardly lot, thought Tartarin, as he came alongside them... hunting
+lions in a group and with dogs... for it had never occurred to him that
+In Algeria one could hunt anything but lions. However these hunters
+looked like comfortably retired businessmen, and Tartarin, curious about
+this way of hunting lions with dogs and game-bags, took it on himself to
+address one of them.
+
+"Et autrement, my friend, a good day?"
+
+"Not bad" Replied the other, looking with some surprise at the heavy
+armament of our Tarascon warrior.
+
+"You have killed some of them?"
+
+"Yes... a few... as you can see." And the Algerian pointed to his
+game-bag, bulging with rabbits and woodcock.
+
+"How is that?... you put them in your game-bag?"
+
+"Where would you like me to put them?"
+
+"But then they... they must be very small!"
+
+"Some big, some small." Said the hunter, and as he was in a hurry to
+catch up with his companions and go home, he made off at high speed.
+Tartarin stood, stupefied, in the middle of the road. Then after a
+moment of thought "Bah!" He said to himself, "These people are trying to
+have me on, they haven't shot anything." And he continued on his way.
+
+Already the houses were becoming more scattered, the passers-by less
+frequent. Night was falling. Objects becoming less distinct.... He
+marched on for another half an hour, and then he stopped. It was now
+completely dark, a moonless night spangled with stars. There was no one
+on the road, but in spite of that Tartarin reckoned that lions were
+not like coaches and would not stick to the highway. He set off across
+country. At every step there were ditches, thorns and bushes. No matter,
+he walked on until at last he reached a spot he thought suited to his
+purpose. A likely place for lions.
+
+
+
+
+Chapter 16.
+
+He was in a vast, wild desert, bristling with bizarre plants. African
+plants, which have the appearance of savage animals. In the faint light
+from the stars their shadows spread over the ground in all directions.
+On the right was the confused, looming mass of a mountain, the Atlas
+perhaps, to the left could be heard the dull surge of the invisible sea.
+An ideal spot to tempt wild animals!
+
+Placing one rifle on the ground before him and taking the other in his
+hands, Tartarin settled down and waited... he waited for an hour... two
+hours.... Then he remembered that in his books the famous lion hunters
+always used a kid as bait, which they tethered at some distance in front
+of them and made to bleat by pulling on a string attached to its leg.
+Lacking a kid, he had the idea of trying an imitation and began to bleat
+in a goat-like manner, "M�!... M�!...." At first very quietly, because, in
+the depths of his heart he was a little afraid that the lion might
+hear him... then seeing that nothing happened he bleated more loudly,
+"M�!... M�!... M�!...." And then louder still, "M�!... M�!... M�!..."
+
+Suddenly, a few paces in front of him, something black and gigantic
+materialised. He shut up... the thing crouched, sniffed the ground,
+leapt up, turned and ran off at a gallop... then it came back and stopped
+short. It was a lion! There could be no doubt. Now one could see quite
+clearly the four short legs, the formidable forequarters and two
+huge eyes gleaming in the darkness.... Aim!... Fire!...
+Pan!... Pan!.... Tartarin backed away, drawing his hunting knife
+
+Following Tartarin's shot there was a terrible outcry, "I've got him!"
+Cried the good Tarasconais and prepared himself to receive a possible
+attack, but the creature had had enough and it fled at top speed,
+bellowing.... He, however, did not budge: he was waiting for the
+female... as happened in all his books. Unfortunately the female failed
+to turn up, and after two or three hours of waiting Tartarin became
+tired. The ground was damp, the night was growing cool, there was a nip
+in the breeze from the sea... "Perhaps I should have a nap while I wait
+for daylight" he said to himself, and to provide some shelter he had
+recourse to the bivouac tent. A difficulty now arose, the bivouac tent
+was of such an ingenious design that he was quite unable to erect it. He
+struggled and sweated for a long time, but there was no way in which he
+could get the thing up, so at last he threw it on the ground and lay on
+top of it, cursing it in Provencal.
+
+Ta!... Ta!... Ta!... Tarata! "Ques aco?" said Tartarin, waking up with a
+start. It was the trumpets of the Chasseurs d'Afrique sounding reveille
+in the barracks at Mustapha. The lion killer rubbed his eyes in
+amazement. He who had believed that he was in the middle of a
+desert... do you know where he was?... In a field full of artichokes,
+between a cauliflower and a swede... his Sahara was a vegetable patch.
+
+Nearby, on the pretty green coast of upper Mustapha, white Algerian
+villas gleamed in the dawn light, one might have been among the suburban
+houses in the outskirts of Marseille. The bourgeois appearance of the
+sleeping countryside greatly astonished Tartarin and put him in a bad
+humour. "These people are crazy", he said to himself, "To plant their
+artichokes in an area infested by lions. For I was not dreaming, there
+are lions here and there is the proof".
+
+The proof was a trail of blood which the fleeing beast had left behind
+it. Following this blood-spoor, with watchful eye and revolver in hand,
+the valiant Tarasconais went from artichoke to artichoke until he arrived
+at a small field of oats.... In a patch of flattened grain was a pool
+of blood and in the middle of the pool, lying on its side with a large
+wound to its head, was... what?... a lion?... No Parbleu!... A donkey!
+One of the tiny donkeys so common in Algeria, which there are called
+"Bourriquots".
+
+
+
+
+Chapter 17.
+
+Tartarin's first reaction at the sight of his unfortunate victim was
+one of annoyance. There is after all a considerable difference between
+a lion and a bourriquot. This was quickly replaced by a feeling of pity.
+The poor bourriqout was so pretty, so gentle, its warm flanks rising and
+falling as it breathed. Tartarin knelt down and with the end of his sash
+he tried to staunch the blood from its wound. The sight of this great
+man tending the little donkey was the most touching thing you could
+imagine. At the soothing contact of the sash, the bourriquot, which
+was already at death's door, opened a big grey eye and twitched once
+or twice its long ears, as if to say "Thank you!... Thank you!". Then a
+final tremor shook it from head to tail and it moved no more.
+
+"Noiraud!... Noiraud!" Came a sudden cry from a strident, anxious voice,
+and the branches of some nearby bushes were thrust aside. Tartarin had
+barely time to get up and put himself on guard. It was the female!...
+She arrived, roaring and terrible, in the guise of an elderly Alsation
+lady in a rabbit-skin coat, armed with a red umbrella and calling for
+her donkey in a voice which woke all the echoes of Mustapha. Certainly
+it might have been better for Tartarin to have had to deal with an angry
+lioness than this infuriated old lady. In vain he tried to explain what
+had happened... how he had mistaken Noiraud for a lion, she thought he
+was trying to make fun of her and, uttering loud cries of indignation,
+she set about our hero with blows from her umbrella. Tartarin, in
+confusion, defended himself as best he could, parrying the blows
+with his rifle, sweating, puffing, jumping about and crying "But
+Madame!... But Madame!". To no avail. Madame was deaf to his pleas and
+redoubled her efforts.
+
+Happily a third party arrived on the field of battle. It was the husband
+of the Alsation lady, also an Alsation.... A tavern keeper and a shrewd
+man of business. When he saw with whom he was dealing and that the
+assassin was willing to pay for his crime, he disarmed his spouse and
+took her to one side. Tartarin gave two hundred francs. The donkey was
+worth at least ten, which is the going price for bourriquots in the Arab
+market. Then the poor Noiraud was buried beneath a fig tree, and the
+Alsation, put in a good humour at the sight of so much money, invited
+our hero to break a crust at his tavern, which was not far away at the
+edge of the main road. The Algerian hunters went there every Sunday
+for luncheon; for the countryside was full of game, and for two leagues
+about the city there was not a better place for rabbits. "And the
+lions?" Asked Tartarin. The Alsation looked at him with surprise... "The
+lions?" "Yes, the lions, do you see them sometimes?" Tartarin replied,
+with a little less assurance. The tavern-keeper burst out laughing,
+"Lions!... Lions!... What is all this about lions?" "Are there no lions
+in Algeria then?" "Moi foi! I have been here for twenty years and I have
+never seen any.... though I did once hear... I think there was a report
+in the newspaper... but it was long ago... somewhere in the south"....
+
+At that moment they reached the tavern, a wayside pot house, the sort of
+thing one can see by any main road. It had a very faded sign above the
+door, some billiard cues painted on the wall and the inoffensive name
+"Au rendezvous des lapins".
+
+
+
+
+Chapter 18.
+
+This first adventure would have been enough to discourage many people,
+but seasoned characters such as Tartarin are not so easily disheartened.
+The lions are in the south, thought our hero, very well I shall go to
+the south.
+
+As soon as he had swallowed his last morsel, he got up, thanked his
+host, took leave of the old lady without any ill-feeling, shed a last
+tear over the unfortunate Noiraud and headed quickly for Algiers, with
+the firm intention of packing his trunks and departing that same day for
+the south.
+
+Sadly, the main Mustapha road seemed to have grown longer during the
+night. There was so much sunshine, so much dust, the bivouac tent was
+so heavy, that Tartarin could not face the walk back to the town and
+he hailed the first horse-drawn omnibus which came along and climbed
+in.... Poor Tartarin! How much better it would have been for his
+reputation if he had not entered that fateful vehicle, and had continued
+his journey on foot, even at the risk of collapsing from the heat and
+the weight of his two double-barreled rifles and the bivouac tent.
+
+With Tartarin aboard, the omnibus was now full. At the far end was an
+Algerian priest with a big black beard, his nose stuck in his breviary.
+Opposite was a young Moorish merchant, puffing at a large cigarette,
+then a Maltese seaman, and four or five Moorish women, with white linen
+masks, whose eyes alone were visible. These ladies had been on a visit
+to the cemetery of Abd-el-Kader, but this did not seem to have depressed
+them. Behind their masks they laughed and chattered among themselves and
+munched pastries.
+
+It seemed to Tartarin that they cast many glances in his direction, and
+one in particular, who was seated opposite him, fixed her gaze on him
+and did not remove it.
+
+Although the lady was veiled, the liveliness of her large dark eyes,
+emphasised by kohl, a delicate little wrist, encircled by gold
+bracelets, which one glimpsed from time to time amidst her draperies,
+the sound of her voice, the graceful movements of her head, all
+suggested that beneath her garments was someone young, pretty and
+loveable.
+
+The embarrassed Tartarin did not know which way to turn. The silent
+caress of these beautiful dark eyes set his heart aflutter. He blushed
+and paled by turns. Then to complete his downfall he felt on his
+massive boot the lady's dainty slipper scurrying about like a little
+red mouse.... What was he to do?... Reply to these looks, this touch?...
+Yes... but an amorous intrigue in this part of the world can have
+terrible consequences. In his imagination Tartarin already saw himself
+seized by eunuchs, decapitated or even worse, sewn into a sack and
+tossed into the sea with his head beside him.
+
+This thought cooled his ardour a little, but the little slipper
+continued to tease and the he eyes opened very wide, like two black
+velvet flowers which seemed to say "Come and gather us!"
+
+The omnibus stopped. It had arrived at the Place du th�atre, at the
+entrance to the Rue Bab Azoum. One by one, enveloped in their billowing
+garments and drawing their veils about them with savage grace, the Moors
+dismounted. Tartarin's neighbour was the last to leave and as she rose
+to go her face was so close to that of our hero that their breaths
+mingled and he was aware of a bouquet of youth, jasmine, musk and
+pastries.
+
+He could no longer resist. Drunk with love and ready to face anything,
+he scrambled after the Moor... At the sound of his clumsy footsteps she
+turned and put her finger to her lips, as if to say "Hush" and with
+the other hand she tossed him a little scented garland made of jasmine
+flowers. Tartarin bent to pick it up, but as he was somewhat overweight
+and much encumbered by his weapons, the operation took a little
+time... When he rose, the garland pressed to his heart, the little Moor
+had disappeared.
+
+
+
+
+Chapter 19.
+
+Sleep, lions of the Atlas! Sleep tranquilly in your lairs amongst the
+aloes and the cactus! It wil be some time before Tartarin de Tarascon
+comes to slaughter you. At the moment his equipment, his arms, his
+medicine chest, the preserved food and the bivouac tent are piled
+up peacefully in a corner of room 36 in the Hotel de l'Europe. Sleep
+without fear, great tawny lions! The Tarasconais is searching for his
+Moor.
+
+Since the events in the omnibus, the unhappy man seems to feel
+constantly on his feet the scurrying of the little red mouse, and the
+sea breeze which wafts across his face seems somehow perfumed by an
+amorous odour of patisserie and anise. He must find his Dulcinea; but to
+find in a city of one hundred thousand inhabitants a person of whom one
+knows only the scent of their breath, the appearance of their slippers
+and the colour of their eyes is no light undertaking. Only a lovesick
+Tarasconais would attempt such a task. To make matters worse, it must be
+confessed that beneath their masks all Moorish ladies tend to look very
+much the same; and then they do not go out a great deal, and if one
+wants to see them one must go to the upper town, the Arab town, the town
+of the Teurs.
+
+A real cut-throat place that upper town. Little dark alley-ways, very
+narrow, climbing steeply between two rows of silent, mysterious houses
+whose roofs touch to make a tunnel. Low doorways and small windows,
+opaque and barred, and then, to right and left, little shops within
+whose deep shade fierce "Teurs" with piratical faces, glittering eyes
+and gleaming teeth, smoke their hookahs and converse in low tones, as
+if planning some wicked deed.... To say that Tartarin walked through this
+fearsome township unmoved would be to lie. He was on the contrary moved
+a good deal, and in those obscure alleys where his large stomach took
+up almost the entire width, the brave fellow advanced with the greatest
+caution, his eyes alert, his finger on the trigger of his revolver, just
+as he used to be at Tarascon on his way to the club. At any moment he
+expected to be jumped on from behind by a whole gang of janissaries and
+eunuchs, but his desire to find the lady endowed him with the courage
+and determination of a giant.
+
+For eight days the intrepid Tartarin did not quit his search. Sometimes
+he could be seen hanging about the turkish baths, waiting for the women
+to emerge in chattering groups, scented from the bath. Sometimes he
+appeared at the entrance of a mosque, puffing and blowing as he removed
+his heavy boots before entering the sacred premises. On other occasions,
+at nightfall, when he was returning to the hotel, downcast at having
+discovered nothing at the mosque or the baths, he would hear, as he
+passed one of the Moorish houses, monotonous songs, the muffled sound
+of guitars, the rattle of tambourines and the light laughter of women,
+which made his heart beat faster. "Perhaps she is there" He would say to
+himself, and approaching the house he would lift the heavy knocker and
+let it fall timidly.
+
+Immediately the song and the laughter stop. Nothing can be heard within
+but faint vague cluckings as if in a sleeping hen-house. Hold on thinks
+our hero, something is about to happen, but what happened mostly was a
+big pot of cold water on his head, or orange peel and fig skins.... Sleep
+lions!
+
+
+
+
+Chapter 20.
+
+For two long weeks the unhappy Tartarin searched for his Algerian
+lady-love, and it is likely that he would be searching still, if that
+providence which looks after lovers had not come to his aid in the guise
+of a Montenegrin gentleman.
+
+The Th�atre in Algiers, like the "Opera" in Paris, organises every
+Saturday night during the winter a Bal Masqu�. This is, however,
+a provincial version. There are few people in the dance-hall; the
+occasional drifter from out of town, unemployed stevedores, some rustic
+tarts, who are in business but who still retain from their more virtuous
+days a faint aroma of garlic and saffron sauce... the real spectacle is
+in the foyer, which has been converted for the occasion into a gambling
+saloon.
+
+A feverish, multicoloured crowd jostles about the long green cloths.
+Algerian soldiers on leave, gambling their meagre pay. Moorish merchants
+from the upper town. Negroes. Maltese. Colonists who have come a hundred
+miles to wager the price of a cart or a pair of oxen on the turn of a
+card. Pale, tense and anxious as they watch the game.
+
+There are Algerian Jews, gambling en famille. The men in oriental
+costume, the women in gold coloured bodices. They gather round the
+table, chatter and and plan, count on their fingers, but play little.
+From time to time, and only after long consultation, an elderly, bearded
+patriarch goes to place the family stake. Then as long as play lasts
+there is a concentration of dark hebraic eyes on the table, which
+would seem to draw the gold pieces lying there as if by an invisible
+thread....
+
+Then there are the quarrels. Fights. Oaths in many languages. Knives
+are drawn. A guard arrives. Money is missing.... In the midst of this
+saturnalia wandered poor Tartarin, who had come that evening in search
+of forgetfulness and peace of heart.
+
+As he went about through the crowd, thinking of his Moor, suddenly, at
+one of the gaming tables, above the cries and the chinking of coins, two
+angry voices were raised. "I tell you, there are twenty francs of mine
+missing, m'sieu!" "M'sieu!!!" "Well, what have you to say, m'sieu?" "Do
+you know to whom you are talking, m'sieu?" "I should be delighted to
+find out, m'sieu!" "I am prince Gregory of Montenegro, m'sieu!"
+
+At this name, Tartarin, much moved, pushed through the crowd until he
+reached the front row, delighted to have found once more his prince, the
+distinguished Montenegrin nobleman whose acquaintance he had made on the
+packet-boat.
+
+Unfortunately this title of prince which had so dazzled the worthy
+Tarasconais, did not produce the least impression on the officer of the
+Chasseurs with whom the prince was in dispute. "A likely story" said the
+officer with a sneer, and then turning to the onlookers, "Prince
+Gregory of Montenegro, who has ever heard of him?... No one!" Tartarin,
+indignant, took a pace forward. "Pardon... I know the prince." He said
+firmly in his best Tarrascon accent.
+
+The officer of the Chasseurs stared him in the face for a few moments,
+then shrugging his shoulders, he said "Well now, is'nt that just
+fine?... Share out the twenty francs between you and we'll leave it at
+that." So saying he turned on his heel and was lost in the crowd.
+
+Tartarin, furious, wanted to go after him, but the prince prevented him.
+"Leave it... It's my affair." He said, and taking Tartarin by the arm he
+led him outside.
+
+When they had reached the square, prince Gregory of Montenegro took off
+his hat, held out his hand to our hero and vaguely recalling his name
+began in vibrant tones, "Monsieur Barbarin..." "Tartarin." Breathed the
+other, timidly. "Tartarin... Barbarin, it makes no difference, we are
+now friends for life." And the noble Montenegrin shook his hand
+with ferocious energy. Tartarin was was overwhelmed by pride.
+"Prince.... Prince" He murmured in confusion.
+
+Fifteen minutes later the two gentlemen were seated in the Restaurant
+des Platanes, an agreeable spot whose terraces sloped down toward the
+sea, and there before a large Russian salad and a bottle of good wine
+they renewed their acquaintance.
+
+You cannot imagine anything more beguiling than this Montenegrin prince.
+Slim, elegant, his hair curled and waved, smooth-shaven and powdered and
+decked with strange orders, he had a sharp eye an ingratiating manner
+and spoke with a vaguely Italian accent, faintly suggestive of a
+renaissance Cardinal. Of ancient aristocratic lineage, his brothers,
+it seemed, had driven him into exile at the age of ten, because of
+his liberal opinions; since when he had travelled the world for his
+instruction and pleasure... a philosopher prince. By a remarkable
+coincidence the prince had spent three years in Tarascon, but when
+Tartarin expressed astonishment at never having seen him at the club or
+on the promonade, "I didn't go out much" Said the prince in a somewhat
+evasive manner, and Tartarin discretely asked no more questions.
+Important people, he knew, had diplomatic secrets.
+
+All in all a very fine prince this Gregory. While sipping his wine he
+listened patiently to Tartarin, who told him of his Moorish love, and
+as he claimed to have contacts among these ladies, he even undertook to
+help look for her.
+
+They drank long and deep. They drank to the ladies of Algeria. They
+drank to free Montenegro. Outside, below the terrace, the sea rolled,
+the waves slapping wetly on the beach. The air was warm, the sky bright
+with stars, in the plane trees a nightingale sang... It was Tartarin who
+paid the bill.
+
+
+
+
+Chapter 21.
+
+The Montenegrin prince was as good as his word. Shortly after the
+reunion at the Restaurant des Platanes he arrived early one morning at
+Tartarin's room. "Quick!... quick!... get dressed" he said, "Your Moor has
+been found... her name is Baia... as pretty as a picture, twenty years
+old and already a widow." "A widow!.... Well that's a bit of luck" Said
+Tartarin who was a little uneasy at the thought of Moorish husbands.
+"Yes, but closely guarded by her brother" "Oh! That's a bit awkward"
+"A ferocious Moor who sells hookahs in the bazaar" There was a silence,
+"Good!" Said the prince, "You're not the chap to be put off by a little
+thing like that, and anyway we can perhaps buy off this villain by
+purchasing some of his pipes. So come on, get dressed... you lucky dog!"
+
+Pale and excited, his heart full of love, Tartarin jumped out of bed and
+as he climbed into his ample underwear he asked "What shall I do now?"
+"Write to the lady quite simply and ask for a meeting" "She understands
+French then?" Said Tartarin with an air of disappointment. For his
+dreams had been of an Arabian Houri, uncontaminated by the west. "She
+doesn't understand a word" Replied the prince imperturbably, "but you
+will dictate the letter to me and I shall translate it." "Oh prince,
+how good you are." And Tartarin strode about the room silent and deep in
+thought.
+
+As you may imagine one does not write to a Moorish lady as one might to
+a little shop-girl in Beaucaire. Happily our hero was able to cull from
+his reading many phrases of oriental rhetoric and combining these with
+some distant memories of the "Song of Songs" he was able to compose the
+most flowery epistle you could wish for, full of unlikely similes and
+improbable metaphors. With this romantic missive Tartarin would have
+liked to combine a bouquet of flowers with emblematic meanings, but
+prince Gregory thought it would be better to buy some pipes from the
+brother, which could not fail to soften the savage temperament of the
+gentleman and would please the lady, who greatly enjoyed smoking. "Let
+us go quickly then and buy some pipes," Said Tartarin. "No, no." Replied
+the prince, "Let me go alone, I shall get them at a better price." "Oh
+prince! How good you are to take such trouble." And the trusting fellow
+held out his purse to the obliging Montenegrin, exhorting him to neglect
+nothing which might make the lady happy.
+
+Unfortunately, the affair which had started so well, did not progress as
+rapidly as one might have wished. Very touched, it seemed, by Tartarin's
+eloquence, and already three parts won over, she would have liked
+nothing better than to have received him, but her brother had scruples,
+and to lay these to rest it was necessary to buy an astonishing number
+of pipes. Sometimes Tartarin wondered what on earth the lady did with
+them all, but he paid up nevertheless, and without stinting.
+
+At last, after the purchase of many pipes and the composing of many
+sheets of oriental prose, a rendezvous was arranged. I need hardly tell
+you with what fluttering of heart Tartarin prepared himself; with what
+care he trimmed, washed and scented his beard, without forgetting--for
+one must always be prepared--to slip into his pockets a life-preserver
+and a revolver. The ever-obliging prince attended this first meeting in
+the role of interpreter
+
+The lady lived in the upper part of the town. Outside her door lounged a
+young Moor of fourteen or fifteen, smoking a cigarette, it was Ali, her
+brother. When the two visitors arrived he knocked twice on the postern
+and retired from the scene. The door was opened and a negress appeared,
+who, without saying a word, conducted the two gentlemen across a narrow
+interior courtyard to a small, cool room where the lady awaited them,
+posed on a divan.
+
+At first glance it seemed to Tartarin that she was smaller and sturdier
+than the Moor on the omnibus... were they in fact the same? But this
+suspicion was only momentary: the lady was so pretty, with her bare
+feet and her plump fingers, rosy and delicate, loaded with rings; while
+beneath her bodice of gold cloth and the blossoms of her flowered robe
+was the suggestion of a charming form, a little chubby, dainty and
+curvaceous. The amber mouthpiece of a narghile was between her lips and
+she was enveloped in a cloud of pale smoke.
+
+On entering, Tartarin placed his hand on his heart and bowed in the most
+Moorish manner possible, rolling big, passionate eyes... Baia looked
+at him for a moment without speaking, then letting go of the amber
+mouthpiece, she turned her back, hid her face in her hands and one could
+see only her neck, shaken by uncontrollable laughter.
+
+
+
+
+Chapter 22.
+
+If you go in the evening into some of the coffee-houses of the Algerian
+upper town, you will hear even today, Moors speak among themselves,
+with winks and chuckles, of a certain Sidi ben Tart'ri, an amiable,
+rich European who--it now some years ago--lived in the upper town with a
+little local girl called Baia.
+
+This Sidi ben Tart'ri was of course none other than Tartarin. Well what
+could you expect. This sort of thing happens even in the lives of Saints
+and Heroes. The illustrious Tartarin was, like anyone else, not exempt
+from these failings and that is why for two whole months, forgetful of
+lions, forgetful of fame, he wallowed in oriental love, and slumbered,
+like Hannibal in Capua, amid the delights of Algiers.
+
+He had rented in the heart of the Arab quarter, a pretty little local
+house with an interior courtyard, banana trees, cool galleries and
+fountains. He lived there quietly in the company of his Moor, a
+Moor himself from head to foot. Puffing at his hookah and munching
+musk-flavoured condiments. Stretched on a divan opposite him, Baia with
+a guitar in her hands droned monotonous songs, or to amuse her master
+she perhaps mimed a belly-dance, holding in her hands a small mirror in
+which she admired her white teeth and made faces at herself.
+
+As the lady did not understand French and Tartarin did not speak a
+word of Arabic, conversation languished somewhat and the talkative
+Tarasconais had time to repent of any intemperate loquaciousness of
+which he might have been guilty at Bezuquet's pharmacy or Costecalde
+the gunsmith's shop. This penance even had a certain charm. There was
+something almost voluptuous in going all day without speaking, hearing
+only the bubble of the hookah, the strumming of the guitar and the
+gentle splashing of the fountain amid the mosaic tiles of his courtyard.
+
+Smoking, the Turkish bath and "l'amour" occupied his time. They went out
+little. Sometimes Sidi Tart'ri, with his lady mounted on the crupper,
+went on mule-back to eat pomegranates in a little garden which he had
+bought in the neighbourhood... but never on any account did they go down
+to the European part of the town, which with its drunken Zouaves, its
+bordellos full of officers and the sound of sabres trailing on the
+ground beneath the arcade, seemed to him to be insupportably ugly.
+Altogether our Tartarin was perfectly happy. Tartarin-Sancho in
+particular, very fond of Turkish pastries, declared himself entirely
+satisfied with his new existence. Tartarin-Quixote had perhaps now and
+then some regrets, when he remembered Tarascon and the promised lion
+skins... but they did not last for long, and to dispel these moments of
+sadness all that was needed was a look from Baia or a spoonful of her
+diabolic confections, scented and bewitching like some brew of Circe's.
+
+In the evenings prince Gregory came, to talk a little about free
+Montenegro. Of indefatigable complaisance, this agreeable nobleman
+undertook in the house the function of interpreter and, if need be, even
+that of steward, and all for nothing. Apart from him, Tartarin had only
+"Teurs" as visitors. All of those ferocious bandits which in the depths
+of their dark shops he once found so frightening, turned out to be
+harmless tradesmen, embroiderers, spice sellers, turners of pipe
+mouthpieces. Discrete, courteous people, modest, shrewd, and good at
+cards. Four or five times a week they would spend the evening with
+Tartarin, winning his money and eating his confitures, and on the stroke
+of ten leaving politely, giving thanks to the Prophet.
+
+After they had left, Sidi Tart'ri and his faithful spouse would finish
+the evening on their terrace, a large white-walled terrace which formed
+the roof of the building and looked out over the town. All about them
+a thousand other terraces, tranquil in the moonlight, dropped one below
+the other down to the sea. Suddenly, like a burst of stars, a great
+clear chant rose heavenward and on the minaret of the nearby mosque a
+handsome Muezzin appeared, his white outline silhouetted against the
+deep blue of the night sky. As he invoked the praise of Allah in a
+splendid voice which filled the horizon, Baia laid aside her guitar and
+with her eyes fixed on the Muezzin seemed to be rapt in prayer. For
+as long as the chant lasted she remained ecstatic, like an Arabic
+St. Theresa. Tartarin watched her and thought that it must be a beautiful
+and powerful religion which could give rise to such transports of faith.
+Tarascon hide your face, your Tartarin dreams of becoming apostate.
+
+
+
+
+Chapter 23.
+
+One fine afternoon of blue sky and warm breeze, Sidi Tart'ri, astride
+his mule, was returning alone from his little garden, his legs spread
+widely over hay filled bags which were further swollen by citrus and
+water-melon. Lulled by the creaking of the harness and swaying to the
+clip-clop of the animal the good man progressed through the delightful
+countryside, his hands crossed on his stomach, three-quarters asleep
+from the effect of warmth and wellbeing. Suddenly, as he was entering
+the town, a loud hail woke him up. "H�! You, you great lump! You're
+Monsieur Tartarin aren't you?" At the name of Tartarin and the sound of
+the Provencal accent Tartarin raised his head and saw, a few feet away,
+the tanned features of Barbassou, the Captain of the Zouave, who was
+drinking an absinthe and smoking his pipe at the door of a little caf�.
+"H�! Barbassou by God!" Said Tartarin, pulling up his mule.
+
+Instead of replying Barbassou regarded him wide-eyed for a few moments,
+and then he began to laugh and laugh, so that Tartarin sat stunned among
+his water-melons. "What a get-up, my poor monsieur Tartarin. It's true
+then what people say, that you have become a Teur? And little Baia, does
+she still sing 'Marco la belle' all the time?" "Marco la belle," said
+Tartarin indignantly, "I'll have you know Captain, that the person
+of whom you speak is an honest Moorish girl who doesn't know a word of
+French!" "Baia?... Not a word of French?... Where have you come from?" And
+the Captain began to laugh again, more than ever. Then noticing the long
+face of poor Sidi Tart'ri, he changed tack. "Well perhaps it isn't
+the same one," He said, "I've probably got her mixed up with someone
+else... only look here, M. Tartarin, you would be wise not to put too much
+trust in Algerian Moors, or Montenegrin princes." Tartarin stood up in
+his stirrups, and made his grimace, "The prince is my friend, Captain!"
+He said. "All right... all right... Don't let's quarrel... would you like
+a drink?... no. Any message you would like me to take back?... none. Well
+that's it then. Bon voyage.... Oh!... While I think of it, I have some
+good French tobacco here, if you would like a few pipes-full take some,
+help yourself, it will do you good, it's those blasted local tobaccos
+that scramble your brain."
+
+With that the Captain returned to his absinthe and Tartarin pensively
+trotted his mule down the road to his little house. Although in his
+loyal heart he refused to believe any of the insinuations made by the
+Captain, they had upset him, and his rough oaths and country accent had
+combined to awake in him a vague feeling of remorse. When he reached
+home, Baia had gone to the baths, the negress seemed to him ugly, the
+house dismal, and prey to an indefinable melancholy, he went and sat by
+the fountain and filled his pipe with Barbassou's tobacco. The tobacco
+had been wrapped in a fragment of paper torn from "The Semaphore" and
+when he spread it out the name of his home town caught his eye.
+
+"News from Tarascon," He read, "The town is in a state of alarm. Tartarin
+the lion killer, who went to hunt the big cats in Africa, has not
+been heard of for several months.... What has happened to our heroic
+compatriot? One dare hardly ask oneself, knowing as we do his ardent
+nature, his courage and love of adventure.... Has he, like so many
+others, been swallowed up in the desert sands, or has he perhaps fallen
+victim to the murderous teeth of those feline monsters, whose skins he
+promised to the municipality.... A terrible incertitude! However, some
+African merchants who came to the fair at Beaucaire, claim to have met,
+in the heart of the desert, a white man whose description corresponds
+with his and who was heading for Timbuctoo. May God preserve our
+Tartarin!"
+
+When he read this, Tartarin blushed and trembled. All Tarascon rose
+before his eyes. The club. The hat hunters. The green armchair at
+Costecalde's shop: and soaring above, like the extended wings of an
+eagle, the formidable moustache of the brave Commandant Bravida. Then to
+see himself squatting slothfully on his mat, while he was believed to be
+engaged in slaying lions, filled him with shame. Suddenly he leaped to
+his feet. "To the lions!... To the lions!" He cried, and hurrying to the
+dusty corner where lay idle his bivouac tent, his medicine chest, his
+preserved foods and his weapons, he dragged them into the middle of the
+courtyard. Tartarin-Sancho had just perished, only Tartarin-Quixote was
+left.
+
+There was just time enough to inspect his equipment, to don his arms and
+accoutrements, to put on his big boots, to write a few lines to prince
+Gregory, confiding Baia to his care, to slip into an envelope some
+banknotes, wet with tears, and the intrepid Tarasconais was in a
+stage-coach, rolling down the road to Blidah, leaving the stupefied
+negress in his house, gazing at the turban, the slippers and all the
+muslim rig-out of Sidi Tart'ri, hanging discarded on the wall.
+
+
+
+
+Chapter 24.
+
+It was an ancient, old-fashioned stage-coach, upholstered in the old way
+in heavy blue cloth, very faded, and with enormous pom-poms, which after
+a few hours on the road dug uncomfortably into one's back. Tartarin had
+an inside seat, where he installed himself as best he could, and where,
+instead of the musky scent of the great cats, he could savour the ripe
+perfume of the coach, compounded of a thousand odours of men, women,
+horses, leather, food and damp straw.
+
+The other passengers on the coach were a mixed lot. A Trappist monk,
+some Jewish merchants, two Cocottes, returning to their unit, the third
+Hussars, and a photographer from Orleansville.
+
+No matter how charming and varied the company, Tartarin did not feel
+like chatting and remained silent, his arm hooked into the arm-strap and
+his weaponry between his knees.... His hurried departure, the dark eyes
+of Baia, the dangerous chase on which he was about to engage, these
+thoughts troubled his mind, and also there was something about this
+venerable stage-coach, now domiciled in Africa, which recalled to him
+vaguely the Tarascon of his youth. Trips to the country. Dinners by the
+banks of the Rh�ne, a host of memories.
+
+Little by little it grew dark. The guard lit the lanterns. The old coach
+swayed and squeaked on its worn springs. The horses trotted, the bells
+on their harness jingling, and from time to time there sounded the clash
+of ironmongery from Tartarin's arms chest on the top of the coach.
+
+Sleepily Tartarin contemplated his fellow passengers as they danced
+before his eyes, shaken by the jolting of the coach, then his eyes
+closed and he heard no more, except vaguely, the rumble of the axles and
+the groaning of the coach sides....
+
+Suddenly an ancient female voice, rough, hoarse and cracked, called the
+Tarasconais by name: "Monsieur Tartarin!... Monsieur Tartarin!" "Who is
+calling me?" "It is I, Monsieur Tartarin, don't you recognise me?... I
+am the stage-coach which once ran... it is now twenty years ago... the
+service from Tarascon to Nimes.... How many times have I carried you
+and your friends when you went hat shooting over by Joncqui�res or
+Bellegarde... I didn't recognise you at first because of your bonnet and
+the amount of weight you have put on, but as soon as you began to snore,
+you old rascal, I knew you right away." "Bon!... Bon!" Replied Tartarin,
+somewhat vexed, but then softening, he added: "But now, my poor old
+lady, what are you doing here?" "Ah! My dear M. Tartarin, I did not come
+here of my own free will I can promise you. Once the railway reached
+Beaucaire no one could find a use for me so I was shipped off to
+Africa... and I am not the only one, nearly all the stage-coaches in
+France have been deported like me; we were found too old fashioned and
+now here we all are, leading a life of slavery." Here the old coach gave
+a long sigh, then she went on: "I can't tell you monsieur Tartarin how
+much I miss my lovely Tarascon. These were good times for me, the time
+of my youth. You should have seen me leaving in the morning, freshly
+washed and polished, with new varnish on my wheels, my lamps shining
+like suns and my tarpaulin newly dressed with oil. How grand it was
+when the postillion cracked his whip and sang out, 'Lagadigadeou, la
+Tarasque, la Tarasque' and the guard, with his ticket-punch slung on its
+bandolier and his braided cap tipped over one ear, chucked his little
+yapping dog onto the tarpaulin of the coach-roof and scrambled up
+himself crying 'Let's go!... Let's go!' Then my four horses would start
+off with a jingle of bells, barking and fanfares. Windows would open and
+all Tarascon would watch with pride the stage-coach setting off along
+the king's highway.
+
+"What a fine road it was, Monsieur Tartarin, wide and well kept, with
+its kilometre markers, its heaps of roadmender's stones at regular
+intervals, and to right and left vinyards and pretty groves of olive
+trees. Then inns every few yards, post-houses every five minutes... and
+my travellers! What fine folk!... Mayors and cur�s going to Nimes to see
+their Prefect or Bishop, honest workmen, students on holiday, peasants
+in embroidered smocks, all freshly shaved that morning, and up on top,
+all of you hat shooters, who were always in such good form and who sang
+so well to the stars as we returned home in the evening.
+
+"Now it is a different story... God knows the sort of people I carry. A
+load of miscreants from goodness knows where, who infest me with vermin.
+Negroes, Bedouins, rascals and adventurers from every country, colonists
+who stink me out with their pipes, and all of them talking a language
+which even our Heavenly Father couldn't understand.... And then you
+see how they treat me. Never brushed. Never washed. They grudge me the
+grease for my axles, and instead of the fine big, quiet horses which I
+used to have, they give me little Arab horses which have the devil in
+them, fighting, biting, dancing about and running like goats, breaking
+my shafts with kicks. Aie!... Aie! They are at it again now.... And the
+roads! It's still all right here, because we are near Government House,
+but out there, nothing! No road of any sort. One goes as best one can
+over hill and dale through dwarf palms and mastic trees. Not a single
+fixed stop. One pulls up at wherever the guard fancies, sometimes at one
+farm, sometimes at another. Sometimes this rogue takes me on a detour of
+two leagues just so that he can go and drink with a friend. After that
+it's 'Whip up postillion, we must make up for lost time.' The sun burns.
+The dust chokes... Whip!... Whip! We crash. We tip over.
+More whip. We swim across rivers, we are cold, soaked and half
+drowned... Whip!... Whip!... Whip! Then in the evening, dripping wet...
+that's good for me at my age... I have to bed down in the yard of some
+caravan halt, exposed to all the winds. At night jackals and hyenas
+come to sniff at my lockers and creatures which fear the dawn hide in
+my compartments. That's the life I lead, monsieur Tartarin, and I shall
+lead until the day when, scorched by sun and rotted by humid nights, I
+shall fall at some corner of this beastly road, where Arabs will boil
+their cous-cous on the remains of my old carcase."
+
+"Blidah!... Blidah!" Shouted the guard, opening the coach door.
+
+
+
+
+Chapter 25.
+
+Indistinctly, through the steamed up windows, Tartarin could see the
+pretty square of a neatly laid out little township, surrounded by
+arcades and planted with orange trees, in the centre of which a group of
+soldiers was drilling in the thin, pink haze of early morning. The caf�s
+were taking down their shutters, in one corner a vegetable market was
+under way. It was charming, but in no way did it suggest lions. "To the
+south, further to the south." Murmured Tartarin, settling back in his
+corner.
+
+At that moment the coach door was opened, letting in a gust of fresh
+air, which bore on its wings, amongst the scent of orange blossom,
+a very small gentleman in a brown overcoat. Neat, elderly, thin and
+wrinkled, with a face no bigger than a fist, a silk cravat five fingers
+high, a leather brief-case and an umbrella. The perfect image of a
+village notary. On seeing Tartarin's weaponry, the little gentleman, who
+was seated opposite him, looked very surprised, and began to stare at
+our hero.
+
+The horses were changed and the coach set off... the little gentleman
+continued to stare. At length Tartarin became offended and staring in
+his turn at the little gentleman he asked "Do you find this surprising?"
+
+"Not at all, but it does rather get in the way." Was the reply, and
+the fact is that with his tent, his revolver, his two rifles and their
+covers, not to mention his natural corpulence, Tartarin de Tarascon did
+take up quite a lot of space.
+
+This reply from the little gentleman annoyed Tartarin, "Do you suppose
+that I would go after lions with an umbrella?" Asked the great man
+proudly. The little gentleman looked at his umbrella, smiled and
+and asked calmly, "You monsieur are...?" "Tartarin de Tarascon, lion
+hunter." And in pronouncing these words the brave Tartarin shook the
+tassel of his chechia as if it were a mane.
+
+In the coach there was a startled response. The Trappist crossed
+himself, the Cocottes uttered little squeaks of excitement and the
+photographer edged closer to the lion killer, thinking that he might be
+a good subject for a picture. The little gentleman was not in the least
+disturbed. "Have you killed many lions, Monsieur Tartarin?" He asked
+quietly. Tartarin adopted a lofty air, "Yes many of them. More than you
+have hairs on your head." And all the passengers laughed at the sight
+of the three or four yellow hairs which sprouted from the little
+gentleman's scalp.
+
+The photographer then spoke up, "A terrible profession yours, Monsieur
+Tartarin, you must have moments of danger sometimes like that brave
+M. Bombonnel." "Ah!... yes... M. Bombonnel, the man who hunts panthers."
+Said Tartarin, with some disdain. "Do you know him?" Asked the little
+gentleman. "Ti!... Pardi!... To be sure I know him, we have hunted
+together more than twenty times." "You hunt panthers also M. Tartarin?"
+"Occasionally, as a pastime." Said Tartarin casually, and raising his
+head with a heroic gesture which went straight to the hearts of the two
+Cocottes, he added "They cannot be compared to lions." "One could say,"
+Hazarded the photographer, "That a panther is no more than a large
+pussy-cat." "Quite right." Said Tartarin, who was not reluctant to lower
+the reputation of this M. Bombonnel, particularly in front of the ladies.
+
+At this moment the coach stopped. The guard came to open the door and
+he addressed the little old man, "This is where you want to get off
+Monsieur." He said very respectfully.
+
+The little gentleman got up to leave, but before he closed the door
+he said "Would you permit me to give you a word of advice M. Tartarin?"
+"What is that Monsieur?" "Go back quickly to Tarascon, M. Tartarin, you
+are wasting your time here... There are a few panthers left in Algeria,
+but, fi donc! They are too small a quarry for you... as for lions, they
+are finished. There are no more in Algeria, my friend Chassaing has just
+killed the last one."
+
+On that the little gentleman saluted, closed the door and went off,
+laughing, with his brief-case and umbrella. "Guard!" Said Tartarin,
+making his grimace. "Who on earth was that fellow?" "What! Don't you
+know him?" Said the guard, "That's Monsieur Bombonnel!"
+
+
+
+
+Chapter 26.
+
+When the coach reached Milianah Tartarin got out and left it to continue
+its journey to the south. Two days of being bumped about and nights
+spent peering out of the window in the hope of seeing the outline of a
+lion in the fields lining the road, had earned a little rest; and then
+it must be admitted that after the misadventure over M. Bombonnel,
+Tartarin, in spite of his weapons, his terrible grimace and his
+red chechia, had not felt entirely at ease in the presence of the
+photographer and the two ladies of the third Hussars.
+
+He made his way along the wide streets of Milianah, full of handsome
+trees and fountains, but while he looked for a convenient hotel, he
+could not prevent himself from mulling over the words of M. Bombonnel.
+What if it were true... what if there were no more lions in Algeria? What
+then was the point of all this travel and all these discomforts?
+
+Suddenly at a bend in the road our hero was confronted by a remarkable
+spectacle. He found himself face to face with--believe it or not--a
+superb lion which was seated regally at the door of a caf�, Its mane
+tawny in the sunshine.
+
+"Who says there are no more lions?" Cried Tartarin, jumping back. On
+hearing this exclamation the lion lowered its head, and taking in
+its jaws the wooden begging bowl which lay on the pavement before it,
+extended it humbly in the direction of Tartarin, who was paralyzed by
+astonishment... a passing Arab tossed in a few coppers. Then Tartarin
+understood. He saw what his surprise had at first prevented him from
+seeing, a crowd of people which was gathered round the poor tame lion,
+which was blind, and the two big negroes, armed with cudgels, who led it
+about the town.
+
+Tartarin's blood boiled. "Wretches!" He cried "To debase this noble
+creature!" And running to the lion he snatched the sordid begging bowl
+from the royal jaws.... The two negroes, believing they were dealing
+with a thief, threw themselves on Tartarin with raised cudgels. It was
+a terrible set-to. Women were screeching children laughing there were
+calls for the police and the lion in its darkness joined in with a
+fearsome roar. The unhappy Tartarin after a desperate struggle, rolled
+on the ground among copper coins and road sweepings.
+
+At this moment a man pushed through the crowd. He dismissed the negroes
+with a word and the women and children with a gesture. He helped
+Tartarin to his feet, brushed him down and seated him, out of breath,
+on a bollard. "Good heavens... prince... Is it really you?" Said Tartarin,
+rubbing his ribs. "Indeed yes my valiant friend... it is I. As soon as
+I received your letter I confided Baia to her brother, hired a
+post-chaise, came fifty leagues flat out and here I am just in time to
+save you from the brutality of these louts.... For God's sake what have
+you been doing to get yourself dragged into a mess like this?" "What
+could you expect me to do, prince, when I saw this unfortunate lion with
+the begging bowl in its teeth, humiliated, enslaved, ridiculed, serving
+as a laughing stock for this unsavoury rabble...?" "But you are mistaken
+my noble friend." Said the prince, "This lion on the contrary is an
+object of respect and adoration. It is a sacred beast, a member of
+a great convent of lions founded three centuries ago by
+Mahommed-ben-Aouda, a sort of wild fierce monastry where strange monks
+rear and tame hundreds of lions and send them throughout all north
+Africa, accompanied by mendicant brothers. The alms which these brothers
+receive serve to maintain the monastry and its mosque, and if those two
+negroes were in such a rage just now, it is because they are convinced
+that if one sou, one single sou, of their takings is lost through any
+fault of theirs, the lion which that are leading will immediately devour
+them."
+
+On hearing this unlikely but plausible tale, Tartarin recovered his
+spirits. "It seems evident after all," He said "That in spite of what M.
+Bombonnel said, there are still lions in Algeria." "To be sure there are,"
+said the prince, "And tomorrow we shall begin to search the plains by
+the river Cheliff and you shall see." "What!... prince. Do you mean to
+join in the hunt yourself?" "Of course" Said the prince "Do you think I
+would leave you to wander alone in the middle of Africa, among all those
+savage tribes, of whose language and customs you know nothing? No! No!
+My dear Tartarin. I shall not leave you again. Wherever you go I shall
+accompany you." "Oh!... prince!... prince!" And Tartarin clasped the
+valiant Gregory in a warm embrace.
+
+
+
+
+Chapter 27.
+
+Very early the next morning the intrepid Tartarin and the no less
+intrepid prince Gregory, followed by half a dozen negro porters, left
+Milianah and descended towards the plain of the Chetiff by a steep
+pathway, delightfully shaded by jasmine, carobs and wild olives, between
+the hedges of little native gardens where a thousand bubbling springs
+trickled melodiously from rock to rock, a veritable Eden.
+
+Carrying as much in the way of arms as the great Tartarin, the prince
+was further adorned by a magnificent and colourful kepi, covered with
+gold braid and decorated with oak leaves embroidered in silver thread,
+which gave his highness the appearance of a Mexican General, or a
+Middle-European Station-Master. This fantastic kepi greatly intrigued
+Tartarin and he asked humbly for an explanation.
+
+"An indispensable form of headgear for the traveller in Africa." The
+prince replied gravely; and while polishing the peak on his coat-sleeve
+he instructed his innocent companion on the important role played by the
+kepi in colonial administration, and the deference which its appearance
+inspires. This to such an extent that the government has been obliged
+to issue kepis to everyone from the canteen worker to the
+registrar-general. In fact, according to the prince, to govern the
+country there was no necessity for an elaborate regime. All that was
+needed was a fine gold-braided kepi glittering on the end of a big
+stick.
+
+Thus conversing and philosophising, they went there way. The bare-footed
+porters leapt from rock to rock, shouting and chattering. The armaments
+rattled in their case. The guns glittered in the sun.. The locals who
+passed bowed deeply before the magical kepi.... Up on the ramparts of
+Milianah, the chief of the Arab bureau, who was walking with his lady in
+the cool of the morning, hearing these unusual noises and seeing between
+the branches the flash of sunlight on the weapons, feared a surprise
+attack; whereupon he lowered the portcullis, beat the alarm and put the
+town in a state of siege.
+
+This was a good start to the expedition. Regrettably, before the end of
+the day, the situation deteriorated. One of the negroes was taken with
+the most fearful colic, having eaten the plasters in the medicine
+chest. Another fell, dead drunk, by the wayside, as a result of swigging
+spirits of camphor. A third, in charge of the log-book, deceived by the
+gold lettering on the cover, thought he had hold of the treasures of
+Mecca and made off with it at top speed.... Clearly some planning was
+needed, so the party halted and took council in the shade of an old fig
+tree. "In my opinion" Said the prince, trying unsuccessfully to dissolve
+a tablet of pemmican in a cooking pot, "In my opinion, after this
+evening we should get rid of these negro porters. There is an Arab
+market near here and our best plan would be to go there and buy some
+bourriquots." "No!... No!... No bourriquots!" Interrupted Tartarin, who
+had become very red at the memory of Noiraud, adding hypocritically,
+"How can these little creatures carry all our equipment?"
+
+The prince smiled, "You are mistaken my illustrious friend," He said,
+"The bourriquot may seem to you a poor weak creature, but it has a great
+heart... It needs it to support all it has to bear... ask the Arabs. This
+is their idea of our administration. On top they say, is the governor
+with a big stick which he uses to thump his staff. The staff in turn
+thump the soldiers. The soldiers thump the colonist. The colonist thumps
+the Arab, the Arab the negro, and the Negro thumps the bourriquot. The
+poor little bourriquot having no one to thump, bares its back and puts
+up with it. So you can see it is well able to carry all our gear."
+
+"That's all very well." Replied Tartarin, "But I don't think that
+donkeys add much colour to the general appearance of our caravan. Now if
+we could have a camel...!"
+
+"Just as you wish." Said his highness, and they set off for the market.
+
+The market was held some distance away on the bank of the Cheliff.
+There were five or six thousand Arabs milling around in the sun, trading
+noisily among piles of olives, pots of honey, sacks of spices and heaps
+of cigars. There were fires at which whole sheep were roasting, dripping
+with butter. There were open air butcheries where almost naked negroes,
+their feet paddling in blood and their arms red to the elbow, were
+cutting up the carcases of goats hanging from hooks... In one corner, in
+a tent repaired in a thousand different colours, was a Moorish official
+with a big book and spectacles. Over there is a crowd. There are cries
+of rage. It is a roulette game that has been set up on a corn bin and
+the tribesmen gathered about it have started fighting with knives.
+Elsewhere, there are cheers, laughter and stamping of feet, a
+merchant and his mule have fallen into the river and are in danger of
+drowning.... There are scorpions, crows, dogs and flies, millions of
+flies, but no camels.
+
+Eventually a camel was discovered which some nomads were trying to
+dispose of. This was a real desert camel, with little hair, a sad
+expression and a hump which through long shortage of fodder hung
+flaccidly to one side. Tartarin was so taken with it that he wanted the
+two partners to be mounted. This proved to be a mistake.
+
+The camel knelt, the trunks were strapped on, the prince installed
+himself on the creature's neck and Tartarin was hoisted up to the top of
+the hump, between two cases, from where he proudly saluted the assembled
+market and gave the signal for departure.... Heavens above!.... If only
+Tarascon could see him now!
+
+The camel rose, stretched out its long legs and took off. Calamity! The
+camel pitched and rolled like a frigate in a rough sea and the chechia
+responded to the motion as it had on the Zouave. "Prince... prince"
+Murmured Tartarin, ashen-faced, and clutching the scanty hair of the
+hump, "Prince... let us get down, I feel... I feel I am going to disgrace
+France." But the camel was in full flight and nothing was going to
+stop it. Four thousand Arabs were running behind, bare-footed, waving,
+laughing like idiots, six hundred thousand white teeth glistening in
+the sun.... The great man of Tarascon had to resign himself to the
+inevitable, and France was disgraced.
+
+
+
+
+Chapter 28.
+
+Despite the picturesque nature of their new mode of transport our lion
+hunters were forced to dismount, out of regard for the chechia. They
+continued their journey as before, on foot, and the caravan proceeded
+tranquilly toward the south with Tartarin in front, the prince in the
+rear and between them the camel with the baggage.
+
+The expedition lasted for a month. For a whole month, Tartarin, hunting
+for non-existent lions, wandered from village to village in the immense
+plain of the Chetiff, across this extraordinary, cock-eyed French
+Algeria, where the perfumes of ancient Araby are mingled with a powerful
+stink of Absinthe and barrack-room; Abraham and Zouzou combined, a
+strange mixture like a page of the Old Testament rewritten by Sergeant
+Le Ram�e or Corporal Pitou.... A curious spectacle for those who would
+care to look.... A savage and decadent people whom we are civilising
+by giving them our own vices. The cruel and uncontrolled authority of
+Pashas, inflated with self-importance in their cordons of the legion of
+honour, who at their whim have people beaten on the soles of their feet.
+The so-called justice of bespectacled Cadis, traitors to the koran and
+to the law, who sell their judgements as did Esau his birthright for
+a plate of cous-cous. Drunken and libertine headmen, former batmen to
+General Yussif someone or other, who guzzle champagne in the company of
+harlots, and indulge in feasts of roast mutton, while before their tents
+the whole tribe is starving and disputes with the dogs the leavings of
+the seigniorial banquet.
+
+Then, all around, uncultivated plain. Scorched grass. Bushes bare of
+leaves. Scrub. Cactus. Mastic trees... The granary of France?... A granary
+empty of grain and rich only in jackals and bugs. Abandoned villages.
+Bewildered tribesfolk who run they know not where, fleeing from famine
+and sowing corpses along the road. Here and there a French settlement,
+the houses dilapidated, the fields untilled and raging hordes of locusts
+who eat the very curtains from the windows, while the colonists are all
+in caf�s, drinking absinthe and discussing projects for the reform of
+the constitution.
+
+That is what Tartarin could have seen, if he had taken the trouble, but
+obsessed with his fantasy the man from Tarascon marched straight ahead,
+his vision limited to searching for these monstrous felines, of which
+there was no trace.
+
+Since the bivouac tent obstinately refused to open and the pemmican
+tablets to dissolve, the hunting party was compelled to stop daily at
+tribal villages. Everywhere, thanks to the prince's kepi, they were
+received with open arms. They were lodged by chieftains in strange
+palaces, great white buildings without windows, where were piled up
+hookahs and mahogany commodes, Smyrna carpets and adjustable oil lamps,
+cedar-wood chests full of Turkish sequins and clocks decorated in the
+style of Louis Phillipe. Everywhere Tartarin was treated to f�tes and
+official receptions. In his honour whole villages turned out, firing
+volleys in the air, their burnous gleaming in the sun: after which the
+good chieftain would come to present the bill.
+
+Nowhere, however, were there any more lions than there are on the Pont
+Neuf in Paris: but Tartarin was not discouraged, he pushed bravely on to
+the south. His days were spent scouring the scrub, rummaging among the
+dwarf palms with the end of his carbine and going "Frt!... Frt!" At each
+bush... Then every evening a stand-to of two or three hours... A wasted
+effort. No lions appeared.
+
+One evening, however, at about six o'clock, as they were going through
+a wood of mastic trees, where fat quail, made lazy by the heat were
+jumping up from the grass, Tartarin thought he heard... but so far
+off... so distorted by the wind... so faint, the wonderful roar which
+he had heard so many times back home in Tarascon, behind the menagerie
+Mitaine.
+
+At first he thought he had imagined it, but in a moment, still far
+distant, but now more distinct, the roaring began again, and this time
+one could hear, all around, the barking of village dogs; while, stricken
+by terror and rattling the boxes of arms and preserves, the camel's hump
+trembled. There could be no more doubt.... It was a lion! Quick!... Quick!
+Into position! Not a moment to lose!
+
+There was, close by them, an old Marabout (the tomb of a holy man) with
+a white dome: the big yellow slippers of the deceased lying in a recess
+above the door, together with a bizarre jumble of votive offerings which
+hung along the walls: fragments of burnous, some gold thread, a tuft
+of red hair. There Tartarin installed the prince and the camel,
+and prepared to look for a hide. He was determined to face the lion
+single-handed, so he earnestly requested His Highness not to leave the
+spot, and for safe keeping he handed to him his wallet, a fat wallet
+stuffed with valuable papers and banknotes. This done our hero sought
+his post.
+
+About a hundred yards in front of the Marabout, on the banks of an
+almost dry river, a clump of oleanders stirred in the faint twilight
+breeze, and it was there that Tartarin concealed himself in ambush,
+kneeling on one knee, in what he felt was an appropriate position, his
+rifle in his hands and his big hunting knife stuck into the sandy soil
+of the river bank in front of him.
+
+Night was falling. The rosy daylight turned to violet and then to
+a sombre blue.... Below, amongst the stones of the river bed, there
+glistened like a hand-mirror a little pool of clear water: a drinking
+place for the wild animals. On the slope of the opposite bank one could
+see indistinctly the path which they had made through the trees: a view
+which Tartarin found a bit unnerving. Add to this the vague noises of
+the African night, the rustle of branches, the thin yapping of jackals,
+and in the sky a flock of cranes passing with cries like children being
+murdered. You must admit that this could be unsettling, and Tartarin was
+unsettled, he was even very unsettled! His teeth chattered and the rifle
+shook in his hands; well... there are evenings when one is not at one's
+best, and where would be the merit if heroes were never afraid?
+
+Tartarin was, admittedly, afraid, but in spite of his fear he held on
+for an hour... two hours, but heroism has its breaking point. In the dry
+river bed, close to him, Tartarin heard the sound of footsteps rattling
+the pebbles. Terror overtook him. He rose to his feet, fired both
+barrels blindly into the night and ran at top speed to the Marabout,
+leaving his knife stuck in the ground as a memorial to the most
+overwhelming panic that ever affected a hero.
+
+"A moi! prince!... A Moi!... The lion!"... There was no answer.
+"Prince!... prince! Are you there?".... The prince was not there. Against
+the white wall of the Marabout was only the silhouette of the worthy
+camel's hump. The prince Gregory had disappeared, taking with him the
+wallet and the banknotes. His highness had been waiting for a month for
+such an opportunity.
+
+
+
+
+Chapter 29.
+
+The day after this adventurous yet tragic evening, when at first light
+our hero awoke and realised that the prince and his money had gone and
+would not return; when he saw himself alone in this little white tomb,
+betrayed, robbed and abandoned in the middle of savage Algeria with a
+one-humped camel and some loose change as his total resources, for the
+first time some misgivings entered his mind. He began to have doubts
+about Montenegro, about friendship, fame and even lions. Overcome by
+misery he shed bitter tears.
+
+While he was sitting disconsolately at the door of the Marabout with his
+head in his hands, his rifle between his knees and watched over by
+the camel... behold! The undergrowth opposite was thrust aside and the
+thunderstruck Tartarin saw not ten paces away a gigantic lion, which
+advanced towards him uttering roars which shook the ragged offerings on
+the wall of the Marabout and even the slippers of the holy man in their
+recess. Only Tartarin remained unshaken. "At last!" He cried, jumping
+to his feet with his rifle butt to his shoulder... Pan!... Pan!...
+Pft!... Pft!... The lion had two explosive bullets in its head!
+Fragments of lion erupted like fireworks into the burning African sky,
+and as they fell to earth, Tartarin saw two furious negroes, who ran
+towards him with raised cudgels. The two negroes of Milianah... Oh!
+Mis�re!... It was the the tame lion, the poor blind lion of the convent
+of Mahommed that the bullets of the Tarasconais had felled.
+
+This time Tartarin had the narrowest of escapes. Drunk with fanatical
+fury, the two negro mendicants would surely have had him in pieces had
+not the God of the Christians sent him a Guardian Angel in the shape
+of the District Police Officer from Orleansville, who arrived down the
+pathway, his sabre tucked under his arm, at that very moment. The
+sight of the municipal kepi had an immediate calming effect on the two
+negroes. Stern and majestic the representative of the law took down the
+particulars of the affair, had the remains of the lion loaded onto
+the camel, and ordered the plaintiff and the accused to follow him to
+Orleansville, where the whole matter was placed in the hands of the
+legal authorities.
+
+There then commenced a long and involved process. After the tribal
+Algeria in which he had been wandering, Tartarin now made the
+acquaintance of the no less peculiar and cock-eyed Algeria of the towns:
+litigious and legalistic. He encountered a sleazy justicary who stitched
+up shady deals in the back rooms of caf�s. The Bohemian society of the
+gentlemen of the law; dossiers which stank of absinthe, white cravats
+speckled with drink and coffee stains. He was embroiled with ushers,
+solicitors, and business agents, all the locusts of officialdom, thin
+and ravenous, who strip the colonist down to his boots and leave him
+shorn leaf by leaf like a stalk of maize.
+
+The first essential point to be decided was whether the lion had been
+killed on civil or military territory. In the first case Tartarin
+would come before a civil tribunal, in the second he would be tried by
+court-martial: at the word court-martial Tartarin imagined himself
+lying shot at the foot of the ramparts, or crouching in the depths of
+a dungeon... A major difficulty was that the delimitation of these two
+areas was extremely vague, but at last, after months of consultation,
+intrigue, and vigils in the sun outside the offices of the Arab Bureau,
+it was established that on the one hand the lion was, when killed, on
+military ground, but on the other hand that Tartarin when he fired the
+fatal shot was in civilian territory. The affair was therefore a civil
+matter, and Tartarin was freed on the payment of an indemnity of two
+thousand five hundred francs, not including costs.
+
+How was this to be paid? The little money left after the prince's
+defection had long since gone on legal documents and judicial absinthe.
+The unfortunate lion killer was now reduced to selling off his armament
+rifle by rifle. He sold the daggers, the knives and coshes. A grocer
+bought the preserved food, a chemist what was left of the medicine
+chest. Even the boots went, with the bivouac tent, into the hands of
+a merchant of bric-a-brac. Once everything had been paid, Tartarin
+was left with little but the lion-skin and the camel. The lion-skin he
+packed up carefully and despatched to Tarascon, to the address of the
+brave Commandant Bravida. As for the camel, he counted on it to get him
+back to Algiers: not by riding it, but by selling it to raise the fare
+for the stage-coach, which was at least better than camel-back. Sadly
+the camel proved a difficult market, and no one offered to buy it at any
+price.
+
+Tartarin was determined to get back to Algiers, even if it meant
+walking. He longed to see once more Baia's blue corslet, his house, his
+fountain and to rest on the white tiles of his his little cloister while
+he awaited money to be sent from France. In these circumstances
+the camel did not desert him. This strange animal had developed an
+inexplicable affection for its master, and seeing him set out from
+Orleansville it followed him faithfully, regulating its pace to his and
+not quitting him by as much as a footstep.
+
+At first Tartarin found it touching. This fidelity, this unshakable
+devotion seemed wholly admirable; besides which the beast was no trouble
+and was able to find its own food. However, after a few days Tartarin
+grew tired of having perpetually at his heels this melancholy companion,
+who reminded him of all his misadventures. He began to be irritated.
+He took a dislike to its air of sadness to its hump and its haughty
+bearing. In he end he became so exasperated with it that his only wish
+was to be rid of it; but the camel would not be dismissed. Tartarin
+tried to lose it, but the camel always found him. He tried running
+away, but the camel could run faster. He shouted "Clear off!" and threw
+stones: the camel stopped and regarded him with a mournful expression,
+then after a few moments it resumed its pace and caught up with him.
+Tartarin had to resign himself to its company.
+
+When, after eight days of walking, Tartarin, tired and dusty, saw
+gleaming in the distance the white terraces of Algiers, when he found
+himself on the outskirts of the town, on the bustling Mustapha road,
+amid the crowds who watched him go by with the camel in attendance, his
+patience snapped, and taking advantage of some traffic congestion he
+ducked into a field and hid in a ditch. In a few moments he saw above
+his head, on the causeway, the camel striding along rapidly, its neck
+anxiously extended. Greatly relieved to be rid of it, Tartarin entered
+the town by a side road which ran along by the wall of his house.
+
+On his arrival at his Moorish house, Tartarin halted in astonishment. The
+day was ending, the streets deserted. Through the low arched doorway,
+which the negress had forgotten to close, could be heard laughter, the
+clinking of glasses, the popping of a champagne cork and the cheerful
+voice of a woman singing loud and clear:
+
+"Aimes-tu Marco la belle,
+
+"La danse aux salons en fleurs..."
+
+"Tron de Diou!" Said Tartarin, blenching, and he rushed into the
+courtyard.
+
+Unhappy Tartarin! What a spectacle awaited him!.... Amid bottles,
+pastries, scattered cushions, tambourine, guitar, and hookah, Baia
+stood, without her blue jacket or her corslet, dressed only in a silver
+gauze blouse and big pink pantaloons, singing "Marco la belle" with a
+naval officer's hat tipped over one ear... while on a rug at her
+feet surfeited with love and confitures, was Barbassou, the infamous
+Barbassou, roaring with laughter as he listened to her.
+
+The arrival of Tartarin, haggard, thin, covered in dust, with blazing
+eyes and bristling chechia cut short this enjoyable Turco-Marseillaise
+orgy. Baia uttered a little cry, and like a startled leveret she bolted
+into the house, but Barbassou was not in the least put out and laughed
+more than ever: "H�!... H�!... Monsieur Tartarin. What did I tell you? You
+can hear that she knows French all right."
+
+Tartarin advanced, furious: "Captain!.." He began; but then, leaning
+over the balcony with a rather vulgar gesture, Baia threw down a few
+well-chosen words. Tartarin, deflated, sat down on a drum, his Moor
+spoke in the argot of the Marseilles back-streets.
+
+"When I warned you not to trust Algerian women," Said Captain Barbassou
+sententiously, "The same applied to your Montenegrin prince." Tartarin
+looked up, "Do you know where the prince is?" he asked.
+
+"Oh, he is not far away. He will spend the next five years in the
+fine prison at Mustapha. The clown was foolish enough to be caught
+stealing... and anyway this is not the first time His Highness has been
+inside, he has already done three years in gaol somewhere, and... hang
+on!... I believe it was in Tarascon!
+
+"In Tarascon!" Cried Tartarin, suddenly enlightened, "that is why I never
+saw him there. All he knew of Tarascon was what he could see from a cell
+window."
+
+"H�!... without a doubt.... Ah! My poor M. Tartarin, you have to keep both
+eyes wide open in this devilish country if you don't want to be taken
+in. Like that business of the Muezzin."
+
+"What business?... What Muezzin?"
+
+"Ti!... Pardi!" The Muezzin opposite, who was courting Baia; all Algiers
+knew about it. Not all the prayers he was chanting were addressed
+to Allah, some were directed to the little one, and he was making
+propositions under your nose. "It seems that everyone in this beastly
+country is a crook", Wailed the unhappy Tartarin. Barbassou shrugged his
+shoulders, "My dear fellow, you know how it is. All these sort of places
+are the same. If you take my advice you will go back to Tarascon as
+quickly as possible."
+
+"That's easy to say, but what am I to do for money? Don't you know how
+they robbed me out there in the desert?"
+
+"Don't worry about that," laughed the Captain, "the Zouave is leaving
+tomorrow and I'll take you back if you want... does that suit you,
+colleague?... All right... Good! There's only one thing left to do, there
+is still some champagne and some pastries left. Come, sit down and let
+bygones be bygones." After a little delay which his dignity required,
+our hero accepted the offer. They sat down and poured out a drink.
+Hearing the clink of glasses, Baia came down and finished singing Marco
+la Belle, and the party went on until late in the night.
+
+
+
+
+Chapter 30.
+
+It is mid-day. The Zouave has steam up and is ready to depart. Up
+above on the balcony of the caf� Valentin, a group of officers aim the
+telescope, and come one by one, in order of seniority, to look at
+the lucky little ship which is going to France. It is the principle
+entertainment of the general staff. Down below, the water of the
+anchorage sparkles.... The breeches of the old Turkish cannons, mounted
+along the quay, glisten in the sunshine.... Passengers arrive.... Baggage
+is loaded onto tenders.
+
+Tartarin does not have any baggage. He comes down from the Rue de
+la Marine by the little market, full of bananas and water-melons,
+accompanied by his friend Captain Barbassou.
+
+Tartarin de Tarascon has left on the Moorish shore his arms, his
+equipment and his illusions, and is preparing to sail back to Tarascon
+with nothing in his pockets but his hands. Scarcely, however, had he set
+foot in the captain's launch, when a breathless creature scrambled down
+from the square above and galloped towards him. It was the camel, the
+faithful camel, which for twenty-four hours had been searching for its
+master.
+
+When Tartarin saw it, he changed colour and pretended not to know it;
+but the camel was insistent. It frisked along the quay. It called to its
+friend and regarded him with tender looks. "Take me away!" Its sad eyes
+seemed to say, "Take me away with you, far away from this mock Arabia,
+this ridiculous Orient, full of locomotives and stage coaches, where I
+as a second-class dromadary do not know what will become of me. You are
+the last Teur, I am the last camel, let us never part, Oh my Tartarin!"
+"Is that your camel?" Asked the Captain.
+
+"No!... No!... Not mine." Replied Tartarin, who trembled at the thought of
+entering Tarascon with this absurd escort; and shamelessly repudiating
+the companion of his misfortunes he repelled with his foot the soil of
+Algeria and pushed the boat out from the shore. The camel sniffed at the
+water, flexed its joints and leapt headlong in behind the boat, where it
+swam in convoy toward the Zouave, its hump floating on the water like a
+gourd and it neck lying on the surface like the ram of a trireme.
+
+The boat and the camel came alongside the Zouave at the same time. "I
+don't know what I should do about this dromadary." Said the captain, "I
+think I'll take it on board and present it to the zoo at Marseille, I
+can't just leave it here." So by means of block and tackle the wet camel
+was hoisted onto the deck of the Zouave, which then set sail.
+
+Tartarin spent most of the time in his cabin. Not that the sea was
+rough or that the chechia had to much to suffer, but because whenever
+he appeared on the deck the camel made such a ridiculous fuss of its
+master. You never saw a camel so attached to anyone as this.
+
+Hour by hour, when he looked through the porthole, Tartarin could see
+the Algerian sky turn paler, until one morning, in a silvery mist, he
+heard to his delight the bells of Marseilles. The Zouave had arrived.
+
+Our man, who had no baggage, disembarked without a word and hurried
+across Marseilles, fearing all the time that he might be followed by
+the camel, and he did not breathe easily until he was seated in a
+third-class railway carriage, on his way to Tarascon... a false sense of
+security. They had not gone far from Marseilles when heads appeared at
+windows and there were cries of astonishment, Tartarin looked out in
+turn and what did he see but the inescapable camel coming down the line
+behind the train with a remarkable turn of speed.
+
+Tartarin resumed his seat and closed his eyes. After this disastrous
+expedition he had counted on getting back home unrecognised, but the
+presence of this confounded camel made it impossible. What a return
+to make, Bon Dieu!... No money... No lions... Nothing but a camel!....
+"Tarascon!... Tarascon!"... It was time to get out.
+
+To Tartarin's utter astonishment, the heroic chechia had barely
+appeared in the doorway, when it was greeted by a great cry of "Vive
+Tartarin!... Vive Tartarin!" Which shook the glass vault of the station
+roof. "Vive Tartarin!... Hurrah for the lion killer!" Then came fanfares
+and a choir. Tartarin could have died, he thought this was a hoax: but
+no, all Tarascon was there, tossing their hats in the air and shouting
+his praises. There stood the brave Commandant Bravida, Costecalde the
+gunsmith, the President Ladev�ze, the chemist and all the noble body of
+hat shooters, who pressed round their chief and carried him all the way
+down the steps.
+
+How remarkable are the effects of the "mirage". The skin of the blind
+lion sent to the Commandant was the cause of all this tumult. At the
+sight of this modest trophy, displayed at the club, Tarascon and beyond
+Tarascon the whole of the Midi had worked themselves into a state of
+excitement. "The Semaphore" had spoken. A complete scenario had been
+invented. This was no longer one lion killed by Tartarin, it was ten
+lions, twenty lions, a whole troop of lions. So Tartarin, when he
+reached Marseilles was already famous, and an enthusiastic telegram had
+warned his home town of his imminent arrival.
+
+The excitement of the populace reached its peak when a fantastic animal,
+covered in dust and sweat, stumbled down the station steps behind our
+hero. For a moment they thought that the Tarasque had returned.
+
+Tartarin reassured his fellow citizens, "It is my camel" He said, and
+already under the influence of the Tarascon sun, that fine sun which
+induces fanciful exaggeration, he stroked the camel's hump and added,
+"It is a noble creature, it saw me kill all my lions." So saying,
+he took the arm of the Commandant, who was blushing with pride, and
+followed by his camel, surrounded by hat shooters and acclaimed by the
+people, he proceeded peacefully toward the little house of the baobab;
+and as he walked along he began the story of his great expedition.
+
+"There was one particular evening," He said, "When I was out in the
+heart of the Sahara..."
+
+
+
+
+
+End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Tartarin de Tarascon, by Alphonse Daudet
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+<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" lang="en">
+  <head>
+    <meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html;charset=UTF-8" />
+    <title>
+      Tartarin de Tarascon, by A. 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%;}
+
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+  </head>
+  <body>
+<pre xml:space="preserve">
+
+The Project Gutenberg EBook of Tartarin de 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 de Tarascon
+
+Author: Alphonse Daudet
+
+Translator: Oliver C. Colt
+
+Release Date: March 21, 2006 [EBook #2375]
+Last Updated: October 1, 2016
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: UTF-8
+
+*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TARTARIN DE TARASCON ***
+
+
+
+
+Produced by Oliver C. Colt and David Widger
+
+
+
+
+
+</pre>
+    <p>
+      <br /> <br />
+    </p>
+
+
+
+<table summary="" style="margin-right: auto; margin-left: auto" cellpadding="4" border="3">
+<tr>
+<td>
+THERE IS ANOTHER EDITION OF THIS TITLE WITH LINKED FOOTNOTES WHICH MAY VIEWED AT EBOOK <big><b><a href="https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/10687">
+[# 10687 ]</a></b></big>
+</td>
+</tr>
+</table>
+
+    <h1>
+      TARTARIN DE TARASCON
+    </h1>
+    <p>
+      <br />
+    </p>
+    <h2>
+      By A. Daudet.
+    </h2>
+    <p>
+      <br /> <br />
+    </p>
+    <h3>
+      Translated by Oliver C. Colt.
+    </h3>
+    <p>
+      <br /> <br />
+    </p>
+    <hr />
+    <p>
+      <br /> <br />
+    </p>
+    <blockquote>
+      <p class="toc">
+        <big><b>CONTENTS</b></big>
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        <br />
+      </p>
+      <p class="toc">
+        <a href="#link2H_INTR"> Translator&rsquo;s Introduction. </a>
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        <br />
+      </p>
+      <p class="toc">
+        <a href="#link2H_4_0002"> <big><b>TARTARIN DE TARASCON</b></big> </a>
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        <br />
+      </p>
+      <p class="toc">
+        <a href="#link2HCH0001"> Chapter 1. </a>
+      </p>
+      <p class="toc">
+        <a href="#link2HCH0002"> Chapter 2. </a>
+      </p>
+      <p class="toc">
+        <a href="#link2HCH0003"> Chapter 3. </a>
+      </p>
+      <p class="toc">
+        <a href="#link2HCH0004"> Chapter 4. </a>
+      </p>
+      <p class="toc">
+        <a href="#link2HCH0005"> Chapter 5. </a>
+      </p>
+      <p class="toc">
+        <a href="#link2HCH0006"> Chapter 6. </a>
+      </p>
+      <p class="toc">
+        <a href="#link2HCH0007"> Chapter 7. </a>
+      </p>
+      <p class="toc">
+        <a href="#link2HCH0008"> Chapter 8. </a>
+      </p>
+      <p class="toc">
+        <a href="#link2HCH0009"> Chapter 9. </a>
+      </p>
+      <p class="toc">
+        <a href="#link2HCH0010"> Chapter 10. </a>
+      </p>
+      <p class="toc">
+        <a href="#link2HCH0011"> Chapter 11. </a>
+      </p>
+      <p class="toc">
+        <a href="#link2HCH0012"> Chapter 12. </a>
+      </p>
+      <p class="toc">
+        <a href="#link2HCH0013"> Chapter 13. </a>
+      </p>
+      <p class="toc">
+        <a href="#link2HCH0014"> Chapter 14. </a>
+      </p>
+      <p class="toc">
+        <a href="#link2HCH0015"> Chapter 15. </a>
+      </p>
+      <p class="toc">
+        <a href="#link2HCH0016"> Chapter 16. </a>
+      </p>
+      <p class="toc">
+        <a href="#link2HCH0017"> Chapter 17. </a>
+      </p>
+      <p class="toc">
+        <a href="#link2HCH0018"> Chapter 18. </a>
+      </p>
+      <p class="toc">
+        <a href="#link2HCH0019"> Chapter 19. </a>
+      </p>
+      <p class="toc">
+        <a href="#link2HCH0020"> Chapter 20. </a>
+      </p>
+      <p class="toc">
+        <a href="#link2HCH0021"> Chapter 21. </a>
+      </p>
+      <p class="toc">
+        <a href="#link2HCH0022"> Chapter 22. </a>
+      </p>
+      <p class="toc">
+        <a href="#link2HCH0023"> Chapter 23. </a>
+      </p>
+      <p class="toc">
+        <a href="#link2HCH0024"> Chapter 24. </a>
+      </p>
+      <p class="toc">
+        <a href="#link2HCH0025"> Chapter 25. </a>
+      </p>
+      <p class="toc">
+        <a href="#link2HCH0026"> Chapter 26. </a>
+      </p>
+      <p class="toc">
+        <a href="#link2HCH0027"> Chapter 27. </a>
+      </p>
+      <p class="toc">
+        <a href="#link2HCH0028"> Chapter 28. </a>
+      </p>
+      <p class="toc">
+        <a href="#link2HCH0029"> Chapter 29. </a>
+      </p>
+      <p class="toc">
+        <a href="#link2HCH0030"> Chapter 30. </a>
+      </p>
+    </blockquote>
+    <p>
+      <br /> <br />
+    </p>
+    <hr />
+    <p>
+      <a name="link2H_INTR" id="link2H_INTR">
+      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a> <br /> <br />
+    </p>
+    <h2>
+      Introduction.
+    </h2>
+    <p>
+      The tale of Tartarin de Tarascon was written by Alphonse Daudet in 1872,
+      and was one of the many works which he produced. In it he pokes gentle fun
+      at a type of Frenchman who comes from the Midi, the area where he himself
+      was born. Tartarin has characteristics which may remind the
+      English-speaking reader of Toad of Toad Hall, a boastful braggart, easily
+      deceived, but good-hearted au fond.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      The world he inhabits is, of course, very different from ours. There is no
+      radio or television, the motor car is no more than a plaything for the
+      rich. There is only the beginnings of a telephone system. Much sea
+      transport is still by sailing ship and the idea of mass air travel is in
+      the realm of science-fiction. France lost the Franco-Prussian war at the
+      battle of Sedan in 1870, which accounts for the flood of refugees from
+      Alsasce. She had also, in the 19th century rush to carve up the African
+      continent, seized among other places, Algeria, which she held in
+      subjection by force of arms. So-called Big Game Hunters were regarded with
+      some admiration, and indeed it was a much more perilous activity than it
+      is today, when high power repeating rifles with telescopic sights make
+      motor-borne &ldquo;Sportsmen&rdquo; little more than butchers.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Daudet&rsquo;s humour is on the whole inoffensive, but anti-semitism was rife in
+      certain circles in France. It was the era of the Dreyfus scandal, and he
+      indulges in one or two tasteless gibes at the expense of the Jews, which I
+      have suppressed or at least amended. He also has a passage which might
+      well offend the delicate susceptabilities of the less tolerant believers
+      in Islam, although to anyone with a nodding acquaintance with the tents of
+      that faith, the incident is so far-fetched as to neutralise &ldquo;The willing
+      suspension of disbelief&rdquo; I have therefore decided to eliminate it from
+      this version of the story. It is not very amusing and is no great loss.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Although Daudet&rsquo;s humour is in the main kindly, he does not spare the
+      French colonial administration of the time. His treatment of the subject
+      is acidly satirical. It may be said that Daudet seems to know little about
+      firearms, less about lions and nothing about camels, but he is not
+      striving for verisimilitude. After all, the adventures of James Bond do
+      not mirror the reality of international espionage, nor do the exploits of
+      Bertie Wooster and Jeeves truely reflect life in the upper echelons of
+      British society.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      This is not a schoolroom exercise in translation. It might be more
+      accurately described as a version in English. I have not tampered with the
+      story line nor made any changes in the events related, but where I thought
+      it necessary I have not shrunk from altering the words and phrases used in
+      the original to describe them. All translation must be a matter of
+      paraphrase. What sounds well in one language may sound ridiculous if
+      translated literally into another, and it is for the translator to judge
+      how far this process of paraphrase may be carried.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      I have attempted to produce a text which will entertain the average
+      reader. Those who want to know exactly what Daudet wrote must consult the
+      French original.
+    </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>
+      TARTARIN DE TARASCON
+    </h2>
+    <p>
+      <a name="link2HCH0001" id="link2HCH0001">
+      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      Chapter 1.
+    </h2>
+    <p>
+      Although it is now some twelve or fifteen years since my first meeting
+      with Tartarin de Tarascon, the memory of the encounter remains as fresh as
+      if it had been yesterday.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      At that time Tartarin lived near the entrance to the town, in the third
+      house on the left on the Avignon road, a pretty little Tarascon villa,
+      with a garden in front, a balcony behind, very white walls and green
+      shutters.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      From outside the place looked perfectly ordinary, one would never have
+      believed that it was the home of a hero, but when one went inside, well...
+      My goodness! The whole establishment had an heroic air, even the garden!
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Ah...! The Garden... there was not another like it in Europe. Not one
+      indigenous tree grew there, not one French flower; nothing but exotic
+      plants, gum trees, calabashes, cotton trees, coconut palms, mangos,
+      bananas, cactuses, figs and a baobab. One might have thought oneself in
+      the middle of Africa, thousands of miles from Tarascon. Of course none of
+      these trees was fully grown, the coconut palm was about the size of a
+      swede and the baobab (arbos gigantica) fitted comfortably into a pot full
+      of earth and gravel. No matter.... For Tarascon it was quite splendid, and
+      those citizens who were admitted, on Sundays, to have the privilege of
+      inspecting Tartarin&rsquo;s baobab went home full of admiration.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      You may imagine my emotions as I walked through this remarkable garden...
+      they were nothing, however, to what I felt on being admitted to the
+      sanctum of the great man himself.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      This building, one of the curiosities of the town, was at the end of the
+      garden, to which it opened through a glass door. Picture a large room hung
+      from floor to ceiling with firearms and swords; weapons from every country
+      in the world. Guns, carbines, rifles, blunderbusses, knives, spears,
+      revolvers, daggers, arrows, assegais, knobkerries, knuckledusters and I
+      know not what.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      The brilliant sunlight glittered on the steel blades of sabres and the
+      polished butts of firearms. It was really quite a menacing scene... what
+      was a little reassuring was the good order and discipline which ruled over
+      this arsenal. Everything was neat tidy and dusted. Here and there a simple
+      notice, reading &ldquo;Poison arrows, Do not touch.&rdquo; or &ldquo;Beware. Loaded
+      firearms.&rdquo; made one feel it safe to approach.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      In the middle of the room was a table. On the table was a flagon of rum, a
+      turkish tobacco pouch, The voyages of Captain Cook, stories of adventure,
+      treatises on falconry, descriptions of big-game hunts etc... and finally
+      seated at the table was the man himself. Forty to forty-five years of age,
+      short, fat, stocky and ruddy, clad in shirt-sleeves and flannel trousers,
+      with a close-clipped wiry beard and a flamboyant eye. In one hand he held
+      a book and with the other he brandished an enormous pipe, its bowl covered
+      by a metal cap; and as he read some stirring tale of the pursuit of hairy
+      creatures, he made, pushing out his lower lip, a fierce grimace which gave
+      his features, those of a comfortable Tarascon &ldquo;Rentier&rdquo;, the same air of
+      hearty ferocity which was evident throughout the whole house. This man was
+      Tartarin... Tartarin de Tarascon... the intrepid, great and incomparable
+      Tartarin de Tarascon.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      At that time Tartarin was not the Tartarin which he is today, the great
+      Tartarin de Tarascon who is so popular throughout the Midi of France,
+      however, even at this epoch, he was already the king of Tarascon.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Let us examine how he acquired his crown. You will be aware, for a start,
+      that everyone in these parts is a hunter. From the highest to the lowest
+      hunting is a passion with the Tarasconais and has been ever since the
+      legendary Tarasque prowled in the marshes near the town and was hunted
+      down by the citizens.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Now, every Sunday morning, the men of Tarascon take up arms and leave
+      town, bag on back and gun on shoulder, with an excited collection of dogs,
+      with ferrets, with trumpets and hunting horns, it is a splendid
+      spectacle.... Sadly, however, there is a shortage of game... in fact there
+      is a total absence of game.... Animals may be dumb but they are not
+      stupid, so for miles around Tarascon the burrows are empty and the nests
+      abandoned. There is not a quail, not a blackbird, not the smallest rabbit
+      nor even the tiniest wheatear.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      These pretty little Tarascon hills, scented with lavender, myrtle and
+      rosemary are very tempting, and those fine muscat grapes, swollen with
+      sugar, which line the banks of the Rhone, are wonderfully appetising...
+      yes, but there is Tarascon in he distance, and in the world of fur and
+      feather Tarascon is bad news. The birds of passage seem to have marked it
+      with a cross on their maps, and when the long wedges of wild duck, heading
+      for the Camargue, see far off the town&rsquo;s steeples, the whole flight veers
+      away. In short there is nothing left by way of game in this part of the
+      country but an old rascal of a hare, who has escaped by some miracle the
+      guns of Tarascon and appears determined to stay there. This hare is well
+      known. He has been given a name. He is called &ldquo;Speedy&rdquo;. He is known to
+      live on land belonging to M. Bompard... which, by the way, has doubled or
+      even tripled its value. No one has yet been able to catch him, and at the
+      present time there are not more than two or three fanatics who go after
+      him. The rest have given up and Speedy has become something of a protected
+      species, though the Tarasconais are not very conservation minded and would
+      make a stew of the rarest of creatures, if they managed to shoot one.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Now, you may say, &ldquo;Since game is in such short supply, what do these
+      Tarasconais sportsmen do every Sunday?&rdquo; What do they do? Eh! Mon Dieu!
+      They go out into the country, several miles from the town. They assemble
+      in little groups of five or six. They settle down comfortably in some
+      shady spot. They take out of their game-bags a nice piece of
+      boeuf-en-daube, some raw onions, a sausage and some anchovies and they
+      begin a very long luncheon, washed down by one of these jolly Rhone wines,
+      which encourage singing and laughter.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      When all have had enough, they whistle for the dogs, load their guns and
+      commence the shoot. That is to say each of these gentlemen takes off his
+      hat, sends it spinning through the air with all his strength and takes a
+      pot-shot at it. The one who hits his hat most frequently is proclaimed
+      king of the hunt and returns to Tarascon that evening in triumph, his
+      perforated hat hanging from the end of his gun and to the accompaniment of
+      much barking and blowing of trumpets.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      One need hardly tell you that there is a brisk trade in hats in the town,
+      and there are even hatters who sell hats already full of holes and tears
+      for use by the less skillful, but scarcely anyone is known to buy them
+      except Bezuquet the chemist.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      As a hat shooter Tartarin had no equal. Every Sunday morning he left with
+      a new hat. Every evening he returned with a rag. In the little house of
+      the baobab, the attic was full of these glorious trophies. All of Tarascon
+      recognised him as their master in this respect. The gentlemen elected him
+      as their chief justice in matters relating to the chase and arbitrator in
+      any dispute, so that every day, between the hours of three and four in the
+      afternoon, at Costecalde the gunsmith&rsquo;s one could see the plump figure of
+      a man, seated gravely on a green leather arm-chair, in the middle of the
+      shop, which was full of hat hunters standing about and arguing. It was
+      Tartarin delivering justice. Nimrod doubling as Soloman.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <a name="link2HCH0002" id="link2HCH0002">
+      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      Chapter 2.
+    </h2>
+    <p>
+      In addition to their passion for hunting the good people of Tarascon had
+      another passion, which was for drawing-room ballads. The number of ballads
+      which were sung in this part of the world passed all belief. All the old
+      sentimental songs, yellowing in ancient cardboard boxes, could be found in
+      Tarascon alive and flourishing. Each family had its own ballad and in the
+      town this was well understood. One knew, for example, that for Bezuquet
+      the chemist it was:-&ldquo;Thou pale star whom I adore.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      For the gunsmith Costecalde:-&ldquo;Come with me to the forest glade.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      For the Town Clark:&mdash;&ldquo;If I was invisible, no one would see me.&rdquo; (a
+      comic song) Two or three times a week people would gather in one house or
+      another and sing, and the remarkable thing is that the songs were always
+      the same. No matter for how long they had been singing them, the people of
+      Tarascon had no desire to change them. They were handed down in families
+      from father to son and nobody dared to interfere with them, they were
+      sacrosanct. They were never even borrowed. It would never occur to the
+      Bezuquets to sing the Costecaldes&rsquo; song or to the Costecaldes to sing that
+      of the Bezuquets. You might suppose that having known them for some forty
+      years they might sometimes sing them to themselves, but no, everyone stuck
+      to his own.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      In the matter of ballads, as in that of hats, Tartarin played a leading
+      role. His superiority over his fellow citizens arose from the fact that he
+      did not have a song of his own, and so he could take part in all of them,
+      only it was extremely difficult to get him to sing at all.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Returning early from some drawing-room success, our hero preferred to
+      immerse himself in his books on hunting or spend the evening at the club
+      rather than join in a sing-song round a Nimes piano, between two Tarascon
+      candles. He felt that musical evenings were a little beneath him.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Sometimes, however, when there was music at Bezuquet the chemists, he
+      would drop in as if by chance, and after much persuasion he would consent
+      to take part in the great duet from &ldquo;Robert le Diable&rdquo; with madame
+      Bezuquet the elder.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Anyone who has not heard this has heard nothing. For my part, if I live to
+      be a hundred, I shall always recall the great Tartarin approaching the
+      piano with solemn steps, leaning his elbow upon it, making his grimace and
+      in the greenish light reflected from the chemist&rsquo;s jars, trying to give
+      his homely face the savage and satanic expression of Robert le Diable.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      As soon as he had taken up his position, a quiver of expectation ran
+      through the gathering. One felt that something great was about to happen.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      After a moment of silence, madame Bezuquet the elder, accompanying herself
+      on the piano, began:
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Robert, thou whom I adore
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      And in whom I trust,
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      You see my fear (twice)
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Have mercy on yourself
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      And mercy on me.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      She added, sotto voce, &ldquo;Its you now Tartarin.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      Then Tartarin, with arm extended, clenched fist and quivering nostrils,
+      said three times in a formidable voice which rolled like a clap of thunder
+      in the entrails of the piano &ldquo;Non! Non! Non!&rdquo; Which as a good southerner
+      he pronounced &ldquo;Nan. Nan. Nan&rdquo; Upon which madame Bezuquet repeated &ldquo;Mercy
+      on yourself and on me&rdquo; &ldquo;Nan! Nan! Nan!&rdquo; Bellowed Tartarin even more
+      loudly... and the matter ended there.... It was not very long, but it was
+      so well presented, so well acted, so diabolic that a frisson ran round the
+      pharmacy and he was made to repeat his &ldquo;Nan. Nan. Nan.&rdquo; four or five
+      times.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Afterwards Tartarin wiped his forehead, smiled at the ladies, winked at
+      the men and went off triumphantly to the club, where, with a casual air,
+      he would say, &ldquo;I&rsquo;ve just come from the Bezuquets. They had me singing in
+      the duet from Robert le Diable.&rdquo; What is more he believed it.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <a name="link2HCH0003" id="link2HCH0003">
+      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      Chapter 3.
+    </h2>
+    <p>
+      It was to the possession of these various talents that Tartarin owed his
+      high standing in the town. There were, however, other ways in which he had
+      made his mark on society.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      In Tarascon the army supported Tartarin. The gallant Commandant Bravida
+      (Quartermaster. Ret) said of him &ldquo;He&rsquo;s a stout fellow,&rdquo; and one may
+      suppose that having kitted out so many stout fellows in his time, he knew
+      what he was talking about.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      The magistrature supported Tartarin. Two or three times, on a full bench,
+      the aged president Ladevèze had said of him &ldquo;He&rsquo;s quite a character&rdquo;.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Finally, the people supported Tartarin, his stolid appearance, the heroic
+      reputation he had somehow acquired, the distribution of small sums of
+      money and a few clips round the ear to the youngsters who hung around his
+      doorstep, had made him lord of the neighbourhood and king of the Tarascon
+      market-place. On the quay, on sunday evenings, when Tartarin returned from
+      the hunt, his hat dangling from the end of his gun, the stevedores would
+      nod to him respectfully and eying the arms bulging the sleeves of his
+      tightly buttoned jacket, would murmur to one another, &ldquo;He&rsquo;s strong he is.
+      He&rsquo;s got double muscles.&rdquo; The possession of double muscles is something
+      you hear about only in Tarascon.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      However, in spite of his numerous talents, double muscles, popular favour
+      and the so precious esteem of the gallant Commandant Bravida
+      (Quartermaster. Ret) Tartarin was not happy. This small-town life weighed
+      him down, stifled him. The great man of Tarascon was bored with Tarascon.
+      The fact is that for an heroic nature such as his, for a daring and
+      adventurous spirit which dreamt of battles, explorations, big game
+      hunting, desert sands, hurricanes and typhoons, to go every Sunday hat
+      shooting and for the rest of the time dispense justice at Costecalde the
+      gunsmith&rsquo;s was... well... hardly satisfying. It was enough indeed to send
+      one into a decline.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      In vain, in order to widen his horizon and forget for a while the club and
+      the market square, did he surround himself with African plants; in vain
+      did he pile up a collection of weapons; in vain did he pore over tales of
+      daring-do trying to escape by the power of his imagination from the
+      pitiless grip of reality. Alas all that he did to satisfy his lust for
+      adventure seemed only to increase it. The sight of his weapons kept him in
+      a perpetual state of furious agitation. His rifles, his arrows and his
+      spears rang out war-cries. In the branches of the baobab the wind
+      whispered enticingly of great voyages.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      How often on these heavy summer afternoons, when he was alone, reading
+      amongst his weaponry, did Tartarin jump to his feet and throwing down his
+      book rush to the wall to arm himself, then, quite forgetting that he was
+      in his own house at Tarascon, cry, brandishing a gun or a spear, &ldquo;Let them
+      all come&rdquo;!!... Them?... What them? Tartarin did not quite know himself,
+      &ldquo;Them&rdquo; was everything that attacked, that bit, that clawed. &ldquo;Them&rdquo; was the
+      Indian brave dancing round the stake to which his wretched prisoner was
+      tied. It was the grizzly bear, shuffling and swaying, licking bloodstained
+      lips. The Toureg of the desert, the Malay pirate, the Corsican bandit. In
+      a word it was &ldquo;Them!&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      Alas it was fruitless for the fearless Tartarin to challenge them... they
+      never appeared; but though it seemed unlikely that they would come to
+      Tarascon, Tartarin was always ready for them, particularly in the evenings
+      when he went to the club.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <a name="link2HCH0004" id="link2HCH0004">
+      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      Chapter 4.
+    </h2>
+    <p>
+      The knight of the temple preparing for a sortie against the Saracen. The
+      Chinese warrior equipping himself for battle. The Comanchee brave taking
+      to the warpath were as nothing compared to Tartarin de Tarascon arming
+      himself to go to the club at nine o&rsquo;clock on a dark evening, an hour after
+      the bugle had blown the retreat. He was cleared for action as the sailors
+      say.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      On his left hand he had a metal knuckleduster. In his right he carried a
+      sword-stick. In his left pocket there was a cosh and in his right a
+      revolver. Stuck into his waistband was a knife. Before setting out, in the
+      privacy of his den, he carried out a few exercises. He made a pass at the
+      wall with his sword-stick, drew his revolver, flexed his muscles and then
+      taking his identity papers he crossed the garden... steadily...
+      unhurriedly... à l&rsquo;Anglais. That is the mark of true courage.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      At the end of the garden he opened the heavy iron gate. He opened it
+      brusquely, violently, so that it banged against the wall. If &ldquo;They&rdquo; had
+      been behind it, it would have made a fine mess of them. Unfortunately they
+      were not behind it.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Having opened the gate Tartarin went out, cast a quick look right and
+      left, closed the gate swiftly and double locked it. Then he set off.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      On the Avignon road there was not so much as a cat. Doors were shut and
+      curtains drawn across windows. Here and there a street light blinked in
+      the mist rising from the Rhône.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Superb and calm Tartarin de Tarascon strode through the night, his heels
+      striking the road with measured tread and the metal tip of his cane
+      raising sparks from the paving-stones. On boulevards, roads or lanes he
+      was always careful to walk in the middle of the causeway, an excellent
+      precaution which allows one to see approaching danger and moreover to
+      avoid things which at night, in the streets of Tarascon, sometimes fall
+      from windows. Seeing this prudence you should not entertain the notion
+      that Tartarin was afraid. No! He was just being cautious.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      The clearest evidence that Tartarin was unafraid is that he went to the
+      club not by the short way but by the longest and darkest way, through a
+      tangle of mean little streets, at the end of which one glimpsed the
+      sinister gleam of the Rhone. He almost hoped that at a bend in one of
+      these alleys &ldquo;They&rdquo; would come rushing from the shadows to attack him from
+      behind. They would have had a hot reception I can promise you; but sadly
+      Tartarin was never fated to encounter any danger... not even a dog... not
+      even a drunk... Nothing.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Sometimes however there was an alarm. The sound of footsteps... Muffled
+      voices. Tartarin comes to a halt, peering into the shadows, sniffing the
+      air, straining his ears. The steps draw nearer, the voices more
+      distinct... there can be no doubt... &ldquo;They&rdquo; are here. With heaving breast
+      and eyes ablaze Tartarin is gathering himself like a jaguar and preparing
+      to leap on his foes, when suddenly out of the gloom a good Tarasconais
+      voice calls &ldquo;Look! There&rsquo;s Tartarin! Hulloa there Tartarin!&rdquo; Malediction!
+      It is Bezuquet the chemist and his family who have been singing their
+      ballad at the Costecaldes. &ldquo;Bon soir, bon soir&rdquo; growls Tartarin, furious
+      at his mistake, and shouldering his cane he disappears angrily into the
+      night.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Arrived at the club the fearless Tarasconais waits a little longer,
+      walking up and down in front of the door before entering. In the end,
+      tired of waiting for &ldquo;them&rdquo; and certain that they will not show
+      themselves, he throws a last look of defiance into the dark and mutters
+      crossly &ldquo;Nothing... nothing... always nothing&rdquo; With that our hero goes in
+      to play bezique with the Commandant.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <a name="link2HCH0005" id="link2HCH0005">
+      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      Chapter 5.
+    </h2>
+    <p>
+      With this lust for adventure, this need for excitement, this longing for
+      journeys to Lord knows where, how on earth, you may ask, does it happen
+      that Tartarin had never left Tarascon? For it is a fact that up to the age
+      of forty-five the bold Tarasconais had never slept away from his home
+      town. He had never even made the ritual journey to Marseille which every
+      good Provencal makes when he comes of age. He might, of course, have
+      visited Beaucaire, albeit Beaucaire is not very far from Tarascon, as one
+      has only to cross the bridge over the Rhône. Regrettably, however, this
+      wretched bridge is so often swept by high winds, is so long and so flimsy
+      and the river at that point is so wide that... Ma foi... you will
+      understand...!
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      At this point I think one has to admit that there were two sides to our
+      hero&rsquo;s character. On the one hand was the spirit of Don Quixote, devoted
+      to chivalry, to heroic ideals, to grandiose romantic folly, but lacking
+      the body of the celebrated hidalgo, that thin, bony apology of a body,
+      careless of material wants, capable of going for twenty nights without
+      unbuckling its breastplate and surviving for twenty-four hours on a
+      handful of rice. Tartarin, on the other hand, had a good solid body, fat,
+      heavy, sybaritic, soft and complaining, full of bourgeois appetites and
+      domestic necessities, the short-legged, full-bellied body of Sancho Panza.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Don Quixote and Sancho Panza in the same man! You may imagine the
+      arguments, the quarrels, the fights. Carried away by some lurid tale of
+      adventure, Tartarin-Quixote would clamour to be off to the fields of
+      glory, to set sail for distant lands, but then Tartarin-Sancho ringing for
+      the maid servant, would say &ldquo;Jeanette, my chocolate.&rdquo; Upon which Jeanette
+      would return with a fine cup of chocolate, hot, silky and scented, and
+      some succulent grilled snacks, flavoured with anise; greatly pleasing
+      Tartarin-Sancho and silencing the cries of Tartarin-Quixote.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      That is how it happens that Tartarin de Tarascon had never left Tarascon.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <a name="link2HCH0006" id="link2HCH0006">
+      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      Chapter 6.
+    </h2>
+    <p>
+      There was one occasion when Tartarin nearly went on a long journey. The
+      three brothers Garcio-Camus, Tarasconais who were in business in Shanghai,
+      offered him the management of one of their establishments. Now this was
+      the sort of life he needed. Important transactions. An office full of
+      clerks to control. Relations with Russia, Persia, Turkey. In short, Big
+      Business, which in Tartarin&rsquo;s eyes was of enormous proportions.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      The establishment had another advantage in that it was sometimes attacked
+      by bandits. On these occasions the gates were slammed shut, the staff
+      armed themselves, the consular flag was hoisted and &ldquo;Pan! Pan!&rdquo; They fired
+      through the windows at the bandits.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      I need hardly tell you with what enthusiasm Tartarin-Quixote greeted this
+      proposal; unfortunately Tartarin-Sancho did not see the matter in the same
+      light, and as his views prevailed the affair came to nothing.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      At the time there was a great deal of talk in the town. Was he going or
+      not going? It was a matter for eager discussion.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Although in the end Tartarin did not go, the event brought him a great
+      deal of credit. To have nearly gone to Shanghai and actually to have gone
+      there was for Tarascon much the same thing. As a result of so much talk
+      about Tartarin&rsquo;s journey, people ended by believing that he had just
+      returned, and in the evenings at the club the members would ask him for a
+      description of the life in Shanghai, the customs, the climate, and big
+      business.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Tartarin, who had gathered much information from the brothers was happy to
+      reply to their questions, and before long he was not entirely sure himself
+      whether he had been to Shanghai or not; so much so that when describing
+      for the hundredth time the raid by bandits he got to the point of saying
+      &ldquo;Then I dished out arms to my staff. Hoisted the consular flag and we
+      fired &lsquo;Pan! Pan!&rsquo; Through the windows at the bandits.&rdquo; On hearing this the
+      members would exchange suitably solemn looks.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Tartarin then, you will say, is just a frightful liar. No!.... A thousand
+      times no! How is that? you may say, he must know vey well that he has not
+      been to Shanghai... to be sure he knows... only.... Perhaps the time has
+      come when we should settle the question of the reputation for lying which
+      has been given to the people of the Midi.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      There are no liars in the Midi, neither at Marseille, nor Nimes, nor
+      Toulouse, nor Tarascon. The man of the Midi does not lie, he deceives
+      himself. He does not always speak the truth but he believes he speaks it.
+      His untruth, for him, is not a lie, it is a sort of mirage. To understand
+      better you must visit the Midi yourself. You will see a countryside where
+      the sun transfigures everything and makes it larger than life-size. The
+      little hills of Provence, no bigger than the Butte Montmartre will seem to
+      you gigantic. The Maison Carrée at Nimes, a pretty little Roman temple,
+      will seem to you as big as Notre Dame. You will see that the only liar in
+      the Midi, if there is one, is the sun; everything that he touches he
+      exaggerates. Can you be surprised that this sun shining down on Tarascon
+      has been able to make a retired Captain Quartermaster into the gallant
+      Commandant Bravida, to make a thing like a turnip into a baobab and a man
+      who almost went to Shanghai into one who has really been there.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <a name="link2HCH0007" id="link2HCH0007">
+      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      Chapter 7.
+    </h2>
+    <p>
+      Now that we have shown Tartarin as he was in his private life, before fame
+      had crowned his head with laurels. Now that we have recounted the story of
+      his heroic existance in modest surroundings, the story of his joys and
+      sorrows, his dreams and his hopes, let us hurry forward to the important
+      pages of his history and to the event which lent wings to his destiny.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      It was one evening at Costecalde the gunsmith&rsquo;s; Tartarin was explaining
+      to some listeners the working of a pin-fire rifle, then something quite
+      new, when suddenly the door was opened and a hat hunter rushed into the
+      room in a great state shouting &ldquo;A lion! a lion!&rdquo; General amazement,
+      fright, tumult and confusion. Tartarin grabbed a bayonet, Costecalde ran
+      to close the door. The newcomer was surrounded and questioned nosily. What
+      they learned was that the Menagerie Mitaine, returning from the fair at
+      Beaucaire, had arranged to make a stop of several days at Tarascon, and
+      had just set itself up in the Place du Château with a collection of
+      snakes, seals, crocodiles, and a magnificent African lion.... An African
+      lion at Tarascon!... such a thing had never been seen before, never in
+      living memory.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      The brave band of hat hunters gazed proudly at one another. Their manly
+      features glowed with pleasure and, in every corner of the shop, firm
+      handshakes were silently exchanged. The emotion was so overwhelming, so
+      unforseen that no one could find a word to say. Not even Tartarin. Pale
+      and trembling, with the new rifle clutched in his hands, he stood in a
+      trance at the shop counter. A lion!... an African lion!... nearby... a few
+      paces away... A lion, the ferocious king of the beasts... the quarry of
+      his dreams... one of the leading actors in that imaginary cast which
+      played out such fine dramas in his fantasies. It was too much for Tartarin
+      to bear. Suddenly the blood flooded to his cheeks. His eyes blazed, and
+      with a convulsive gesture he slapped the rifle onto his shoulder, then
+      turning to the brave Commandant Bravida (quartermaster. Ret) he said in a
+      voice of thunder, &ldquo;Come, Commandant, let us go and see this.&rdquo; &ldquo;Excuse me.
+      Excuse me. My new rifle.&rdquo; The prudent Costecalde hazarded timidly, but
+      Tartarin was already in the street, and behind him all the hat hunters
+      fell proudly into step.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      When they arrived at the menagerie it was already crowded. The brave
+      people of Tarascon, too long deprived of sensational spectacles, had
+      descended on the place and taken it by storm. The big madame Mitaine was
+      in her element; dressed in an oriental costume, her arms bare to the
+      elbows and with iron bracelets round her ankles, she had a whip in one
+      hand and in the other a live chicken. She welcomed the Tarasconais to the
+      show, and as she too had &ldquo;Double muscles&rdquo; she aroused almost as much
+      interest as the animals in her charge.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      The arrival of Tartarin with the rifle on his shoulder produced something
+      of a chill, all the bold Tarasconais who had been walking tranquilly
+      before the cages, unarmed, trusting, with no notion of danger, became
+      suddenly alarmed at the sight of the great Tartarin entering the place,
+      carrying this lethal weapon. There must be something to fear if he, their
+      hero.... In the blink of an eye the area in front of the cages was
+      deserted, children were crying with fright and the ladies were eying the
+      doorway. Bezuquet the chemist left hurridly, saying that he was going to
+      fetch a gun.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Little by little, however, the attitude of Tartarin restored their
+      courage. Calm and erect, the intrepid Tarasconais strolled round the
+      menagerie. He passed the seals without stopping. He cast a contemptuous
+      eye on the container full of noise, where the boa was swallowing its
+      chicken, and at last halted in front of the lion&rsquo;s cage.... A dramatic
+      confrontation.... The lion of Tarascon and the lion of the Atlas mountains
+      face to face.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      On one side stood Tartarin, his legs planted firmly apart, his arms
+      resting on his rifle, on the other was the lion, a gigantic lion,
+      sprawling in the straw, blinking its eyes drowsily and resting its
+      enormous yellow-haired muzzle on its front paws... they regarded one
+      another calmly... then something odd happened. Perhaps it was the sight of
+      the rifle, perhaps it recognised an enemy of its kind, but the lion which
+      up until then had looked on the people of Tarascon with sovereign disdain,
+      yawning in their faces, seemed to feel a stirring of anger. First it
+      sniffed and uttered a rumbling growl, it stretched out its forefeet and
+      unsheathed its claws, then it got up, raised its head, shook its mane,
+      opened its huge maw and directed at Tartarin a most ear-splitting roar.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      This was greeted by a cry of terror. Tarascon, in panic, rushed for the
+      doors. Everyone, men, women, children, the hat shooters and even the brave
+      Commandant Bravida himself. Only Tartarin did not move... he remained firm
+      and resolute before the cage, a light shining in his eyes, and wearing
+      that grim expression which the town knew so well. After a few moments, the
+      hat shooters, somewhat reassured by his attitude and the solidity of the
+      cage bars, rejoined their chief, to hear him mutter &ldquo;Now that is something
+      worth hunting.&rdquo; And that was all that he said.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <a name="link2HCH0008" id="link2HCH0008">
+      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      Chapter 8.
+    </h2>
+    <p>
+      Although at the memagerie he had said nothing more, he had already said
+      too much. The following day all the talk of the town was of the impending
+      departure of Tartarin for Africa, to shoot lions.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      You will bear witness that the good fellow had not breathed a word of
+      this, but you know how it is... the mirage.... In short the whole of
+      Tarascon could talk of nothing else.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      On the pavement, at the club, at Costecalde&rsquo;s shop, people accosted one
+      another with an air of excitement.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Et autrement, have you heard the latest, au moins?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Et autrement, what now, is Tartarin going, au moins?&rdquo; For in Tarascon
+      every remark begins with &ldquo;Et autrement&rdquo; which is pronounced &ldquo;autremain&rdquo;
+       and ends with &ldquo;au moins&rdquo; which is pronounced &ldquo;au mouain&rdquo; and in these days
+      the sound of &ldquo;autremain&rdquo; and &ldquo;au mouain&rdquo; was enough to rattle the windows.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      The most surprised person in the town to hear that he was leaving for
+      Africa was Tartarin, but now see the effects of vanity. Instead of
+      replying that he was not going and had never intended to go, poor
+      Tartarin, on the first occasion that the subject was broached adopted a
+      somewhat evasive air, &ldquo;Hé!... Hé!... perhaps... I can&rsquo;t say.&rdquo; On the
+      second occasion, now a little more accustomed to the idea, he replied
+      &ldquo;Probably&rdquo; and on the third &ldquo;Yes, definitely.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      Eventually, one evening at the club, carried away by some glasses of
+      egg-nog, the public interest and the plaudits, he declared formally that
+      he was tired of shooting at hats and was going shortly in pursuit of the
+      great lions of Africa.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      A loud cheer greeted this declaration, then came more egg-nog, handshakes,
+      embraces and torchlight serenades until midnight before the little house
+      of the baobab.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Tartarin-Sancho, however, was far from pleased. The idea of travelling to
+      Africa and hunting lions scared him stiff and when they went into the
+      house, and while the serenade of honour was still going on outside, he
+      made the most frightful scene with Tartarin-Quixote, calling him a crazy
+      dreamer, a rash triple idiot and detailing one by one the catastrophes
+      which would await him on such an expedition. Shipwreck, fever, dysentery,
+      plague, elephantiasis and so on... it was useless for Tartarin-Quixote to
+      swear that he would be careful, that he would dress warmly, that he would
+      take with him everything that might be needed, Tartarin-Sancho refused to
+      listen. The poor fellow saw himself already torn to pieces by lions or
+      swallowed up in the sands of the desert, and the other Tartarin could
+      pacify him only a little by pointing out that these were plans for the
+      future, that there was no hurry, that they had not yet actually started.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Obviously one cannot embark on such an expedition without some
+      preparation. One cannot take off like a bird. As a first measure Tartarin
+      set about reading the reports of the great African explorers, the journals
+      of Livingstone, Burton, Caille and the like, there he saw that those
+      intrepid travellers, before they put their boots on for these distant
+      excursions, prepared themselves in advance to undergo hunger, thirst, long
+      treks and privations of all sorts.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Tartarin decided to follow their example and took to a diet of &ldquo;Eau
+      bouillie&rdquo;. What is called eau bouillie in Tarascon consists of several
+      slices of bread soaked in warm water, with a clove of garlic, a little
+      thyme and a bay leaf. It is not very palatable and you may imagine how
+      Tartarin-Sancho enjoyed it.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Tartarin de Tarascon combined this with several other sensible methods of
+      training. For instance, to habituate himself to long marches he would go
+      round his morning constitutional seven or eight times, sometimes at a
+      brisk walk, sometimes at the trot with two pebbles in his mouth. Then to
+      accustom himself to nocturnal chills and the mists of dawn, he went into
+      the garden and stayed there until ten or eleven at night, alone with his
+      rifle, on watch behind the baobab.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Finally, for as long as the menagerie remained in Tarascon, those hat
+      hunters who had stayed late at Costecalde&rsquo;s could see in the shadows, as
+      they passed the Place du Château, a figure pacing up and down behind the
+      cages... it was Tartarin training himself to listen unmoved to the roaring
+      of lions in the African night.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <a name="link2HCH0009" id="link2HCH0009">
+      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      Chapter 9.
+    </h2>
+    <p>
+      While Tartarin was preparing himself by these strenuous methods, all
+      Tarascon had its eyes on him. Nothing else was of interest. Hat shooting
+      was abandoned, the ballads languished; in Bezuquet the chemist&rsquo;s the piano
+      was silent beneath a green dust cover, with cantharides flies drying,
+      belly up, on the top... Tartarin&rsquo;s expedition had brought everything to a
+      halt.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      You should have seen the success of our hero in the drawing-rooms. He was
+      seized, squabbled over, borrowed and stolen. There was no greater triumph
+      for the ladies than to go, on the arm of Tartarin, to the menagerie
+      Mitaine and to have him explain, in front of the lion&rsquo;s cage, how one goes
+      about hunting these great beasts, at what point one aims and at what
+      distance, whether there are many accidents, and so on... through his
+      reading Tartarin had gained almost as much knowledge about lion hunting as
+      if he had actually engaged in it himself, and so he spoke of these matters
+      with much authority.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Where Tartarin really excelled, however, was after dinner at the home of
+      president Ladevèze or the brave Commandant Bravida (quartermaster. Ret)
+      when coffee had been served and the chairs pulled together, then with his
+      elbow on the table, between sips of his coffee, our hero gave a moving
+      description of all the dangers which awaited him &ldquo;Over there&rdquo; He spoke of
+      long moonless watches, of pestilential marshes, of rivers poisoned by the
+      leaves of oleanders, of snows, scorching suns, scorpions and clouds of
+      locusts; he also spoke of the habits of the great lions of the Atlas,
+      their phenomenal strength, their ferocity in the mating season.... Then,
+      carried away by his own words, he would rise from the table and bound into
+      the middle of the room, imitating the roar of the lion, the noise of the
+      rifle &ldquo;Pan! Pan!&rdquo; The whistle of the bullet. Gesticulating, shouting,
+      knocking over chairs... while at the table faces are grave, the men
+      looking at one another and nodding their heads, the ladies closing their
+      eyes with little cries of alarm. A grandfather brandishes his
+      walking-stick in a bellicose manner and, in the next room, the small
+      children who have been put to bed earlier are startled out of their sleep
+      by the banging and bellowing, and greatly frightened demand lights.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Tartarin, however, showed no sign of leaving for Africa... did he really
+      have any intention of going? That is a delicate question and one to which
+      his biographer would find difficulty in replying. The fact is that the
+      menagerie had now been gone for three months but the killer of lions had
+      not budged... could it be that our innocent hero, blinded perhaps by a new
+      mirage, honestly believed that he had been to Africa, and by talking so
+      much about his hunting expedition believed that it had actually taken
+      place. Unfortunately, if this was the case and Tartarin had once more
+      fallen victim to the mirage, the people of Tarascon had not. When it was
+      observed that after three months of waiting the hunter had not packed a
+      single bag, people began to talk.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;This will turn out to be another Shanghai.&rdquo; Said Costecalde, smiling, and
+      this remark spread round the town like wildfire, for people had lost their
+      belief in Tartarin. The ignorant, the chicken-hearted, people like
+      Bezuquet, whom a flea could put to flight, and who could not fire a gun
+      without closing both eyes, these above all were pitiless. At the club, on
+      the esplanade, they accosted poor Tartarin with little mocking remarks,
+      &ldquo;Et autremain, what about this trip then?&rdquo; At Costecalde&rsquo;s shop his
+      opinion was no longer law. The hat hunters had deserted their leader.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Then there were the epigrams. President Ladevèze who in his spare time
+      dabbled in provencal poetry, composed a little song in dialect which was a
+      great success. It concerned a certain hunter named master Gervaise whose
+      redoubtable rifle was to exterminate every last lion in Africa. Sadly this
+      rifle had a singular fault, although always loaded it never went off....
+      It never went off... you will understand the allusion. This song achieved
+      instant popularity, and when Tartarin was passing, the stevedores on the
+      quay and the grubby urchins hanging round his door would chant this
+      insulting little ditty... only they sang it from a safe distance because
+      of the double muscles.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      The great man himself pretended to see nothing, to hear nothing. Although
+      at heart this underhand, venomous campaign hurt him deeply, in spite of
+      his suffering, he continued to go about his life with a smile; but
+      sometimes the mask of cheerful indifference which pride had pinned on his
+      features slipped, then instead of laughter one saw indignation and grief.
+      So it was one morning when some street urchins were chanting their jeers
+      beneath the window of the room where our poor hero was trimming his beard.
+      Suddenly the window was thrown open and Tartarin&rsquo;s head appeared, his face
+      covered in soapsuds, waving a razor and shaving brush and shouting
+      &ldquo;Sword-thrusts, gentlemen, sword-thrusts, not pin-pricks!&rdquo; Fine words but
+      wasted on a bunch of brats about two bricks tall.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Amid the general defection, the army alone stood firmly by Tartarin, the
+      brave Commandant Bravida continued to treat him with esteem. &ldquo;He&rsquo;s a stout
+      fellow,&rdquo; He persisted in saying, and this affirmation was worth a good
+      deal more, I should imagine, than anything said by Bezuquet the chemist.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      The gallant Commandant had never uttered a word about the African journey,
+      but at last, when the public clamour became too loud to ignore, he decided
+      to speak.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      One evening, the unhappy Tartarin was alone in his study thinking sad
+      thoughts, when the Commandant appeared, somberly dressed and gloved, with
+      every button fastened &ldquo;Tartarin!&rdquo; said the former captain, with authority,
+      &ldquo;Tartarin, you must go!&rdquo; and he stood, upright and rigid in the doorway,
+      the very embodiment of duty.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      All that was implied in that &ldquo;Tartarin you must go&rdquo; Tartarin understood.
+      Very pale, he rose to his feet and cast a tender look round his pleasant
+      study, so snug, so warm, so well lit, and at the the large, so comfortable
+      armchair, at his books, his carpet and at the big white blinds of his
+      window, beyond which swayed the slender stems of the little garden. Then
+      advancing to the the brave Commandant, he took his hand, shook it
+      vigorously and in a voice close to tears said stoically, &ldquo;I shall go,
+      Bravida.&rdquo; And he did go as he had said he would. Though not before he had
+      gathered the necessary equipment.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      First, he ordered from Blompard two large cases lined with copper and with
+      a large plaque inscribed TARTARIN DE TARASCON. FIREARMS. The lining and
+      the engraving took a long time. He ordered from M. Tastevin a magnificent
+      log-book in which to write his journal. Then he sent to Marseille for a
+      whole cargo of preserved food, for pemmican tablets to make soup, for a
+      bivouac tent of the latest design, which could be erected or struck in a
+      few minutes, a pair of sea-boots, two umbrellas, a waterproof and a pair
+      of dark glasses to protect his eyes. Finally, Bezuquet the chemist made up
+      a medicine chest full of sticking plaster, pills and lotions. All these
+      preparations were made in the hope that by these and other delicate
+      attentions he could appease the fury of Tartarin-Sancho, which, since the
+      departure had been decided, had raged unabated by day and by night.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <a name="link2HCH0010" id="link2HCH0010">
+      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      Chapter 10.
+    </h2>
+    <p>
+      At last the great day arrived. From first light the whole of Terascon was
+      afoot, blocking the Avignon road and the approaches to the little house of
+      the baobab. There were people at windows, on roofs, up trees. Bargees from
+      the Rhône, stevedores, boot-blacks, clerks, weavers, the club members, in
+      fact the whole town. Then there were people from Beaucaire who had come
+      across the bridge, market-gardeners from the suburbs, carts with big
+      hoods, vignerons mounted on fine mules ornamented with ribbons, tassels,
+      bows and bells, and even here and there some pretty girls from Arles, with
+      blue kerchiefs round their heads, riding on the crupper behind their
+      sweethearts on the small iron-grey horses of the Camargue. All this crowd
+      pushed and jostled before Tartarin&rsquo;s gate, the gate of this fine M.
+      Tartarin who was going to kill lions in the country of the &ldquo;Teurs&rdquo;. (In
+      Tarascon: Africa, Greece, Turkey and Mesopotamia formed a vast, vague
+      almost mythical country which was called the Teurs... that is the Turks).
+      Throughout this mob the hat shooters came and went, proud of the triumph
+      of their leader, and leaving in their wake, as it were, little trails of
+      glory.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      In front of the house of the baobab there were two large handcarts. From
+      time to time the gate was opened and one could see men walking busily
+      about in the garden. They carried out trunks, cases and carpet-bags which
+      they piled onto the carts. On the arrival of each new package the crowd
+      stirred and a description of the article was shouted out. &ldquo;That&rsquo;s his
+      tent! There&rsquo;s the preserved foods! The medicine chest! The arms chest!&rdquo;
+       While the hat shooters gave a running commentary.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Suddenly, at about ten o&rsquo;clock, there was a great movement in the crowd.
+      The garden gate swung back violently on its hinges.... &ldquo;It&rsquo;s him!.... Its
+      him!&rdquo; they cried.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      It was indeed him. When he appeared on the threshold, two cries of
+      amazement rose from the crowd:&mdash;&ldquo;He&rsquo;s a Teur!.... He&rsquo;s wearing
+      sun-glasses!&rdquo;.... Tartarin, it is true, had believed that as he was going
+      to Algeria he should adopt Algerian costume. Large baggy pantaloons of
+      white cloth, a small tight jacket with metal buttons, a red sash wound
+      round his stomach and on his head a gigantic &ldquo;Chechia&rdquo; (a red floppy
+      bonnet) with an immensely long blue tassel dangling from its crown. Added
+      to this, he carried two rifles, one on each shoulder, a hunting knife
+      stuck into the sash round his middle, a cartridge-bag slung on one side
+      and a revolver in a leather holster on the other. That was it. Ah!...
+      forgive me... I forgot the sun-glasses, a huge pair of blue sun-glasses
+      which were just the very thing to correct any suggestion of extravagance
+      in his turnout.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Vive Tartarin!... Vive Tartarin!&rdquo; Yelled the people. The great man smiled
+      but did not wave, partly because of the rifles, which were giving him some
+      trouble and partly because he had learned what little value one can place
+      on popular favour. Perhaps even, in the depths of his soul, he cursed
+      these terrible compatriots who were forcing him to leave, to quit his
+      pretty little house with its green shutters and white walls, but if so he
+      did not show it. Calm and proud, though a little pale, he marched down the
+      pathway, inspected his handcarts and seeing that all was in order set off
+      jauntily on the road to the station, without looking back even once at the
+      house of the baobab.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      On his arrival at the station he was greeted by the station-master, a
+      former soldier, who shook him warmly by the hand several times. The
+      Paris-Marseille express had not yet arrived, so Tartarin and his general
+      staff went into the waiting-room. To keep back the following crowd the
+      station-master closed the barriers.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      For fifteen minutes Tartarin paced back and forward, surrounded by the hat
+      shooters. He spoke to them of his coming expedition, promising to send
+      them skins, and entering their orders in his note-book as if they were a
+      list of groceries. As tranquil as was Socrates at the moment when he drank
+      the hemlock, the bold Tartarin had a word for everyone. He spoke simply
+      and affably, as if before departing he wished to leave behind a legacy of
+      charm, happy memories and regrets. To hear their chief speak thus brought
+      tears to the eyes of the hat shooters, and to some, such as the president
+      Ladevèze and the chemist Bezuquet, even a twinge of remorse. Some of the
+      station staff were dabbing their eyes in corners, while outside the crowd
+      peered through the railings and shouted &ldquo;Vive Tartarin!&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      Then a bell rang. There was a rumbling noise of wheels. A piercing whistle
+      split the heavens... All aboard!... All aboard!... Goodbye Tartarin!...
+      Goodbye Tartarin!. &ldquo;Goodbye everyone&rdquo; murmured the great man, and on the
+      cheeks of the brave Commandant Bravida he planted a farewell salute to his
+      beloved Tarascon. Then he hurried along the platform and got into a
+      carriage full of Parisian ladies, who almost died of fright at the
+      appearance of this strange man with his revolver and rifles.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <a name="link2HCH0011" id="link2HCH0011">
+      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      Chapter 11.
+    </h2>
+    <p>
+      On the first day of December 186-, in the clear bright winter sunshine of
+      Provence, the startled inhabitants of Marseille witnessed the arrival of a
+      Teur. Never had they seen one like this before, though God knows there is
+      no shortage of Teurs in Marseille. The Teur, need I tell you, was none
+      other than Tartarin de Tarascon, who was proceeding down the quay followed
+      by his case of arms, his medicine chest and his preserved foods, in search
+      of the embarkation point of the Compagnie Touache and the ferry-boat &ldquo;Le
+      Zouave&rdquo; which was to carry him away.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      His ears still ringing with the cheers of Tarascon and bemused by the
+      brightness of the sky and the smell of the sea, Tartarin marched along,
+      his rifles slung on his shoulders, gazing around in wonder at this
+      marvellous port of Marseille, which he was seeing for the first time and
+      which quite dazzled him. He almost felt that he was dreaming and that like
+      Sinbad he was wandering in one of the fabulous cities of the Thousand and
+      one Nights.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      As far as the eye could see, there stretched a jumble of masts and yards,
+      criss-crossing in all directions. The flags of a multitude of nations
+      fluttering in the wind. The ships level with the quay, their bowsprits
+      projecting over the edge like a row of bayonets, and below them the carved
+      and painted wooden figureheads of nymphs, goddesses and saintly virgins
+      from which the ships took their names. From time to time, between the
+      hulls one could see a patch of sea, like a great sheet of cloth spattered
+      with oil, while in the entanglement of yardarms a host of seagulls made
+      pretty splashes of white against the blue sky. On the quay, amid the
+      streams which trickled from the soapworks, thick, green, streaked with
+      black, full of oil and soda, there was a whole population of customs
+      officers, shipping agents, and stevedores with trollies drawn by little
+      Corsican ponies. There were shops selling strange sweetmeats. Smoke
+      enshrouded huts where seamen were cooking. There were merchants selling
+      monkeys, parrots, rope, sailcloth and fantastic collections of bric-a-brac
+      where, heaped up pell-mell, were old culverins, great gilded lanterns, old
+      blocks and tackle, old rusting anchors, old rigging, old megaphones, old
+      telescopes, dating from the time of Jean Bart.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      There were women selling shellfish, crouched bawling beside their wares,
+      sailors passing, some with pots of tar, some with steaming pots of stew,
+      others with baskets full of squid which they were taking to wash in the
+      fresh water of the fountains. Everywhere prodigious heaps of merchandise
+      of every kind. Silks, minerals, baulks of timber, ingots of lead, carobs,
+      rape-seed, liquorice, sugar cane, great piles of dutch cheeses. East and
+      west hugger-mugger.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Here is the grain berth. Stevedores empty the sacks onto the quay from a
+      scaffold, the grain pours down in a golden torrent raising a cloud of pale
+      dust, and is loaded by men wearing red fezes into carts, which set off
+      followed by a regiment of women and children with brushes and buckets for
+      gleaning.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      There is the careening basin. The huge vessels lie over on one side and
+      are flamed with fires of brushwood to rid them of seaweed, while their
+      yardarms soak in the water. There is a smell of pitch and the deafening
+      hammering of shipwrights lining the hulls with sheets of copper.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Sometimes, between the masts, a gap opened and Tartarin could see the
+      harbour mouth and the movement of ships. An English frigate leaving for
+      Malta, spruce and scrubbed, with officers in yellow gloves, or a big
+      Marseilles brig, casting off amid shouting and cursing, with, in the bows,
+      a fat captain in an overcoat and a top hat, supervising the manoeuvre in
+      broad provencal. There were ships outward bound, running before the wind
+      with all sails set, there were others, far out at sea, beating their way
+      in and seeming in the sunshine to be floating on air.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Then, all the time the most fearsome racket. The rumbling of cart wheels,
+      the cries of the sailors, oaths, songs, the sirens of steam-boats, the
+      drums and bugles of Fort St. Jean and Fort St. Nicolas, the bells of
+      nearby churches and, up above, the mistral, which took all of these
+      sounds, rolled them together, shook them up and mingled them with its own
+      voice to make mad, wild, heroic music, like a great fanfare, urging one to
+      set sail for distant lands, to spread one&rsquo;s wings and go. It was to the
+      sound of this fine fanfare that Tartarin embarked for the country of
+      lions.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <a name="link2HCH0012" id="link2HCH0012">
+      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      Chapter 12.
+    </h2>
+    <p>
+      I wish that I was a painter, a really good painter, so that I could
+      present to you a picture of the different positions adopted by Tartarin&rsquo;s
+      chechia during the three days of the passage from France to Algeria.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      I would show it to you first at the departure, proud and stately as it was
+      then, crowning that noble Tarascon head. I would show it next when, having
+      left the harbour, the Zouave began to lift on the swell. I would show it
+      fluttering and astonished, as if feeling the first premonitions of
+      distress.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Then, in the gulf of Lion, when the Zouave was further offshore and the
+      sea a little rougher, I would present it at grips with the storm,
+      clutching, bewildered, at the head of our hero, its long blue woollen
+      tassel streaming in the spume and gusting wind.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      The fourth position. Six in the evening. Off the coast of Corsica. The
+      wretched chechia is leaning over the rail and sadly contemplating the
+      depths of the ocean.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Fifth and last position. Down in a narrow cabin, in a little bed which has
+      the appearance of a drawer in a commode, something formless and desolate
+      rolls about, moaning, on the pillow. It is the chechia, the heroic
+      chechia, now reduced to the vulgar status of a night-cap, and jammed down
+      to the ears of a pallid and convulsing invalid.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Ah! If the townsfolk of Tarascon could have seen the great Tartarin, lying
+      in his commode drawer, in the pale, dismal light which filtered through
+      the porthole, amongst the stale smell of cooking and wet wood, the
+      depressing odour of the ferry boat. If they had heard him groan at every
+      turn of the propeller, ask for tea every five minutes, and complain to the
+      steward in the weak voice of a child, would they have regretted having
+      forced him to leave? On my word, the poor Tuer deserved pity. Overcome by
+      sea-sickness, he had not the will even to loosen his sash or rid himself
+      of his weapons. The hunting knife with the big handle dug into his ribs.
+      His revolver bruised his leg, and the final straw was the nagging of
+      Tartarin-Sancho, who never ceased whining and carping:&mdash;&ldquo;Imbecile!
+      Va! I warned you didn&rsquo;t I?.... But you had to go to Africa!.... Well now
+      you&rsquo;re on your way, how do you like it?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      What was every bit as cruel was that, shut in his cabin, between his
+      groans he could hear the other passengers in the saloon, laughing, eating,
+      singing, playing cards. The society in the Zouave was as cheerful as it
+      was diverse. There were some officers on their way to rejoin their units,
+      a bevy of tarts from Marseille, a rich Mahommedan merchant, returning from
+      Mecca, some strolling players, a Montenegran prince, a great joker this,
+      who did impersonations.... Not one of these people was sea-sick and they
+      spent the time drinking champagne with the captain of the Zouave, a fat
+      &ldquo;Bon viveur&rdquo; from Marseille, who had an establishment there and another in
+      Algiers, and who rejoiced in the name of Barbassou. Tartarin hated all
+      these people. Their gaity redoubled his misery.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      At last, in the afternoon of the third day, there was some unusual
+      activity on board the ship, which roused our hero from his torpor. The
+      bell in the bows rang out... the heavy boots of the sailors could be heard
+      running on the deck... &ldquo;Engine ahead!... engine astern!.&rdquo; Shouted the
+      hoarse voice of Captain Barbassou. Then &ldquo;Stop engine!&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      The engine stopped, there was a little tremor and then nothing. The ferry
+      lay rocking gently from side to side, like a balloon in the air. This
+      strange silence horrified Tartarin. &ldquo;My God! We are sinking!&rdquo; He cried in
+      a voice of terror, and recovering his strength as if by magic, he rushed
+      up onto the deck.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <a name="link2HCH0013" id="link2HCH0013">
+      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      Chapter 13.
+    </h2>
+    <p>
+      The Zouave was not sinking. She had just dropped her anchor in a fine
+      anchorage of deep, dark water. Opposite, on the hillside, was Algiers, its
+      little matt-white houses running down to the sea, huddled one against the
+      other, like a pile of white washing laid out on a river bank. Up above a
+      great sky of satin blue... but oh!... So blue!
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Tartarin, somewhat recovered from his fright, gazed at the landscape,
+      while listening respectfully to the Montenegrin prince, who standing
+      beside him, pointed out the different quarters of the town. The Casbah,
+      the upper town, the Rue Bab-Azoum. Very well educated this prince of
+      Montenegro. What is more he knew Algiers well and spoke Arabic. Tartarin
+      had decided to cultivate his acquaintance when suddenly, along the rail on
+      which they were leaning, he saw a row of big black hands grasping it from
+      below. Almost immediately a curly black head appeared in front of him and
+      before he could open his mouth the deck was invaded from all side by a
+      swarm of pirates; black, yellow, half naked, hideous and terrible.
+      Tartarin knew at once that it was &ldquo;Them&rdquo; The fearsome &ldquo;Them&rdquo; who he had so
+      often expected at night in the streets of Tarascon. Now they had arrived.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      At first surprise glued him to the spot, but when he saw the pirates hurl
+      themselves on the baggage, tear off the tarpaulin covers and begin to
+      pillage the ship, our hero came to life. Drawing his hunting knife and
+      shouting &ldquo;Aux armes!... Aux armes!&rdquo; To his fellow passengers, he prepared
+      to lead an assault on the raiders. &ldquo;Ques aco?... What&rsquo;s the matter with
+      you?&rdquo; Said Captain Barbassou as he came off the bridge. &ldquo;Ah!... There you
+      are Captain.... Quick! Quick! Arm your men!&rdquo; &ldquo;Hé!... Do what? Why for
+      God&rsquo;s sake?&rdquo; &ldquo;But don&rsquo;t you see?&rdquo; &ldquo;See what?&rdquo; &ldquo;There, in front of you...
+      the pirates!&rdquo; Captain Barbassou regarded him with astonishment..... At
+      that moment a huge monster of a black man ran past carrying the medicine
+      chest. &ldquo;Wretch! Wait till I catch you!&rdquo; Yelled Tartarin, starting forward
+      with his knife held aloft. Barbassou caught him and held him by his sash.
+      &ldquo;Calm down for Chrissake.&rdquo; He said, &ldquo;These are not pirates, there have
+      been no pirates for ages, these are stevedores.&rdquo; &ldquo;Stevedores?&rdquo; &ldquo;Hé! Yes,
+      stevedores who have come to collect the baggage and take it ashore. Put
+      away your cutlass, give me your ticket and follow that negro, an excellent
+      fellow, who will take you ashore and even to your hotel if you wish.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      Somewhat confused Tartarin surrendered his ticket and following the negro
+      he went down the gangplank into a large boat which was bobbing alongside
+      the ferry. All his baggage was there, his trunks, cases of weapons and
+      preserved food, as they took up all the room in the boat, there was no
+      need to wait for other passengers. The negro climbed onto the baggage and
+      squatted there with his arms wrapped round his knees. Another negro took
+      the oars... the two of them regarded Tartarin, laughing and showing their
+      white teeth.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Standing in the stern, wearing his fiercest expression, Tartarin nervously
+      fingered the handle of his hunting knife, for in spite of what Barbassou
+      had told him, he was only half reassured about the intentions of these
+      ebony-skinned stevedores, who looked so different from honest longshoremen
+      of Tarascon.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Three minutes later the boat reached land and Tartarin set foot on the
+      little Barbary quay, where three hundred years earlier a galley-slave
+      named Michael Cervantes, under the whip of an Algerian galley-master, had
+      begun to plan the wonderful story of Don Quixote.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <a name="link2HCH0014" id="link2HCH0014">
+      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      Chapter 14.
+    </h2>
+    <p>
+      If by any chance the ghost of Micheal Cervantes was abroad on that bit of
+      the Barbary coast, it must have been delighted at the arrival of this
+      splendid specimen of a Frenchman from the Midi, in whom were combined the
+      two heroes of his book, Don Quixote and Sancho Panza.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      It was a warm day. On the quay, bathed in sunshine, were five or six
+      customs officers, some settlers awaiting news from France, some squatting
+      Moors, smoking their long pipes, some Maltese fishermen, hauling in a
+      large net, in the meshes of which thousands of sardines glittered like
+      pieces of silver; but scarcely had Tartarin set foot there when the quay
+      sprang into life and changed entirely its appearance.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      A band of savages, more hideous even than the pirates of the boat, seemed
+      to rise from the very cobble-stones to hurl themselves on the newcomer.
+      Huge Arabs, naked beneath their long woolen garments, little Moors dressed
+      in rags, Negroes, Tunisians, hotel waiters in white aprons, pushing and
+      shouting, plucking at his clothes, fighting over his luggage; one grabbing
+      his preserves another his medicine chest and, in a screeching babel of
+      noise, throwing at his head the improbable names of hotels.... Deafened by
+      this tumult, Tartarin ran hither and thither,struggling, fuming, and
+      cursing after his baggage, and not knowing how to communicate with these
+      barbarians, harangued them in French, Provencal and even what he could
+      remember of Latin. It was a wasted effort, no one was listening....
+      Happily, however, a little man dressed in a tunic with a yellow collar and
+      armed with a long cane arrived on the scene and dispersed the rabble with
+      blows from his stick. He was an Algerian policeman. Very politely he
+      arranged for Tartarin to go to the Hotel de l&rsquo;Europe, and confided him to
+      the care of some locals who led him away with all his baggage loaded on
+      several barrows.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      As he took his first steps in Algiers, Tartarin looked about him
+      wide-eyed. He had imagined beforehand a fairylike Arabian city, something
+      between Constantinople and Zanzibar... but here he was back in Tarascon.
+      Some cafés some restaurants, wide streets, houses of four stories, a small
+      tarmac square where a military band played Offenbach polkas, men seated on
+      chairs, drinking beer and nibbling snacks, a few ladies, a sprinkling of
+      tarts and soldiers, more soldiers, everywhere soldiers... and not a single
+      &ldquo;Teur&rdquo; in sight except for him... so he found walking across the square a
+      bit embarrassing. Everyone stared.... The military band stopped playing
+      and the Offenbach polka came to a halt with one foot in the air.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      With his two rifles on his shoulders, his revolver by his side,
+      unflinching and stately he passed through the throng, but on reaching the
+      hotel his strength deserted him. The departure from Tarascon. The harbour
+      at Marseille. The crossing. The Montenegrin prince. The pirates, all
+      whirled in confusion round his brain. He had to be taken up to his room,
+      disarmed and undressed... there was even talk of sending for a doctor, but
+      hardly had his head touched the pillow than he began to snore so loudly
+      and vigorously that the hotel manager decided that medical assistance was
+      not required, and everyone discreetly withdrew.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <a name="link2HCH0015" id="link2HCH0015">
+      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      Chapter 15.
+    </h2>
+    <p>
+      The bell of the government clock was sounding three when Tartarin awoke.
+      He had slept all evening, all night, all morning and even a good part of
+      the afternoon. It has, of course, to be admitted that over the preceding
+      three days the chechia had had a pretty rough time.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      His first thought on waking was &ldquo;Here I am, in lion country!&rdquo; and it must
+      be confessed that this notion that he was surrounded by lions and was
+      about to go in pursuit of them produced a marked chill, and he buried
+      himself safely under the bedclothes.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Soon, however, the gaiety of the scene outside, the sky so blue, the
+      bright sunshine which flooded into his room through the large window which
+      opened towards the sea, and a good meal which he had served in bed, washed
+      down by a carafe of wine, quickly restored his courage. &ldquo;To the lions! To
+      the lions!&rdquo; He cried, and throwing off the bed clothes he dressed himself
+      hurriedly.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      His plan of action was this. Leave town and go well out into the desert.
+      Wait until nightfall. Lie in hiding, and at the first lion that comes
+      along... Pan! Pan!.... Return in the morning. Lunch at hotel. Receive the
+      congratulations of the Algerians and hire a cart to go and collect the
+      kill.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      He armed himself hastily, strapped onto his back the bivouac tent, the
+      pole of which stuck up above his head, and then, held rigid by this
+      contraption, he went down to the street. He turned sharply to the right
+      and walked to the end of the shopping arcade of Bab-Azoum, where a series
+      of Algerian store-keepers watched him pass, concealed in corners of their
+      dark boutiques like spiders. He went through the Place du théatre, through
+      the suburbs and eventually reached the dusty main road to Mustapha.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Here was a fantastic confusion of traffic. There were coaches, cabs,
+      curricles, military supply wagons, great carts of hay drawn by oxen, some
+      squadrons of Chasseurs d&rsquo;Afrique, troops of microscopic little donkeys,
+      negresses selling galettes, loads of emigrants from Alsasce, some Spahis
+      in red cloaks. All passing in a great cloud of dust, with cries, songs and
+      trumpet calls, between two rows of miserable shacks, where could be seen
+      prostitutes applying their make-up at their doors, tap-rooms full of
+      soldiers and the stalls of butchers and slaughtermen. The tales I have
+      been told about this place are quite untrue, thought Tartarin, there are
+      fewer &ldquo;Teurs&rdquo; here than there are in Marseille.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Suddenly he saw striding past him, long-legged and proud as a turkey cock,
+      a magnificent camel. The sight quickened his pulse; where there were
+      camels lions could not be far away, and indeed within five minutes he saw
+      coming towards him with guns on their shoulders, a whole company of lion
+      hunters with their dogs.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      A cowardly lot, thought Tartarin, as he came alongside them... hunting
+      lions in a group and with dogs... for it had never occurred to him that In
+      Algeria one could hunt anything but lions. However these hunters looked
+      like comfortably retired businessmen, and Tartarin, curious about this way
+      of hunting lions with dogs and game-bags, took it on himself to address
+      one of them.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Et autrement, my friend, a good day?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Not bad&rdquo; Replied the other, looking with some surprise at the heavy
+      armament of our Tarascon warrior.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;You have killed some of them?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Yes... a few... as you can see.&rdquo; And the Algerian pointed to his
+      game-bag, bulging with rabbits and woodcock.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;How is that?... you put them in your game-bag?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Where would you like me to put them?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;But then they... they must be very small!&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Some big, some small.&rdquo; Said the hunter, and as he was in a hurry to catch
+      up with his companions and go home, he made off at high speed. Tartarin
+      stood, stupefied, in the middle of the road. Then after a moment of
+      thought &ldquo;Bah!&rdquo; He said to himself, &ldquo;These people are trying to have me on,
+      they haven&rsquo;t shot anything.&rdquo; And he continued on his way.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Already the houses were becoming more scattered, the passers-by less
+      frequent. Night was falling. Objects becoming less distinct.... He marched
+      on for another half an hour, and then he stopped. It was now completely
+      dark, a moonless night spangled with stars. There was no one on the road,
+      but in spite of that Tartarin reckoned that lions were not like coaches
+      and would not stick to the highway. He set off across country. At every
+      step there were ditches, thorns and bushes. No matter, he walked on until
+      at last he reached a spot he thought suited to his purpose. A likely place
+      for lions.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <a name="link2HCH0016" id="link2HCH0016">
+      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      Chapter 16.
+    </h2>
+    <p>
+      He was in a vast, wild desert, bristling with bizarre plants. African
+      plants, which have the appearance of savage animals. In the faint light
+      from the stars their shadows spread over the ground in all directions. On
+      the right was the confused, looming mass of a mountain, the Atlas perhaps,
+      to the left could be heard the dull surge of the invisible sea. An ideal
+      spot to tempt wild animals!
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Placing one rifle on the ground before him and taking the other in his
+      hands, Tartarin settled down and waited... he waited for an hour... two
+      hours.... Then he remembered that in his books the famous lion hunters
+      always used a kid as bait, which they tethered at some distance in front
+      of them and made to bleat by pulling on a string attached to its leg.
+      Lacking a kid, he had the idea of trying an imitation and began to bleat
+      in a goat-like manner, &ldquo;Mé!... Mé!....&rdquo; At first very quietly, because, in
+      the depths of his heart he was a little afraid that the lion might hear
+      him... then seeing that nothing happened he bleated more loudly, &ldquo;Mé!...
+      Mé!... Mé!....&rdquo; And then louder still, &ldquo;MÉ!... MÉ!... MÉ!...&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      Suddenly, a few paces in front of him, something black and gigantic
+      materialised. He shut up... the thing crouched, sniffed the ground, leapt
+      up, turned and ran off at a gallop... then it came back and stopped short.
+      It was a lion! There could be no doubt. Now one could see quite clearly
+      the four short legs, the formidable forequarters and two huge eyes
+      gleaming in the darkness.... Aim!... Fire!... Pan!... Pan!.... Tartarin
+      backed away, drawing his hunting knife
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Following Tartarin&rsquo;s shot there was a terrible outcry, &ldquo;I&rsquo;ve got him!&rdquo;
+       Cried the good Tarasconais and prepared himself to receive a possible
+      attack, but the creature had had enough and it fled at top speed,
+      bellowing.... He, however, did not budge: he was waiting for the female...
+      as happened in all his books. Unfortunately the female failed to turn up,
+      and after two or three hours of waiting Tartarin became tired. The ground
+      was damp, the night was growing cool, there was a nip in the breeze from
+      the sea... &ldquo;Perhaps I should have a nap while I wait for daylight&rdquo; he said
+      to himself, and to provide some shelter he had recourse to the bivouac
+      tent. A difficulty now arose, the bivouac tent was of such an ingenious
+      design that he was quite unable to erect it. He struggled and sweated for
+      a long time, but there was no way in which he could get the thing up, so
+      at last he threw it on the ground and lay on top of it, cursing it in
+      Provencal.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Ta!... Ta!... Ta!... Tarata! &ldquo;Ques aco?&rdquo; said Tartarin, waking up with a
+      start. It was the trumpets of the Chasseurs d&rsquo;Afrique sounding reveille in
+      the barracks at Mustapha. The lion killer rubbed his eyes in amazement. He
+      who had believed that he was in the middle of a desert... do you know
+      where he was?... In a field full of artichokes, between a cauliflower and
+      a swede... his Sahara was a vegetable patch.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Nearby, on the pretty green coast of upper Mustapha, white Algerian villas
+      gleamed in the dawn light, one might have been among the suburban houses
+      in the outskirts of Marseille. The bourgeois appearance of the sleeping
+      countryside greatly astonished Tartarin and put him in a bad humour.
+      &ldquo;These people are crazy&rdquo;, he said to himself, &ldquo;To plant their artichokes
+      in an area infested by lions. For I was not dreaming, there are lions here
+      and there is the proof&rdquo;.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      The proof was a trail of blood which the fleeing beast had left behind it.
+      Following this blood-spoor, with watchful eye and revolver in hand, the
+      valiant Tarasconais went from artichoke to artichoke until he arrived at a
+      small field of oats.... In a patch of flattened grain was a pool of blood
+      and in the middle of the pool, lying on its side with a large wound to its
+      head, was... what?... a lion?... No Parbleu!... A donkey! One of the tiny
+      donkeys so common in Algeria, which there are called &ldquo;Bourriquots&rdquo;.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <a name="link2HCH0017" id="link2HCH0017">
+      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      Chapter 17.
+    </h2>
+    <p>
+      Tartarin&rsquo;s first reaction at the sight of his unfortunate victim was one
+      of annoyance. There is after all a considerable difference between a lion
+      and a bourriquot. This was quickly replaced by a feeling of pity. The poor
+      bourriqout was so pretty, so gentle, its warm flanks rising and falling as
+      it breathed. Tartarin knelt down and with the end of his sash he tried to
+      staunch the blood from its wound. The sight of this great man tending the
+      little donkey was the most touching thing you could imagine. At the
+      soothing contact of the sash, the bourriquot, which was already at death&rsquo;s
+      door, opened a big grey eye and twitched once or twice its long ears, as
+      if to say &ldquo;Thank you!... Thank you!&rdquo;. Then a final tremor shook it from
+      head to tail and it moved no more.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Noiraud!... Noiraud!&rdquo; Came a sudden cry from a strident, anxious voice,
+      and the branches of some nearby bushes were thrust aside. Tartarin had
+      barely time to get up and put himself on guard. It was the female!... She
+      arrived, roaring and terrible, in the guise of an elderly Alsation lady in
+      a rabbit-skin coat, armed with a red umbrella and calling for her donkey
+      in a voice which woke all the echoes of Mustapha. Certainly it might have
+      been better for Tartarin to have had to deal with an angry lioness than
+      this infuriated old lady. In vain he tried to explain what had happened...
+      how he had mistaken Noiraud for a lion, she thought he was trying to make
+      fun of her and, uttering loud cries of indignation, she set about our hero
+      with blows from her umbrella. Tartarin, in confusion, defended himself as
+      best he could, parrying the blows with his rifle, sweating, puffing,
+      jumping about and crying &ldquo;But Madame!... But Madame!&rdquo;. To no avail. Madame
+      was deaf to his pleas and redoubled her efforts.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Happily a third party arrived on the field of battle. It was the husband
+      of the Alsation lady, also an Alsation.... A tavern keeper and a shrewd
+      man of business. When he saw with whom he was dealing and that the
+      assassin was willing to pay for his crime, he disarmed his spouse and took
+      her to one side. Tartarin gave two hundred francs. The donkey was worth at
+      least ten, which is the going price for bourriquots in the Arab market.
+      Then the poor Noiraud was buried beneath a fig tree, and the Alsation, put
+      in a good humour at the sight of so much money, invited our hero to break
+      a crust at his tavern, which was not far away at the edge of the main
+      road. The Algerian hunters went there every Sunday for luncheon; for the
+      countryside was full of game, and for two leagues about the city there was
+      not a better place for rabbits. &ldquo;And the lions?&rdquo; Asked Tartarin. The
+      Alsation looked at him with surprise... &ldquo;The lions?&rdquo; &ldquo;Yes, the lions, do
+      you see them sometimes?&rdquo; Tartarin replied, with a little less assurance.
+      The tavern-keeper burst out laughing, &ldquo;Lions!... Lions!... What is all
+      this about lions?&rdquo; &ldquo;Are there no lions in Algeria then?&rdquo; &ldquo;Moi foi! I have
+      been here for twenty years and I have never seen any.... though I did once
+      hear... I think there was a report in the newspaper... but it was long
+      ago... somewhere in the south&rdquo;....
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      At that moment they reached the tavern, a wayside pot house, the sort of
+      thing one can see by any main road. It had a very faded sign above the
+      door, some billiard cues painted on the wall and the inoffensive name &ldquo;Au
+      rendezvous des lapins&rdquo;.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <a name="link2HCH0018" id="link2HCH0018">
+      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      Chapter 18.
+    </h2>
+    <p>
+      This first adventure would have been enough to discourage many people, but
+      seasoned characters such as Tartarin are not so easily disheartened. The
+      lions are in the south, thought our hero, very well I shall go to the
+      south.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      As soon as he had swallowed his last morsel, he got up, thanked his host,
+      took leave of the old lady without any ill-feeling, shed a last tear over
+      the unfortunate Noiraud and headed quickly for Algiers, with the firm
+      intention of packing his trunks and departing that same day for the south.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Sadly, the main Mustapha road seemed to have grown longer during the
+      night. There was so much sunshine, so much dust, the bivouac tent was so
+      heavy, that Tartarin could not face the walk back to the town and he
+      hailed the first horse-drawn omnibus which came along and climbed in....
+      Poor Tartarin! How much better it would have been for his reputation if he
+      had not entered that fateful vehicle, and had continued his journey on
+      foot, even at the risk of collapsing from the heat and the weight of his
+      two double-barreled rifles and the bivouac tent.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      With Tartarin aboard, the omnibus was now full. At the far end was an
+      Algerian priest with a big black beard, his nose stuck in his breviary.
+      Opposite was a young Moorish merchant, puffing at a large cigarette, then
+      a Maltese seaman, and four or five Moorish women, with white linen masks,
+      whose eyes alone were visible. These ladies had been on a visit to the
+      cemetery of Abd-el-Kader, but this did not seem to have depressed them.
+      Behind their masks they laughed and chattered among themselves and munched
+      pastries.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      It seemed to Tartarin that they cast many glances in his direction, and
+      one in particular, who was seated opposite him, fixed her gaze on him and
+      did not remove it.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Although the lady was veiled, the liveliness of her large dark eyes,
+      emphasised by kohl, a delicate little wrist, encircled by gold bracelets,
+      which one glimpsed from time to time amidst her draperies, the sound of
+      her voice, the graceful movements of her head, all suggested that beneath
+      her garments was someone young, pretty and loveable.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      The embarrassed Tartarin did not know which way to turn. The silent caress
+      of these beautiful dark eyes set his heart aflutter. He blushed and paled
+      by turns. Then to complete his downfall he felt on his massive boot the
+      lady&rsquo;s dainty slipper scurrying about like a little red mouse.... What was
+      he to do?... Reply to these looks, this touch?... Yes... but an amorous
+      intrigue in this part of the world can have terrible consequences. In his
+      imagination Tartarin already saw himself seized by eunuchs, decapitated or
+      even worse, sewn into a sack and tossed into the sea with his head beside
+      him.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      This thought cooled his ardour a little, but the little slipper continued
+      to tease and the he eyes opened very wide, like two black velvet flowers
+      which seemed to say &ldquo;Come and gather us!&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      The omnibus stopped. It had arrived at the Place du théatre, at the
+      entrance to the Rue Bab Azoum. One by one, enveloped in their billowing
+      garments and drawing their veils about them with savage grace, the Moors
+      dismounted. Tartarin&rsquo;s neighbour was the last to leave and as she rose to
+      go her face was so close to that of our hero that their breaths mingled
+      and he was aware of a bouquet of youth, jasmine, musk and pastries.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      He could no longer resist. Drunk with love and ready to face anything, he
+      scrambled after the Moor... At the sound of his clumsy footsteps she
+      turned and put her finger to her lips, as if to say &ldquo;Hush&rdquo; and with the
+      other hand she tossed him a little scented garland made of jasmine
+      flowers. Tartarin bent to pick it up, but as he was somewhat overweight
+      and much encumbered by his weapons, the operation took a little time...
+      When he rose, the garland pressed to his heart, the little Moor had
+      disappeared.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <a name="link2HCH0019" id="link2HCH0019">
+      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      Chapter 19.
+    </h2>
+    <p>
+      Sleep, lions of the Atlas! Sleep tranquilly in your lairs amongst the
+      aloes and the cactus! It wil be some time before Tartarin de Tarascon
+      comes to slaughter you. At the moment his equipment, his arms, his
+      medicine chest, the preserved food and the bivouac tent are piled up
+      peacefully in a corner of room 36 in the Hotel de l&rsquo;Europe. Sleep without
+      fear, great tawny lions! The Tarasconais is searching for his Moor.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Since the events in the omnibus, the unhappy man seems to feel constantly
+      on his feet the scurrying of the little red mouse, and the sea breeze
+      which wafts across his face seems somehow perfumed by an amorous odour of
+      patisserie and anise. He must find his Dulcinea; but to find in a city of
+      one hundred thousand inhabitants a person of whom one knows only the scent
+      of their breath, the appearance of their slippers and the colour of their
+      eyes is no light undertaking. Only a lovesick Tarasconais would attempt
+      such a task. To make matters worse, it must be confessed that beneath
+      their masks all Moorish ladies tend to look very much the same; and then
+      they do not go out a great deal, and if one wants to see them one must go
+      to the upper town, the Arab town, the town of the Teurs.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      A real cut-throat place that upper town. Little dark alley-ways, very
+      narrow, climbing steeply between two rows of silent, mysterious houses
+      whose roofs touch to make a tunnel. Low doorways and small windows, opaque
+      and barred, and then, to right and left, little shops within whose deep
+      shade fierce &ldquo;Teurs&rdquo; with piratical faces, glittering eyes and gleaming
+      teeth, smoke their hookahs and converse in low tones, as if planning some
+      wicked deed.... To say that Tartarin walked through this fearsome township
+      unmoved would be to lie. He was on the contrary moved a good deal, and in
+      those obscure alleys where his large stomach took up almost the entire
+      width, the brave fellow advanced with the greatest caution, his eyes
+      alert, his finger on the trigger of his revolver, just as he used to be at
+      Tarascon on his way to the club. At any moment he expected to be jumped on
+      from behind by a whole gang of janissaries and eunuchs, but his desire to
+      find the lady endowed him with the courage and determination of a giant.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      For eight days the intrepid Tartarin did not quit his search. Sometimes he
+      could be seen hanging about the turkish baths, waiting for the women to
+      emerge in chattering groups, scented from the bath. Sometimes he appeared
+      at the entrance of a mosque, puffing and blowing as he removed his heavy
+      boots before entering the sacred premises. On other occasions, at
+      nightfall, when he was returning to the hotel, downcast at having
+      discovered nothing at the mosque or the baths, he would hear, as he passed
+      one of the Moorish houses, monotonous songs, the muffled sound of guitars,
+      the rattle of tambourines and the light laughter of women, which made his
+      heart beat faster. &ldquo;Perhaps she is there&rdquo; He would say to himself, and
+      approaching the house he would lift the heavy knocker and let it fall
+      timidly.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Immediately the song and the laughter stop. Nothing can be heard within
+      but faint vague cluckings as if in a sleeping hen-house. Hold on thinks
+      our hero, something is about to happen, but what happened mostly was a big
+      pot of cold water on his head, or orange peel and fig skins.... Sleep
+      lions!
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <a name="link2HCH0020" id="link2HCH0020">
+      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      Chapter 20.
+    </h2>
+    <p>
+      For two long weeks the unhappy Tartarin searched for his Algerian
+      lady-love, and it is likely that he would be searching still, if that
+      providence which looks after lovers had not come to his aid in the guise
+      of a Montenegrin gentleman.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      The Théatre in Algiers, like the &ldquo;Opera&rdquo; in Paris, organises every
+      Saturday night during the winter a Bal Masque. This is, however, a
+      provincial version. There are few people in the dance-hall; the occasional
+      drifter from out of town, unemployed stevedores, some rustic tarts, who
+      are in business but who still retain from their more virtuous days a faint
+      aroma of garlic and saffron sauce... the real spectacle is in the foyer,
+      which has been converted for the occasion into a gambling saloon.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      A feverish, multicoloured crowd jostles about the long green cloths.
+      Algerian soldiers on leave, gambling their meagre pay. Moorish merchants
+      from the upper town. Negroes. Maltese. Colonists who have come a hundred
+      miles to wager the price of a cart or a pair of oxen on the turn of a
+      card. Pale, tense and anxious as they watch the game.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      There are Algerian Jews, gambling en famille. The men in oriental costume,
+      the women in gold coloured bodices. They gather round the table, chatter
+      and and plan, count on their fingers, but play little. From time to time,
+      and only after long consultation, an elderly, bearded patriarch goes to
+      place the family stake. Then as long as play lasts there is a
+      concentration of dark hebraic eyes on the table, which would seem to draw
+      the gold pieces lying there as if by an invisible thread....
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Then there are the quarrels. Fights. Oaths in many languages. Knives are
+      drawn. A guard arrives. Money is missing.... In the midst of this
+      saturnalia wandered poor Tartarin, who had come that evening in search of
+      forgetfulness and peace of heart.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      As he went about through the crowd, thinking of his Moor, suddenly, at one
+      of the gaming tables, above the cries and the chinking of coins, two angry
+      voices were raised. &ldquo;I tell you, there are twenty francs of mine missing,
+      m&rsquo;sieu!&rdquo; &ldquo;M&rsquo;sieu!!!&rdquo; &ldquo;Well, what have you to say, m&rsquo;sieu?&rdquo; &ldquo;Do you know to
+      whom you are talking, m&rsquo;sieu?&rdquo; &ldquo;I should be delighted to find out,
+      m&rsquo;sieu!&rdquo; &ldquo;I am prince Gregory of Montenegro, m&rsquo;sieu!&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      At this name, Tartarin, much moved, pushed through the crowd until he
+      reached the front row, delighted to have found once more his prince, the
+      distinguished Montenegrin nobleman whose acquaintance he had made on the
+      packet-boat.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Unfortunately this title of prince which had so dazzled the worthy
+      Tarasconais, did not produce the least impression on the officer of the
+      Chasseurs with whom the prince was in dispute. &ldquo;A likely story&rdquo; said the
+      officer with a sneer, and then turning to the onlookers, &ldquo;Prince Gregory
+      of Montenegro, who has ever heard of him?... No one!&rdquo; Tartarin, indignant,
+      took a pace forward. &ldquo;Pardon... I know the prince.&rdquo; He said firmly in his
+      best Tarrascon accent.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      The officer of the Chasseurs stared him in the face for a few moments,
+      then shrugging his shoulders, he said &ldquo;Well now, is&rsquo;nt that just fine?...
+      Share out the twenty francs between you and we&rsquo;ll leave it at that.&rdquo; So
+      saying he turned on his heel and was lost in the crowd.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Tartarin, furious, wanted to go after him, but the prince prevented him.
+      &ldquo;Leave it... It&rsquo;s my affair.&rdquo; He said, and taking Tartarin by the arm he
+      led him outside.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      When they had reached the square, prince Gregory of Montenegro took off
+      his hat, held out his hand to our hero and vaguely recalling his name
+      began in vibrant tones, &ldquo;Monsieur Barbarin...&rdquo; &ldquo;Tartarin.&rdquo; Breathed the
+      other, timidly. &ldquo;Tartarin... Barbarin, it makes no difference, we are now
+      friends for life.&rdquo; And the noble Montenegrin shook his hand with ferocious
+      energy. Tartarin was was overwhelmed by pride. &ldquo;Prince.... Prince&rdquo; He
+      murmured in confusion.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Fifteen minutes later the two gentlemen were seated in the Restaurant des
+      Platanes, an agreeable spot whose terraces sloped down toward the sea, and
+      there before a large Russian salad and a bottle of good wine they renewed
+      their acquaintance.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      You cannot imagine anything more beguiling than this Montenegrin prince.
+      Slim, elegant, his hair curled and waved, smooth-shaven and powdered and
+      decked with strange orders, he had a sharp eye an ingratiating manner and
+      spoke with a vaguely Italian accent, faintly suggestive of a renaissance
+      Cardinal. Of ancient aristocratic lineage, his brothers, it seemed, had
+      driven him into exile at the age of ten, because of his liberal opinions;
+      since when he had travelled the world for his instruction and pleasure...
+      a philosopher prince. By a remarkable coincidence the prince had spent
+      three years in Tarascon, but when Tartarin expressed astonishment at never
+      having seen him at the club or on the promonade, &ldquo;I didn&rsquo;t go out much&rdquo;
+       Said the prince in a somewhat evasive manner, and Tartarin discretely
+      asked no more questions. Important people, he knew, had diplomatic
+      secrets.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      All in all a very fine prince this Gregory. While sipping his wine he
+      listened patiently to Tartarin, who told him of his Moorish love, and as
+      he claimed to have contacts among these ladies, he even undertook to help
+      look for her.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      They drank long and deep. They drank to the ladies of Algeria. They drank
+      to free Montenegro. Outside, below the terrace, the sea rolled, the waves
+      slapping wetly on the beach. The air was warm, the sky bright with stars,
+      in the plane trees a nightingale sang... It was Tartarin who paid the
+      bill.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <a name="link2HCH0021" id="link2HCH0021">
+      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      Chapter 21.
+    </h2>
+    <p>
+      The Montenegrin prince was as good as his word. Shortly after the reunion
+      at the Restaurant des Platanes he arrived early one morning at Tartarin&rsquo;s
+      room. &ldquo;Quick!... quick!... get dressed&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;Your Moor has been
+      found... her name is Baia... as pretty as a picture, twenty years old and
+      already a widow.&rdquo; &ldquo;A widow!.... Well that&rsquo;s a bit of luck&rdquo; Said Tartarin
+      who was a little uneasy at the thought of Moorish husbands. &ldquo;Yes, but
+      closely guarded by her brother&rdquo; &ldquo;Oh! That&rsquo;s a bit awkward&rdquo; &ldquo;A ferocious
+      Moor who sells hookahs in the bazaar&rdquo; There was a silence, &ldquo;Good!&rdquo; Said
+      the prince, &ldquo;You&rsquo;re not the chap to be put off by a little thing like
+      that, and anyway we can perhaps buy off this villain by purchasing some of
+      his pipes. So come on, get dressed... you lucky dog!&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      Pale and excited, his heart full of love, Tartarin jumped out of bed and
+      as he climbed into his ample underwear he asked &ldquo;What shall I do now?&rdquo;
+       &ldquo;Write to the lady quite simply and ask for a meeting&rdquo; &ldquo;She understands
+      French then?&rdquo; Said Tartarin with an air of disappointment. For his dreams
+      had been of an Arabian Houri, uncontaminated by the west. &ldquo;She doesn&rsquo;t
+      understand a word&rdquo; Replied the prince imperturbably, &ldquo;but you will dictate
+      the letter to me and I shall translate it.&rdquo; &ldquo;Oh prince, how good you are.&rdquo;
+       And Tartarin strode about the room silent and deep in thought.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      As you may imagine one does not write to a Moorish lady as one might to a
+      little shop-girl in Beaucaire. Happily our hero was able to cull from his
+      reading many phrases of oriental rhetoric and combining these with some
+      distant memories of the &ldquo;Song of Songs&rdquo; he was able to compose the most
+      flowery epistle you could wish for, full of unlikely similes and
+      improbable metaphors. With this romantic missive Tartarin would have liked
+      to combine a bouquet of flowers with emblematic meanings, but prince
+      Gregory thought it would be better to buy some pipes from the brother,
+      which could not fail to soften the savage temperament of the gentleman and
+      would please the lady, who greatly enjoyed smoking. &ldquo;Let us go quickly
+      then and buy some pipes,&rdquo; Said Tartarin. &ldquo;No, no.&rdquo; Replied the prince,
+      &ldquo;Let me go alone, I shall get them at a better price.&rdquo; &ldquo;Oh prince! How
+      good you are to take such trouble.&rdquo; And the trusting fellow held out his
+      purse to the obliging Montenegrin, exhorting him to neglect nothing which
+      might make the lady happy.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Unfortunately, the affair which had started so well, did not progress as
+      rapidly as one might have wished. Very touched, it seemed, by Tartarin&rsquo;s
+      eloquence, and already three parts won over, she would have liked nothing
+      better than to have received him, but her brother had scruples, and to lay
+      these to rest it was necessary to buy an astonishing number of pipes.
+      Sometimes Tartarin wondered what on earth the lady did with them all, but
+      he paid up nevertheless, and without stinting.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      At last, after the purchase of many pipes and the composing of many sheets
+      of oriental prose, a rendezvous was arranged. I need hardly tell you with
+      what fluttering of heart Tartarin prepared himself; with what care he
+      trimmed, washed and scented his beard, without forgetting&mdash;for one
+      must always be prepared&mdash;to slip into his pockets a life-preserver
+      and a revolver. The ever-obliging prince attended this first meeting in
+      the role of interpreter
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      The lady lived in the upper part of the town. Outside her door lounged a
+      young Moor of fourteen or fifteen, smoking a cigarette, it was Ali, her
+      brother. When the two visitors arrived he knocked twice on the postern and
+      retired from the scene. The door was opened and a negress appeared, who,
+      without saying a word, conducted the two gentlemen across a narrow
+      interior courtyard to a small, cool room where the lady awaited them,
+      posed on a divan.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      At first glance it seemed to Tartarin that she was smaller and sturdier
+      than the Moor on the omnibus... were they in fact the same? But this
+      suspicion was only momentary: the lady was so pretty, with her bare feet
+      and her plump fingers, rosy and delicate, loaded with rings; while beneath
+      her bodice of gold cloth and the blossoms of her flowered robe was the
+      suggestion of a charming form, a little chubby, dainty and curvaceous. The
+      amber mouthpiece of a narghile was between her lips and she was enveloped
+      in a cloud of pale smoke.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      On entering, Tartarin placed his hand on his heart and bowed in the most
+      Moorish manner possible, rolling big, passionate eyes... Baia looked at
+      him for a moment without speaking, then letting go of the amber
+      mouthpiece, she turned her back, hid her face in her hands and one could
+      see only her neck, shaken by uncontrollable laughter.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <a name="link2HCH0022" id="link2HCH0022">
+      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      Chapter 22.
+    </h2>
+    <p>
+      If you go in the evening into some of the coffee-houses of the Algerian
+      upper town, you will hear even today, Moors speak among themselves, with
+      winks and chuckles, of a certain Sidi ben Tart&rsquo;ri, an amiable, rich
+      European who&mdash;it now some years ago&mdash;lived in the upper town
+      with a little local girl called Baia.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      This Sidi ben Tart&rsquo;ri was of course none other than Tartarin. Well what
+      could you expect. This sort of thing happens even in the lives of Saints
+      and Heroes. The illustrious Tartarin was, like anyone else, not exempt
+      from these failings and that is why for two whole months, forgetful of
+      lions, forgetful of fame, he wallowed in oriental love, and slumbered,
+      like Hannibal in Capua, amid the delights of Algiers.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      He had rented in the heart of the Arab quarter, a pretty little local
+      house with an interior courtyard, banana trees, cool galleries and
+      fountains. He lived there quietly in the company of his Moor, a Moor
+      himself from head to foot. Puffing at his hookah and munching
+      musk-flavoured condiments. Stretched on a divan opposite him, Baia with a
+      guitar in her hands droned monotonous songs, or to amuse her master she
+      perhaps mimed a belly-dance, holding in her hands a small mirror in which
+      she admired her white teeth and made faces at herself.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      As the lady did not understand French and Tartarin did not speak a word of
+      Arabic, conversation languished somewhat and the talkative Tarasconais had
+      time to repent of any intemperate loquaciousness of which he might have
+      been guilty at Bezuquet&rsquo;s pharmacy or Costecalde the gunsmith&rsquo;s shop. This
+      penance even had a certain charm. There was something almost voluptuous in
+      going all day without speaking, hearing only the bubble of the hookah, the
+      strumming of the guitar and the gentle splashing of the fountain amid the
+      mosaic tiles of his courtyard.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Smoking, the Turkish bath and &ldquo;l&rsquo;amour&rdquo; occupied his time. They went out
+      little. Sometimes Sidi Tart&rsquo;ri, with his lady mounted on the crupper, went
+      on mule-back to eat pomegranates in a little garden which he had bought in
+      the neighbourhood... but never on any account did they go down to the
+      European part of the town, which with its drunken Zouaves, its bordellos
+      full of officers and the sound of sabres trailing on the ground beneath
+      the arcade, seemed to him to be insupportably ugly. Altogether our
+      Tartarin was perfectly happy. Tartarin-Sancho in particular, very fond of
+      Turkish pastries, declared himself entirely satisfied with his new
+      existence. Tartarin-Quixote had perhaps now and then some regrets, when he
+      remembered Tarascon and the promised lion skins... but they did not last
+      for long, and to dispel these moments of sadness all that was needed was a
+      look from Baia or a spoonful of her diabolic confections, scented and
+      bewitching like some brew of Circe&rsquo;s.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      In the evenings prince Gregory came, to talk a little about free
+      Montenegro. Of indefatigable complaisance, this agreeable nobleman
+      undertook in the house the function of interpreter and, if need be, even
+      that of steward, and all for nothing. Apart from him, Tartarin had only
+      &ldquo;Teurs&rdquo; as visitors. All of those ferocious bandits which in the depths of
+      their dark shops he once found so frightening, turned out to be harmless
+      tradesmen, embroiderers, spice sellers, turners of pipe mouthpieces.
+      Discrete, courteous people, modest, shrewd, and good at cards. Four or
+      five times a week they would spend the evening with Tartarin, winning his
+      money and eating his confitures, and on the stroke of ten leaving
+      politely, giving thanks to the Prophet.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      After they had left, Sidi Tart&rsquo;ri and his faithful spouse would finish the
+      evening on their terrace, a large white-walled terrace which formed the
+      roof of the building and looked out over the town. All about them a
+      thousand other terraces, tranquil in the moonlight, dropped one below the
+      other down to the sea. Suddenly, like a burst of stars, a great clear
+      chant rose heavenward and on the minaret of the nearby mosque a handsome
+      Muezzin appeared, his white outline silhouetted against the deep blue of
+      the night sky. As he invoked the praise of Allah in a splendid voice which
+      filled the horizon, Baia laid aside her guitar and with her eyes fixed on
+      the Muezzin seemed to be rapt in prayer. For as long as the chant lasted
+      she remained ecstatic, like an Arabic St. Theresa. Tartarin watched her
+      and thought that it must be a beautiful and powerful religion which could
+      give rise to such transports of faith. Tarascon hide your face, your
+      Tartarin dreams of becoming apostate.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <a name="link2HCH0023" id="link2HCH0023">
+      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      Chapter 23.
+    </h2>
+    <p>
+      One fine afternoon of blue sky and warm breeze, Sidi Tart&rsquo;ri, astride his
+      mule, was returning alone from his little garden, his legs spread widely
+      over hay filled bags which were further swollen by citrus and water-melon.
+      Lulled by the creaking of the harness and swaying to the clip-clop of the
+      animal the good man progressed through the delightful countryside, his
+      hands crossed on his stomach, three-quarters asleep from the effect of
+      warmth and wellbeing. Suddenly, as he was entering the town, a loud hail
+      woke him up. &ldquo;Hé! You, you great lump! You&rsquo;re Monsieur Tartarin aren&rsquo;t
+      you?&rdquo; At the name of Tartarin and the sound of the Provencal accent
+      Tartarin raised his head and saw, a few feet away, the tanned features of
+      Barbassou, the Captain of the Zouave, who was drinking an absinthe and
+      smoking his pipe at the door of a little café. &ldquo;Hé! Barbassou by God!&rdquo;
+       Said Tartarin, pulling up his mule.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Instead of replying Barbassou regarded him wide-eyed for a few moments,
+      and then he began to laugh and laugh, so that Tartarin sat stunned among
+      his water-melons. &ldquo;What a get-up, my poor monsieur Tartarin. It&rsquo;s true
+      then what people say, that you have become a Teur? And little Baia, does
+      she still sing &lsquo;Marco la belle&rsquo; all the time?&rdquo; &ldquo;Marco la belle,&rdquo; said
+      Tartarin indignantly, &ldquo;I&rsquo;ll have you know Captain, that the person of whom
+      you speak is an honest Moorish girl who doesn&rsquo;t know a word of French!&rdquo;
+       &ldquo;Baia?... Not a word of French?... Where have you come from?&rdquo; And the
+      Captain began to laugh again, more than ever. Then noticing the long face
+      of poor Sidi Tart&rsquo;ri, he changed tack. &ldquo;Well perhaps it isn&rsquo;t the same
+      one,&rdquo; He said, &ldquo;I&rsquo;ve probably got her mixed up with someone else... only
+      look here, M. Tartarin, you would be wise not to put too much trust in
+      Algerian Moors, or Montenegrin princes.&rdquo; Tartarin stood up in his
+      stirrups, and made his grimace, &ldquo;The prince is my friend, Captain!&rdquo; He
+      said. &ldquo;All right... all right... Don&rsquo;t let&rsquo;s quarrel... would you like a
+      drink?... no. Any message you would like me to take back?... none. Well
+      that&rsquo;s it then. Bon voyage.... Oh!... While I think of it, I have some
+      good French tobacco here, if you would like a few pipes-full take some,
+      help yourself, it will do you good, it&rsquo;s those blasted local tobaccos that
+      scramble your brain.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      With that the Captain returned to his absinthe and Tartarin pensively
+      trotted his mule down the road to his little house. Although in his loyal
+      heart he refused to believe any of the insinuations made by the Captain,
+      they had upset him, and his rough oaths and country accent had combined to
+      awake in him a vague feeling of remorse. When he reached home, Baia had
+      gone to the baths, the negress seemed to him ugly, the house dismal, and
+      prey to an indefinable melancholy, he went and sat by the fountain and
+      filled his pipe with Barbassou&rsquo;s tobacco. The tobacco had been wrapped in
+      a fragment of paper torn from &ldquo;The Semaphore&rdquo; and when he spread it out
+      the name of his home town caught his eye.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;News from Tarascon,&rdquo; He read, &ldquo;The town is in a state of alarm. Tartarin
+      the lion killer, who went to hunt the big cats in Africa, has not been
+      heard of for several months.... What has happened to our heroic
+      compatriot? One dare hardly ask oneself, knowing as we do his ardent
+      nature, his courage and love of adventure.... Has he, like so many others,
+      been swallowed up in the desert sands, or has he perhaps fallen victim to
+      the murderous teeth of those feline monsters, whose skins he promised to
+      the municipality.... A terrible incertitude! However, some African
+      merchants who came to the fair at Beaucaire, claim to have met, in the
+      heart of the desert, a white man whose description corresponds with his
+      and who was heading for Timbuctoo. May God preserve our Tartarin!&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      When he read this, Tartarin blushed and trembled. All Tarascon rose before
+      his eyes. The club. The hat hunters. The green armchair at Costecalde&rsquo;s
+      shop: and soaring above, like the extended wings of an eagle, the
+      formidable moustache of the brave Commandant Bravida. Then to see himself
+      squatting slothfully on his mat, while he was believed to be engaged in
+      slaying lions, filled him with shame. Suddenly he leaped to his feet. &ldquo;To
+      the lions!... To the lions!&rdquo; He cried, and hurrying to the dusty corner
+      where lay idle his bivouac tent, his medicine chest, his preserved foods
+      and his weapons, he dragged them into the middle of the courtyard.
+      Tartarin-Sancho had just perished, only Tartarin-Quixote was left.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      There was just time enough to inspect his equipment, to don his arms and
+      accoutrements, to put on his big boots, to write a few lines to prince
+      Gregory, confiding Baia to his care, to slip into an envelope some
+      banknotes, wet with tears, and the intrepid Tarasconais was in a
+      stage-coach, rolling down the road to Blidah, leaving the stupefied
+      negress in his house, gazing at the turban, the slippers and all the
+      muslim rig-out of Sidi Tart&rsquo;ri, hanging discarded on the wall.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <a name="link2HCH0024" id="link2HCH0024">
+      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      Chapter 24.
+    </h2>
+    <p>
+      It was an ancient, old-fashioned stage-coach, upholstered in the old way
+      in heavy blue cloth, very faded, and with enormous pom-poms, which after a
+      few hours on the road dug uncomfortably into one&rsquo;s back. Tartarin had an
+      inside seat, where he installed himself as best he could, and where,
+      instead of the musky scent of the great cats, he could savour the ripe
+      perfume of the coach, compounded of a thousand odours of men, women,
+      horses, leather, food and damp straw.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      The other passengers on the coach were a mixed lot. A Trappist monk, some
+      Jewish merchants, two Cocottes, returning to their unit, the third
+      Hussars, and a photographer from Orleansville.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      No matter how charming and varied the company, Tartarin did not feel like
+      chatting and remained silent, his arm hooked into the arm-strap and his
+      weaponry between his knees.... His hurried departure, the dark eyes of
+      Baia, the dangerous chase on which he was about to engage, these thoughts
+      troubled his mind, and also there was something about this venerable
+      stage-coach, now domiciled in Africa, which recalled to him vaguely the
+      Tarascon of his youth. Trips to the country. Dinners by the banks of the
+      Rhône, a host of memories.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Little by little it grew dark. The guard lit the lanterns. The old coach
+      swayed and squeaked on its worn springs. The horses trotted, the bells on
+      their harness jingling, and from time to time there sounded the clash of
+      ironmongery from Tartarin&rsquo;s arms chest on the top of the coach.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Sleepily Tartarin contemplated his fellow passengers as they danced before
+      his eyes, shaken by the jolting of the coach, then his eyes closed and he
+      heard no more, except vaguely, the rumble of the axles and the groaning of
+      the coach sides....
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Suddenly an ancient female voice, rough, hoarse and cracked, called the
+      Tarasconais by name: &ldquo;Monsieur Tartarin!... Monsieur Tartarin!&rdquo; &ldquo;Who is
+      calling me?&rdquo; &ldquo;It is I, Monsieur Tartarin, don&rsquo;t you recognise me?... I am
+      the stage-coach which once ran... it is now twenty years ago... the
+      service from Tarascon to Nimes.... How many times have I carried you and
+      your friends when you went hat shooting over by Joncquières or
+      Bellegarde... I didn&rsquo;t recognise you at first because of your bonnet and
+      the amount of weight you have put on, but as soon as you began to snore,
+      you old rascal, I knew you right away.&rdquo; &ldquo;Bon!... Bon!&rdquo; Replied Tartarin,
+      somewhat vexed, but then softening, he added: &ldquo;But now, my poor old lady,
+      what are you doing here?&rdquo; &ldquo;Ah! My dear M. Tartarin, I did not come here of
+      my own free will I can promise you. Once the railway reached Beaucaire no
+      one could find a use for me so I was shipped off to Africa... and I am not
+      the only one, nearly all the stage-coaches in France have been deported
+      like me; we were found too old fashioned and now here we all are, leading
+      a life of slavery.&rdquo; Here the old coach gave a long sigh, then she went on:
+      &ldquo;I can&rsquo;t tell you monsieur Tartarin how much I miss my lovely Tarascon.
+      These were good times for me, the time of my youth. You should have seen
+      me leaving in the morning, freshly washed and polished, with new varnish
+      on my wheels, my lamps shining like suns and my tarpaulin newly dressed
+      with oil. How grand it was when the postillion cracked his whip and sang
+      out, &lsquo;Lagadigadeou, la Tarasque, la Tarasque&rsquo; and the guard, with his
+      ticket-punch slung on its bandolier and his braided cap tipped over one
+      ear, chucked his little yapping dog onto the tarpaulin of the coach-roof
+      and scrambled up himself crying &lsquo;Let&rsquo;s go!... Let&rsquo;s go!&rsquo; Then my four
+      horses would start off with a jingle of bells, barking and fanfares.
+      Windows would open and all Tarascon would watch with pride the stage-coach
+      setting off along the king&rsquo;s highway.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;What a fine road it was, Monsieur Tartarin, wide and well kept, with its
+      kilometre markers, its heaps of roadmender&rsquo;s stones at regular intervals,
+      and to right and left vinyards and pretty groves of olive trees. Then inns
+      every few yards, post-houses every five minutes... and my travellers! What
+      fine folk!... Mayors and curés going to Nimes to see their Prefect or
+      Bishop, honest workmen, students on holiday, peasants in embroidered
+      smocks, all freshly shaved that morning, and up on top, all of you hat
+      shooters, who were always in such good form and who sang so well to the
+      stars as we returned home in the evening.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Now it is a different story... God knows the sort of people I carry. A
+      load of miscreants from goodness knows where, who infest me with vermin.
+      Negroes, Bedouins, rascals and adventurers from every country, colonists
+      who stink me out with their pipes, and all of them talking a language
+      which even our Heavenly Father couldn&rsquo;t understand.... And then you see
+      how they treat me. Never brushed. Never washed. They grudge me the grease
+      for my axles, and instead of the fine big, quiet horses which I used to
+      have, they give me little Arab horses which have the devil in them,
+      fighting, biting, dancing about and running like goats, breaking my shafts
+      with kicks. Aie!... Aie! They are at it again now.... And the roads! It&rsquo;s
+      still all right here, because we are near Government House, but out there,
+      nothing! No road of any sort. One goes as best one can over hill and dale
+      through dwarf palms and mastic trees. Not a single fixed stop. One pulls
+      up at wherever the guard fancies, sometimes at one farm, sometimes at
+      another. Sometimes this rogue takes me on a detour of two leagues just so
+      that he can go and drink with a friend. After that it&rsquo;s &lsquo;Whip up
+      postillion, we must make up for lost time.&rsquo; The sun burns. The dust
+      chokes... Whip!... Whip! We crash. We tip over. More whip. We swim across
+      rivers, we are cold, soaked and half drowned... Whip!... Whip!... Whip!
+      Then in the evening, dripping wet... that&rsquo;s good for me at my age... I
+      have to bed down in the yard of some caravan halt, exposed to all the
+      winds. At night jackals and hyenas come to sniff at my lockers and
+      creatures which fear the dawn hide in my compartments. That&rsquo;s the life I
+      lead, monsieur Tartarin, and I shall lead until the day when, scorched by
+      sun and rotted by humid nights, I shall fall at some corner of this
+      beastly road, where Arabs will boil their cous-cous on the remains of my
+      old carcase.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Blidah!... Blidah!&rdquo; Shouted the guard, opening the coach door.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <a name="link2HCH0025" id="link2HCH0025">
+      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      Chapter 25.
+    </h2>
+    <p>
+      Indistinctly, through the steamed up windows, Tartarin could see the
+      pretty square of a neatly laid out little township, surrounded by arcades
+      and planted with orange trees, in the centre of which a group of soldiers
+      was drilling in the thin, pink haze of early morning. The cafés were
+      taking down their shutters, in one corner a vegetable market was under
+      way. It was charming, but in no way did it suggest lions. &ldquo;To the south,
+      further to the south.&rdquo; Murmured Tartarin, settling back in his corner.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      At that moment the coach door was opened, letting in a gust of fresh air,
+      which bore on its wings, amongst the scent of orange blossom, a very small
+      gentleman in a brown overcoat. Neat, elderly, thin and wrinkled, with a
+      face no bigger than a fist, a silk cravat five fingers high, a leather
+      brief-case and an umbrella. The perfect image of a village notary. On
+      seeing Tartarin&rsquo;s weaponry, the little gentleman, who was seated opposite
+      him, looked very surprised, and began to stare at our hero.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      The horses were changed and the coach set off... the little gentleman
+      continued to stare. At length Tartarin became offended and staring in his
+      turn at the little gentleman he asked &ldquo;Do you find this surprising?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Not at all, but it does rather get in the way.&rdquo; Was the reply, and the
+      fact is that with his tent, his revolver, his two rifles and their covers,
+      not to mention his natural corpulence, Tartarin de Tarascon did take up
+      quite a lot of space.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      This reply from the little gentleman annoyed Tartarin, &ldquo;Do you suppose
+      that I would go after lions with an umbrella?&rdquo; Asked the great man
+      proudly. The little gentleman looked at his umbrella, smiled and and asked
+      calmly, &ldquo;You monsieur are...?&rdquo; &ldquo;Tartarin de Tarascon, lion hunter.&rdquo; And in
+      pronouncing these words the brave Tartarin shook the tassel of his chechia
+      as if it were a mane.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      In the coach there was a startled response. The Trappist crossed himself,
+      the Cocottes uttered little squeaks of excitement and the photographer
+      edged closer to the lion killer, thinking that he might be a good subject
+      for a picture. The little gentleman was not in the least disturbed. &ldquo;Have
+      you killed many lions, Monsieur Tartarin?&rdquo; He asked quietly. Tartarin
+      adopted a lofty air, &ldquo;Yes many of them. More than you have hairs on your
+      head.&rdquo; And all the passengers laughed at the sight of the three or four
+      yellow hairs which sprouted from the little gentleman&rsquo;s scalp.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      The photographer then spoke up, &ldquo;A terrible profession yours, Monsieur
+      Tartarin, you must have moments of danger sometimes like that brave M.
+      Bombonnel.&rdquo; &ldquo;Ah!... yes... M. Bombonnel, the man who hunts panthers.&rdquo; Said
+      Tartarin, with some disdain. &ldquo;Do you know him?&rdquo; Asked the little
+      gentleman. &ldquo;Ti!... Pardi!... To be sure I know him, we have hunted
+      together more than twenty times.&rdquo; &ldquo;You hunt panthers also M. Tartarin?&rdquo;
+       &ldquo;Occasionally, as a pastime.&rdquo; Said Tartarin casually, and raising his head
+      with a heroic gesture which went straight to the hearts of the two
+      Cocottes, he added &ldquo;They cannot be compared to lions.&rdquo; &ldquo;One could say,&rdquo;
+       Hazarded the photographer, &ldquo;That a panther is no more than a large
+      pussy-cat.&rdquo; &ldquo;Quite right.&rdquo; Said Tartarin, who was not reluctant to lower
+      the reputation of this M. Bombonnel, particularly in front of the ladies.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      At this moment the coach stopped. The guard came to open the door and he
+      addressed the little old man, &ldquo;This is where you want to get off
+      Monsieur.&rdquo; He said very respectfully.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      The little gentleman got up to leave, but before he closed the door he
+      said &ldquo;Would you permit me to give you a word of advice M. Tartarin?&rdquo; &ldquo;What
+      is that Monsieur?&rdquo; &ldquo;Go back quickly to Tarascon, M. Tartarin, you are
+      wasting your time here... There are a few panthers left in Algeria, but,
+      fi donc! They are too small a quarry for you... as for lions, they are
+      finished. There are no more in Algeria, my friend Chassaing has just
+      killed the last one.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      On that the little gentleman saluted, closed the door and went off,
+      laughing, with his brief-case and umbrella. &ldquo;Guard!&rdquo; Said Tartarin, making
+      his grimace. &ldquo;Who on earth was that fellow?&rdquo; &ldquo;What! Don&rsquo;t you know him?&rdquo;
+       Said the guard, &ldquo;That&rsquo;s Monsieur Bombonnel!&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      <a name="link2HCH0026" id="link2HCH0026">
+      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      Chapter 26.
+    </h2>
+    <p>
+      When the coach reached Milianah Tartarin got out and left it to continue
+      its journey to the south. Two days of being bumped about and nights spent
+      peering out of the window in the hope of seeing the outline of a lion in
+      the fields lining the road, had earned a little rest; and then it must be
+      admitted that after the misadventure over M. Bombonnel, Tartarin, in spite
+      of his weapons, his terrible grimace and his red chechia, had not felt
+      entirely at ease in the presence of the photographer and the two ladies of
+      the third Hussars.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      He made his way along the wide streets of Milianah, full of handsome trees
+      and fountains, but while he looked for a convenient hotel, he could not
+      prevent himself from mulling over the words of M. Bombonnel. What if it
+      were true... what if there were no more lions in Algeria? What then was
+      the point of all this travel and all these discomforts?
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Suddenly at a bend in the road our hero was confronted by a remarkable
+      spectacle. He found himself face to face with&mdash;believe it or not&mdash;a
+      superb lion which was seated regally at the door of a café, Its mane tawny
+      in the sunshine.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Who says there are no more lions?&rdquo; Cried Tartarin, jumping back. On
+      hearing this exclamation the lion lowered its head, and taking in its jaws
+      the wooden begging bowl which lay on the pavement before it, extended it
+      humbly in the direction of Tartarin, who was paralyzed by astonishment...
+      a passing Arab tossed in a few coppers. Then Tartarin understood. He saw
+      what his surprise had at first prevented him from seeing, a crowd of
+      people which was gathered round the poor tame lion, which was blind, and
+      the two big negroes, armed with cudgels, who led it about the town.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Tartarin&rsquo;s blood boiled. &ldquo;Wretches!&rdquo; He cried &ldquo;To debase this noble
+      creature!&rdquo; And running to the lion he snatched the sordid begging bowl
+      from the royal jaws.... The two negroes, believing they were dealing with
+      a thief, threw themselves on Tartarin with raised cudgels. It was a
+      terrible set-to. Women were screeching children laughing there were calls
+      for the police and the lion in its darkness joined in with a fearsome
+      roar. The unhappy Tartarin after a desperate struggle, rolled on the
+      ground among copper coins and road sweepings.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      At this moment a man pushed through the crowd. He dismissed the negroes
+      with a word and the women and children with a gesture. He helped Tartarin
+      to his feet, brushed him down and seated him, out of breath, on a bollard.
+      &ldquo;Good heavens... prince... Is it really you?&rdquo; Said Tartarin, rubbing his
+      ribs. &ldquo;Indeed yes my valiant friend... it is I. As soon as I received your
+      letter I confided Baia to her brother, hired a post-chaise, came fifty
+      leagues flat out and here I am just in time to save you from the brutality
+      of these louts.... For God&rsquo;s sake what have you been doing to get yourself
+      dragged into a mess like this?&rdquo; &ldquo;What could you expect me to do, prince,
+      when I saw this unfortunate lion with the begging bowl in its teeth,
+      humiliated, enslaved, ridiculed, serving as a laughing stock for this
+      unsavoury rabble...?&rdquo; &ldquo;But you are mistaken my noble friend.&rdquo; Said the
+      prince, &ldquo;This lion on the contrary is an object of respect and adoration.
+      It is a sacred beast, a member of a great convent of lions founded three
+      centuries ago by Mahommed-ben-Aouda, a sort of wild fierce monastry where
+      strange monks rear and tame hundreds of lions and send them throughout all
+      north Africa, accompanied by mendicant brothers. The alms which these
+      brothers receive serve to maintain the monastry and its mosque, and if
+      those two negroes were in such a rage just now, it is because they are
+      convinced that if one sou, one single sou, of their takings is lost
+      through any fault of theirs, the lion which that are leading will
+      immediately devour them.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      On hearing this unlikely but plausible tale, Tartarin recovered his
+      spirits. &ldquo;It seems evident after all,&rdquo; He said &ldquo;That in spite of what M.
+      Bombonnel said, there are still lions in Algeria.&rdquo; &ldquo;To be sure there are,&rdquo;
+       said the prince, &ldquo;And tomorrow we shall begin to search the plains by the
+      river Cheliff and you shall see.&rdquo; &ldquo;What!... prince. Do you mean to join in
+      the hunt yourself?&rdquo; &ldquo;Of course&rdquo; Said the prince &ldquo;Do you think I would
+      leave you to wander alone in the middle of Africa, among all those savage
+      tribes, of whose language and customs you know nothing? No! No! My dear
+      Tartarin. I shall not leave you again. Wherever you go I shall accompany
+      you.&rdquo; &ldquo;Oh!... prince!... prince!&rdquo; And Tartarin clasped the valiant Gregory
+      in a warm embrace.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <a name="link2HCH0027" id="link2HCH0027">
+      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      Chapter 27.
+    </h2>
+    <p>
+      Very early the next morning the intrepid Tartarin and the no less intrepid
+      prince Gregory, followed by half a dozen negro porters, left Milianah and
+      descended towards the plain of the Chetiff by a steep pathway,
+      delightfully shaded by jasmine, carobs and wild olives, between the hedges
+      of little native gardens where a thousand bubbling springs trickled
+      melodiously from rock to rock, a veritable Eden.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Carrying as much in the way of arms as the great Tartarin, the prince was
+      further adorned by a magnificent and colourful kepi, covered with gold
+      braid and decorated with oak leaves embroidered in silver thread, which
+      gave his highness the appearance of a Mexican General, or a
+      Middle-European Station-Master. This fantastic kepi greatly intrigued
+      Tartarin and he asked humbly for an explanation.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;An indispensable form of headgear for the traveller in Africa.&rdquo; The
+      prince replied gravely; and while polishing the peak on his coat-sleeve he
+      instructed his innocent companion on the important role played by the kepi
+      in colonial administration, and the deference which its appearance
+      inspires. This to such an extent that the government has been obliged to
+      issue kepis to everyone from the canteen worker to the registrar-general.
+      In fact, according to the prince, to govern the country there was no
+      necessity for an elaborate regime. All that was needed was a fine
+      gold-braided kepi glittering on the end of a big stick.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Thus conversing and philosophising, they went there way. The bare-footed
+      porters leapt from rock to rock, shouting and chattering. The armaments
+      rattled in their case. The guns glittered in the sun.. The locals who
+      passed bowed deeply before the magical kepi.... Up on the ramparts of
+      Milianah, the chief of the Arab bureau, who was walking with his lady in
+      the cool of the morning, hearing these unusual noises and seeing between
+      the branches the flash of sunlight on the weapons, feared a surprise
+      attack; whereupon he lowered the portcullis, beat the alarm and put the
+      town in a state of siege.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      This was a good start to the expedition. Regrettably, before the end of
+      the day, the situation deteriorated. One of the negroes was taken with the
+      most fearful colic, having eaten the plasters in the medicine chest.
+      Another fell, dead drunk, by the wayside, as a result of swigging spirits
+      of camphor. A third, in charge of the log-book, deceived by the gold
+      lettering on the cover, thought he had hold of the treasures of Mecca and
+      made off with it at top speed.... Clearly some planning was needed, so the
+      party halted and took council in the shade of an old fig tree. &ldquo;In my
+      opinion&rdquo; Said the prince, trying unsuccessfully to dissolve a tablet of
+      pemmican in a cooking pot, &ldquo;In my opinion, after this evening we should
+      get rid of these negro porters. There is an Arab market near here and our
+      best plan would be to go there and buy some bourriquots.&rdquo; &ldquo;No!... No!...
+      No bourriquots!&rdquo; Interrupted Tartarin, who had become very red at the
+      memory of Noiraud, adding hypocritically, &ldquo;How can these little creatures
+      carry all our equipment?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      The prince smiled, &ldquo;You are mistaken my illustrious friend,&rdquo; He said, &ldquo;The
+      bourriquot may seem to you a poor weak creature, but it has a great
+      heart... It needs it to support all it has to bear... ask the Arabs. This
+      is their idea of our administration. On top they say, is the governor with
+      a big stick which he uses to thump his staff. The staff in turn thump the
+      soldiers. The soldiers thump the colonist. The colonist thumps the Arab,
+      the Arab the negro, and the Negro thumps the bourriquot. The poor little
+      bourriquot having no one to thump, bares its back and puts up with it. So
+      you can see it is well able to carry all our gear.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;That&rsquo;s all very well.&rdquo; Replied Tartarin, &ldquo;But I don&rsquo;t think that donkeys
+      add much colour to the general appearance of our caravan. Now if we could
+      have a camel...!&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Just as you wish.&rdquo; Said his highness, and they set off for the market.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      The market was held some distance away on the bank of the Cheliff. There
+      were five or six thousand Arabs milling around in the sun, trading noisily
+      among piles of olives, pots of honey, sacks of spices and heaps of cigars.
+      There were fires at which whole sheep were roasting, dripping with butter.
+      There were open air butcheries where almost naked negroes, their feet
+      paddling in blood and their arms red to the elbow, were cutting up the
+      carcases of goats hanging from hooks... In one corner, in a tent repaired
+      in a thousand different colours, was a Moorish official with a big book
+      and spectacles. Over there is a crowd. There are cries of rage. It is a
+      roulette game that has been set up on a corn bin and the tribesmen
+      gathered about it have started fighting with knives. Elsewhere, there are
+      cheers, laughter and stamping of feet, a merchant and his mule have fallen
+      into the river and are in danger of drowning.... There are scorpions,
+      crows, dogs and flies, millions of flies, but no camels.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Eventually a camel was discovered which some nomads were trying to dispose
+      of. This was a real desert camel, with little hair, a sad expression and a
+      hump which through long shortage of fodder hung flaccidly to one side.
+      Tartarin was so taken with it that he wanted the two partners to be
+      mounted. This proved to be a mistake.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      The camel knelt, the trunks were strapped on, the prince installed himself
+      on the creature&rsquo;s neck and Tartarin was hoisted up to the top of the hump,
+      between two cases, from where he proudly saluted the assembled market and
+      gave the signal for departure.... Heavens above!.... If only Tarascon
+      could see him now!
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      The camel rose, stretched out its long legs and took off. Calamity! The
+      camel pitched and rolled like a frigate in a rough sea and the chechia
+      responded to the motion as it had on the Zouave. &ldquo;Prince... prince&rdquo;
+       Murmured Tartarin, ashen-faced, and clutching the scanty hair of the hump,
+      &ldquo;Prince... let us get down, I feel... I feel I am going to disgrace
+      France.&rdquo; But the camel was in full flight and nothing was going to stop
+      it. Four thousand Arabs were running behind, bare-footed, waving, laughing
+      like idiots, six hundred thousand white teeth glistening in the sun....
+      The great man of Tarascon had to resign himself to the inevitable, and
+      France was disgraced.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <a name="link2HCH0028" id="link2HCH0028">
+      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      Chapter 28.
+    </h2>
+    <p>
+      Despite the picturesque nature of their new mode of transport our lion
+      hunters were forced to dismount, out of regard for the chechia. They
+      continued their journey as before, on foot, and the caravan proceeded
+      tranquilly toward the south with Tartarin in front, the prince in the rear
+      and between them the camel with the baggage.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      The expedition lasted for a month. For a whole month, Tartarin, hunting
+      for non-existent lions, wandered from village to village in the immense
+      plain of the Chetiff, across this extraordinary, cock-eyed French Algeria,
+      where the perfumes of ancient Araby are mingled with a powerful stink of
+      Absinthe and barrack-room; Abraham and Zouzou combined, a strange mixture
+      like a page of the Old Testament rewritten by Sergeant Le Ramée or
+      Corporal Pitou.... A curious spectacle for those who would care to
+      look.... A savage and decadent people whom we are civilising by giving
+      them our own vices. The cruel and uncontrolled authority of Pashas,
+      inflated with self-importance in their cordons of the legion of honour,
+      who at their whim have people beaten on the soles of their feet. The
+      so-called justice of bespectacled Cadis, traitors to the koran and to the
+      law, who sell their judgements as did Esau his birthright for a plate of
+      cous-cous. Drunken and libertine headmen, former batmen to General Yussif
+      someone or other, who guzzle champagne in the company of harlots, and
+      indulge in feasts of roast mutton, while before their tents the whole
+      tribe is starving and disputes with the dogs the leavings of the
+      seigniorial banquet.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Then, all around, uncultivated plain. Scorched grass. Bushes bare of
+      leaves. Scrub. Cactus. Mastic trees... The granary of France?... A granary
+      empty of grain and rich only in jackals and bugs. Abandoned villages.
+      Bewildered tribesfolk who run they know not where, fleeing from famine and
+      sowing corpses along the road. Here and there a French settlement, the
+      houses dilapidated, the fields untilled and raging hordes of locusts who
+      eat the very curtains from the windows, while the colonists are all in
+      cafés, drinking absinthe and discussing projects for the reform of the
+      constitution.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      That is what Tartarin could have seen, if he had taken the trouble, but
+      obsessed with his fantasy the man from Tarascon marched straight ahead,
+      his vision limited to searching for these monstrous felines, of which
+      there was no trace.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Since the bivouac tent obstinately refused to open and the pemmican
+      tablets to dissolve, the hunting party was compelled to stop daily at
+      tribal villages. Everywhere, thanks to the prince&rsquo;s kepi, they were
+      received with open arms. They were lodged by chieftains in strange
+      palaces, great white buildings without windows, where were piled up
+      hookahs and mahogany commodes, Smyrna carpets and adjustable oil lamps,
+      cedar-wood chests full of Turkish sequins and clocks decorated in the
+      style of Louis Phillipe. Everywhere Tartarin was treated to fêtes and
+      official receptions. In his honour whole villages turned out, firing
+      volleys in the air, their burnous gleaming in the sun: after which the
+      good chieftain would come to present the bill.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Nowhere, however, were there any more lions than there are on the Pont
+      Neuf in Paris: but Tartarin was not discouraged, he pushed bravely on to
+      the south. His days were spent scouring the scrub, rummaging among the
+      dwarf palms with the end of his carbine and going &ldquo;Frt!... Frt!&rdquo; At each
+      bush... Then every evening a stand-to of two or three hours... A wasted
+      effort. No lions appeared.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      One evening, however, at about six o&rsquo;clock, as they were going through a
+      wood of mastic trees, where fat quail, made lazy by the heat were jumping
+      up from the grass, Tartarin thought he heard... but so far off... so
+      distorted by the wind... so faint, the wonderful roar which he had heard
+      so many times back home in Tarascon, behind the menagerie Mitaine.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      At first he thought he had imagined it, but in a moment, still far
+      distant, but now more distinct, the roaring began again, and this time one
+      could hear, all around, the barking of village dogs; while, stricken by
+      terror and rattling the boxes of arms and preserves, the camel&rsquo;s hump
+      trembled. There could be no more doubt.... It was a lion! Quick!... Quick!
+      Into position! Not a moment to lose!
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      There was, close by them, an old Marabout (the tomb of a holy man) with a
+      white dome: the big yellow slippers of the deceased lying in a recess
+      above the door, together with a bizarre jumble of votive offerings which
+      hung along the walls: fragments of burnous, some gold thread, a tuft of
+      red hair. There Tartarin installed the prince and the camel, and prepared
+      to look for a hide. He was determined to face the lion single-handed, so
+      he earnestly requested His Highness not to leave the spot, and for safe
+      keeping he handed to him his wallet, a fat wallet stuffed with valuable
+      papers and banknotes. This done our hero sought his post.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      About a hundred yards in front of the Marabout, on the banks of an almost
+      dry river, a clump of oleanders stirred in the faint twilight breeze, and
+      it was there that Tartarin concealed himself in ambush, kneeling on one
+      knee, in what he felt was an appropriate position, his rifle in his hands
+      and his big hunting knife stuck into the sandy soil of the river bank in
+      front of him.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Night was falling. The rosy daylight turned to violet and then to a sombre
+      blue.... Below, amongst the stones of the river bed, there glistened like
+      a hand-mirror a little pool of clear water: a drinking place for the wild
+      animals. On the slope of the opposite bank one could see indistinctly the
+      path which they had made through the trees: a view which Tartarin found a
+      bit unnerving. Add to this the vague noises of the African night, the
+      rustle of branches, the thin yapping of jackals, and in the sky a flock of
+      cranes passing with cries like children being murdered. You must admit
+      that this could be unsettling, and Tartarin was unsettled, he was even
+      very unsettled! His teeth chattered and the rifle shook in his hands;
+      well... there are evenings when one is not at one&rsquo;s best, and where would
+      be the merit if heroes were never afraid?
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Tartarin was, admittedly, afraid, but in spite of his fear he held on for
+      an hour... two hours, but heroism has its breaking point. In the dry river
+      bed, close to him, Tartarin heard the sound of footsteps rattling the
+      pebbles. Terror overtook him. He rose to his feet, fired both barrels
+      blindly into the night and ran at top speed to the Marabout, leaving his
+      knife stuck in the ground as a memorial to the most overwhelming panic
+      that ever affected a hero.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;A moi! prince!... A Moi!... The lion!&rdquo;... There was no answer.
+      &ldquo;Prince!... prince! Are you there?&rdquo;.... The prince was not there. Against
+      the white wall of the Marabout was only the silhouette of the worthy
+      camel&rsquo;s hump. The prince Gregory had disappeared, taking with him the
+      wallet and the banknotes. His highness had been waiting for a month for
+      such an opportunity.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <a name="link2HCH0029" id="link2HCH0029">
+      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      Chapter 29.
+    </h2>
+    <p>
+      The day after this adventurous yet tragic evening, when at first light our
+      hero awoke and realised that the prince and his money had gone and would
+      not return; when he saw himself alone in this little white tomb, betrayed,
+      robbed and abandoned in the middle of savage Algeria with a one-humped
+      camel and some loose change as his total resources, for the first time
+      some misgivings entered his mind. He began to have doubts about
+      Montenegro, about friendship, fame and even lions. Overcome by misery he
+      shed bitter tears.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      While he was sitting disconsolately at the door of the Marabout with his
+      head in his hands, his rifle between his knees and watched over by the
+      camel... behold! The undergrowth opposite was thrust aside and the
+      thunderstruck Tartarin saw not ten paces away a gigantic lion, which
+      advanced towards him uttering roars which shook the ragged offerings on
+      the wall of the Marabout and even the slippers of the holy man in their
+      recess. Only Tartarin remained unshaken. &ldquo;At last!&rdquo; He cried, jumping to
+      his feet with his rifle butt to his shoulder... Pan!... Pan!... Pft!...
+      Pft!... The lion had two explosive bullets in its head! Fragments of lion
+      erupted like fireworks into the burning African sky, and as they fell to
+      earth, Tartarin saw two furious negroes, who ran towards him with raised
+      cudgels. The two negroes of Milianah... Oh! Misère!... It was the the tame
+      lion, the poor blind lion of the convent of Mahommed that the bullets of
+      the Tarasconais had felled.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      This time Tartarin had the narrowest of escapes. Drunk with fanatical
+      fury, the two negro mendicants would surely have had him in pieces had not
+      the God of the Christians sent him a Guardian Angel in the shape of the
+      District Police Officer from Orleansville, who arrived down the pathway,
+      his sabre tucked under his arm, at that very moment. The sight of the
+      municipal kepi had an immediate calming effect on the two negroes. Stern
+      and majestic the representative of the law took down the particulars of
+      the affair, had the remains of the lion loaded onto the camel, and ordered
+      the plaintiff and the accused to follow him to Orleansville, where the
+      whole matter was placed in the hands of the legal authorities.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      There then commenced a long and involved process. After the tribal Algeria
+      in which he had been wandering, Tartarin now made the acquaintance of the
+      no less peculiar and cock-eyed Algeria of the towns: litigious and
+      legalistic. He encountered a sleazy justicary who stitched up shady deals
+      in the back rooms of cafés. The Bohemian society of the gentlemen of the
+      law; dossiers which stank of absinthe, white cravats speckled with drink
+      and coffee stains. He was embroiled with ushers, solicitors, and business
+      agents, all the locusts of officialdom, thin and ravenous, who strip the
+      colonist down to his boots and leave him shorn leaf by leaf like a stalk
+      of maize.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      The first essential point to be decided was whether the lion had been
+      killed on civil or military territory. In the first case Tartarin would
+      come before a civil tribunal, in the second he would be tried by
+      court-martial: at the word court-martial Tartarin imagined himself lying
+      shot at the foot of the ramparts, or crouching in the depths of a
+      dungeon... A major difficulty was that the delimitation of these two areas
+      was extremely vague, but at last, after months of consultation, intrigue,
+      and vigils in the sun outside the offices of the Arab Bureau, it was
+      established that on the one hand the lion was, when killed, on military
+      ground, but on the other hand that Tartarin when he fired the fatal shot
+      was in civilian territory. The affair was therefore a civil matter, and
+      Tartarin was freed on the payment of an indemnity of two thousand five
+      hundred francs, not including costs.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      How was this to be paid? The little money left after the prince&rsquo;s
+      defection had long since gone on legal documents and judicial absinthe.
+      The unfortunate lion killer was now reduced to selling off his armament
+      rifle by rifle. He sold the daggers, the knives and coshes. A grocer
+      bought the preserved food, a chemist what was left of the medicine chest.
+      Even the boots went, with the bivouac tent, into the hands of a merchant
+      of bric-a-brac. Once everything had been paid, Tartarin was left with
+      little but the lion-skin and the camel. The lion-skin he packed up
+      carefully and despatched to Tarascon, to the address of the brave
+      Commandant Bravida. As for the camel, he counted on it to get him back to
+      Algiers: not by riding it, but by selling it to raise the fare for the
+      stage-coach, which was at least better than camel-back. Sadly the camel
+      proved a difficult market, and no one offered to buy it at any price.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Tartarin was determined to get back to Algiers, even if it meant walking.
+      He longed to see once more Baia&rsquo;s blue corslet, his house, his fountain
+      and to rest on the white tiles of his his little cloister while he awaited
+      money to be sent from France. In these circumstances the camel did not
+      desert him. This strange animal had developed an inexplicable affection
+      for its master, and seeing him set out from Orleansville it followed him
+      faithfully, regulating its pace to his and not quitting him by as much as
+      a footstep.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      At first Tartarin found it touching. This fidelity, this unshakable
+      devotion seemed wholly admirable; besides which the beast was no trouble
+      and was able to find its own food. However, after a few days Tartarin grew
+      tired of having perpetually at his heels this melancholy companion, who
+      reminded him of all his misadventures. He began to be irritated. He took a
+      dislike to its air of sadness to its hump and its haughty bearing. In he
+      end he became so exasperated with it that his only wish was to be rid of
+      it; but the camel would not be dismissed. Tartarin tried to lose it, but
+      the camel always found him. He tried running away, but the camel could run
+      faster. He shouted &ldquo;Clear off!&rdquo; and threw stones: the camel stopped and
+      regarded him with a mournful expression, then after a few moments it
+      resumed its pace and caught up with him. Tartarin had to resign himself to
+      its company.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      When, after eight days of walking, Tartarin, tired and dusty, saw gleaming
+      in the distance the white terraces of Algiers, when he found himself on
+      the outskirts of the town, on the bustling Mustapha road, amid the crowds
+      who watched him go by with the camel in attendance, his patience snapped,
+      and taking advantage of some traffic congestion he ducked into a field and
+      hid in a ditch. In a few moments he saw above his head, on the causeway,
+      the camel striding along rapidly, its neck anxiously extended. Greatly
+      relieved to be rid of it, Tartarin entered the town by a side road which
+      ran along by the wall of his house.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      On his arrival at his Moorish house, Tartarin halted in astonishment. The
+      day was ending, the streets deserted. Through the low arched doorway,
+      which the negress had forgotten to close, could be heard laughter, the
+      clinking of glasses, the popping of a champagne cork and the cheerful
+      voice of a woman singing loud and clear:
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Aimes-tu Marco la belle,
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;La danse aux salons en fleurs...&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Tron de Diou!&rdquo; Said Tartarin, blenching, and he rushed into the
+      courtyard.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Unhappy Tartarin! What a spectacle awaited him!.... Amid bottles,
+      pastries, scattered cushions, tambourine, guitar, and hookah, Baia stood,
+      without her blue jacket or her corslet, dressed only in a silver gauze
+      blouse and big pink pantaloons, singing &ldquo;Marco la belle&rdquo; with a naval
+      officer&rsquo;s hat tipped over one ear... while on a rug at her feet surfeited
+      with love and confitures, was Barbassou, the infamous Barbassou, roaring
+      with laughter as he listened to her.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      The arrival of Tartarin, haggard, thin, covered in dust, with blazing eyes
+      and bristling chechia cut short this enjoyable Turco-Marseillaise orgy.
+      Baia uttered a little cry, and like a startled leveret she bolted into the
+      house, but Barbassou was not in the least put out and laughed more than
+      ever: &ldquo;Hé!... Hé!... Monsieur Tartarin. What did I tell you? You can hear
+      that she knows French all right.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      Tartarin advanced, furious: &ldquo;Captain!..&rdquo; He began; but then, leaning over
+      the balcony with a rather vulgar gesture, Baia threw down a few
+      well-chosen words. Tartarin, deflated, sat down on a drum, his Moor spoke
+      in the argot of the Marseilles back-streets.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;When I warned you not to trust Algerian women,&rdquo; Said Captain Barbassou
+      sententiously, &ldquo;The same applied to your Montenegrin prince.&rdquo; Tartarin
+      looked up, &ldquo;Do you know where the prince is?&rdquo; he asked.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Oh, he is not far away. He will spend the next five years in the fine
+      prison at Mustapha. The clown was foolish enough to be caught stealing...
+      and anyway this is not the first time His Highness has been inside, he has
+      already done three years in gaol somewhere, and... hang on!... I believe
+      it was in Tarascon!
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;In Tarascon!&rdquo; Cried Tartarin, suddenly enlightened, &ldquo;that is why I never
+      saw him there. All he knew of Tarascon was what he could see from a cell
+      window.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Hé!... without a doubt.... Ah! My poor M. Tartarin, you have to keep both
+      eyes wide open in this devilish country if you don&rsquo;t want to be taken in.
+      Like that business of the Muezzin.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;What business?... What Muezzin?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Ti!... Pardi!&rdquo; The Muezzin opposite, who was courting Baia; all Algiers
+      knew about it. Not all the prayers he was chanting were addressed to
+      Allah, some were directed to the little one, and he was making
+      propositions under your nose. &ldquo;It seems that everyone in this beastly
+      country is a crook&rdquo;, Wailed the unhappy Tartarin. Barbassou shrugged his
+      shoulders, &ldquo;My dear fellow, you know how it is. All these sort of places
+      are the same. If you take my advice you will go back to Tarascon as
+      quickly as possible.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;That&rsquo;s easy to say, but what am I to do for money? Don&rsquo;t you know how
+      they robbed me out there in the desert?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t worry about that,&rdquo; laughed the Captain, &ldquo;the Zouave is leaving
+      tomorrow and I&rsquo;ll take you back if you want... does that suit you,
+      colleague?... All right... Good! There&rsquo;s only one thing left to do, there
+      is still some champagne and some pastries left. Come, sit down and let
+      bygones be bygones.&rdquo; After a little delay which his dignity required, our
+      hero accepted the offer. They sat down and poured out a drink. Hearing the
+      clink of glasses, Baia came down and finished singing Marco la Belle, and
+      the party went on until late in the night.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <a name="link2HCH0030" id="link2HCH0030">
+      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      Chapter 30.
+    </h2>
+    <p>
+      It is mid-day. The Zouave has steam up and is ready to depart. Up above on
+      the balcony of the café Valentin, a group of officers aim the telescope,
+      and come one by one, in order of seniority, to look at the lucky little
+      ship which is going to France. It is the principle entertainment of the
+      general staff. Down below, the water of the anchorage sparkles.... The
+      breeches of the old Turkish cannons, mounted along the quay, glisten in
+      the sunshine.... Passengers arrive.... Baggage is loaded onto tenders.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Tartarin does not have any baggage. He comes down from the Rue de la
+      Marine by the little market, full of bananas and water-melons, accompanied
+      by his friend Captain Barbassou.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Tartarin de Tarascon has left on the Moorish shore his arms, his equipment
+      and his illusions, and is preparing to sail back to Tarascon with nothing
+      in his pockets but his hands. Scarcely, however, had he set foot in the
+      captain&rsquo;s launch, when a breathless creature scrambled down from the
+      square above and galloped towards him. It was the camel, the faithful
+      camel, which for twenty-four hours had been searching for its master.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      When Tartarin saw it, he changed colour and pretended not to know it; but
+      the camel was insistent. It frisked along the quay. It called to its
+      friend and regarded him with tender looks. &ldquo;Take me away!&rdquo; Its sad eyes
+      seemed to say, &ldquo;Take me away with you, far away from this mock Arabia,
+      this ridiculous Orient, full of locomotives and stage coaches, where I as
+      a second-class dromadary do not know what will become of me. You are the
+      last Teur, I am the last camel, let us never part, Oh my Tartarin!&rdquo; &ldquo;Is
+      that your camel?&rdquo; Asked the Captain.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;No!... No!... Not mine.&rdquo; Replied Tartarin, who trembled at the thought of
+      entering Tarascon with this absurd escort; and shamelessly repudiating the
+      companion of his misfortunes he repelled with his foot the soil of Algeria
+      and pushed the boat out from the shore. The camel sniffed at the water,
+      flexed its joints and leapt headlong in behind the boat, where it swam in
+      convoy toward the Zouave, its hump floating on the water like a gourd and
+      it neck lying on the surface like the ram of a trireme.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      The boat and the camel came alongside the Zouave at the same time. &ldquo;I
+      don&rsquo;t know what I should do about this dromadary.&rdquo; Said the captain, &ldquo;I
+      think I&rsquo;ll take it on board and present it to the zoo at Marseille, I
+      can&rsquo;t just leave it here.&rdquo; So by means of block and tackle the wet camel
+      was hoisted onto the deck of the Zouave, which then set sail.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Tartarin spent most of the time in his cabin. Not that the sea was rough
+      or that the chechia had to much to suffer, but because whenever he
+      appeared on the deck the camel made such a ridiculous fuss of its master.
+      You never saw a camel so attached to anyone as this.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Hour by hour, when he looked through the porthole, Tartarin could see the
+      Algerian sky turn paler, until one morning, in a silvery mist, he heard to
+      his delight the bells of Marseilles. The Zouave had arrived.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Our man, who had no baggage, disembarked without a word and hurried across
+      Marseilles, fearing all the time that he might be followed by the camel,
+      and he did not breathe easily until he was seated in a third-class railway
+      carriage, on his way to Tarascon... a false sense of security. They had
+      not gone far from Marseilles when heads appeared at windows and there were
+      cries of astonishment, Tartarin looked out in turn and what did he see but
+      the inescapable camel coming down the line behind the train with a
+      remarkable turn of speed.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Tartarin resumed his seat and closed his eyes. After this disastrous
+      expedition he had counted on getting back home unrecognised, but the
+      presence of this confounded camel made it impossible. What a return to
+      make, Bon Dieu!... No money... No lions... Nothing but a camel!....
+      &ldquo;Tarascon!... Tarascon!&rdquo;... It was time to get out.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      To Tartarin&rsquo;s utter astonishment, the heroic chechia had barely appeared
+      in the doorway, when it was greeted by a great cry of &ldquo;Vive Tartarin!...
+      Vive Tartarin!&rdquo; Which shook the glass vault of the station roof. &ldquo;Vive
+      Tartarin!... Hurrah for the lion killer!&rdquo; Then came fanfares and a choir.
+      Tartarin could have died, he thought this was a hoax: but no, all Tarascon
+      was there, tossing their hats in the air and shouting his praises. There
+      stood the brave Commandant Bravida, Costecalde the gunsmith, the President
+      Ladevèze, the chemist and all the noble body of hat shooters, who pressed
+      round their chief and carried him all the way down the steps.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      How remarkable are the effects of the &ldquo;mirage&rdquo;. The skin of the blind lion
+      sent to the Commandant was the cause of all this tumult. At the sight of
+      this modest trophy, displayed at the club, Tarascon and beyond Tarascon
+      the whole of the Midi had worked themselves into a state of excitement.
+      &ldquo;The Semaphore&rdquo; had spoken. A complete scenario had been invented. This
+      was no longer one lion killed by Tartarin, it was ten lions, twenty lions,
+      a whole troop of lions. So Tartarin, when he reached Marseilles was
+      already famous, and an enthusiastic telegram had warned his home town of
+      his imminent arrival.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      The excitement of the populace reached its peak when a fantastic animal,
+      covered in dust and sweat, stumbled down the station steps behind our
+      hero. For a moment they thought that the Tarasque had returned.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Tartarin reassured his fellow citizens, &ldquo;It is my camel&rdquo; He said, and
+      already under the influence of the Tarascon sun, that fine sun which
+      induces fanciful exaggeration, he stroked the camel&rsquo;s hump and added, &ldquo;It
+      is a noble creature, it saw me kill all my lions.&rdquo; So saying, he took the
+      arm of the Commandant, who was blushing with pride, and followed by his
+      camel, surrounded by hat shooters and acclaimed by the people, he
+      proceeded peacefully toward the little house of the baobab; and as he
+      walked along he began the story of his great expedition.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;There was one particular evening,&rdquo; He said, &ldquo;When I was out in the heart
+      of the Sahara...&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      <br /> <br />
+    </p>
+<pre xml:space="preserve">
+
+
+
+
+
+End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Tartarin de Tarascon, by Alphonse Daudet
+
+*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TARTARIN DE TARASCON ***
+
+***** This file should be named 2375-h.htm or 2375-h.zip *****
+This and all associated files of various formats will be found in:
+        http://www.gutenberg.org/2/3/7/2375/
+
+Produced by Oliver C. Colt and David Widger
+
+Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions
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+</pre>
+  </body>
+</html>
diff --git a/2375.txt b/2375.txt
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--- /dev/null
+++ b/2375.txt
@@ -0,0 +1,3096 @@
+The Project Gutenberg EBook of Tartarin de 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 de Tarascon
+
+Author: Alphonse Daudet
+
+Translator: Oliver C. Colt
+
+Release Date: March 21, 2006 [EBook #2375]
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: ASCII
+
+*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TARTARIN DE TARASCON ***
+
+
+
+
+Produced by Oliver C. Colt and David Widger
+
+
+
+
+
+TARTARIN DE TARASCON
+
+By A. Daudet.
+
+
+Translated by Oliver C. Colt.
+
+
+
+
+
+Introduction.
+
+The tale of Tartarin de Tarascon was written by Alphonse Daudet in 1872,
+and was one of the many works which he produced. In it he pokes gentle
+fun at a type of Frenchman who comes from the Midi, the area where he
+himself was born. Tartarin has characteristics which may remind the
+English-speaking reader of Toad of Toad Hall, a boastful braggart,
+easily deceived, but good-hearted au fond.
+
+The world he inhabits is, of course, very different from ours. There is
+no radio or television, the motor car is no more than a plaything for
+the rich. There is only the beginnings of a telephone system. Much sea
+transport is still by sailing ship and the idea of mass air travel is in
+the realm of science-fiction. France lost the Franco-Prussian war at the
+battle of Sedan in 1870, which accounts for the flood of refugees from
+Alsasce. She had also, in the 19th century rush to carve up the African
+continent, seized among other places, Algeria, which she held in
+subjection by force of arms. So-called Big Game Hunters were regarded
+with some admiration, and indeed it was a much more perilous activity
+than it is today, when high power repeating rifles with telescopic
+sights make motor-borne "Sportsmen" little more than butchers.
+
+Daudet's humour is on the whole inoffensive, but anti-semitism was rife
+in certain circles in France. It was the era of the Dreyfus scandal, and
+he indulges in one or two tasteless gibes at the expense of the Jews,
+which I have suppressed or at least amended. He also has a passage which
+might well offend the delicate susceptabilities of the less tolerant
+believers in Islam, although to anyone with a nodding acquaintance with
+the tents of that faith, the incident is so far-fetched as to neutralise
+"The willing suspension of disbelief" I have therefore decided to
+eliminate it from this version of the story. It is not very amusing and
+is no great loss.
+
+Although Daudet's humour is in the main kindly, he does not spare the
+French colonial administration of the time. His treatment of the subject
+is acidly satirical. It may be said that Daudet seems to know little
+about firearms, less about lions and nothing about camels, but he is not
+striving for verisimilitude. After all, the adventures of James Bond do
+not mirror the reality of international espionage, nor do the exploits
+of Bertie Wooster and Jeeves truely reflect life in the upper echelons
+of British society.
+
+This is not a schoolroom exercise in translation. It might be more
+accurately described as a version in English. I have not tampered with
+the story line nor made any changes in the events related, but where
+I thought it necessary I have not shrunk from altering the words and
+phrases used in the original to describe them. All translation must be
+a matter of paraphrase. What sounds well in one language may sound
+ridiculous if translated literally into another, and it is for the
+translator to judge how far this process of paraphrase may be carried.
+
+I have attempted to produce a text which will entertain the average
+reader. Those who want to know exactly what Daudet wrote must consult
+the French original.
+
+
+
+
+TARTARIN DE TARASCON
+
+
+
+Chapter 1.
+
+
+Although it is now some twelve or fifteen years since my first meeting
+with Tartarin de Tarascon, the memory of the encounter remains as fresh
+as if it had been yesterday.
+
+At that time Tartarin lived near the entrance to the town, in the third
+house on the left on the Avignon road, a pretty little Tarascon villa,
+with a garden in front, a balcony behind, very white walls and green
+shutters.
+
+From outside the place looked perfectly ordinary, one would never have
+believed that it was the home of a hero, but when one went inside,
+well... My goodness! The whole establishment had an heroic air, even the
+garden!
+
+Ah...! The Garden... there was not another like it in Europe. Not one
+indigenous tree grew there, not one French flower; nothing but exotic
+plants, gum trees, calabashes, cotton trees, coconut palms, mangos,
+bananas, cactuses, figs and a baobab. One might have thought oneself in
+the middle of Africa, thousands of miles from Tarascon. Of course none
+of these trees was fully grown, the coconut palm was about the size of
+a swede and the baobab (arbos gigantica) fitted comfortably into a
+pot full of earth and gravel. No matter.... For Tarascon it was quite
+splendid, and those citizens who were admitted, on Sundays, to have the
+privilege of inspecting Tartarin's baobab went home full of admiration.
+
+You may imagine my emotions as I walked through this remarkable
+garden... they were nothing, however, to what I felt on being admitted to
+the sanctum of the great man himself.
+
+This building, one of the curiosities of the town, was at the end of the
+garden, to which it opened through a glass door. Picture a large room
+hung from floor to ceiling with firearms and swords; weapons from every
+country in the world. Guns, carbines, rifles, blunderbusses,
+knives, spears, revolvers, daggers, arrows, assegais, knobkerries,
+knuckledusters and I know not what.
+
+The brilliant sunlight glittered on the steel blades of sabres and the
+polished butts of firearms. It was really quite a menacing scene... what
+was a little reassuring was the good order and discipline which ruled
+over this arsenal. Everything was neat tidy and dusted. Here and there a
+simple notice, reading "Poison arrows, Do not touch." or "Beware. Loaded
+firearms." made one feel it safe to approach.
+
+In the middle of the room was a table. On the table was a flagon of
+rum, a turkish tobacco pouch, The voyages of Captain Cook, stories
+of adventure, treatises on falconry, descriptions of big-game hunts
+etc... and finally seated at the table was the man himself. Forty
+to forty-five years of age, short, fat, stocky and ruddy, clad in
+shirt-sleeves and flannel trousers, with a close-clipped wiry beard
+and a flamboyant eye. In one hand he held a book and with the other he
+brandished an enormous pipe, its bowl covered by a metal cap; and as
+he read some stirring tale of the pursuit of hairy creatures, he made,
+pushing out his lower lip, a fierce grimace which gave his features,
+those of a comfortable Tarascon "Rentier", the same air of hearty
+ferocity which was evident throughout the whole house. This man was
+Tartarin... Tartarin de Tarascon... the intrepid, great and incomparable
+Tartarin de Tarascon.
+
+At that time Tartarin was not the Tartarin which he is today, the great
+Tartarin de Tarascon who is so popular throughout the Midi of France,
+however, even at this epoch, he was already the king of Tarascon.
+
+Let us examine how he acquired his crown. You will be aware, for a
+start, that everyone in these parts is a hunter. From the highest to the
+lowest hunting is a passion with the Tarasconais and has been ever since
+the legendary Tarasque prowled in the marshes near the town and was
+hunted down by the citizens.
+
+Now, every Sunday morning, the men of Tarascon take up arms and leave
+town, bag on back and gun on shoulder, with an excited collection of
+dogs, with ferrets, with trumpets and hunting horns, it is a splendid
+spectacle.... Sadly, however, there is a shortage of game... in fact
+there is a total absence of game....  Animals may be dumb but they are
+not stupid, so for miles around Tarascon the burrows are empty and the
+nests abandoned. There is not a quail, not a blackbird, not the smallest
+rabbit nor even the tiniest wheatear.
+
+These pretty little Tarascon hills, scented with lavender, myrtle and
+rosemary are very tempting, and those fine muscat grapes, swollen
+with sugar, which line the banks of the Rhone, are wonderfully
+appetising... yes, but there is Tarascon in he distance, and in the world
+of fur and feather Tarascon is bad news. The birds of passage seem to
+have marked it with a cross on their maps, and when the long wedges of
+wild duck, heading for the Camargue, see far off the town's steeples,
+the whole flight veers away. In short there is nothing left by way of
+game in this part of the country but an old rascal of a hare, who has
+escaped by some miracle the guns of Tarascon and appears determined to
+stay there. This hare is well known. He has been given a name. He
+is called "Speedy". He is known to live on land belonging to
+M. Bompard... which, by the way, has doubled or even tripled its value.
+No one has yet been able to catch him, and at the present time there
+are not more than two or three fanatics who go after him. The rest have
+given up and Speedy has become something of a protected species, though
+the Tarasconais are not very conservation minded and would make a stew
+of the rarest of creatures, if they managed to shoot one.
+
+Now, you may say, "Since game is in such short supply, what do these
+Tarasconais sportsmen do every Sunday?" What do they do? Eh! Mon Dieu!
+They go out into the country, several miles from the town. They assemble
+in little groups of five or six. They settle down comfortably in
+some shady spot. They take out of their game-bags a nice piece of
+boeuf-en-daube, some raw onions, a sausage and some anchovies and they
+begin a very long luncheon, washed down by one of these jolly Rhone
+wines, which encourage singing and laughter.
+
+When all have had enough, they whistle for the dogs, load their guns and
+commence the shoot. That is to say each of these gentlemen takes off his
+hat, sends it spinning through the air with all his strength and takes
+a pot-shot at it. The one who hits his hat most frequently is proclaimed
+king of the hunt and returns to Tarascon that evening in triumph, his
+perforated hat hanging from the end of his gun and to the accompaniment
+of much barking and blowing of trumpets.
+
+One need hardly tell you that there is a brisk trade in hats in the
+town, and there are even hatters who sell hats already full of holes and
+tears for use by the less skillful, but scarcely anyone is known to buy
+them except Bezuquet the chemist.
+
+As a hat shooter Tartarin had no equal. Every Sunday morning he left
+with a new hat. Every evening he returned with a rag. In the little
+house of the baobab, the attic was full of these glorious trophies.
+All of Tarascon recognised him as their master in this respect. The
+gentlemen elected him as their chief justice in matters relating to
+the chase and arbitrator in any dispute, so that every day, between the
+hours of three and four in the afternoon, at Costecalde the gunsmith's
+one could see the plump figure of a man, seated gravely on a green
+leather arm-chair, in the middle of the shop, which was full of hat
+hunters standing about and arguing. It was Tartarin delivering justice.
+Nimrod doubling as Soloman.
+
+
+
+
+Chapter 2.
+
+In addition to their passion for hunting the good people of Tarascon
+had another passion, which was for drawing-room ballads. The number of
+ballads which were sung in this part of the world passed all belief. All
+the old sentimental songs, yellowing in ancient cardboard boxes, could
+be found in Tarascon alive and flourishing. Each family had its own
+ballad and in the town this was well understood. One knew, for example,
+that for Bezuquet the chemist it was:-"Thou pale star whom I adore."
+
+For the gunsmith Costecalde:-"Come with me to the forest glade."
+
+For the Town Clark:--"If I was invisible, no one would see me." (a comic
+song) Two or three times a week people would gather in one house or
+another and sing, and the remarkable thing is that the songs were always
+the same. No matter for how long they had been singing them, the people
+of Tarascon had no desire to change them. They were handed down in
+families from father to son and nobody dared to interfere with them,
+they were sacrosanct. They were never even borrowed. It would never
+occur to the Bezuquets to sing the Costecaldes' song or to the
+Costecaldes to sing that of the Bezuquets. You might suppose that
+having known them for some forty years they might sometimes sing them to
+themselves, but no, everyone stuck to his own.
+
+In the matter of ballads, as in that of hats, Tartarin played a leading
+role. His superiority over his fellow citizens arose from the fact that
+he did not have a song of his own, and so he could take part in all of
+them, only it was extremely difficult to get him to sing at all.
+
+Returning early from some drawing-room success, our hero preferred to
+immerse himself in his books on hunting or spend the evening at the
+club rather than join in a sing-song round a Nimes piano, between two
+Tarascon candles. He felt that musical evenings were a little beneath
+him.
+
+Sometimes, however, when there was music at Bezuquet the chemists,
+he would drop in as if by chance, and after much persuasion he would
+consent to take part in the great duet from "Robert le Diable" with
+madame Bezuquet the elder.
+
+Anyone who has not heard this has heard nothing. For my part, if I live
+to be a hundred, I shall always recall the great Tartarin approaching
+the piano with solemn steps, leaning his elbow upon it, making his
+grimace and in the greenish light reflected from the chemist's jars,
+trying to give his homely face the savage and satanic expression of
+Robert le Diable.
+
+As soon as he had taken up his position, a quiver of expectation ran
+through the gathering. One felt that something great was about to
+happen.
+
+After a moment of silence, madame Bezuquet the elder, accompanying
+herself on the piano, began:
+
+"Robert, thou whom I adore
+
+And in whom I trust,
+
+You see my fear (twice)
+
+Have mercy on yourself
+
+And mercy on me."
+
+She added, sotto voce, "Its you now Tartarin."
+
+Then Tartarin, with arm extended, clenched fist and quivering nostrils,
+said three times in a formidable voice which rolled like a clap of
+thunder in the entrails of the piano "Non! Non! Non!" Which as a good
+southerner he pronounced "Nan. Nan. Nan" Upon which madame Bezuquet
+repeated "Mercy on yourself and on me" "Nan! Nan! Nan!" Bellowed
+Tartarin even more loudly... and the matter ended there.... It was not
+very long, but it was so well presented, so well acted, so diabolic that
+a frisson ran round the pharmacy and he was made to repeat his "Nan.
+Nan. Nan." four or five times.
+
+Afterwards Tartarin wiped his forehead, smiled at the ladies, winked at
+the men and went off triumphantly to the club, where, with a casual air,
+he would say, "I've just come from the Bezuquets. They had me singing in
+the duet from Robert le Diable." What is more he believed it.
+
+
+
+
+Chapter 3.
+
+It was to the possession of these various talents that Tartarin owed his
+high standing in the town. There were, however, other ways in which he
+had made his mark on society.
+
+In Tarascon the army supported Tartarin. The gallant Commandant Bravida
+(Quartermaster. Ret) said of him "He's a stout fellow," and one may
+suppose that having kitted out so many stout fellows in his time, he
+knew what he was talking about.
+
+The magistrature supported Tartarin. Two or three times, on a full
+bench, the aged president Ladeveze had said of him "He's quite a
+character".
+
+Finally, the people supported Tartarin, his stolid appearance, the
+heroic reputation he had somehow acquired, the distribution of small
+sums of money and a few clips round the ear to the youngsters who hung
+around his doorstep, had made him lord of the neighbourhood and king
+of the Tarascon market-place. On the quay, on sunday evenings, when
+Tartarin returned from the hunt, his hat dangling from the end of his
+gun, the stevedores would nod to him respectfully and eying the arms
+bulging the sleeves of his tightly buttoned jacket, would murmur to one
+another, "He's strong he is. He's got double muscles." The possession of
+double muscles is something you hear about only in Tarascon.
+
+However, in spite of his numerous talents, double muscles, popular
+favour and the so precious esteem of the gallant Commandant Bravida
+(Quartermaster. Ret) Tartarin was not happy. This small-town life
+weighed him down, stifled him. The great man of Tarascon was bored
+with Tarascon. The fact is that for an heroic nature such as his, for a
+daring and adventurous spirit which dreamt of battles, explorations, big
+game hunting, desert sands, hurricanes and typhoons, to go every Sunday
+hat shooting and for the rest of the time dispense justice at Costecalde
+the gunsmith's was... well... hardly satisfying. It was enough indeed to
+send one into a decline.
+
+In vain, in order to widen his horizon and forget for a while the club
+and the market square, did he surround himself with African plants; in
+vain did he pile up a collection of weapons; in vain did he pore over
+tales of daring-do trying to escape by the power of his imagination from
+the pitiless grip of reality. Alas all that he did to satisfy his lust
+for adventure seemed only to increase it. The sight of his weapons kept
+him in a perpetual state of furious agitation. His rifles, his arrows
+and his spears rang out war-cries. In the branches of the baobab the
+wind whispered enticingly of great voyages.
+
+How often on these heavy summer afternoons, when he was alone, reading
+amongst his weaponry, did Tartarin jump to his feet and throwing down
+his book rush to the wall to arm himself, then, quite forgetting that
+he was in his own house at Tarascon, cry, brandishing a gun or a spear,
+"Let them all come"!!... Them?... What them? Tartarin did not quite know
+himself, "Them" was everything that attacked, that bit, that clawed.
+"Them" was the Indian brave dancing round the stake to which his
+wretched prisoner was tied. It was the grizzly bear, shuffling and
+swaying, licking bloodstained lips. The Toureg of the desert, the Malay
+pirate, the Corsican bandit. In a word it was "Them!"
+
+Alas it was fruitless for the fearless Tartarin to challenge them... they
+never appeared; but though it seemed unlikely that they would come
+to Tarascon, Tartarin was always ready for them, particularly in the
+evenings when he went to the club.
+
+
+
+
+Chapter 4.
+
+The knight of the temple preparing for a sortie against the Saracen. The
+Chinese warrior equipping himself for battle. The Comanchee brave taking
+to the warpath were as nothing compared to Tartarin de Tarascon arming
+himself to go to the club at nine o'clock on a dark evening, an hour
+after the bugle had blown the retreat. He was cleared for action as the
+sailors say.
+
+On his left hand he had a metal knuckleduster. In his right he carried
+a sword-stick. In his left pocket there was a cosh and in his right a
+revolver. Stuck into his waistband was a knife. Before setting out, in
+the privacy of his den, he carried out a few exercises. He made a pass
+at the wall with his sword-stick, drew his revolver, flexed his
+muscles and then taking his identity papers he crossed the
+garden... steadily... unhurriedly... a l'Anglais. That is the mark of true
+courage.
+
+At the end of the garden he opened the heavy iron gate. He opened it
+brusquely, violently, so that it banged against the wall. If "They" had
+been behind it, it would have made a fine mess of them. Unfortunately
+they were not behind it.
+
+Having opened the gate Tartarin went out, cast a quick look right and
+left, closed the gate swiftly and double locked it. Then he set off.
+
+On the Avignon road there was not so much as a cat. Doors were shut and
+curtains drawn across windows. Here and there a street light blinked in
+the mist rising from the Rhone.
+
+Superb and calm Tartarin de Tarascon strode through the night, his heels
+striking the road with measured tread and the metal tip of his cane
+raising sparks from the paving-stones. On boulevards, roads or lanes he
+was always careful to walk in the middle of the causeway, an excellent
+precaution which allows one to see approaching danger and moreover to
+avoid things which at night, in the streets of Tarascon, sometimes fall
+from windows. Seeing this prudence you should not entertain the notion
+that Tartarin was afraid. No! He was just being cautious.
+
+The clearest evidence that Tartarin was unafraid is that he went to the
+club not by the short way but by the longest and darkest way, through
+a tangle of mean little streets, at the end of which one glimpsed the
+sinister gleam of the Rhone. He almost hoped that at a bend in one of
+these alleys "They" would come rushing from the shadows to attack him
+from behind. They would have had a hot reception I can promise you;
+but sadly Tartarin was never fated to encounter any danger... not even a
+dog... not even a drunk... Nothing.
+
+Sometimes however there was an alarm. The sound of footsteps... Muffled
+voices. Tartarin comes to a halt, peering into the shadows, sniffing
+the air, straining his ears. The steps draw nearer, the voices more
+distinct... there can be no doubt..."They" are here. With heaving
+breast and eyes ablaze Tartarin is gathering himself like a jaguar and
+preparing to leap on his foes, when suddenly out of the gloom a good
+Tarasconais voice calls "Look! There's Tartarin! Hulloa there Tartarin!"
+Malediction! It is Bezuquet the chemist and his family who have been
+singing their ballad at the Costecaldes. "Bon soir, bon soir" growls
+Tartarin, furious at his mistake, and shouldering his cane he disappears
+angrily into the night.
+
+Arrived at the club the fearless Tarasconais waits a little longer,
+walking up and down in front of the door before entering. In the
+end, tired of waiting for "them" and certain that they will not show
+themselves, he throws a last look of defiance into the dark and mutters
+crossly "Nothing... nothing... always nothing" With that our hero goes in
+to play bezique with the Commandant.
+
+
+
+
+Chapter 5.
+
+With this lust for adventure, this need for excitement, this longing for
+journeys to Lord knows where, how on earth, you may ask, does it happen
+that Tartarin had never left Tarascon? For it is a fact that up to the
+age of forty-five the bold Tarasconais had never slept away from his
+home town. He had never even made the ritual journey to Marseille which
+every good Provencal makes when he comes of age. He might, of course,
+have visited Beaucaire, albeit Beaucaire is not very far from Tarascon,
+as one has only to cross the bridge over the Rhone. Regrettably,
+however, this wretched bridge is so often swept by high winds, is so
+long and so flimsy and the river at that point is so wide that... Ma
+foi... you will understand...!
+
+At this point I think one has to admit that there were two sides to our
+hero's character. On the one hand was the spirit of Don Quixote, devoted
+to chivalry, to heroic ideals, to grandiose romantic folly, but lacking
+the body of the celebrated hidalgo, that thin, bony apology of a body,
+careless of material wants, capable of going for twenty nights without
+unbuckling its breastplate and surviving for twenty-four hours on a
+handful of rice. Tartarin, on the other hand, had a good solid body,
+fat, heavy, sybaritic, soft and complaining, full of bourgeois appetites
+and domestic necessities, the short-legged, full-bellied body of Sancho
+Panza.
+
+Don Quixote and Sancho Panza in the same man! You may imagine the
+arguments, the quarrels, the fights. Carried away by some lurid tale
+of adventure, Tartarin-Quixote would clamour to be off to the fields of
+glory, to set sail for distant lands, but then Tartarin-Sancho ringing
+for the maid servant, would say "Jeanette, my chocolate." Upon which
+Jeanette would return with a fine cup of chocolate, hot, silky and
+scented, and some succulent grilled snacks, flavoured with anise;
+greatly pleasing Tartarin-Sancho and silencing the cries of
+Tartarin-Quixote.
+
+That is how it happens that Tartarin de Tarascon had never left
+Tarascon.
+
+
+
+
+Chapter 6.
+
+There was one occasion when Tartarin nearly went on a long
+journey. The three brothers Garcio-Camus, Tarasconais who were in
+business in Shanghai, offered him the management of one of their
+establishments. Now this was the sort of life he needed. Important
+transactions. An office full of clerks to control. Relations with
+Russia, Persia, Turkey. In short, Big Business, which in Tartarin's eyes
+was of enormous proportions.
+
+The establishment had another advantage in that it was sometimes
+attacked by bandits. On these occasions the gates were slammed shut, the
+staff armed themselves, the consular flag was hoisted and "Pan! Pan!"
+They fired through the windows at the bandits.
+
+I need hardly tell you with what enthusiasm Tartarin-Quixote greeted
+this proposal; unfortunately Tartarin-Sancho did not see the matter in
+the same light, and as his views prevailed the affair came to nothing.
+
+At the time there was a great deal of talk in the town. Was he going or
+not going? It was a matter for eager discussion.
+
+Although in the end Tartarin did not go, the event brought him a great
+deal of credit. To have nearly gone to Shanghai and actually to have
+gone there was for Tarascon much the same thing. As a result of so much
+talk about Tartarin's journey, people ended by believing that he had
+just returned, and in the evenings at the club the members would ask him
+for a description of the life in Shanghai, the customs, the climate, and
+big business.
+
+Tartarin, who had gathered much information from the brothers was happy
+to reply to their questions, and before long he was not entirely sure
+himself whether he had been to Shanghai or not; so much so that when
+describing for the hundredth time the raid by bandits he got to the
+point of saying "Then I dished out arms to my staff. Hoisted the
+consular flag and we fired 'Pan! Pan!' Through the windows at the
+bandits." On hearing this the members would exchange suitably solemn
+looks.
+
+Tartarin then, you will say, is just a frightful liar. No!.... A
+thousand times no! How is that? you may say, he must know vey well that
+he has not been to Shanghai... to be sure he knows... only.... Perhaps the
+time has come when we should settle the question of the reputation for
+lying which has been given to the people of the Midi.
+
+There are no liars in the Midi, neither at Marseille, nor Nimes, nor
+Toulouse, nor Tarascon. The man of the Midi does not lie, he deceives
+himself. He does not always speak the truth but he believes he speaks
+it. His untruth, for him, is not a lie, it is a sort of mirage. To
+understand better you must visit the Midi yourself. You will see a
+countryside where the sun transfigures everything and makes it larger
+than life-size. The little hills of Provence, no bigger than the Butte
+Montmartre will seem to you gigantic. The Maison Carree at Nimes, a
+pretty little Roman temple, will seem to you as big as Notre Dame. You
+will see that the only liar in the Midi, if there is one, is the sun;
+everything that he touches he exaggerates. Can you be surprised that
+this sun shining down on Tarascon has been able to make a retired
+Captain Quartermaster into the gallant Commandant Bravida, to make a
+thing like a turnip into a baobab and a man who almost went to Shanghai
+into one who has really been there.
+
+
+
+
+Chapter 7.
+
+Now that we have shown Tartarin as he was in his private life, before
+fame had crowned his head with laurels. Now that we have recounted the
+story of his heroic existance in modest surroundings, the story of his
+joys and sorrows, his dreams and his hopes, let us hurry forward to the
+important pages of his history and to the event which lent wings to his
+destiny.
+
+It was one evening at Costecalde the gunsmith's; Tartarin was explaining
+to some listeners the working of a pin-fire rifle, then something quite
+new, when suddenly the door was opened and a hat hunter rushed into
+the room in a great state shouting "A lion! a lion!" General amazement,
+fright, tumult and confusion. Tartarin grabbed a bayonet, Costecalde ran
+to close the door. The newcomer was surrounded and questioned nosily.
+What they learned was that the Menagerie Mitaine, returning from the
+fair at Beaucaire, had arranged to make a stop of several days at
+Tarascon, and had just set itself up in the Place du Chateau with a
+collection of snakes, seals, crocodiles, and a magnificent African
+lion.... An African lion at Tarascon!... such a thing had never been seen
+before, never in living memory.
+
+The brave band of hat hunters gazed proudly at one another. Their manly
+features glowed with pleasure and, in every corner of the shop, firm
+handshakes were silently exchanged. The emotion was so overwhelming, so
+unforseen that no one could find a word to say. Not even Tartarin. Pale
+and trembling, with the new rifle clutched in his hands, he stood in a
+trance at the shop counter. A lion!... an African lion!... nearby... a few
+paces away... A lion, the ferocious king of the beasts... the quarry of
+his dreams... one of the leading actors in that imaginary cast which
+played out such fine dramas in his fantasies. It was too much for
+Tartarin to bear. Suddenly the blood flooded to his cheeks. His eyes
+blazed, and with a convulsive gesture he slapped the rifle onto his
+shoulder, then turning to the brave Commandant Bravida (quartermaster.
+Ret) he said in a voice of thunder, "Come, Commandant, let us go and
+see this." "Excuse me. Excuse me. My new rifle." The prudent Costecalde
+hazarded timidly, but Tartarin was already in the street, and behind him
+all the hat hunters fell proudly into step.
+
+When they arrived at the menagerie it was already crowded. The brave
+people of Tarascon, too long deprived of sensational spectacles, had
+descended on the place and taken it by storm. The big madame Mitaine
+was in her element; dressed in an oriental costume, her arms bare to the
+elbows and with iron bracelets round her ankles, she had a whip in one
+hand and in the other a live chicken. She welcomed the Tarasconais to
+the show, and as she too had "Double muscles" she aroused almost as much
+interest as the animals in her charge.
+
+The arrival of Tartarin with the rifle on his shoulder produced
+something of a chill, all the bold Tarasconais who had been walking
+tranquilly before the cages, unarmed, trusting, with no notion of
+danger, became suddenly alarmed at the sight of the great Tartarin
+entering the place, carrying this lethal weapon. There must be something
+to fear if he, their hero.... In the blink of an eye the area in front of
+the cages was deserted, children were crying with fright and the ladies
+were eying the doorway. Bezuquet the chemist left hurridly, saying that
+he was going to fetch a gun.
+
+Little by little, however, the attitude of Tartarin restored their
+courage. Calm and erect, the intrepid Tarasconais strolled round the
+menagerie. He passed the seals without stopping. He cast a contemptuous
+eye on the container full of noise, where the boa was swallowing its
+chicken, and at last halted in front of the lion's cage.... A dramatic
+confrontation.... The lion of Tarascon and the lion of the Atlas
+mountains face to face.
+
+On one side stood Tartarin, his legs planted firmly apart, his arms
+resting on his rifle, on the other was the lion, a gigantic lion,
+sprawling in the straw, blinking its eyes drowsily and resting its
+enormous yellow-haired muzzle on its front paws... they regarded one
+another calmly... then something odd happened. Perhaps it was the sight
+of the rifle, perhaps it recognised an enemy of its kind, but the lion
+which up until then had looked on the people of Tarascon with sovereign
+disdain, yawning in their faces, seemed to feel a stirring of anger.
+First it sniffed and uttered a rumbling growl, it stretched out its
+forefeet and unsheathed its claws, then it got up, raised its head,
+shook its mane, opened its huge maw and directed at Tartarin a most
+ear-splitting roar.
+
+This was greeted by a cry of terror. Tarascon, in panic, rushed for the
+doors. Everyone, men, women, children, the hat shooters and even the
+brave Commandant Bravida himself. Only Tartarin did not move... he
+remained firm and resolute before the cage, a light shining in his eyes,
+and wearing that grim expression which the town knew so well. After a
+few moments, the hat shooters, somewhat reassured by his attitude and
+the solidity of the cage bars, rejoined their chief, to hear him mutter
+"Now that is something worth hunting." And that was all that he said.
+
+
+
+
+Chapter 8.
+
+Although at the memagerie he had said nothing more, he had already
+said too much. The following day all the talk of the town was of the
+impending departure of Tartarin for Africa, to shoot lions.
+
+You will bear witness that the good fellow had not breathed a word
+of this, but you know how it is... the mirage.... In short the whole of
+Tarascon could talk of nothing else.
+
+On the pavement, at the club, at Costecalde's shop, people accosted one
+another with an air of excitement.
+
+"Et autrement, have you heard the latest, au moins?"
+
+"Et autrement, what now, is Tartarin going, au moins?" For in Tarascon
+every remark begins with "Et autrement" which is pronounced "autremain"
+and ends with "au moins" which is pronounced "au mouain" and in these
+days the sound of "autremain" and "au mouain" was enough to rattle the
+windows.
+
+The most surprised person in the town to hear that he was leaving for
+Africa was Tartarin, but now see the effects of vanity. Instead of
+replying that he was not going and had never intended to go, poor
+Tartarin, on the first occasion that the subject was broached adopted a
+somewhat evasive air, "He!... He!... perhaps... I can't say." On the
+second occasion, now a little more accustomed to the idea, he replied
+"Probably" and on the third "Yes, definitely."
+
+Eventually, one evening at the club, carried away by some glasses of
+egg-nog, the public interest and the plaudits, he declared formally that
+he was tired of shooting at hats and was going shortly in pursuit of the
+great lions of Africa.
+
+A loud cheer greeted this declaration, then came more egg-nog,
+handshakes, embraces and torchlight serenades until midnight before the
+little house of the baobab.
+
+Tartarin-Sancho, however, was far from pleased. The idea of travelling
+to Africa and hunting lions scared him stiff and when they went into the
+house, and while the serenade of honour was still going on outside, he
+made the most frightful scene with Tartarin-Quixote, calling him a crazy
+dreamer, a rash triple idiot and detailing one by one the catastrophes
+which would await him on such an expedition. Shipwreck, fever,
+dysentery, plague, elephantiasis and so on... it was useless for
+Tartarin-Quixote to swear that he would be careful, that he would dress
+warmly, that he would take with him everything that might be needed,
+Tartarin-Sancho refused to listen. The poor fellow saw himself already
+torn to pieces by lions or swallowed up in the sands of the desert, and
+the other Tartarin could pacify him only a little by pointing out that
+these were plans for the future, that there was no hurry, that they had
+not yet actually started.
+
+Obviously one cannot embark on such an expedition without some
+preparation. One cannot take off like a bird. As a first measure
+Tartarin set about reading the reports of the great African explorers,
+the journals of Livingstone, Burton, Caille, and the like, there he saw
+that those intrepid travellers, before they put their boots on for these
+distant excursions, prepared themselves in advance to undergo hunger,
+thirst, long treks and privations of all sorts.
+
+Tartarin decided to follow their example and took to a diet of "Eau
+bouillie". What is called eau bouillie in Tarascon consists of several
+slices of bread soaked in warm water, with a clove of garlic, a little
+thyme and a bay leaf. It is not very palatable and you may imagine how
+Tartarin-Sancho enjoyed it.
+
+Tartarin de Tarascon combined this with several other sensible methods
+of training. For instance, to habituate himself to long marches he would
+go round his morning constitutional seven or eight times, sometimes at a
+brisk walk, sometimes at the trot with two pebbles in his mouth. Then to
+accustom himself to nocturnal chills and the mists of dawn, he went into
+the garden and stayed there until ten or eleven at night, alone with his
+rifle, on watch behind the baobab.
+
+Finally, for as long as the menagerie remained in Tarascon, those hat
+hunters who had stayed late at Costecalde's could see in the shadows, as
+they passed the Place du Chateau, a figure pacing up and down behind
+the cages... it was Tartarin training himself to listen unmoved to the
+roaring of lions in the African night.
+
+
+
+
+Chapter 9.
+
+While Tartarin was preparing himself by these strenuous methods, all
+Tarascon had its eyes on him. Nothing else was of interest. Hat shooting
+was abandoned, the ballads languished; in Bezuquet the chemist's the
+piano was silent beneath a green dust cover, with cantharides flies
+drying, belly up, on the top... Tartarin's expedition had brought
+everything to a halt.
+
+You should have seen the success of our hero in the drawing-rooms. He
+was seized, squabbled over, borrowed and stolen. There was no greater
+triumph for the ladies than to go, on the arm of Tartarin, to the
+menagerie Mitaine and to have him explain, in front of the lion's cage,
+how one goes about hunting these great beasts, at what point one
+aims and at what distance, whether there are many accidents, and so
+on... through his reading Tartarin had gained almost as much knowledge
+about lion hunting as if he had actually engaged in it himself, and so
+he spoke of these matters with much authority.
+
+Where Tartarin really excelled, however, was after dinner at the home of
+president Ladeveze or the brave Commandant Bravida (quartermaster. Ret)
+when coffee had been served and the chairs pulled together, then with
+his elbow on the table, between sips of his coffee, our hero gave a
+moving description of all the dangers which awaited him "Over there"
+He spoke of long moonless watches, of pestilential marshes, of rivers
+poisoned by the leaves of oleanders, of snows, scorching suns, scorpions
+and clouds of locusts; he also spoke of the habits of the great lions
+of the Atlas, their phenomenal strength, their ferocity in the mating
+season.... Then, carried away by his own words, he would rise from the
+table and bound into the middle of the room, imitating the roar of the
+lion, the noise of the rifle "Pan! Pan!" The whistle of the bullet.
+Gesticulating, shouting, knocking over chairs... while at the table faces
+are grave, the men looking at one another and nodding their heads, the
+ladies closing their eyes with little cries of alarm. A grandfather
+brandishes his walking-stick in a bellicose manner and, in the next
+room, the small children who have been put to bed earlier are startled
+out of their sleep by the banging and bellowing, and greatly frightened
+demand lights.
+
+Tartarin, however, showed no sign of leaving for Africa... did he really
+have any intention of going? That is a delicate question and one to
+which his biographer would find difficulty in replying. The fact is that
+the menagerie had now been gone for three months but the killer of lions
+had not budged... could it be that our innocent hero, blinded perhaps
+by a new mirage, honestly believed that he had been to Africa, and
+by talking so much about his hunting expedition believed that it had
+actually taken place. Unfortunately, if this was the case and Tartarin
+had once more fallen victim to the mirage, the people of Tarascon had
+not. When it was observed that after three months of waiting the hunter
+had not packed a single bag, people began to talk.
+
+"This will turn out to be another Shanghai." Said Costecalde, smiling,
+and this remark spread round the town like wildfire, for people had lost
+their belief in Tartarin. The ignorant, the chicken-hearted, people like
+Bezuquet, whom a flea could put to flight, and who could not fire a gun
+without closing both eyes, these above all were pitiless. At the club,
+on the esplanade, they accosted poor Tartarin with little mocking
+remarks, "Et autremain, what about this trip then?" At Costecalde's
+shop his opinion was no longer law. The hat hunters had deserted their
+leader.
+
+Then there were the epigrams. President Ladeveze who in his spare time
+dabbled in provencal poetry, composed a little song in dialect which
+was a great success. It concerned a certain hunter named master Gervaise
+whose redoubtable rifle was to exterminate every last lion in Africa.
+Sadly this rifle had a singular fault, although always loaded it never
+went off.... It never went off... you will understand the allusion. This
+song achieved instant popularity, and when Tartarin was passing, the
+stevedores on the quay and the grubby urchins hanging round his door
+would chant this insulting little ditty... only they sang it from a safe
+distance because of the double muscles.
+
+The great man himself pretended to see nothing, to hear nothing.
+Although at heart this underhand, venomous campaign hurt him deeply, in
+spite of his suffering, he continued to go about his life with a smile;
+but sometimes the mask of cheerful indifference which pride had pinned
+on his features slipped, then instead of laughter one saw indignation
+and grief. So it was one morning when some street urchins were chanting
+their jeers beneath the window of the room where our poor hero was
+trimming his beard. Suddenly the window was thrown open and Tartarin's
+head appeared, his face covered in soapsuds, waving a razor and shaving
+brush and shouting "Sword-thrusts, gentlemen, sword-thrusts, not
+pin-pricks!" Fine words but wasted on a bunch of brats about two bricks
+tall.
+
+Amid the general defection, the army alone stood firmly by Tartarin,
+the brave Commandant Bravida continued to treat him with esteem. "He's a
+stout fellow," He persisted in saying, and this affirmation was worth
+a good deal more, I should imagine, than anything said by Bezuquet the
+chemist.
+
+The gallant Commandant had never uttered a word about the African
+journey, but at last, when the public clamour became too loud to ignore,
+he decided to speak.
+
+One evening, the unhappy Tartarin was alone in his study thinking sad
+thoughts, when the Commandant appeared, somberly dressed and gloved,
+with every button fastened "Tartarin!" said the former captain, with
+authority, "Tartarin, you must go!" and he stood, upright and rigid in
+the doorway, the very embodiment of duty.
+
+All that was implied in that "Tartarin you must go" Tartarin understood.
+Very pale, he rose to his feet and cast a tender look round his
+pleasant study, so snug, so warm, so well lit, and at the the large,
+so comfortable armchair, at his books, his carpet and at the big white
+blinds of his window, beyond which swayed the slender stems of the
+little garden. Then advancing to the the brave Commandant, he took his
+hand, shook it vigorously and in a voice close to tears said stoically,
+"I shall go, Bravida." And he did go as he had said he would. Though not
+before he had gathered the necessary equipment.
+
+First, he ordered from Blompard two large cases lined with copper and
+with a large plaque inscribed TARTARIN DE TARASCON. FIREARMS. The
+lining and the engraving took a long time. He ordered from M. Tastevin
+a magnificent log-book in which to write his journal. Then he sent to
+Marseille for a whole cargo of preserved food, for pemmican tablets
+to make soup, for a bivouac tent of the latest design, which could be
+erected or struck in a few minutes, a pair of sea-boots, two umbrellas,
+a waterproof and a pair of dark glasses to protect his eyes. Finally,
+Bezuquet the chemist made up a medicine chest full of sticking plaster,
+pills and lotions. All these preparations were made in the hope that
+by these and other delicate attentions he could appease the fury of
+Tartarin-Sancho, which, since the departure had been decided, had raged
+unabated by day and by night.
+
+
+
+
+Chapter 10.
+
+At last the great day arrived. From first light the whole of Terascon
+was afoot, blocking the Avignon road and the approaches to the little
+house of the baobab. There were people at windows, on roofs, up trees.
+Bargees from the Rhone, stevedores, boot-blacks, clerks, weavers,
+the club members, in fact the whole town. Then there were people from
+Beaucaire who had come across the bridge, market-gardeners from
+the suburbs, carts with big hoods, vignerons mounted on fine mules
+ornamented with ribbons, tassels, bows and bells, and even here and
+there some pretty girls from Arles, with blue kerchiefs round their
+heads, riding on the crupper behind their sweethearts on the small
+iron-grey horses of the Camargue. All this crowd pushed and jostled
+before Tartarin's gate, the gate of this fine M. Tartarin who was going
+to kill lions in the country of the "Teurs". (In Tarascon: Africa,
+Greece, Turkey and Mesopotamia formed a vast, vague almost mythical
+country which was called the Teurs... that is the Turks). Throughout
+this mob the hat shooters came and went, proud of the triumph of their
+leader, and leaving in their wake, as it were, little trails of glory.
+
+In front of the house of the baobab there were two large handcarts. From
+time to time the gate was opened and one could see men walking busily
+about in the garden. They carried out trunks, cases and carpet-bags
+which they piled onto the carts. On the arrival of each new package the
+crowd stirred and a description of the article was shouted out. "That's
+his tent! There's the preserved foods! The medicine chest! The arms
+chest!" While the hat shooters gave a running commentary.
+
+Suddenly, at about ten o'clock, there was a great movement in the crowd.
+The garden gate swung back violently on its hinges.... "It's him!....
+Its him!" they cried.
+
+It was indeed him. When he appeared on the threshold, two cries
+of amazement rose from the crowd:--"He's a Teur!.... He's wearing
+sun-glasses!".... Tartarin, it is true, had believed that as he was going
+to Algeria he should adopt Algerian costume. Large baggy pantaloons of
+white cloth, a small tight jacket with metal buttons, a red sash wound
+round his stomach and on his head a gigantic "Chechia" (a red floppy
+bonnet) with an immensely long blue tassel dangling from its crown.
+Added to this, he carried two rifles, one on each shoulder, a hunting
+knife stuck into the sash round his middle, a cartridge-bag slung on
+one side and a revolver in a leather holster on the other. That was
+it. Ah!... forgive me... I forgot the sun-glasses, a huge pair of blue
+sun-glasses which were just the very thing to correct any suggestion of
+extravagance in his turnout.
+
+"Vive Tartarin!... Vive Tartarin!" Yelled the people. The great man
+smiled but did not wave, partly because of the rifles, which were giving
+him some trouble and partly because he had learned what little value one
+can place on popular favour. Perhaps even, in the depths of his soul, he
+cursed these terrible compatriots who were forcing him to leave, to quit
+his pretty little house with its green shutters and white walls, but if
+so he did not show it. Calm and proud, though a little pale, he marched
+down the pathway, inspected his handcarts and seeing that all was in
+order set off jauntily on the road to the station, without looking back
+even once at the house of the baobab.
+
+On his arrival at the station he was greeted by the station-master,
+a former soldier, who shook him warmly by the hand several times. The
+Paris-Marseille express had not yet arrived, so Tartarin and his general
+staff went into the waiting-room. To keep back the following crowd the
+station-master closed the barriers.
+
+For fifteen minutes Tartarin paced back and forward, surrounded by the
+hat shooters. He spoke to them of his coming expedition, promising to
+send them skins, and entering their orders in his note-book as if they
+were a list of groceries. As tranquil as was Socrates at the moment
+when he drank the hemlock, the bold Tartarin had a word for everyone.
+He spoke simply and affably, as if before departing he wished to leave
+behind a legacy of charm, happy memories and regrets. To hear their
+chief speak thus brought tears to the eyes of the hat shooters, and to
+some, such as the president Ladeveze and the chemist Bezuquet, even a
+twinge of remorse. Some of the station staff were dabbing their eyes in
+corners, while outside the crowd peered through the railings and shouted
+"Vive Tartarin!"
+
+Then a bell rang. There was a rumbling noise of wheels. A piercing
+whistle split the heavens... All aboard!... All aboard!... Goodbye
+Tartarin!... Goodbye Tartarin!. "Goodbye everyone" murmured the great
+man, and on the cheeks of the brave Commandant Bravida he planted a
+farewell salute to his beloved Tarascon. Then he hurried along the
+platform and got into a carriage full of Parisian ladies, who almost
+died of fright at the appearance of this strange man with his revolver
+and rifles.
+
+
+
+
+Chapter 11.
+
+On the first day of December 186-, in the clear bright winter sunshine
+of Provence, the startled inhabitants of Marseille witnessed the arrival
+of a Teur. Never had they seen one like this before, though God knows
+there is no shortage of Teurs in Marseille. The Teur, need I tell you,
+was none other than Tartarin de Tarascon, who was proceeding down the
+quay followed by his case of arms, his medicine chest and his preserved
+foods, in search of the embarkation point of the Compagnie Touache and
+the ferry-boat "Le Zouave" which was to carry him away.
+
+His ears still ringing with the cheers of Tarascon and bemused by the
+brightness of the sky and the smell of the sea, Tartarin marched along,
+his rifles slung on his shoulders, gazing around in wonder at this
+marvellous port of Marseille, which he was seeing for the first time and
+which quite dazzled him. He almost felt that he was dreaming and that
+like Sinbad he was wandering in one of the fabulous cities of the
+Thousand and one Nights.
+
+As far as the eye could see, there stretched a jumble of masts and
+yards, criss-crossing in all directions. The flags of a multitude of
+nations fluttering in the wind. The ships level with the quay, their
+bowsprits projecting over the edge like a row of bayonets, and below
+them the carved and painted wooden figureheads of nymphs, goddesses
+and saintly virgins from which the ships took their names. From time to
+time, between the hulls one could see a patch of sea, like a great sheet
+of cloth spattered with oil, while in the entanglement of yardarms a
+host of seagulls made pretty splashes of white against the blue sky.
+On the quay, amid the streams which trickled from the soapworks, thick,
+green, streaked with black, full of oil and soda, there was a whole
+population of customs officers, shipping agents, and stevedores with
+trollies drawn by little Corsican ponies. There were shops selling
+strange sweetmeats. Smoke enshrouded huts where seamen were cooking.
+There were merchants selling monkeys, parrots, rope, sailcloth and
+fantastic collections of bric-a-brac where, heaped up pell-mell, were
+old culverins, great gilded lanterns, old blocks and tackle, old rusting
+anchors, old rigging, old megaphones, old telescopes, dating from the
+time of Jean Bart.
+
+There were women selling shellfish, crouched bawling beside their wares,
+sailors passing, some with pots of tar, some with steaming pots of stew,
+others with baskets full of squid which they were taking to wash in the
+fresh water of the fountains. Everywhere prodigious heaps of merchandise
+of every kind. Silks, minerals, baulks of timber, ingots of lead,
+carobs, rape-seed, liquorice, sugar cane, great piles of dutch cheeses.
+East and west hugger-mugger.
+
+Here is the grain berth. Stevedores empty the sacks onto the quay from
+a scaffold, the grain pours down in a golden torrent raising a cloud of
+pale dust, and is loaded by men wearing red fezes into carts, which
+set off followed by a regiment of women and children with brushes and
+buckets for gleaning.
+
+There is the careening basin. The huge vessels lie over on one side and
+are flamed with fires of brushwood to rid them of seaweed, while their
+yardarms soak in the water. There is a smell of pitch and the deafening
+hammering of shipwrights lining the hulls with sheets of copper.
+
+Sometimes, between the masts, a gap opened and Tartarin could see the
+harbour mouth and the movement of ships. An English frigate leaving for
+Malta, spruce and scrubbed, with officers in yellow gloves, or a big
+Marseilles brig, casting off amid shouting and cursing, with, in the
+bows, a fat captain in an overcoat and a top hat, supervising the
+manoeuvre in broad provencal. There were ships outward bound, running
+before the wind with all sails set, there were others, far out at sea,
+beating their way in and seeming in the sunshine to be floating on air.
+
+Then, all the time the most fearsome racket. The rumbling of cart
+wheels, the cries of the sailors, oaths, songs, the sirens of
+steam-boats, the drums and bugles of Fort St. Jean and Fort St. Nicolas,
+the bells of nearby churches and, up above, the mistral, which took all
+of these sounds, rolled them together, shook them up and mingled
+them with its own voice to make mad, wild, heroic music, like a great
+fanfare, urging one to set sail for distant lands, to spread one's wings
+and go. It was to the sound of this fine fanfare that Tartarin embarked
+for the country of lions.
+
+
+
+
+Chapter 12.
+
+I wish that I was a painter, a really good painter, so that I could
+present to you a picture of the different positions adopted by
+Tartarin's chechia during the three days of the passage from France to
+Algeria.
+
+I would show it to you first at the departure, proud and stately as it
+was then, crowning that noble Tarascon head. I would show it next when,
+having left the harbour, the Zouave began to lift on the swell. I would
+show it fluttering and astonished, as if feeling the first premonitions
+of distress.
+
+Then, in the gulf of Lion, when the Zouave was further offshore and
+the sea a little rougher, I would present it at grips with the storm,
+clutching, bewildered, at the head of our hero, its long blue woollen
+tassel streaming in the spume and gusting wind.
+
+The fourth position. Six in the evening. Off the coast of Corsica. The
+wretched chechia is leaning over the rail and sadly contemplating the
+depths of the ocean.
+
+Fifth and last position. Down in a narrow cabin, in a little bed which
+has the appearance of a drawer in a commode, something formless and
+desolate rolls about, moaning, on the pillow. It is the chechia, the
+heroic chechia, now reduced to the vulgar status of a night-cap, and
+jammed down to the ears of a pallid and convulsing invalid.
+
+Ah! If the townsfolk of Tarascon could have seen the great Tartarin,
+lying in his commode drawer, in the pale, dismal light which filtered
+through the porthole, amongst the stale smell of cooking and wet wood,
+the depressing odour of the ferry boat. If they had heard him groan
+at every turn of the propeller, ask for tea every five minutes, and
+complain to the steward in the weak voice of a child, would they have
+regretted having forced him to leave? On my word, the poor Tuer deserved
+pity. Overcome by sea-sickness, he had not the will even to loosen
+his sash or rid himself of his weapons. The hunting knife with the big
+handle dug into his ribs. His revolver bruised his leg, and the final
+straw was the nagging of Tartarin-Sancho, who never ceased whining and
+carping:--"Imbecile! Va! I warned you didn't I?.... But you had to go to
+Africa!.... Well now you're on your way, how do you like it?"
+
+What was every bit as cruel was that, shut in his cabin, between his
+groans he could hear the other passengers in the saloon, laughing,
+eating, singing, playing cards. The society in the Zouave was as
+cheerful as it was diverse. There were some officers on their way to
+rejoin their units, a bevy of tarts from Marseille, a rich Mahommedan
+merchant, returning from Mecca, some strolling players, a Montenegran
+prince, a great joker this, who did impersonations.... Not one of these
+people was sea-sick and they spent the time drinking champagne with the
+captain of the Zouave, a fat "Bon viveur" from Marseille, who had an
+establishment there and another in Algiers, and who rejoiced in the name
+of Barbassou. Tartarin hated all these people. Their gaity redoubled his
+misery.
+
+At last, in the afternoon of the third day, there was some unusual
+activity on board the ship, which roused our hero from his torpor. The
+bell in the bows rang out... the heavy boots of the sailors could be
+heard running on the deck... "Engine ahead!... engine astern!." Shouted
+the hoarse voice of Captain Barbassou. Then "Stop engine!"
+
+The engine stopped, there was a little tremor and then nothing. The
+ferry lay rocking gently from side to side, like a balloon in the air.
+This strange silence horrified Tartarin. "My God! We are sinking!" He
+cried in a voice of terror, and recovering his strength as if by magic,
+he rushed up onto the deck.
+
+
+
+
+Chapter 13.
+
+The Zouave was not sinking. She had just dropped her anchor in a fine
+anchorage of deep, dark water. Opposite, on the hillside, was Algiers,
+its little matt-white houses running down to the sea, huddled one
+against the other, like a pile of white washing laid out on a river
+bank. Up above a great sky of satin blue... but oh!... So blue!
+
+Tartarin, somewhat recovered from his fright, gazed at the landscape,
+while listening respectfully to the Montenegrin prince, who standing
+beside him, pointed out the different quarters of the town. The Casbah,
+the upper town, the Rue Bab-Azoum. Very well educated this prince of
+Montenegro. What is more he knew Algiers well and spoke Arabic. Tartarin
+had decided to cultivate his acquaintance when suddenly, along the rail
+on which they were leaning, he saw a row of big black hands grasping it
+from below. Almost immediately a curly black head appeared in front of
+him and before he could open his mouth the deck was invaded from all
+side by a swarm of pirates; black, yellow, half naked, hideous and
+terrible. Tartarin knew at once that it was "Them" The fearsome "Them"
+who he had so often expected at night in the streets of Tarascon. Now
+they had arrived.
+
+At first surprise glued him to the spot, but when he saw the pirates
+hurl themselves on the baggage, tear off the tarpaulin covers and begin
+to pillage the ship, our hero came to life. Drawing his hunting knife
+and shouting "Aux armes!... Aux armes!" To his fellow passengers, he
+prepared to lead an assault on the raiders. "Ques aco?... What's the
+matter with you?" Said Captain Barbassou as he came off the bridge.
+"Ah!... There you are Captain.... Quick! Quick! Arm your men!" "He!... Do
+what? Why for God's sake?" "But don't you see?" "See what?" "There,
+in front of you... the pirates!" Captain Barbassou regarded him with
+astonishment..... At that moment a huge monster of a black man ran past
+carrying the medicine chest. "Wretch! Wait till I catch you!" Yelled
+Tartarin, starting forward with his knife held aloft. Barbassou caught
+him and held him by his sash. "Calm down for Chrissake." He said,
+"These are not pirates, there have been no pirates for ages, these are
+stevedores." "Stevedores?" "He! Yes, stevedores who have come to collect
+the baggage and take it ashore. Put away your cutlass, give me your
+ticket and follow that negro, an excellent fellow, who will take you
+ashore and even to your hotel if you wish."
+
+Somewhat confused Tartarin surrendered his ticket and following the
+negro he went down the gangplank into a large boat which was bobbing
+alongside the ferry. All his baggage was there, his trunks, cases of
+weapons and preserved food, as they took up all the room in the boat,
+there was no need to wait for other passengers. The negro climbed onto
+the baggage and squatted there with his arms wrapped round his knees.
+Another negro took the oars... the two of them regarded Tartarin, laughing
+and showing their white teeth.
+
+Standing in the stern, wearing his fiercest expression, Tartarin
+nervously fingered the handle of his hunting knife, for in spite of what
+Barbassou had told him, he was only half reassured about the intentions
+of these ebony-skinned stevedores, who looked so different from honest
+longshoremen of Tarascon.
+
+Three minutes later the boat reached land and Tartarin set foot on the
+little Barbary quay, where three hundred years earlier a galley-slave
+named Michael Cervantes, under the whip of an Algerian galley-master,
+had begun to plan the wonderful story of Don Quixote.
+
+
+
+
+Chapter 14.
+
+If by any chance the ghost of Micheal Cervantes was abroad on that bit
+of the Barbary coast, it must have been delighted at the arrival of this
+splendid specimen of a Frenchman from the Midi, in whom were combined
+the two heroes of his book, Don Quixote and Sancho Panza.
+
+It was a warm day. On the quay, bathed in sunshine, were five or
+six customs officers, some settlers awaiting news from France, some
+squatting Moors, smoking their long pipes, some Maltese fishermen,
+hauling in a large net, in the meshes of which thousands of sardines
+glittered like pieces of silver; but scarcely had Tartarin set
+foot there when the quay sprang into life and changed entirely its
+appearance.
+
+A band of savages, more hideous even than the pirates of the boat,
+seemed to rise from the very cobble-stones to hurl themselves on the
+newcomer. Huge Arabs, naked beneath their long woolen garments, little
+Moors dressed in rags, Negroes, Tunisians, hotel waiters in white
+aprons, pushing and shouting, plucking at his clothes, fighting over his
+luggage; one grabbing his preserves another his medicine chest and, in a
+screeching babel of noise, throwing at his head the improbable names
+of hotels.... Deafened by this tumult, Tartarin ran hither and
+thither,struggling, fuming, and cursing after his baggage, and not
+knowing how to communicate with these barbarians, harangued them in
+French, Provencal and even what he could remember of Latin. It was a
+wasted effort, no one was listening.... Happily, however, a little man
+dressed in a tunic with a yellow collar and armed with a long cane
+arrived on the scene and dispersed the rabble with blows from his stick.
+He was an Algerian policeman. Very politely he arranged for Tartarin to
+go to the Hotel de l'Europe, and confided him to the care of some locals
+who led him away with all his baggage loaded on several barrows.
+
+As he took his first steps in Algiers, Tartarin looked about him
+wide-eyed. He had imagined beforehand a fairylike Arabian city,
+something between Constantinople and Zanzibar... but here he was back
+in Tarascon. Some cafes some restaurants, wide streets, houses of four
+stories, a small tarmac square where a military band played Offenbach
+polkas, men seated on chairs, drinking beer and nibbling snacks, a few
+ladies, a sprinkling of tarts and soldiers, more soldiers, everywhere
+soldiers... and not a single "Teur" in sight except for him... so he found
+walking across the square a bit embarrassing. Everyone stared.... The
+military band stopped playing and the Offenbach polka came to a halt
+with one foot in the air.
+
+With his two rifles on his shoulders, his revolver by his side,
+unflinching and stately he passed through the throng, but on reaching
+the hotel his strength deserted him. The departure from Tarascon. The
+harbour at Marseille. The crossing. The Montenegrin prince. The pirates,
+all whirled in confusion round his brain. He had to be taken up to his
+room, disarmed and undressed... there was even talk of sending for a
+doctor, but hardly had his head touched the pillow than he began to
+snore so loudly and vigorously that the hotel manager decided that
+medical assistance was not required, and everyone discreetly withdrew.
+
+
+
+
+Chapter 15.
+
+The bell of the government clock was sounding three when Tartarin awoke.
+He had slept all evening, all night, all morning and even a good part of
+the afternoon. It has, of course, to be admitted that over the preceding
+three days the chechia had had a pretty rough time.
+
+His first thought on waking was "Here I am, in lion country!" and it
+must be confessed that this notion that he was surrounded by lions
+and was about to go in pursuit of them produced a marked chill, and he
+buried himself safely under the bedclothes.
+
+Soon, however, the gaiety of the scene outside, the sky so blue, the
+bright sunshine which flooded into his room through the large window
+which opened towards the sea, and a good meal which he had served in
+bed, washed down by a carafe of wine, quickly restored his courage. "To
+the lions! To the lions!" He cried, and throwing off the bed clothes he
+dressed himself hurriedly.
+
+His plan of action was this. Leave town and go well out into the desert.
+Wait until nightfall. Lie in hiding, and at the first lion that comes
+along... Pan! Pan!.... Return in the morning. Lunch at hotel. Receive the
+congratulations of the Algerians and hire a cart to go and collect the
+kill.
+
+He armed himself hastily, strapped onto his back the bivouac tent, the
+pole of which stuck up above his head, and then, held rigid by this
+contraption, he went down to the street. He turned sharply to the right
+and walked to the end of the shopping arcade of Bab-Azoum, where a
+series of Algerian store-keepers watched him pass, concealed in corners
+of their dark boutiques like spiders. He went through the Place du
+theatre, through the suburbs and eventually reached the dusty main road
+to Mustapha.
+
+Here was a fantastic confusion of traffic. There were coaches, cabs,
+curricles, military supply wagons, great carts of hay drawn by oxen,
+some squadrons of Chasseurs d'Afrique, troops of microscopic little
+donkeys, negresses selling galettes, loads of emigrants from Alsasce,
+some Spahis in red cloaks. All passing in a great cloud of dust, with
+cries, songs and trumpet calls, between two rows of miserable shacks,
+where could be seen prostitutes applying their make-up at their doors,
+tap-rooms full of soldiers and the stalls of butchers and slaughtermen.
+The tales I have been told about this place are quite untrue, thought
+Tartarin, there are fewer "Teurs" here than there are in Marseille.
+
+Suddenly he saw striding past him, long-legged and proud as a turkey
+cock, a magnificent camel. The sight quickened his pulse; where there
+were camels lions could not be far away, and indeed within five minutes
+he saw coming towards him with guns on their shoulders, a whole company
+of lion hunters with their dogs.
+
+A cowardly lot, thought Tartarin, as he came alongside them... hunting
+lions in a group and with dogs... for it had never occurred to him that
+In Algeria one could hunt anything but lions. However these hunters
+looked like comfortably retired businessmen, and Tartarin, curious about
+this way of hunting lions with dogs and game-bags, took it on himself to
+address one of them.
+
+"Et autrement, my friend, a good day?"
+
+"Not bad" Replied the other, looking with some surprise at the heavy
+armament of our Tarascon warrior.
+
+"You have killed some of them?"
+
+"Yes... a few... as you can see." And the Algerian pointed to his
+game-bag, bulging with rabbits and woodcock.
+
+"How is that?... you put them in your game-bag?"
+
+"Where would you like me to put them?"
+
+"But then they... they must be very small!"
+
+"Some big, some small." Said the hunter, and as he was in a hurry to
+catch up with his companions and go home, he made off at high speed.
+Tartarin stood, stupefied, in the middle of the road. Then after a
+moment of thought "Bah!" He said to himself, "These people are trying to
+have me on, they haven't shot anything." And he continued on his way.
+
+Already the houses were becoming more scattered, the passers-by less
+frequent. Night was falling. Objects becoming less distinct.... He
+marched on for another half an hour, and then he stopped. It was now
+completely dark, a moonless night spangled with stars. There was no one
+on the road, but in spite of that Tartarin reckoned that lions were
+not like coaches and would not stick to the highway. He set off across
+country. At every step there were ditches, thorns and bushes. No matter,
+he walked on until at last he reached a spot he thought suited to his
+purpose. A likely place for lions.
+
+
+
+
+Chapter 16.
+
+He was in a vast, wild desert, bristling with bizarre plants. African
+plants, which have the appearance of savage animals. In the faint light
+from the stars their shadows spread over the ground in all directions.
+On the right was the confused, looming mass of a mountain, the Atlas
+perhaps, to the left could be heard the dull surge of the invisible sea.
+An ideal spot to tempt wild animals!
+
+Placing one rifle on the ground before him and taking the other in his
+hands, Tartarin settled down and waited... he waited for an hour... two
+hours.... Then he remembered that in his books the famous lion hunters
+always used a kid as bait, which they tethered at some distance in front
+of them and made to bleat by pulling on a string attached to its leg.
+Lacking a kid, he had the idea of trying an imitation and began to bleat
+in a goat-like manner, "Me!... Me!...." At first very quietly, because, in
+the depths of his heart he was a little afraid that the lion might
+hear him... then seeing that nothing happened he bleated more loudly,
+"Me!... Me!... Me!...." And then louder still, "ME!... ME!... ME!..."
+
+Suddenly, a few paces in front of him, something black and gigantic
+materialised. He shut up... the thing crouched, sniffed the ground,
+leapt up, turned and ran off at a gallop... then it came back and stopped
+short. It was a lion! There could be no doubt. Now one could see quite
+clearly the four short legs, the formidable forequarters and two
+huge eyes gleaming in the darkness.... Aim!... Fire!...
+Pan!... Pan!.... Tartarin backed away, drawing his hunting knife
+
+Following Tartarin's shot there was a terrible outcry, "I've got him!"
+Cried the good Tarasconais and prepared himself to receive a possible
+attack, but the creature had had enough and it fled at top speed,
+bellowing.... He, however, did not budge: he was waiting for the
+female... as happened in all his books. Unfortunately the female failed
+to turn up, and after two or three hours of waiting Tartarin became
+tired. The ground was damp, the night was growing cool, there was a nip
+in the breeze from the sea... "Perhaps I should have a nap while I wait
+for daylight" he said to himself, and to provide some shelter he had
+recourse to the bivouac tent. A difficulty now arose, the bivouac tent
+was of such an ingenious design that he was quite unable to erect it. He
+struggled and sweated for a long time, but there was no way in which he
+could get the thing up, so at last he threw it on the ground and lay on
+top of it, cursing it in Provencal.
+
+Ta!... Ta!... Ta!... Tarata! "Ques aco?" said Tartarin, waking up with a
+start. It was the trumpets of the Chasseurs d'Afrique sounding reveille
+in the barracks at Mustapha. The lion killer rubbed his eyes in
+amazement. He who had believed that he was in the middle of a
+desert... do you know where he was?... In a field full of artichokes,
+between a cauliflower and a swede... his Sahara was a vegetable patch.
+
+Nearby, on the pretty green coast of upper Mustapha, white Algerian
+villas gleamed in the dawn light, one might have been among the suburban
+houses in the outskirts of Marseille. The bourgeois appearance of the
+sleeping countryside greatly astonished Tartarin and put him in a bad
+humour. "These people are crazy", he said to himself, "To plant their
+artichokes in an area infested by lions. For I was not dreaming, there
+are lions here and there is the proof".
+
+The proof was a trail of blood which the fleeing beast had left behind
+it. Following this blood-spoor, with watchful eye and revolver in hand,
+the valiant Tarasconais went from artichoke to artichoke until he arrived
+at a small field of oats.... In a patch of flattened grain was a pool
+of blood and in the middle of the pool, lying on its side with a large
+wound to its head, was... what?... a lion?... No Parbleu!... A donkey!
+One of the tiny donkeys so common in Algeria, which there are called
+"Bourriquots".
+
+
+
+
+Chapter 17.
+
+Tartarin's first reaction at the sight of his unfortunate victim was
+one of annoyance. There is after all a considerable difference between
+a lion and a bourriquot. This was quickly replaced by a feeling of pity.
+The poor bourriqout was so pretty, so gentle, its warm flanks rising and
+falling as it breathed. Tartarin knelt down and with the end of his sash
+he tried to staunch the blood from its wound. The sight of this great
+man tending the little donkey was the most touching thing you could
+imagine. At the soothing contact of the sash, the bourriquot, which
+was already at death's door, opened a big grey eye and twitched once
+or twice its long ears, as if to say "Thank you!... Thank you!". Then a
+final tremor shook it from head to tail and it moved no more.
+
+"Noiraud!... Noiraud!" Came a sudden cry from a strident, anxious voice,
+and the branches of some nearby bushes were thrust aside. Tartarin had
+barely time to get up and put himself on guard. It was the female!...
+She arrived, roaring and terrible, in the guise of an elderly Alsation
+lady in a rabbit-skin coat, armed with a red umbrella and calling for
+her donkey in a voice which woke all the echoes of Mustapha. Certainly
+it might have been better for Tartarin to have had to deal with an angry
+lioness than this infuriated old lady. In vain he tried to explain what
+had happened... how he had mistaken Noiraud for a lion, she thought he
+was trying to make fun of her and, uttering loud cries of indignation,
+she set about our hero with blows from her umbrella. Tartarin, in
+confusion, defended himself as best he could, parrying the blows
+with his rifle, sweating, puffing, jumping about and crying "But
+Madame!... But Madame!". To no avail. Madame was deaf to his pleas and
+redoubled her efforts.
+
+Happily a third party arrived on the field of battle. It was the husband
+of the Alsation lady, also an Alsation.... A tavern keeper and a shrewd
+man of business. When he saw with whom he was dealing and that the
+assassin was willing to pay for his crime, he disarmed his spouse and
+took her to one side. Tartarin gave two hundred francs. The donkey was
+worth at least ten, which is the going price for bourriquots in the Arab
+market. Then the poor Noiraud was buried beneath a fig tree, and the
+Alsation, put in a good humour at the sight of so much money, invited
+our hero to break a crust at his tavern, which was not far away at the
+edge of the main road. The Algerian hunters went there every Sunday
+for luncheon; for the countryside was full of game, and for two leagues
+about the city there was not a better place for rabbits. "And the
+lions?" Asked Tartarin. The Alsation looked at him with surprise... "The
+lions?" "Yes, the lions, do you see them sometimes?" Tartarin replied,
+with a little less assurance. The tavern-keeper burst out laughing,
+"Lions!... Lions!... What is all this about lions?" "Are there no lions
+in Algeria then?" "Moi foi! I have been here for twenty years and I have
+never seen any.... though I did once hear... I think there was a report
+in the newspaper... but it was long ago... somewhere in the south"....
+
+At that moment they reached the tavern, a wayside pot house, the sort of
+thing one can see by any main road. It had a very faded sign above the
+door, some billiard cues painted on the wall and the inoffensive name
+"Au rendezvous des lapins".
+
+
+
+
+Chapter 18.
+
+This first adventure would have been enough to discourage many people,
+but seasoned characters such as Tartarin are not so easily disheartened.
+The lions are in the south, thought our hero, very well I shall go to
+the south.
+
+As soon as he had swallowed his last morsel, he got up, thanked his
+host, took leave of the old lady without any ill-feeling, shed a last
+tear over the unfortunate Noiraud and headed quickly for Algiers, with
+the firm intention of packing his trunks and departing that same day for
+the south.
+
+Sadly, the main Mustapha road seemed to have grown longer during the
+night. There was so much sunshine, so much dust, the bivouac tent was
+so heavy, that Tartarin could not face the walk back to the town and
+he hailed the first horse-drawn omnibus which came along and climbed
+in.... Poor Tartarin! How much better it would have been for his
+reputation if he had not entered that fateful vehicle, and had continued
+his journey on foot, even at the risk of collapsing from the heat and
+the weight of his two double-barreled rifles and the bivouac tent.
+
+With Tartarin aboard, the omnibus was now full. At the far end was an
+Algerian priest with a big black beard, his nose stuck in his breviary.
+Opposite was a young Moorish merchant, puffing at a large cigarette,
+then a Maltese seaman, and four or five Moorish women, with white linen
+masks, whose eyes alone were visible. These ladies had been on a visit
+to the cemetery of Abd-el-Kader, but this did not seem to have depressed
+them. Behind their masks they laughed and chattered among themselves and
+munched pastries.
+
+It seemed to Tartarin that they cast many glances in his direction, and
+one in particular, who was seated opposite him, fixed her gaze on him
+and did not remove it.
+
+Although the lady was veiled, the liveliness of her large dark eyes,
+emphasised by kohl, a delicate little wrist, encircled by gold
+bracelets, which one glimpsed from time to time amidst her draperies,
+the sound of her voice, the graceful movements of her head, all
+suggested that beneath her garments was someone young, pretty and
+loveable.
+
+The embarrassed Tartarin did not know which way to turn. The silent
+caress of these beautiful dark eyes set his heart aflutter. He blushed
+and paled by turns. Then to complete his downfall he felt on his
+massive boot the lady's dainty slipper scurrying about like a little
+red mouse.... What was he to do?... Reply to these looks, this touch?...
+Yes... but an amorous intrigue in this part of the world can have
+terrible consequences. In his imagination Tartarin already saw himself
+seized by eunuchs, decapitated or even worse, sewn into a sack and
+tossed into the sea with his head beside him.
+
+This thought cooled his ardour a little, but the little slipper
+continued to tease and the he eyes opened very wide, like two black
+velvet flowers which seemed to say "Come and gather us!"
+
+The omnibus stopped. It had arrived at the Place du theatre, at the
+entrance to the Rue Bab Azoum. One by one, enveloped in their billowing
+garments and drawing their veils about them with savage grace, the Moors
+dismounted. Tartarin's neighbour was the last to leave and as she rose
+to go her face was so close to that of our hero that their breaths
+mingled and he was aware of a bouquet of youth, jasmine, musk and
+pastries.
+
+He could no longer resist. Drunk with love and ready to face anything,
+he scrambled after the Moor... At the sound of his clumsy footsteps she
+turned and put her finger to her lips, as if to say "Hush" and with
+the other hand she tossed him a little scented garland made of jasmine
+flowers. Tartarin bent to pick it up, but as he was somewhat overweight
+and much encumbered by his weapons, the operation took a little
+time... When he rose, the garland pressed to his heart, the little Moor
+had disappeared.
+
+
+
+
+Chapter 19.
+
+Sleep, lions of the Atlas! Sleep tranquilly in your lairs amongst the
+aloes and the cactus! It wil be some time before Tartarin de Tarascon
+comes to slaughter you. At the moment his equipment, his arms, his
+medicine chest, the preserved food and the bivouac tent are piled
+up peacefully in a corner of room 36 in the Hotel de l'Europe. Sleep
+without fear, great tawny lions! The Tarasconais is searching for his
+Moor.
+
+Since the events in the omnibus, the unhappy man seems to feel
+constantly on his feet the scurrying of the little red mouse, and the
+sea breeze which wafts across his face seems somehow perfumed by an
+amorous odour of patisserie and anise. He must find his Dulcinea; but to
+find in a city of one hundred thousand inhabitants a person of whom one
+knows only the scent of their breath, the appearance of their slippers
+and the colour of their eyes is no light undertaking. Only a lovesick
+Tarasconais would attempt such a task. To make matters worse, it must be
+confessed that beneath their masks all Moorish ladies tend to look very
+much the same; and then they do not go out a great deal, and if one
+wants to see them one must go to the upper town, the Arab town, the town
+of the Teurs.
+
+A real cut-throat place that upper town. Little dark alley-ways, very
+narrow, climbing steeply between two rows of silent, mysterious houses
+whose roofs touch to make a tunnel. Low doorways and small windows,
+opaque and barred, and then, to right and left, little shops within
+whose deep shade fierce "Teurs" with piratical faces, glittering eyes
+and gleaming teeth, smoke their hookahs and converse in low tones, as
+if planning some wicked deed.... To say that Tartarin walked through this
+fearsome township unmoved would be to lie. He was on the contrary moved
+a good deal, and in those obscure alleys where his large stomach took
+up almost the entire width, the brave fellow advanced with the greatest
+caution, his eyes alert, his finger on the trigger of his revolver, just
+as he used to be at Tarascon on his way to the club. At any moment he
+expected to be jumped on from behind by a whole gang of janissaries and
+eunuchs, but his desire to find the lady endowed him with the courage
+and determination of a giant.
+
+For eight days the intrepid Tartarin did not quit his search. Sometimes
+he could be seen hanging about the turkish baths, waiting for the women
+to emerge in chattering groups, scented from the bath. Sometimes he
+appeared at the entrance of a mosque, puffing and blowing as he removed
+his heavy boots before entering the sacred premises. On other occasions,
+at nightfall, when he was returning to the hotel, downcast at having
+discovered nothing at the mosque or the baths, he would hear, as he
+passed one of the Moorish houses, monotonous songs, the muffled sound
+of guitars, the rattle of tambourines and the light laughter of women,
+which made his heart beat faster. "Perhaps she is there" He would say to
+himself, and approaching the house he would lift the heavy knocker and
+let it fall timidly.
+
+Immediately the song and the laughter stop. Nothing can be heard within
+but faint vague cluckings as if in a sleeping hen-house. Hold on thinks
+our hero, something is about to happen, but what happened mostly was a
+big pot of cold water on his head, or orange peel and fig skins.... Sleep
+lions!
+
+
+
+
+Chapter 20.
+
+For two long weeks the unhappy Tartarin searched for his Algerian
+lady-love, and it is likely that he would be searching still, if that
+providence which looks after lovers had not come to his aid in the guise
+of a Montenegrin gentleman.
+
+The Theatre in Algiers, like the "Opera" in Paris, organises every
+Saturday night during the winter a Bal Masque,. This is, however,
+a provincial version. There are few people in the dance-hall; the
+occasional drifter from out of town, unemployed stevedores, some rustic
+tarts, who are in business but who still retain from their more virtuous
+days a faint aroma of garlic and saffron sauce... the real spectacle is
+in the foyer, which has been converted for the occasion into a gambling
+saloon.
+
+A feverish, multicoloured crowd jostles about the long green cloths.
+Algerian soldiers on leave, gambling their meagre pay. Moorish merchants
+from the upper town. Negroes. Maltese. Colonists who have come a hundred
+miles to wager the price of a cart or a pair of oxen on the turn of a
+card. Pale, tense and anxious as they watch the game.
+
+There are Algerian Jews, gambling en famille. The men in oriental
+costume, the women in gold coloured bodices. They gather round the
+table, chatter and and plan, count on their fingers, but play little.
+From time to time, and only after long consultation, an elderly, bearded
+patriarch goes to place the family stake. Then as long as play lasts
+there is a concentration of dark hebraic eyes on the table, which
+would seem to draw the gold pieces lying there as if by an invisible
+thread....
+
+Then there are the quarrels. Fights. Oaths in many languages. Knives
+are drawn. A guard arrives. Money is missing.... In the midst of this
+saturnalia wandered poor Tartarin, who had come that evening in search
+of forgetfulness and peace of heart.
+
+As he went about through the crowd, thinking of his Moor, suddenly, at
+one of the gaming tables, above the cries and the chinking of coins, two
+angry voices were raised. "I tell you, there are twenty francs of mine
+missing, m'sieu!" "M'sieu!!!" "Well, what have you to say, m'sieu?" "Do
+you know to whom you are talking, m'sieu?" "I should be delighted to
+find out, m'sieu!" "I am prince Gregory of Montenegro, m'sieu!"
+
+At this name, Tartarin, much moved, pushed through the crowd until he
+reached the front row, delighted to have found once more his prince, the
+distinguished Montenegrin nobleman whose acquaintance he had made on the
+packet-boat.
+
+Unfortunately this title of prince which had so dazzled the worthy
+Tarasconais, did not produce the least impression on the officer of the
+Chasseurs with whom the prince was in dispute. "A likely story" said the
+officer with a sneer, and then turning to the onlookers, "Prince
+Gregory of Montenegro, who has ever heard of him?... No one!" Tartarin,
+indignant, took a pace forward. "Pardon... I know the prince." He said
+firmly in his best Tarrascon accent.
+
+The officer of the Chasseurs stared him in the face for a few moments,
+then shrugging his shoulders, he said "Well now, is'nt that just
+fine?... Share out the twenty francs between you and we'll leave it at
+that." So saying he turned on his heel and was lost in the crowd.
+
+Tartarin, furious, wanted to go after him, but the prince prevented him.
+"Leave it... It's my affair." He said, and taking Tartarin by the arm he
+led him outside.
+
+When they had reached the square, prince Gregory of Montenegro took off
+his hat, held out his hand to our hero and vaguely recalling his name
+began in vibrant tones, "Monsieur Barbarin..." "Tartarin." Breathed the
+other, timidly. "Tartarin... Barbarin, it makes no difference, we are
+now friends for life." And the noble Montenegrin shook his hand
+with ferocious energy. Tartarin was was overwhelmed by pride.
+"Prince.... Prince" He murmured in confusion.
+
+Fifteen minutes later the two gentlemen were seated in the Restaurant
+des Platanes, an agreeable spot whose terraces sloped down toward the
+sea, and there before a large Russian salad and a bottle of good wine
+they renewed their acquaintance.
+
+You cannot imagine anything more beguiling than this Montenegrin prince.
+Slim, elegant, his hair curled and waved, smooth-shaven and powdered and
+decked with strange orders, he had a sharp eye an ingratiating manner
+and spoke with a vaguely Italian accent, faintly suggestive of a
+renaissance Cardinal. Of ancient aristocratic lineage, his brothers,
+it seemed, had driven him into exile at the age of ten, because of
+his liberal opinions; since when he had travelled the world for his
+instruction and pleasure... a philosopher prince. By a remarkable
+coincidence the prince had spent three years in Tarascon, but when
+Tartarin expressed astonishment at never having seen him at the club or
+on the promonade, "I didn't go out much" Said the prince in a somewhat
+evasive manner, and Tartarin discretely asked no more questions.
+Important people, he knew, had diplomatic secrets.
+
+All in all a very fine prince this Gregory. While sipping his wine he
+listened patiently to Tartarin, who told him of his Moorish love, and
+as he claimed to have contacts among these ladies, he even undertook to
+help look for her.
+
+They drank long and deep. They drank to the ladies of Algeria. They
+drank to free Montenegro. Outside, below the terrace, the sea rolled,
+the waves slapping wetly on the beach. The air was warm, the sky bright
+with stars, in the plane trees a nightingale sang... It was Tartarin who
+paid the bill.
+
+
+
+
+Chapter 21.
+
+The Montenegrin prince was as good as his word. Shortly after the
+reunion at the Restaurant des Platanes he arrived early one morning at
+Tartarin's room. "Quick!... quick!... get dressed" he said, "Your Moor has
+been found... her name is Baia... as pretty as a picture, twenty years
+old and already a widow." "A widow!.... Well that's a bit of luck" Said
+Tartarin who was a little uneasy at the thought of Moorish husbands.
+"Yes, but closely guarded by her brother" "Oh! That's a bit awkward"
+"A ferocious Moor who sells hookahs in the bazaar" There was a silence,
+"Good!" Said the prince, "You're not the chap to be put off by a little
+thing like that, and anyway we can perhaps buy off this villain by
+purchasing some of his pipes. So come on, get dressed... you lucky dog!"
+
+Pale and excited, his heart full of love, Tartarin jumped out of bed and
+as he climbed into his ample underwear he asked "What shall I do now?"
+"Write to the lady quite simply and ask for a meeting" "She understands
+French then?" Said Tartarin with an air of disappointment. For his
+dreams had been of an Arabian Houri, uncontaminated by the west. "She
+doesn't understand a word" Replied the prince imperturbably, "but you
+will dictate the letter to me and I shall translate it." "Oh prince,
+how good you are." And Tartarin strode about the room silent and deep in
+thought.
+
+As you may imagine one does not write to a Moorish lady as one might to
+a little shop-girl in Beaucaire. Happily our hero was able to cull from
+his reading many phrases of oriental rhetoric and combining these with
+some distant memories of the "Song of Songs" he was able to compose the
+most flowery epistle you could wish for, full of unlikely similes and
+improbable metaphors. With this romantic missive Tartarin would have
+liked to combine a bouquet of flowers with emblematic meanings, but
+prince Gregory thought it would be better to buy some pipes from the
+brother, which could not fail to soften the savage temperament of the
+gentleman and would please the lady, who greatly enjoyed smoking. "Let
+us go quickly then and buy some pipes," Said Tartarin. "No, no." Replied
+the prince, "Let me go alone, I shall get them at a better price." "Oh
+prince! How good you are to take such trouble." And the trusting fellow
+held out his purse to the obliging Montenegrin, exhorting him to neglect
+nothing which might make the lady happy.
+
+Unfortunately, the affair which had started so well, did not progress as
+rapidly as one might have wished. Very touched, it seemed, by Tartarin's
+eloquence, and already three parts won over, she would have liked
+nothing better than to have received him, but her brother had scruples,
+and to lay these to rest it was necessary to buy an astonishing number
+of pipes. Sometimes Tartarin wondered what on earth the lady did with
+them all, but he paid up nevertheless, and without stinting.
+
+At last, after the purchase of many pipes and the composing of many
+sheets of oriental prose, a rendezvous was arranged. I need hardly tell
+you with what fluttering of heart Tartarin prepared himself; with what
+care he trimmed, washed and scented his beard, without forgetting--for
+one must always be prepared--to slip into his pockets a life-preserver
+and a revolver. The ever-obliging prince attended this first meeting in
+the role of interpreter
+
+The lady lived in the upper part of the town. Outside her door lounged a
+young Moor of fourteen or fifteen, smoking a cigarette, it was Ali, her
+brother. When the two visitors arrived he knocked twice on the postern
+and retired from the scene. The door was opened and a negress appeared,
+who, without saying a word, conducted the two gentlemen across a narrow
+interior courtyard to a small, cool room where the lady awaited them,
+posed on a divan.
+
+At first glance it seemed to Tartarin that she was smaller and sturdier
+than the Moor on the omnibus... were they in fact the same? But this
+suspicion was only momentary: the lady was so pretty, with her bare
+feet and her plump fingers, rosy and delicate, loaded with rings; while
+beneath her bodice of gold cloth and the blossoms of her flowered robe
+was the suggestion of a charming form, a little chubby, dainty and
+curvaceous. The amber mouthpiece of a narghile was between her lips and
+she was enveloped in a cloud of pale smoke.
+
+On entering, Tartarin placed his hand on his heart and bowed in the most
+Moorish manner possible, rolling big, passionate eyes... Baia looked
+at him for a moment without speaking, then letting go of the amber
+mouthpiece, she turned her back, hid her face in her hands and one could
+see only her neck, shaken by uncontrollable laughter.
+
+
+
+
+Chapter 22.
+
+If you go in the evening into some of the coffee-houses of the Algerian
+upper town, you will hear even today, Moors speak among themselves,
+with winks and chuckles, of a certain Sidi ben Tart'ri, an amiable,
+rich European who--it now some years ago--lived in the upper town with a
+little local girl called Baia.
+
+This Sidi ben Tart'ri was of course none other than Tartarin. Well what
+could you expect. This sort of thing happens even in the lives of Saints
+and Heroes. The illustrious Tartarin was, like anyone else, not exempt
+from these failings and that is why for two whole months, forgetful of
+lions, forgetful of fame, he wallowed in oriental love, and slumbered,
+like Hannibal in Capua, amid the delights of Algiers.
+
+He had rented in the heart of the Arab quarter, a pretty little local
+house with an interior courtyard, banana trees, cool galleries and
+fountains. He lived there quietly in the company of his Moor, a
+Moor himself from head to foot. Puffing at his hookah and munching
+musk-flavoured condiments. Stretched on a divan opposite him, Baia with
+a guitar in her hands droned monotonous songs, or to amuse her master
+she perhaps mimed a belly-dance, holding in her hands a small mirror in
+which she admired her white teeth and made faces at herself.
+
+As the lady did not understand French and Tartarin did not speak a
+word of Arabic, conversation languished somewhat and the talkative
+Tarasconais had time to repent of any intemperate loquaciousness of
+which he might have been guilty at Bezuquet's pharmacy or Costecalde
+the gunsmith's shop. This penance even had a certain charm. There was
+something almost voluptuous in going all day without speaking, hearing
+only the bubble of the hookah, the strumming of the guitar and the
+gentle splashing of the fountain amid the mosaic tiles of his courtyard.
+
+Smoking, the Turkish bath and "l'amour" occupied his time. They went out
+little. Sometimes Sidi Tart'ri, with his lady mounted on the crupper,
+went on mule-back to eat pomegranates in a little garden which he had
+bought in the neighbourhood... but never on any account did they go down
+to the European part of the town, which with its drunken Zouaves, its
+bordellos full of officers and the sound of sabres trailing on the
+ground beneath the arcade, seemed to him to be insupportably ugly.
+Altogether our Tartarin was perfectly happy. Tartarin-Sancho in
+particular, very fond of Turkish pastries, declared himself entirely
+satisfied with his new existence. Tartarin-Quixote had perhaps now and
+then some regrets, when he remembered Tarascon and the promised lion
+skins... but they did not last for long, and to dispel these moments of
+sadness all that was needed was a look from Baia or a spoonful of her
+diabolic confections, scented and bewitching like some brew of Circe's.
+
+In the evenings prince Gregory came, to talk a little about free
+Montenegro. Of indefatigable complaisance, this agreeable nobleman
+undertook in the house the function of interpreter and, if need be, even
+that of steward, and all for nothing. Apart from him, Tartarin had only
+"Teurs" as visitors. All of those ferocious bandits which in the depths
+of their dark shops he once found so frightening, turned out to be
+harmless tradesmen, embroiderers, spice sellers, turners of pipe
+mouthpieces. Discrete, courteous people, modest, shrewd, and good at
+cards. Four or five times a week they would spend the evening with
+Tartarin, winning his money and eating his confitures, and on the stroke
+of ten leaving politely, giving thanks to the Prophet.
+
+After they had left, Sidi Tart'ri and his faithful spouse would finish
+the evening on their terrace, a large white-walled terrace which formed
+the roof of the building and looked out over the town. All about them
+a thousand other terraces, tranquil in the moonlight, dropped one below
+the other down to the sea. Suddenly, like a burst of stars, a great
+clear chant rose heavenward and on the minaret of the nearby mosque a
+handsome Muezzin appeared, his white outline silhouetted against the
+deep blue of the night sky. As he invoked the praise of Allah in a
+splendid voice which filled the horizon, Baia laid aside her guitar and
+with her eyes fixed on the Muezzin seemed to be rapt in prayer. For
+as long as the chant lasted she remained ecstatic, like an Arabic
+St. Theresa. Tartarin watched her and thought that it must be a beautiful
+and powerful religion which could give rise to such transports of faith.
+Tarascon hide your face, your Tartarin dreams of becoming apostate.
+
+
+
+
+Chapter 23.
+
+One fine afternoon of blue sky and warm breeze, Sidi Tart'ri, astride
+his mule, was returning alone from his little garden, his legs spread
+widely over hay filled bags which were further swollen by citrus and
+water-melon. Lulled by the creaking of the harness and swaying to the
+clip-clop of the animal the good man progressed through the delightful
+countryside, his hands crossed on his stomach, three-quarters asleep
+from the effect of warmth and wellbeing. Suddenly, as he was entering
+the town, a loud hail woke him up. "He! You, you great lump! You're
+Monsieur Tartarin aren't you?" At the name of Tartarin and the sound of
+the Provencal accent Tartarin raised his head and saw, a few feet away,
+the tanned features of Barbassou, the Captain of the Zouave, who was
+drinking an absinthe and smoking his pipe at the door of a little cafe.
+"He! Barbassou by God!" Said Tartarin, pulling up his mule.
+
+Instead of replying Barbassou regarded him wide-eyed for a few moments,
+and then he began to laugh and laugh, so that Tartarin sat stunned among
+his water-melons. "What a get-up, my poor monsieur Tartarin. It's true
+then what people say, that you have become a Teur? And little Baia, does
+she still sing 'Marco la belle' all the time?" "Marco la belle," said
+Tartarin indignantly, "I'll have you know Captain, that the person
+of whom you speak is an honest Moorish girl who doesn't know a word of
+French!" "Baia?... Not a word of French?... Where have you come from?" And
+the Captain began to laugh again, more than ever. Then noticing the long
+face of poor Sidi Tart'ri, he changed tack. "Well perhaps it isn't
+the same one," He said, "I've probably got her mixed up with someone
+else... only look here, M. Tartarin, you would be wise not to put too much
+trust in Algerian Moors, or Montenegrin princes." Tartarin stood up in
+his stirrups, and made his grimace, "The prince is my friend, Captain!"
+He said. "All right... all right... Don't let's quarrel... would you like
+a drink?... no. Any message you would like me to take back?... none. Well
+that's it then. Bon voyage.... Oh!... While I think of it, I have some
+good French tobacco here, if you would like a few pipes-full take some,
+help yourself, it will do you good, it's those blasted local tobaccos
+that scramble your brain."
+
+With that the Captain returned to his absinthe and Tartarin pensively
+trotted his mule down the road to his little house. Although in his
+loyal heart he refused to believe any of the insinuations made by the
+Captain, they had upset him, and his rough oaths and country accent had
+combined to awake in him a vague feeling of remorse. When he reached
+home, Baia had gone to the baths, the negress seemed to him ugly, the
+house dismal, and prey to an indefinable melancholy, he went and sat by
+the fountain and filled his pipe with Barbassou's tobacco. The tobacco
+had been wrapped in a fragment of paper torn from "The Semaphore" and
+when he spread it out the name of his home town caught his eye.
+
+"News from Tarascon," He read, "The town is in a state of alarm. Tartarin
+the lion killer, who went to hunt the big cats in Africa, has not
+been heard of for several months.... What has happened to our heroic
+compatriot? One dare hardly ask oneself, knowing as we do his ardent
+nature, his courage and love of adventure.... Has he, like so many
+others, been swallowed up in the desert sands, or has he perhaps fallen
+victim to the murderous teeth of those feline monsters, whose skins he
+promised to the municipality.... A terrible incertitude! However, some
+African merchants who came to the fair at Beaucaire, claim to have met,
+in the heart of the desert, a white man whose description corresponds
+with his and who was heading for Timbuctoo. May God preserve our
+Tartarin!"
+
+When he read this, Tartarin blushed and trembled. All Tarascon rose
+before his eyes. The club. The hat hunters. The green armchair at
+Costecalde's shop: and soaring above, like the extended wings of an
+eagle, the formidable moustache of the brave Commandant Bravida. Then to
+see himself squatting slothfully on his mat, while he was believed to be
+engaged in slaying lions, filled him with shame. Suddenly he leaped to
+his feet. "To the lions!... To the lions!" He cried, and hurrying to the
+dusty corner where lay idle his bivouac tent, his medicine chest, his
+preserved foods and his weapons, he dragged them into the middle of the
+courtyard. Tartarin-Sancho had just perished, only Tartarin-Quixote was
+left.
+
+There was just time enough to inspect his equipment, to don his arms and
+accoutrements, to put on his big boots, to write a few lines to prince
+Gregory, confiding Baia to his care, to slip into an envelope some
+banknotes, wet with tears, and the intrepid Tarasconais was in a
+stage-coach, rolling down the road to Blidah, leaving the stupefied
+negress in his house, gazing at the turban, the slippers and all the
+muslim rig-out of Sidi Tart'ri, hanging discarded on the wall.
+
+
+
+
+Chapter 24.
+
+It was an ancient, old-fashioned stage-coach, upholstered in the old way
+in heavy blue cloth, very faded, and with enormous pom-poms, which after
+a few hours on the road dug uncomfortably into one's back. Tartarin had
+an inside seat, where he installed himself as best he could, and where,
+instead of the musky scent of the great cats, he could savour the ripe
+perfume of the coach, compounded of a thousand odours of men, women,
+horses, leather, food and damp straw.
+
+The other passengers on the coach were a mixed lot. A Trappist monk,
+some Jewish merchants, two Cocottes, returning to their unit, the third
+Hussars, and a photographer from Orleansville.
+
+No matter how charming and varied the company, Tartarin did not feel
+like chatting and remained silent, his arm hooked into the arm-strap and
+his weaponry between his knees.... His hurried departure, the dark eyes
+of Baia, the dangerous chase on which he was about to engage, these
+thoughts troubled his mind, and also there was something about this
+venerable stage-coach, now domiciled in Africa, which recalled to him
+vaguely the Tarascon of his youth. Trips to the country. Dinners by the
+banks of the Rhone, a host of memories.
+
+Little by little it grew dark. The guard lit the lanterns. The old coach
+swayed and squeaked on its worn springs. The horses trotted, the bells
+on their harness jingling, and from time to time there sounded the clash
+of ironmongery from Tartarin's arms chest on the top of the coach.
+
+Sleepily Tartarin contemplated his fellow passengers as they danced
+before his eyes, shaken by the jolting of the coach, then his eyes
+closed and he heard no more, except vaguely, the rumble of the axles and
+the groaning of the coach sides....
+
+Suddenly an ancient female voice, rough, hoarse and cracked, called the
+Tarasconais by name: "Monsieur Tartarin!... Monsieur Tartarin!" "Who is
+calling me?" "It is I, Monsieur Tartarin, don't you recognise me?... I
+am the stage-coach which once ran... it is now twenty years ago... the
+service from Tarascon to Nimes.... How many times have I carried you
+and your friends when you went hat shooting over by Joncquieres or
+Bellegarde... I didn't recognise you at first because of your bonnet and
+the amount of weight you have put on, but as soon as you began to snore,
+you old rascal, I knew you right away." "Bon!... Bon!" Replied Tartarin,
+somewhat vexed, but then softening, he added: "But now, my poor old
+lady, what are you doing here?" "Ah! My dear M. Tartarin, I did not come
+here of my own free will I can promise you. Once the railway reached
+Beaucaire no one could find a use for me so I was shipped off to
+Africa... and I am not the only one, nearly all the stage-coaches in
+France have been deported like me; we were found too old fashioned and
+now here we all are, leading a life of slavery." Here the old coach gave
+a long sigh, then she went on: "I can't tell you monsieur Tartarin how
+much I miss my lovely Tarascon. These were good times for me, the time
+of my youth. You should have seen me leaving in the morning, freshly
+washed and polished, with new varnish on my wheels, my lamps shining
+like suns and my tarpaulin newly dressed with oil. How grand it was
+when the postillion cracked his whip and sang out, 'Lagadigadeou, la
+Tarasque, la Tarasque' and the guard, with his ticket-punch slung on its
+bandolier and his braided cap tipped over one ear, chucked his little
+yapping dog onto the tarpaulin of the coach-roof and scrambled up
+himself crying 'Let's go!... Let's go!' Then my four horses would start
+off with a jingle of bells, barking and fanfares. Windows would open and
+all Tarascon would watch with pride the stage-coach setting off along
+the king's highway.
+
+"What a fine road it was, Monsieur Tartarin, wide and well kept, with
+its kilometre markers, its heaps of roadmender's stones at regular
+intervals, and to right and left vinyards and pretty groves of olive
+trees. Then inns every few yards, post-houses every five minutes... and
+my travellers! What fine folk!... Mayors and cures going to Nimes to see
+their Prefect or Bishop, honest workmen, students on holiday, peasants
+in embroidered smocks, all freshly shaved that morning, and up on top,
+all of you hat shooters, who were always in such good form and who sang
+so well to the stars as we returned home in the evening.
+
+"Now it is a different story... God knows the sort of people I carry. A
+load of miscreants from goodness knows where, who infest me with vermin.
+Negroes, Bedouins, rascals and adventurers from every country, colonists
+who stink me out with their pipes, and all of them talking a language
+which even our Heavenly Father couldn't understand.... And then you
+see how they treat me. Never brushed. Never washed. They grudge me the
+grease for my axles, and instead of the fine big, quiet horses which I
+used to have, they give me little Arab horses which have the devil in
+them, fighting, biting, dancing about and running like goats, breaking
+my shafts with kicks. Aie!... Aie! They are at it again now.... And the
+roads! It's still all right here, because we are near Government House,
+but out there, nothing! No road of any sort. One goes as best one can
+over hill and dale through dwarf palms and mastic trees. Not a single
+fixed stop. One pulls up at wherever the guard fancies, sometimes at one
+farm, sometimes at another. Sometimes this rogue takes me on a detour of
+two leagues just so that he can go and drink with a friend. After that
+it's 'Whip up postillion, we must make up for lost time.' The sun burns.
+The dust chokes... Whip!... Whip! We crash. We tip over.
+More whip. We swim across rivers, we are cold, soaked and half
+drowned... Whip!... Whip!... Whip! Then in the evening, dripping wet...
+that's good for me at my age... I have to bed down in the yard of some
+caravan halt, exposed to all the winds. At night jackals and hyenas
+come to sniff at my lockers and creatures which fear the dawn hide in
+my compartments. That's the life I lead, monsieur Tartarin, and I shall
+lead until the day when, scorched by sun and rotted by humid nights, I
+shall fall at some corner of this beastly road, where Arabs will boil
+their cous-cous on the remains of my old carcase."
+
+"Blidah!... Blidah!" Shouted the guard, opening the coach door.
+
+
+
+
+Chapter 25.
+
+Indistinctly, through the steamed up windows, Tartarin could see the
+pretty square of a neatly laid out little township, surrounded by
+arcades and planted with orange trees, in the centre of which a group of
+soldiers was drilling in the thin, pink haze of early morning. The cafes
+were taking down their shutters, in one corner a vegetable market was
+under way. It was charming, but in no way did it suggest lions. "To the
+south, further to the south." Murmured Tartarin, settling back in his
+corner.
+
+At that moment the coach door was opened, letting in a gust of fresh
+air, which bore on its wings, amongst the scent of orange blossom,
+a very small gentleman in a brown overcoat. Neat, elderly, thin and
+wrinkled, with a face no bigger than a fist, a silk cravat five fingers
+high, a leather brief-case and an umbrella. The perfect image of a
+village notary. On seeing Tartarin's weaponry, the little gentleman, who
+was seated opposite him, looked very surprised, and began to stare at
+our hero.
+
+The horses were changed and the coach set off... the little gentleman
+continued to stare. At length Tartarin became offended and staring in
+his turn at the little gentleman he asked "Do you find this surprising?"
+
+"Not at all, but it does rather get in the way." Was the reply, and
+the fact is that with his tent, his revolver, his two rifles and their
+covers, not to mention his natural corpulence, Tartarin de Tarascon did
+take up quite a lot of space.
+
+This reply from the little gentleman annoyed Tartarin, "Do you suppose
+that I would go after lions with an umbrella?" Asked the great man
+proudly. The little gentleman looked at his umbrella, smiled and
+and asked calmly, "You monsieur are...?" "Tartarin de Tarascon, lion
+hunter." And in pronouncing these words the brave Tartarin shook the
+tassel of his chechia as if it were a mane.
+
+In the coach there was a startled response. The Trappist crossed
+himself, the Cocottes uttered little squeaks of excitement and the
+photographer edged closer to the lion killer, thinking that he might be
+a good subject for a picture. The little gentleman was not in the least
+disturbed. "Have you killed many lions, Monsieur Tartarin?" He asked
+quietly. Tartarin adopted a lofty air, "Yes many of them. More than you
+have hairs on your head." And all the passengers laughed at the sight
+of the three or four yellow hairs which sprouted from the little
+gentleman's scalp.
+
+The photographer then spoke up, "A terrible profession yours, Monsieur
+Tartarin, you must have moments of danger sometimes like that brave
+M. Bombonnel." "Ah!... yes... M. Bombonnel, the man who hunts panthers."
+Said Tartarin, with some disdain. "Do you know him?" Asked the little
+gentleman. "Ti!... Pardi!... To be sure I know him, we have hunted
+together more than twenty times." "You hunt panthers also M. Tartarin?"
+"Occasionally, as a pastime." Said Tartarin casually, and raising his
+head with a heroic gesture which went straight to the hearts of the two
+Cocottes, he added "They cannot be compared to lions." "One could say,"
+Hazarded the photographer, "That a panther is no more than a large
+pussy-cat." "Quite right." Said Tartarin, who was not reluctant to lower
+the reputation of this M. Bombonnel, particularly in front of the ladies.
+
+At this moment the coach stopped. The guard came to open the door and
+he addressed the little old man, "This is where you want to get off
+Monsieur." He said very respectfully.
+
+The little gentleman got up to leave, but before he closed the door
+he said "Would you permit me to give you a word of advice M. Tartarin?"
+"What is that Monsieur?" "Go back quickly to Tarascon, M. Tartarin, you
+are wasting your time here... There are a few panthers left in Algeria,
+but, fi donc! They are too small a quarry for you... as for lions, they
+are finished. There are no more in Algeria, my friend Chassaing has just
+killed the last one."
+
+On that the little gentleman saluted, closed the door and went off,
+laughing, with his brief-case and umbrella. "Guard!" Said Tartarin,
+making his grimace. "Who on earth was that fellow?" "What! Don't you
+know him?" Said the guard, "That's Monsieur Bombonnel!"
+
+
+
+
+Chapter 26.
+
+When the coach reached Milianah Tartarin got out and left it to continue
+its journey to the south. Two days of being bumped about and nights
+spent peering out of the window in the hope of seeing the outline of a
+lion in the fields lining the road, had earned a little rest; and then
+it must be admitted that after the misadventure over M. Bombonnel,
+Tartarin, in spite of his weapons, his terrible grimace and his
+red chechia, had not felt entirely at ease in the presence of the
+photographer and the two ladies of the third Hussars.
+
+He made his way along the wide streets of Milianah, full of handsome
+trees and fountains, but while he looked for a convenient hotel, he
+could not prevent himself from mulling over the words of M. Bombonnel.
+What if it were true... what if there were no more lions in Algeria? What
+then was the point of all this travel and all these discomforts?
+
+Suddenly at a bend in the road our hero was confronted by a remarkable
+spectacle. He found himself face to face with--believe it or not--a
+superb lion which was seated regally at the door of a cafe, Its mane
+tawny in the sunshine.
+
+"Who says there are no more lions?" Cried Tartarin, jumping back. On
+hearing this exclamation the lion lowered its head, and taking in
+its jaws the wooden begging bowl which lay on the pavement before it,
+extended it humbly in the direction of Tartarin, who was paralyzed by
+astonishment... a passing Arab tossed in a few coppers. Then Tartarin
+understood. He saw what his surprise had at first prevented him from
+seeing, a crowd of people which was gathered round the poor tame lion,
+which was blind, and the two big negroes, armed with cudgels, who led it
+about the town.
+
+Tartarin's blood boiled. "Wretches!" He cried "To debase this noble
+creature!" And running to the lion he snatched the sordid begging bowl
+from the royal jaws.... The two negroes, believing they were dealing
+with a thief, threw themselves on Tartarin with raised cudgels. It was
+a terrible set-to. Women were screeching children laughing there were
+calls for the police and the lion in its darkness joined in with a
+fearsome roar. The unhappy Tartarin after a desperate struggle, rolled
+on the ground among copper coins and road sweepings.
+
+At this moment a man pushed through the crowd. He dismissed the negroes
+with a word and the women and children with a gesture. He helped
+Tartarin to his feet, brushed him down and seated him, out of breath,
+on a bollard. "Good heavens... prince... Is it really you?" Said Tartarin,
+rubbing his ribs. "Indeed yes my valiant friend... it is I. As soon as
+I received your letter I confided Baia to her brother, hired a
+post-chaise, came fifty leagues flat out and here I am just in time to
+save you from the brutality of these louts.... For God's sake what have
+you been doing to get yourself dragged into a mess like this?" "What
+could you expect me to do, prince, when I saw this unfortunate lion with
+the begging bowl in its teeth, humiliated, enslaved, ridiculed, serving
+as a laughing stock for this unsavoury rabble...?" "But you are mistaken
+my noble friend." Said the prince, "This lion on the contrary is an
+object of respect and adoration. It is a sacred beast, a member of
+a great convent of lions founded three centuries ago by
+Mahommed-ben-Aouda, a sort of wild fierce monastry where strange monks
+rear and tame hundreds of lions and send them throughout all north
+Africa, accompanied by mendicant brothers. The alms which these brothers
+receive serve to maintain the monastry and its mosque, and if those two
+negroes were in such a rage just now, it is because they are convinced
+that if one sou, one single sou, of their takings is lost through any
+fault of theirs, the lion which that are leading will immediately devour
+them."
+
+On hearing this unlikely but plausible tale, Tartarin recovered his
+spirits. "It seems evident after all," He said "That in spite of what M.
+Bombonnel said, there are still lions in Algeria." "To be sure there are,"
+said the prince, "And tomorrow we shall begin to search the plains by
+the river Cheliff and you shall see." "What!... prince. Do you mean to
+join in the hunt yourself?" "Of course" Said the prince "Do you think I
+would leave you to wander alone in the middle of Africa, among all those
+savage tribes, of whose language and customs you know nothing? No! No!
+My dear Tartarin. I shall not leave you again. Wherever you go I shall
+accompany you." "Oh!... prince!... prince!" And Tartarin clasped the
+valiant Gregory in a warm embrace.
+
+
+
+
+Chapter 27.
+
+Very early the next morning the intrepid Tartarin and the no less
+intrepid prince Gregory, followed by half a dozen negro porters, left
+Milianah and descended towards the plain of the Chetiff by a steep
+pathway, delightfully shaded by jasmine, carobs and wild olives, between
+the hedges of little native gardens where a thousand bubbling springs
+trickled melodiously from rock to rock, a veritable Eden.
+
+Carrying as much in the way of arms as the great Tartarin, the prince
+was further adorned by a magnificent and colourful kepi, covered with
+gold braid and decorated with oak leaves embroidered in silver thread,
+which gave his highness the appearance of a Mexican General, or a
+Middle-European Station-Master. This fantastic kepi greatly intrigued
+Tartarin and he asked humbly for an explanation.
+
+"An indispensable form of headgear for the traveller in Africa." The
+prince replied gravely; and while polishing the peak on his coat-sleeve
+he instructed his innocent companion on the important role played by the
+kepi in colonial administration, and the deference which its appearance
+inspires. This to such an extent that the government has been obliged
+to issue kepis to everyone from the canteen worker to the
+registrar-general. In fact, according to the prince, to govern the
+country there was no necessity for an elaborate regime. All that was
+needed was a fine gold-braided kepi glittering on the end of a big
+stick.
+
+Thus conversing and philosophising, they went there way. The bare-footed
+porters leapt from rock to rock, shouting and chattering. The armaments
+rattled in their case. The guns glittered in the sun.. The locals who
+passed bowed deeply before the magical kepi.... Up on the ramparts of
+Milianah, the chief of the Arab bureau, who was walking with his lady in
+the cool of the morning, hearing these unusual noises and seeing between
+the branches the flash of sunlight on the weapons, feared a surprise
+attack; whereupon he lowered the portcullis, beat the alarm and put the
+town in a state of siege.
+
+This was a good start to the expedition. Regrettably, before the end of
+the day, the situation deteriorated. One of the negroes was taken with
+the most fearful colic, having eaten the plasters in the medicine
+chest. Another fell, dead drunk, by the wayside, as a result of swigging
+spirits of camphor. A third, in charge of the log-book, deceived by the
+gold lettering on the cover, thought he had hold of the treasures of
+Mecca and made off with it at top speed.... Clearly some planning was
+needed, so the party halted and took council in the shade of an old fig
+tree. "In my opinion" Said the prince, trying unsuccessfully to dissolve
+a tablet of pemmican in a cooking pot, "In my opinion, after this
+evening we should get rid of these negro porters. There is an Arab
+market near here and our best plan would be to go there and buy some
+bourriquots." "No!... No!... No bourriquots!" Interrupted Tartarin, who
+had become very red at the memory of Noiraud, adding hypocritically,
+"How can these little creatures carry all our equipment?"
+
+The prince smiled, "You are mistaken my illustrious friend," He said,
+"The bourriquot may seem to you a poor weak creature, but it has a great
+heart... It needs it to support all it has to bear... ask the Arabs. This
+is their idea of our administration. On top they say, is the governor
+with a big stick which he uses to thump his staff. The staff in turn
+thump the soldiers. The soldiers thump the colonist. The colonist thumps
+the Arab, the Arab the negro, and the Negro thumps the bourriquot. The
+poor little bourriquot having no one to thump, bares its back and puts
+up with it. So you can see it is well able to carry all our gear."
+
+"That's all very well." Replied Tartarin, "But I don't think that
+donkeys add much colour to the general appearance of our caravan. Now if
+we could have a camel...!"
+
+"Just as you wish." Said his highness, and they set off for the market.
+
+The market was held some distance away on the bank of the Cheliff.
+There were five or six thousand Arabs milling around in the sun, trading
+noisily among piles of olives, pots of honey, sacks of spices and heaps
+of cigars. There were fires at which whole sheep were roasting, dripping
+with butter. There were open air butcheries where almost naked negroes,
+their feet paddling in blood and their arms red to the elbow, were
+cutting up the carcases of goats hanging from hooks... In one corner, in
+a tent repaired in a thousand different colours, was a Moorish official
+with a big book and spectacles. Over there is a crowd. There are cries
+of rage. It is a roulette game that has been set up on a corn bin and
+the tribesmen gathered about it have started fighting with knives.
+Elsewhere, there are cheers, laughter and stamping of feet, a
+merchant and his mule have fallen into the river and are in danger of
+drowning.... There are scorpions, crows, dogs and flies, millions of
+flies, but no camels.
+
+Eventually a camel was discovered which some nomads were trying to
+dispose of. This was a real desert camel, with little hair, a sad
+expression and a hump which through long shortage of fodder hung
+flaccidly to one side. Tartarin was so taken with it that he wanted the
+two partners to be mounted. This proved to be a mistake.
+
+The camel knelt, the trunks were strapped on, the prince installed
+himself on the creature's neck and Tartarin was hoisted up to the top of
+the hump, between two cases, from where he proudly saluted the assembled
+market and gave the signal for departure.... Heavens above!.... If only
+Tarascon could see him now!
+
+The camel rose, stretched out its long legs and took off. Calamity! The
+camel pitched and rolled like a frigate in a rough sea and the chechia
+responded to the motion as it had on the Zouave. "Prince... prince"
+Murmured Tartarin, ashen-faced, and clutching the scanty hair of the
+hump, "Prince... let us get down, I feel... I feel I am going to disgrace
+France." But the camel was in full flight and nothing was going to
+stop it. Four thousand Arabs were running behind, bare-footed, waving,
+laughing like idiots, six hundred thousand white teeth glistening in
+the sun.... The great man of Tarascon had to resign himself to the
+inevitable, and France was disgraced.
+
+
+
+
+Chapter 28.
+
+Despite the picturesque nature of their new mode of transport our lion
+hunters were forced to dismount, out of regard for the chechia. They
+continued their journey as before, on foot, and the caravan proceeded
+tranquilly toward the south with Tartarin in front, the prince in the
+rear and between them the camel with the baggage.
+
+The expedition lasted for a month. For a whole month, Tartarin, hunting
+for non-existent lions, wandered from village to village in the immense
+plain of the Chetiff, across this extraordinary, cock-eyed French
+Algeria, where the perfumes of ancient Araby are mingled with a powerful
+stink of Absinthe and barrack-room; Abraham and Zouzou combined, a
+strange mixture like a page of the Old Testament rewritten by Sergeant
+Le Ramee or Corporal Pitou.... A curious spectacle for those who would
+care to look.... A savage and decadent people whom we are civilising
+by giving them our own vices. The cruel and uncontrolled authority of
+Pashas, inflated with self-importance in their cordons of the legion of
+honour, who at their whim have people beaten on the soles of their feet.
+The so-called justice of bespectacled Cadis, traitors to the koran and
+to the law, who sell their judgements as did Esau his birthright for
+a plate of cous-cous. Drunken and libertine headmen, former batmen to
+General Yussif someone or other, who guzzle champagne in the company of
+harlots, and indulge in feasts of roast mutton, while before their tents
+the whole tribe is starving and disputes with the dogs the leavings of
+the seigniorial banquet.
+
+Then, all around, uncultivated plain. Scorched grass. Bushes bare of
+leaves. Scrub. Cactus. Mastic trees... The granary of France?... A granary
+empty of grain and rich only in jackals and bugs. Abandoned villages.
+Bewildered tribesfolk who run they know not where, fleeing from famine
+and sowing corpses along the road. Here and there a French settlement,
+the houses dilapidated, the fields untilled and raging hordes of locusts
+who eat the very curtains from the windows, while the colonists are all
+in cafes, drinking absinthe and discussing projects for the reform of
+the constitution.
+
+That is what Tartarin could have seen, if he had taken the trouble, but
+obsessed with his fantasy the man from Tarascon marched straight ahead,
+his vision limited to searching for these monstrous felines, of which
+there was no trace.
+
+Since the bivouac tent obstinately refused to open and the pemmican
+tablets to dissolve, the hunting party was compelled to stop daily at
+tribal villages. Everywhere, thanks to the prince's kepi, they were
+received with open arms. They were lodged by chieftains in strange
+palaces, great white buildings without windows, where were piled up
+hookahs and mahogany commodes, Smyrna carpets and adjustable oil lamps,
+cedar-wood chests full of Turkish sequins and clocks decorated in the
+style of Louis Phillipe. Everywhere Tartarin was treated to fetes and
+official receptions. In his honour whole villages turned out, firing
+volleys in the air, their burnous gleaming in the sun: after which the
+good chieftain would come to present the bill.
+
+Nowhere, however, were there any more lions than there are on the Pont
+Neuf in Paris: but Tartarin was not discouraged, he pushed bravely on to
+the south. His days were spent scouring the scrub, rummaging among the
+dwarf palms with the end of his carbine and going "Frt!... Frt!" At each
+bush... Then every evening a stand-to of two or three hours... A wasted
+effort. No lions appeared.
+
+One evening, however, at about six o'clock, as they were going through
+a wood of mastic trees, where fat quail, made lazy by the heat were
+jumping up from the grass, Tartarin thought he heard... but so far
+off... so distorted by the wind... so faint, the wonderful roar which
+he had heard so many times back home in Tarascon, behind the menagerie
+Mitaine.
+
+At first he thought he had imagined it, but in a moment, still far
+distant, but now more distinct, the roaring began again, and this time
+one could hear, all around, the barking of village dogs; while, stricken
+by terror and rattling the boxes of arms and preserves, the camel's hump
+trembled. There could be no more doubt.... It was a lion! Quick!... Quick!
+Into position! Not a moment to lose!
+
+There was, close by them, an old Marabout (the tomb of a holy man) with
+a white dome: the big yellow slippers of the deceased lying in a recess
+above the door, together with a bizarre jumble of votive offerings which
+hung along the walls: fragments of burnous, some gold thread, a tuft
+of red hair. There Tartarin installed the prince and the camel,
+and prepared to look for a hide. He was determined to face the lion
+single-handed, so he earnestly requested His Highness not to leave the
+spot, and for safe keeping he handed to him his wallet, a fat wallet
+stuffed with valuable papers and banknotes. This done our hero sought
+his post.
+
+About a hundred yards in front of the Marabout, on the banks of an
+almost dry river, a clump of oleanders stirred in the faint twilight
+breeze, and it was there that Tartarin concealed himself in ambush,
+kneeling on one knee, in what he felt was an appropriate position, his
+rifle in his hands and his big hunting knife stuck into the sandy soil
+of the river bank in front of him.
+
+Night was falling. The rosy daylight turned to violet and then to
+a sombre blue.... Below, amongst the stones of the river bed, there
+glistened like a hand-mirror a little pool of clear water: a drinking
+place for the wild animals. On the slope of the opposite bank one could
+see indistinctly the path which they had made through the trees: a view
+which Tartarin found a bit unnerving. Add to this the vague noises of
+the African night, the rustle of branches, the thin yapping of jackals,
+and in the sky a flock of cranes passing with cries like children being
+murdered. You must admit that this could be unsettling, and Tartarin was
+unsettled, he was even very unsettled! His teeth chattered and the rifle
+shook in his hands; well... there are evenings when one is not at one's
+best, and where would be the merit if heroes were never afraid?
+
+Tartarin was, admittedly, afraid, but in spite of his fear he held on
+for an hour... two hours, but heroism has its breaking point. In the dry
+river bed, close to him, Tartarin heard the sound of footsteps rattling
+the pebbles. Terror overtook him. He rose to his feet, fired both
+barrels blindly into the night and ran at top speed to the Marabout,
+leaving his knife stuck in the ground as a memorial to the most
+overwhelming panic that ever affected a hero.
+
+"A moi! prince!... A Moi!... The lion!"... There was no answer.
+"Prince!... prince! Are you there?".... The prince was not there. Against
+the white wall of the Marabout was only the silhouette of the worthy
+camel's hump. The prince Gregory had disappeared, taking with him the
+wallet and the banknotes. His highness had been waiting for a month for
+such an opportunity.
+
+
+
+
+Chapter 29.
+
+The day after this adventurous yet tragic evening, when at first light
+our hero awoke and realised that the prince and his money had gone and
+would not return; when he saw himself alone in this little white tomb,
+betrayed, robbed and abandoned in the middle of savage Algeria with a
+one-humped camel and some loose change as his total resources, for the
+first time some misgivings entered his mind. He began to have doubts
+about Montenegro, about friendship, fame and even lions. Overcome by
+misery he shed bitter tears.
+
+While he was sitting disconsolately at the door of the Marabout with his
+head in his hands, his rifle between his knees and watched over by
+the camel... behold! The undergrowth opposite was thrust aside and the
+thunderstruck Tartarin saw not ten paces away a gigantic lion, which
+advanced towards him uttering roars which shook the ragged offerings on
+the wall of the Marabout and even the slippers of the holy man in their
+recess. Only Tartarin remained unshaken. "At last!" He cried, jumping
+to his feet with his rifle butt to his shoulder... Pan!... Pan!...
+Pft!... Pft!... The lion had two explosive bullets in its head!
+Fragments of lion erupted like fireworks into the burning African sky,
+and as they fell to earth, Tartarin saw two furious negroes, who ran
+towards him with raised cudgels. The two negroes of Milianah... Oh!
+Misere!... It was the the tame lion, the poor blind lion of the convent
+of Mahommed that the bullets of the Tarasconais had felled.
+
+This time Tartarin had the narrowest of escapes. Drunk with fanatical
+fury, the two negro mendicants would surely have had him in pieces had
+not the God of the Christians sent him a Guardian Angel in the shape
+of the District Police Officer from Orleansville, who arrived down the
+pathway, his sabre tucked under his arm, at that very moment. The
+sight of the municipal kepi had an immediate calming effect on the two
+negroes. Stern and majestic the representative of the law took down the
+particulars of the affair, had the remains of the lion loaded onto
+the camel, and ordered the plaintiff and the accused to follow him to
+Orleansville, where the whole matter was placed in the hands of the
+legal authorities.
+
+There then commenced a long and involved process. After the tribal
+Algeria in which he had been wandering, Tartarin now made the
+acquaintance of the no less peculiar and cock-eyed Algeria of the towns:
+litigious and legalistic. He encountered a sleazy justicary who stitched
+up shady deals in the back rooms of cafes. The Bohemian society of the
+gentlemen of the law; dossiers which stank of absinthe, white cravats
+speckled with drink and coffee stains. He was embroiled with ushers,
+solicitors, and business agents, all the locusts of officialdom, thin
+and ravenous, who strip the colonist down to his boots and leave him
+shorn leaf by leaf like a stalk of maize.
+
+The first essential point to be decided was whether the lion had been
+killed on civil or military territory. In the first case Tartarin
+would come before a civil tribunal, in the second he would be tried by
+court-martial: at the word court-martial Tartarin imagined himself
+lying shot at the foot of the ramparts, or crouching in the depths of
+a dungeon... A major difficulty was that the delimitation of these two
+areas was extremely vague, but at last, after months of consultation,
+intrigue, and vigils in the sun outside the offices of the Arab Bureau,
+it was established that on the one hand the lion was, when killed, on
+military ground, but on the other hand that Tartarin when he fired the
+fatal shot was in civilian territory. The affair was therefore a civil
+matter, and Tartarin was freed on the payment of an indemnity of two
+thousand five hundred francs, not including costs.
+
+How was this to be paid? The little money left after the prince's
+defection had long since gone on legal documents and judicial absinthe.
+The unfortunate lion killer was now reduced to selling off his armament
+rifle by rifle. He sold the daggers, the knives and coshes. A grocer
+bought the preserved food, a chemist what was left of the medicine
+chest. Even the boots went, with the bivouac tent, into the hands of
+a merchant of bric-a-brac. Once everything had been paid, Tartarin
+was left with little but the lion-skin and the camel. The lion-skin he
+packed up carefully and despatched to Tarascon, to the address of the
+brave Commandant Bravida. As for the camel, he counted on it to get him
+back to Algiers: not by riding it, but by selling it to raise the fare
+for the stage-coach, which was at least better than camel-back. Sadly
+the camel proved a difficult market, and no one offered to buy it at any
+price.
+
+Tartarin was determined to get back to Algiers, even if it meant
+walking. He longed to see once more Baia's blue corslet, his house, his
+fountain and to rest on the white tiles of his his little cloister while
+he awaited money to be sent from France. In these circumstances
+the camel did not desert him. This strange animal had developed an
+inexplicable affection for its master, and seeing him set out from
+Orleansville it followed him faithfully, regulating its pace to his and
+not quitting him by as much as a footstep.
+
+At first Tartarin found it touching. This fidelity, this unshakable
+devotion seemed wholly admirable; besides which the beast was no trouble
+and was able to find its own food. However, after a few days Tartarin
+grew tired of having perpetually at his heels this melancholy companion,
+who reminded him of all his misadventures. He began to be irritated.
+He took a dislike to its air of sadness to its hump and its haughty
+bearing. In he end he became so exasperated with it that his only wish
+was to be rid of it; but the camel would not be dismissed. Tartarin
+tried to lose it, but the camel always found him. He tried running
+away, but the camel could run faster. He shouted "Clear off!" and threw
+stones: the camel stopped and regarded him with a mournful expression,
+then after a few moments it resumed its pace and caught up with him.
+Tartarin had to resign himself to its company.
+
+When, after eight days of walking, Tartarin, tired and dusty, saw
+gleaming in the distance the white terraces of Algiers, when he found
+himself on the outskirts of the town, on the bustling Mustapha road,
+amid the crowds who watched him go by with the camel in attendance, his
+patience snapped, and taking advantage of some traffic congestion he
+ducked into a field and hid in a ditch. In a few moments he saw above
+his head, on the causeway, the camel striding along rapidly, its neck
+anxiously extended. Greatly relieved to be rid of it, Tartarin entered
+the town by a side road which ran along by the wall of his house.
+
+On his arrival at his Moorish house, Tartarin halted in astonishment. The
+day was ending, the streets deserted. Through the low arched doorway,
+which the negress had forgotten to close, could be heard laughter, the
+clinking of glasses, the popping of a champagne cork and the cheerful
+voice of a woman singing loud and clear:
+
+"Aimes-tu Marco la belle,
+
+"La danse aux salons en fleurs..."
+
+"Tron de Diou!" Said Tartarin, blenching, and he rushed into the
+courtyard.
+
+Unhappy Tartarin! What a spectacle awaited him!.... Amid bottles,
+pastries, scattered cushions, tambourine, guitar, and hookah, Baia
+stood, without her blue jacket or her corslet, dressed only in a silver
+gauze blouse and big pink pantaloons, singing "Marco la belle" with a
+naval officer's hat tipped over one ear... while on a rug at her
+feet surfeited with love and confitures, was Barbassou, the infamous
+Barbassou, roaring with laughter as he listened to her.
+
+The arrival of Tartarin, haggard, thin, covered in dust, with blazing
+eyes and bristling chechia cut short this enjoyable Turco-Marseillaise
+orgy. Baia uttered a little cry, and like a startled leveret she bolted
+into the house, but Barbassou was not in the least put out and laughed
+more than ever: "He!... He!... Monsieur Tartarin. What did I tell you? You
+can hear that she knows French all right."
+
+Tartarin advanced, furious: "Captain!.." He began; but then, leaning
+over the balcony with a rather vulgar gesture, Baia threw down a few
+well-chosen words. Tartarin, deflated, sat down on a drum, his Moor
+spoke in the argot of the Marseilles back-streets.
+
+"When I warned you not to trust Algerian women," Said Captain Barbassou
+sententiously, "The same applied to your Montenegrin prince." Tartarin
+looked up, "Do you know where the prince is?" he asked.
+
+"Oh, he is not far away. He will spend the next five years in the
+fine prison at Mustapha. The clown was foolish enough to be caught
+stealing... and anyway this is not the first time His Highness has been
+inside, he has already done three years in gaol somewhere, and... hang
+on!... I believe it was in Tarascon!
+
+"In Tarascon!" Cried Tartarin, suddenly enlightened, "that is why I never
+saw him there. All he knew of Tarascon was what he could see from a cell
+window."
+
+"He!... without a doubt.... Ah! My poor M. Tartarin, you have to keep both
+eyes wide open in this devilish country if you don't want to be taken
+in. Like that business of the Muezzin."
+
+"What business?... What Muezzin?"
+
+"Ti!... Pardi!" The Muezzin opposite, who was courting Baia; all Algiers
+knew about it. Not all the prayers he was chanting were addressed
+to Allah, some were directed to the little one, and he was making
+propositions under your nose. "It seems that everyone in this beastly
+country is a crook", Wailed the unhappy Tartarin. Barbassou shrugged his
+shoulders, "My dear fellow, you know how it is. All these sort of places
+are the same. If you take my advice you will go back to Tarascon as
+quickly as possible."
+
+"That's easy to say, but what am I to do for money? Don't you know how
+they robbed me out there in the desert?"
+
+"Don't worry about that," laughed the Captain, "the Zouave is leaving
+tomorrow and I'll take you back if you want... does that suit you,
+colleague?... All right... Good! There's only one thing left to do, there
+is still some champagne and some pastries left. Come, sit down and let
+bygones be bygones." After a little delay which his dignity required,
+our hero accepted the offer. They sat down and poured out a drink.
+Hearing the clink of glasses, Baia came down and finished singing Marco
+la Belle, and the party went on until late in the night.
+
+
+
+
+Chapter 30.
+
+It is mid-day. The Zouave has steam up and is ready to depart. Up
+above on the balcony of the cafe Valentin, a group of officers aim the
+telescope, and come one by one, in order of seniority, to look at
+the lucky little ship which is going to France. It is the principle
+entertainment of the general staff. Down below, the water of the
+anchorage sparkles.... The breeches of the old Turkish cannons, mounted
+along the quay, glisten in the sunshine.... Passengers arrive.... Baggage
+is loaded onto tenders.
+
+Tartarin does not have any baggage. He comes down from the Rue de
+la Marine by the little market, full of bananas and water-melons,
+accompanied by his friend Captain Barbassou.
+
+Tartarin de Tarascon has left on the Moorish shore his arms, his
+equipment and his illusions, and is preparing to sail back to Tarascon
+with nothing in his pockets but his hands. Scarcely, however, had he set
+foot in the captain's launch, when a breathless creature scrambled down
+from the square above and galloped towards him. It was the camel, the
+faithful camel, which for twenty-four hours had been searching for its
+master.
+
+When Tartarin saw it, he changed colour and pretended not to know it;
+but the camel was insistent. It frisked along the quay. It called to its
+friend and regarded him with tender looks. "Take me away!" Its sad eyes
+seemed to say, "Take me away with you, far away from this mock Arabia,
+this ridiculous Orient, full of locomotives and stage coaches, where I
+as a second-class dromadary do not know what will become of me. You are
+the last Teur, I am the last camel, let us never part, Oh my Tartarin!"
+"Is that your camel?" Asked the Captain.
+
+"No!... No!... Not mine." Replied Tartarin, who trembled at the thought of
+entering Tarascon with this absurd escort; and shamelessly repudiating
+the companion of his misfortunes he repelled with his foot the soil of
+Algeria and pushed the boat out from the shore. The camel sniffed at the
+water, flexed its joints and leapt headlong in behind the boat, where it
+swam in convoy toward the Zouave, its hump floating on the water like a
+gourd and it neck lying on the surface like the ram of a trireme.
+
+The boat and the camel came alongside the Zouave at the same time. "I
+don't know what I should do about this dromadary." Said the captain, "I
+think I'll take it on board and present it to the zoo at Marseille, I
+can't just leave it here." So by means of block and tackle the wet camel
+was hoisted onto the deck of the Zouave, which then set sail.
+
+Tartarin spent most of the time in his cabin. Not that the sea was
+rough or that the chechia had to much to suffer, but because whenever
+he appeared on the deck the camel made such a ridiculous fuss of its
+master. You never saw a camel so attached to anyone as this.
+
+Hour by hour, when he looked through the porthole, Tartarin could see
+the Algerian sky turn paler, until one morning, in a silvery mist, he
+heard to his delight the bells of Marseilles. The Zouave had arrived.
+
+Our man, who had no baggage, disembarked without a word and hurried
+across Marseilles, fearing all the time that he might be followed by
+the camel, and he did not breathe easily until he was seated in a
+third-class railway carriage, on his way to Tarascon... a false sense of
+security. They had not gone far from Marseilles when heads appeared at
+windows and there were cries of astonishment, Tartarin looked out in
+turn and what did he see but the inescapable camel coming down the line
+behind the train with a remarkable turn of speed.
+
+Tartarin resumed his seat and closed his eyes. After this disastrous
+expedition he had counted on getting back home unrecognised, but the
+presence of this confounded camel made it impossible. What a return
+to make, Bon Dieu!... No money... No lions... Nothing but a camel!....
+"Tarascon!... Tarascon!"... It was time to get out.
+
+To Tartarin's utter astonishment, the heroic chechia had barely
+appeared in the doorway, when it was greeted by a great cry of "Vive
+Tartarin!... Vive Tartarin!" Which shook the glass vault of the station
+roof. "Vive Tartarin!... Hurrah for the lion killer!" Then came fanfares
+and a choir. Tartarin could have died, he thought this was a hoax: but
+no, all Tarascon was there, tossing their hats in the air and shouting
+his praises. There stood the brave Commandant Bravida, Costecalde the
+gunsmith, the President Ladeveze, the chemist and all the noble body of
+hat shooters, who pressed round their chief and carried him all the way
+down the steps.
+
+How remarkable are the effects of the "mirage". The skin of the blind
+lion sent to the Commandant was the cause of all this tumult. At the
+sight of this modest trophy, displayed at the club, Tarascon and beyond
+Tarascon the whole of the Midi had worked themselves into a state of
+excitement. "The Semaphore" had spoken. A complete scenario had been
+invented. This was no longer one lion killed by Tartarin, it was ten
+lions, twenty lions, a whole troop of lions. So Tartarin, when he
+reached Marseilles was already famous, and an enthusiastic telegram had
+warned his home town of his imminent arrival.
+
+The excitement of the populace reached its peak when a fantastic animal,
+covered in dust and sweat, stumbled down the station steps behind our
+hero. For a moment they thought that the Tarasque had returned.
+
+Tartarin reassured his fellow citizens, "It is my camel" He said, and
+already under the influence of the Tarascon sun, that fine sun which
+induces fanciful exaggeration, he stroked the camel's hump and added,
+"It is a noble creature, it saw me kill all my lions." So saying,
+he took the arm of the Commandant, who was blushing with pride, and
+followed by his camel, surrounded by hat shooters and acclaimed by the
+people, he proceeded peacefully toward the little house of the baobab;
+and as he walked along he began the story of his great expedition.
+
+"There was one particular evening," He said, "When I was out in the
+heart of the Sahara..."
+
+
+
+
+
+End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Tartarin de Tarascon, by Alphonse Daudet
+
+*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TARTARIN DE TARASCON ***
+
+***** This file should be named 2375.txt or 2375.zip *****
+This and all associated files of various formats will be found in:
+        http://www.gutenberg.org/2/3/7/2375/
+
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diff --git a/2375.zip b/2375.zip
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diff --git a/README.md b/README.md
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+Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for
+eBook #2375 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/2375)
diff --git a/old/2375-h.htm.2019-08-08 b/old/2375-h.htm.2019-08-08
new file mode 100644
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+++ b/old/2375-h.htm.2019-08-08
@@ -0,0 +1,3687 @@
+<?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 de Tarascon, by A. 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 de 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 de Tarascon
+
+Author: Alphonse Daudet
+
+Translator: Oliver C. Colt
+
+Release Date: March 21, 2006 [EBook #2375]
+Last Updated: October 1, 2016
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: UTF-8
+
+*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TARTARIN DE TARASCON ***
+
+
+
+
+Produced by Oliver C. Colt and David Widger
+
+
+
+
+
+</pre>
+    <p>
+      <br /> <br />
+    </p>
+
+
+
+<table summary="" style="margin-right: auto; margin-left: auto" cellpadding="4" border="3">
+<tr>
+<td>
+THERE IS ANOTHER EDITION OF THIS TITLE WITH LINKED FOOTNOTES WHICH MAY VIEWED AT EBOOK <big><b><a href="https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/10687">
+[# 10687 ]</a></b></big>
+</td>
+</tr>
+</table>
+
+    <h1>
+      TARTARIN DE TARASCON
+    </h1>
+    <p>
+      <br />
+    </p>
+    <h2>
+      By A. Daudet.
+    </h2>
+    <p>
+      <br /> <br />
+    </p>
+    <h3>
+      Translated by Oliver C. Colt.
+    </h3>
+    <p>
+      <br /> <br />
+    </p>
+    <hr />
+    <p>
+      <br /> <br />
+    </p>
+    <blockquote>
+      <p class="toc">
+        <big><b>CONTENTS</b></big>
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        <br />
+      </p>
+      <p class="toc">
+        <a href="#link2H_INTR"> Translator&rsquo;s Introduction. </a>
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        <br />
+      </p>
+      <p class="toc">
+        <a href="#link2H_4_0002"> <big><b>TARTARIN DE TARASCON</b></big> </a>
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        <br />
+      </p>
+      <p class="toc">
+        <a href="#link2HCH0001"> Chapter 1. </a>
+      </p>
+      <p class="toc">
+        <a href="#link2HCH0002"> Chapter 2. </a>
+      </p>
+      <p class="toc">
+        <a href="#link2HCH0003"> Chapter 3. </a>
+      </p>
+      <p class="toc">
+        <a href="#link2HCH0004"> Chapter 4. </a>
+      </p>
+      <p class="toc">
+        <a href="#link2HCH0005"> Chapter 5. </a>
+      </p>
+      <p class="toc">
+        <a href="#link2HCH0006"> Chapter 6. </a>
+      </p>
+      <p class="toc">
+        <a href="#link2HCH0007"> Chapter 7. </a>
+      </p>
+      <p class="toc">
+        <a href="#link2HCH0008"> Chapter 8. </a>
+      </p>
+      <p class="toc">
+        <a href="#link2HCH0009"> Chapter 9. </a>
+      </p>
+      <p class="toc">
+        <a href="#link2HCH0010"> Chapter 10. </a>
+      </p>
+      <p class="toc">
+        <a href="#link2HCH0011"> Chapter 11. </a>
+      </p>
+      <p class="toc">
+        <a href="#link2HCH0012"> Chapter 12. </a>
+      </p>
+      <p class="toc">
+        <a href="#link2HCH0013"> Chapter 13. </a>
+      </p>
+      <p class="toc">
+        <a href="#link2HCH0014"> Chapter 14. </a>
+      </p>
+      <p class="toc">
+        <a href="#link2HCH0015"> Chapter 15. </a>
+      </p>
+      <p class="toc">
+        <a href="#link2HCH0016"> Chapter 16. </a>
+      </p>
+      <p class="toc">
+        <a href="#link2HCH0017"> Chapter 17. </a>
+      </p>
+      <p class="toc">
+        <a href="#link2HCH0018"> Chapter 18. </a>
+      </p>
+      <p class="toc">
+        <a href="#link2HCH0019"> Chapter 19. </a>
+      </p>
+      <p class="toc">
+        <a href="#link2HCH0020"> Chapter 20. </a>
+      </p>
+      <p class="toc">
+        <a href="#link2HCH0021"> Chapter 21. </a>
+      </p>
+      <p class="toc">
+        <a href="#link2HCH0022"> Chapter 22. </a>
+      </p>
+      <p class="toc">
+        <a href="#link2HCH0023"> Chapter 23. </a>
+      </p>
+      <p class="toc">
+        <a href="#link2HCH0024"> Chapter 24. </a>
+      </p>
+      <p class="toc">
+        <a href="#link2HCH0025"> Chapter 25. </a>
+      </p>
+      <p class="toc">
+        <a href="#link2HCH0026"> Chapter 26. </a>
+      </p>
+      <p class="toc">
+        <a href="#link2HCH0027"> Chapter 27. </a>
+      </p>
+      <p class="toc">
+        <a href="#link2HCH0028"> Chapter 28. </a>
+      </p>
+      <p class="toc">
+        <a href="#link2HCH0029"> Chapter 29. </a>
+      </p>
+      <p class="toc">
+        <a href="#link2HCH0030"> Chapter 30. </a>
+      </p>
+    </blockquote>
+    <p>
+      <br /> <br />
+    </p>
+    <hr />
+    <p>
+      <a name="link2H_INTR" id="link2H_INTR">
+      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a> <br /> <br />
+    </p>
+    <h2>
+      Introduction.
+    </h2>
+    <p>
+      The tale of Tartarin de Tarascon was written by Alphonse Daudet in 1872,
+      and was one of the many works which he produced. In it he pokes gentle fun
+      at a type of Frenchman who comes from the Midi, the area where he himself
+      was born. Tartarin has characteristics which may remind the
+      English-speaking reader of Toad of Toad Hall, a boastful braggart, easily
+      deceived, but good-hearted au fond.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      The world he inhabits is, of course, very different from ours. There is no
+      radio or television, the motor car is no more than a plaything for the
+      rich. There is only the beginnings of a telephone system. Much sea
+      transport is still by sailing ship and the idea of mass air travel is in
+      the realm of science-fiction. France lost the Franco-Prussian war at the
+      battle of Sedan in 1870, which accounts for the flood of refugees from
+      Alsasce. She had also, in the 19th century rush to carve up the African
+      continent, seized among other places, Algeria, which she held in
+      subjection by force of arms. So-called Big Game Hunters were regarded with
+      some admiration, and indeed it was a much more perilous activity than it
+      is today, when high power repeating rifles with telescopic sights make
+      motor-borne &ldquo;Sportsmen&rdquo; little more than butchers.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Daudet&rsquo;s humour is on the whole inoffensive, but anti-semitism was rife in
+      certain circles in France. It was the era of the Dreyfus scandal, and he
+      indulges in one or two tasteless gibes at the expense of the Jews, which I
+      have suppressed or at least amended. He also has a passage which might
+      well offend the delicate susceptabilities of the less tolerant believers
+      in Islam, although to anyone with a nodding acquaintance with the tents of
+      that faith, the incident is so far-fetched as to neutralise &ldquo;The willing
+      suspension of disbelief&rdquo; I have therefore decided to eliminate it from
+      this version of the story. It is not very amusing and is no great loss.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Although Daudet&rsquo;s humour is in the main kindly, he does not spare the
+      French colonial administration of the time. His treatment of the subject
+      is acidly satirical. It may be said that Daudet seems to know little about
+      firearms, less about lions and nothing about camels, but he is not
+      striving for verisimilitude. After all, the adventures of James Bond do
+      not mirror the reality of international espionage, nor do the exploits of
+      Bertie Wooster and Jeeves truely reflect life in the upper echelons of
+      British society.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      This is not a schoolroom exercise in translation. It might be more
+      accurately described as a version in English. I have not tampered with the
+      story line nor made any changes in the events related, but where I thought
+      it necessary I have not shrunk from altering the words and phrases used in
+      the original to describe them. All translation must be a matter of
+      paraphrase. What sounds well in one language may sound ridiculous if
+      translated literally into another, and it is for the translator to judge
+      how far this process of paraphrase may be carried.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      I have attempted to produce a text which will entertain the average
+      reader. Those who want to know exactly what Daudet wrote must consult the
+      French original.
+    </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>
+      TARTARIN DE TARASCON
+    </h2>
+    <p>
+      <a name="link2HCH0001" id="link2HCH0001">
+      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      Chapter 1.
+    </h2>
+    <p>
+      Although it is now some twelve or fifteen years since my first meeting
+      with Tartarin de Tarascon, the memory of the encounter remains as fresh as
+      if it had been yesterday.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      At that time Tartarin lived near the entrance to the town, in the third
+      house on the left on the Avignon road, a pretty little Tarascon villa,
+      with a garden in front, a balcony behind, very white walls and green
+      shutters.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      From outside the place looked perfectly ordinary, one would never have
+      believed that it was the home of a hero, but when one went inside, well...
+      My goodness! The whole establishment had an heroic air, even the garden!
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Ah...! The Garden... there was not another like it in Europe. Not one
+      indigenous tree grew there, not one French flower; nothing but exotic
+      plants, gum trees, calabashes, cotton trees, coconut palms, mangos,
+      bananas, cactuses, figs and a baobab. One might have thought oneself in
+      the middle of Africa, thousands of miles from Tarascon. Of course none of
+      these trees was fully grown, the coconut palm was about the size of a
+      swede and the baobab (arbos gigantica) fitted comfortably into a pot full
+      of earth and gravel. No matter.... For Tarascon it was quite splendid, and
+      those citizens who were admitted, on Sundays, to have the privilege of
+      inspecting Tartarin&rsquo;s baobab went home full of admiration.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      You may imagine my emotions as I walked through this remarkable garden...
+      they were nothing, however, to what I felt on being admitted to the
+      sanctum of the great man himself.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      This building, one of the curiosities of the town, was at the end of the
+      garden, to which it opened through a glass door. Picture a large room hung
+      from floor to ceiling with firearms and swords; weapons from every country
+      in the world. Guns, carbines, rifles, blunderbusses, knives, spears,
+      revolvers, daggers, arrows, assegais, knobkerries, knuckledusters and I
+      know not what.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      The brilliant sunlight glittered on the steel blades of sabres and the
+      polished butts of firearms. It was really quite a menacing scene... what
+      was a little reassuring was the good order and discipline which ruled over
+      this arsenal. Everything was neat tidy and dusted. Here and there a simple
+      notice, reading &ldquo;Poison arrows, Do not touch.&rdquo; or &ldquo;Beware. Loaded
+      firearms.&rdquo; made one feel it safe to approach.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      In the middle of the room was a table. On the table was a flagon of rum, a
+      turkish tobacco pouch, The voyages of Captain Cook, stories of adventure,
+      treatises on falconry, descriptions of big-game hunts etc... and finally
+      seated at the table was the man himself. Forty to forty-five years of age,
+      short, fat, stocky and ruddy, clad in shirt-sleeves and flannel trousers,
+      with a close-clipped wiry beard and a flamboyant eye. In one hand he held
+      a book and with the other he brandished an enormous pipe, its bowl covered
+      by a metal cap; and as he read some stirring tale of the pursuit of hairy
+      creatures, he made, pushing out his lower lip, a fierce grimace which gave
+      his features, those of a comfortable Tarascon &ldquo;Rentier&rdquo;, the same air of
+      hearty ferocity which was evident throughout the whole house. This man was
+      Tartarin... Tartarin de Tarascon... the intrepid, great and incomparable
+      Tartarin de Tarascon.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      At that time Tartarin was not the Tartarin which he is today, the great
+      Tartarin de Tarascon who is so popular throughout the Midi of France,
+      however, even at this epoch, he was already the king of Tarascon.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Let us examine how he acquired his crown. You will be aware, for a start,
+      that everyone in these parts is a hunter. From the highest to the lowest
+      hunting is a passion with the Tarasconais and has been ever since the
+      legendary Tarasque prowled in the marshes near the town and was hunted
+      down by the citizens.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Now, every Sunday morning, the men of Tarascon take up arms and leave
+      town, bag on back and gun on shoulder, with an excited collection of dogs,
+      with ferrets, with trumpets and hunting horns, it is a splendid
+      spectacle.... Sadly, however, there is a shortage of game... in fact there
+      is a total absence of game.... Animals may be dumb but they are not
+      stupid, so for miles around Tarascon the burrows are empty and the nests
+      abandoned. There is not a quail, not a blackbird, not the smallest rabbit
+      nor even the tiniest wheatear.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      These pretty little Tarascon hills, scented with lavender, myrtle and
+      rosemary are very tempting, and those fine muscat grapes, swollen with
+      sugar, which line the banks of the Rhone, are wonderfully appetising...
+      yes, but there is Tarascon in he distance, and in the world of fur and
+      feather Tarascon is bad news. The birds of passage seem to have marked it
+      with a cross on their maps, and when the long wedges of wild duck, heading
+      for the Camargue, see far off the town&rsquo;s steeples, the whole flight veers
+      away. In short there is nothing left by way of game in this part of the
+      country but an old rascal of a hare, who has escaped by some miracle the
+      guns of Tarascon and appears determined to stay there. This hare is well
+      known. He has been given a name. He is called &ldquo;Speedy&rdquo;. He is known to
+      live on land belonging to M. Bompard... which, by the way, has doubled or
+      even tripled its value. No one has yet been able to catch him, and at the
+      present time there are not more than two or three fanatics who go after
+      him. The rest have given up and Speedy has become something of a protected
+      species, though the Tarasconais are not very conservation minded and would
+      make a stew of the rarest of creatures, if they managed to shoot one.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Now, you may say, &ldquo;Since game is in such short supply, what do these
+      Tarasconais sportsmen do every Sunday?&rdquo; What do they do? Eh! Mon Dieu!
+      They go out into the country, several miles from the town. They assemble
+      in little groups of five or six. They settle down comfortably in some
+      shady spot. They take out of their game-bags a nice piece of
+      boeuf-en-daube, some raw onions, a sausage and some anchovies and they
+      begin a very long luncheon, washed down by one of these jolly Rhone wines,
+      which encourage singing and laughter.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      When all have had enough, they whistle for the dogs, load their guns and
+      commence the shoot. That is to say each of these gentlemen takes off his
+      hat, sends it spinning through the air with all his strength and takes a
+      pot-shot at it. The one who hits his hat most frequently is proclaimed
+      king of the hunt and returns to Tarascon that evening in triumph, his
+      perforated hat hanging from the end of his gun and to the accompaniment of
+      much barking and blowing of trumpets.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      One need hardly tell you that there is a brisk trade in hats in the town,
+      and there are even hatters who sell hats already full of holes and tears
+      for use by the less skillful, but scarcely anyone is known to buy them
+      except Bezuquet the chemist.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      As a hat shooter Tartarin had no equal. Every Sunday morning he left with
+      a new hat. Every evening he returned with a rag. In the little house of
+      the baobab, the attic was full of these glorious trophies. All of Tarascon
+      recognised him as their master in this respect. The gentlemen elected him
+      as their chief justice in matters relating to the chase and arbitrator in
+      any dispute, so that every day, between the hours of three and four in the
+      afternoon, at Costecalde the gunsmith&rsquo;s one could see the plump figure of
+      a man, seated gravely on a green leather arm-chair, in the middle of the
+      shop, which was full of hat hunters standing about and arguing. It was
+      Tartarin delivering justice. Nimrod doubling as Soloman.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <a name="link2HCH0002" id="link2HCH0002">
+      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      Chapter 2.
+    </h2>
+    <p>
+      In addition to their passion for hunting the good people of Tarascon had
+      another passion, which was for drawing-room ballads. The number of ballads
+      which were sung in this part of the world passed all belief. All the old
+      sentimental songs, yellowing in ancient cardboard boxes, could be found in
+      Tarascon alive and flourishing. Each family had its own ballad and in the
+      town this was well understood. One knew, for example, that for Bezuquet
+      the chemist it was:-&ldquo;Thou pale star whom I adore.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      For the gunsmith Costecalde:-&ldquo;Come with me to the forest glade.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      For the Town Clark:&mdash;&ldquo;If I was invisible, no one would see me.&rdquo; (a
+      comic song) Two or three times a week people would gather in one house or
+      another and sing, and the remarkable thing is that the songs were always
+      the same. No matter for how long they had been singing them, the people of
+      Tarascon had no desire to change them. They were handed down in families
+      from father to son and nobody dared to interfere with them, they were
+      sacrosanct. They were never even borrowed. It would never occur to the
+      Bezuquets to sing the Costecaldes&rsquo; song or to the Costecaldes to sing that
+      of the Bezuquets. You might suppose that having known them for some forty
+      years they might sometimes sing them to themselves, but no, everyone stuck
+      to his own.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      In the matter of ballads, as in that of hats, Tartarin played a leading
+      role. His superiority over his fellow citizens arose from the fact that he
+      did not have a song of his own, and so he could take part in all of them,
+      only it was extremely difficult to get him to sing at all.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Returning early from some drawing-room success, our hero preferred to
+      immerse himself in his books on hunting or spend the evening at the club
+      rather than join in a sing-song round a Nimes piano, between two Tarascon
+      candles. He felt that musical evenings were a little beneath him.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Sometimes, however, when there was music at Bezuquet the chemists, he
+      would drop in as if by chance, and after much persuasion he would consent
+      to take part in the great duet from &ldquo;Robert le Diable&rdquo; with madame
+      Bezuquet the elder.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Anyone who has not heard this has heard nothing. For my part, if I live to
+      be a hundred, I shall always recall the great Tartarin approaching the
+      piano with solemn steps, leaning his elbow upon it, making his grimace and
+      in the greenish light reflected from the chemist&rsquo;s jars, trying to give
+      his homely face the savage and satanic expression of Robert le Diable.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      As soon as he had taken up his position, a quiver of expectation ran
+      through the gathering. One felt that something great was about to happen.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      After a moment of silence, madame Bezuquet the elder, accompanying herself
+      on the piano, began:
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Robert, thou whom I adore
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      And in whom I trust,
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      You see my fear (twice)
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Have mercy on yourself
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      And mercy on me.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      She added, sotto voce, &ldquo;Its you now Tartarin.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      Then Tartarin, with arm extended, clenched fist and quivering nostrils,
+      said three times in a formidable voice which rolled like a clap of thunder
+      in the entrails of the piano &ldquo;Non! Non! Non!&rdquo; Which as a good southerner
+      he pronounced &ldquo;Nan. Nan. Nan&rdquo; Upon which madame Bezuquet repeated &ldquo;Mercy
+      on yourself and on me&rdquo; &ldquo;Nan! Nan! Nan!&rdquo; Bellowed Tartarin even more
+      loudly... and the matter ended there.... It was not very long, but it was
+      so well presented, so well acted, so diabolic that a frisson ran round the
+      pharmacy and he was made to repeat his &ldquo;Nan. Nan. Nan.&rdquo; four or five
+      times.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Afterwards Tartarin wiped his forehead, smiled at the ladies, winked at
+      the men and went off triumphantly to the club, where, with a casual air,
+      he would say, &ldquo;I&rsquo;ve just come from the Bezuquets. They had me singing in
+      the duet from Robert le Diable.&rdquo; What is more he believed it.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <a name="link2HCH0003" id="link2HCH0003">
+      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      Chapter 3.
+    </h2>
+    <p>
+      It was to the possession of these various talents that Tartarin owed his
+      high standing in the town. There were, however, other ways in which he had
+      made his mark on society.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      In Tarascon the army supported Tartarin. The gallant Commandant Bravida
+      (Quartermaster. Ret) said of him &ldquo;He&rsquo;s a stout fellow,&rdquo; and one may
+      suppose that having kitted out so many stout fellows in his time, he knew
+      what he was talking about.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      The magistrature supported Tartarin. Two or three times, on a full bench,
+      the aged president Ladevèze had said of him &ldquo;He&rsquo;s quite a character&rdquo;.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Finally, the people supported Tartarin, his stolid appearance, the heroic
+      reputation he had somehow acquired, the distribution of small sums of
+      money and a few clips round the ear to the youngsters who hung around his
+      doorstep, had made him lord of the neighbourhood and king of the Tarascon
+      market-place. On the quay, on sunday evenings, when Tartarin returned from
+      the hunt, his hat dangling from the end of his gun, the stevedores would
+      nod to him respectfully and eying the arms bulging the sleeves of his
+      tightly buttoned jacket, would murmur to one another, &ldquo;He&rsquo;s strong he is.
+      He&rsquo;s got double muscles.&rdquo; The possession of double muscles is something
+      you hear about only in Tarascon.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      However, in spite of his numerous talents, double muscles, popular favour
+      and the so precious esteem of the gallant Commandant Bravida
+      (Quartermaster. Ret) Tartarin was not happy. This small-town life weighed
+      him down, stifled him. The great man of Tarascon was bored with Tarascon.
+      The fact is that for an heroic nature such as his, for a daring and
+      adventurous spirit which dreamt of battles, explorations, big game
+      hunting, desert sands, hurricanes and typhoons, to go every Sunday hat
+      shooting and for the rest of the time dispense justice at Costecalde the
+      gunsmith&rsquo;s was... well... hardly satisfying. It was enough indeed to send
+      one into a decline.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      In vain, in order to widen his horizon and forget for a while the club and
+      the market square, did he surround himself with African plants; in vain
+      did he pile up a collection of weapons; in vain did he pore over tales of
+      daring-do trying to escape by the power of his imagination from the
+      pitiless grip of reality. Alas all that he did to satisfy his lust for
+      adventure seemed only to increase it. The sight of his weapons kept him in
+      a perpetual state of furious agitation. His rifles, his arrows and his
+      spears rang out war-cries. In the branches of the baobab the wind
+      whispered enticingly of great voyages.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      How often on these heavy summer afternoons, when he was alone, reading
+      amongst his weaponry, did Tartarin jump to his feet and throwing down his
+      book rush to the wall to arm himself, then, quite forgetting that he was
+      in his own house at Tarascon, cry, brandishing a gun or a spear, &ldquo;Let them
+      all come&rdquo;!!... Them?... What them? Tartarin did not quite know himself,
+      &ldquo;Them&rdquo; was everything that attacked, that bit, that clawed. &ldquo;Them&rdquo; was the
+      Indian brave dancing round the stake to which his wretched prisoner was
+      tied. It was the grizzly bear, shuffling and swaying, licking bloodstained
+      lips. The Toureg of the desert, the Malay pirate, the Corsican bandit. In
+      a word it was &ldquo;Them!&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      Alas it was fruitless for the fearless Tartarin to challenge them... they
+      never appeared; but though it seemed unlikely that they would come to
+      Tarascon, Tartarin was always ready for them, particularly in the evenings
+      when he went to the club.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <a name="link2HCH0004" id="link2HCH0004">
+      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      Chapter 4.
+    </h2>
+    <p>
+      The knight of the temple preparing for a sortie against the Saracen. The
+      Chinese warrior equipping himself for battle. The Comanchee brave taking
+      to the warpath were as nothing compared to Tartarin de Tarascon arming
+      himself to go to the club at nine o&rsquo;clock on a dark evening, an hour after
+      the bugle had blown the retreat. He was cleared for action as the sailors
+      say.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      On his left hand he had a metal knuckleduster. In his right he carried a
+      sword-stick. In his left pocket there was a cosh and in his right a
+      revolver. Stuck into his waistband was a knife. Before setting out, in the
+      privacy of his den, he carried out a few exercises. He made a pass at the
+      wall with his sword-stick, drew his revolver, flexed his muscles and then
+      taking his identity papers he crossed the garden... steadily...
+      unhurriedly... à l&rsquo;Anglais. That is the mark of true courage.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      At the end of the garden he opened the heavy iron gate. He opened it
+      brusquely, violently, so that it banged against the wall. If &ldquo;They&rdquo; had
+      been behind it, it would have made a fine mess of them. Unfortunately they
+      were not behind it.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Having opened the gate Tartarin went out, cast a quick look right and
+      left, closed the gate swiftly and double locked it. Then he set off.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      On the Avignon road there was not so much as a cat. Doors were shut and
+      curtains drawn across windows. Here and there a street light blinked in
+      the mist rising from the Rhône.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Superb and calm Tartarin de Tarascon strode through the night, his heels
+      striking the road with measured tread and the metal tip of his cane
+      raising sparks from the paving-stones. On boulevards, roads or lanes he
+      was always careful to walk in the middle of the causeway, an excellent
+      precaution which allows one to see approaching danger and moreover to
+      avoid things which at night, in the streets of Tarascon, sometimes fall
+      from windows. Seeing this prudence you should not entertain the notion
+      that Tartarin was afraid. No! He was just being cautious.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      The clearest evidence that Tartarin was unafraid is that he went to the
+      club not by the short way but by the longest and darkest way, through a
+      tangle of mean little streets, at the end of which one glimpsed the
+      sinister gleam of the Rhone. He almost hoped that at a bend in one of
+      these alleys &ldquo;They&rdquo; would come rushing from the shadows to attack him from
+      behind. They would have had a hot reception I can promise you; but sadly
+      Tartarin was never fated to encounter any danger... not even a dog... not
+      even a drunk... Nothing.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Sometimes however there was an alarm. The sound of footsteps... Muffled
+      voices. Tartarin comes to a halt, peering into the shadows, sniffing the
+      air, straining his ears. The steps draw nearer, the voices more
+      distinct... there can be no doubt... &ldquo;They&rdquo; are here. With heaving breast
+      and eyes ablaze Tartarin is gathering himself like a jaguar and preparing
+      to leap on his foes, when suddenly out of the gloom a good Tarasconais
+      voice calls &ldquo;Look! There&rsquo;s Tartarin! Hulloa there Tartarin!&rdquo; Malediction!
+      It is Bezuquet the chemist and his family who have been singing their
+      ballad at the Costecaldes. &ldquo;Bon soir, bon soir&rdquo; growls Tartarin, furious
+      at his mistake, and shouldering his cane he disappears angrily into the
+      night.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Arrived at the club the fearless Tarasconais waits a little longer,
+      walking up and down in front of the door before entering. In the end,
+      tired of waiting for &ldquo;them&rdquo; and certain that they will not show
+      themselves, he throws a last look of defiance into the dark and mutters
+      crossly &ldquo;Nothing... nothing... always nothing&rdquo; With that our hero goes in
+      to play bezique with the Commandant.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <a name="link2HCH0005" id="link2HCH0005">
+      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      Chapter 5.
+    </h2>
+    <p>
+      With this lust for adventure, this need for excitement, this longing for
+      journeys to Lord knows where, how on earth, you may ask, does it happen
+      that Tartarin had never left Tarascon? For it is a fact that up to the age
+      of forty-five the bold Tarasconais had never slept away from his home
+      town. He had never even made the ritual journey to Marseille which every
+      good Provencal makes when he comes of age. He might, of course, have
+      visited Beaucaire, albeit Beaucaire is not very far from Tarascon, as one
+      has only to cross the bridge over the Rhône. Regrettably, however, this
+      wretched bridge is so often swept by high winds, is so long and so flimsy
+      and the river at that point is so wide that... Ma foi... you will
+      understand...!
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      At this point I think one has to admit that there were two sides to our
+      hero&rsquo;s character. On the one hand was the spirit of Don Quixote, devoted
+      to chivalry, to heroic ideals, to grandiose romantic folly, but lacking
+      the body of the celebrated hidalgo, that thin, bony apology of a body,
+      careless of material wants, capable of going for twenty nights without
+      unbuckling its breastplate and surviving for twenty-four hours on a
+      handful of rice. Tartarin, on the other hand, had a good solid body, fat,
+      heavy, sybaritic, soft and complaining, full of bourgeois appetites and
+      domestic necessities, the short-legged, full-bellied body of Sancho Panza.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Don Quixote and Sancho Panza in the same man! You may imagine the
+      arguments, the quarrels, the fights. Carried away by some lurid tale of
+      adventure, Tartarin-Quixote would clamour to be off to the fields of
+      glory, to set sail for distant lands, but then Tartarin-Sancho ringing for
+      the maid servant, would say &ldquo;Jeanette, my chocolate.&rdquo; Upon which Jeanette
+      would return with a fine cup of chocolate, hot, silky and scented, and
+      some succulent grilled snacks, flavoured with anise; greatly pleasing
+      Tartarin-Sancho and silencing the cries of Tartarin-Quixote.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      That is how it happens that Tartarin de Tarascon had never left Tarascon.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <a name="link2HCH0006" id="link2HCH0006">
+      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      Chapter 6.
+    </h2>
+    <p>
+      There was one occasion when Tartarin nearly went on a long journey. The
+      three brothers Garcio-Camus, Tarasconais who were in business in Shanghai,
+      offered him the management of one of their establishments. Now this was
+      the sort of life he needed. Important transactions. An office full of
+      clerks to control. Relations with Russia, Persia, Turkey. In short, Big
+      Business, which in Tartarin&rsquo;s eyes was of enormous proportions.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      The establishment had another advantage in that it was sometimes attacked
+      by bandits. On these occasions the gates were slammed shut, the staff
+      armed themselves, the consular flag was hoisted and &ldquo;Pan! Pan!&rdquo; They fired
+      through the windows at the bandits.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      I need hardly tell you with what enthusiasm Tartarin-Quixote greeted this
+      proposal; unfortunately Tartarin-Sancho did not see the matter in the same
+      light, and as his views prevailed the affair came to nothing.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      At the time there was a great deal of talk in the town. Was he going or
+      not going? It was a matter for eager discussion.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Although in the end Tartarin did not go, the event brought him a great
+      deal of credit. To have nearly gone to Shanghai and actually to have gone
+      there was for Tarascon much the same thing. As a result of so much talk
+      about Tartarin&rsquo;s journey, people ended by believing that he had just
+      returned, and in the evenings at the club the members would ask him for a
+      description of the life in Shanghai, the customs, the climate, and big
+      business.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Tartarin, who had gathered much information from the brothers was happy to
+      reply to their questions, and before long he was not entirely sure himself
+      whether he had been to Shanghai or not; so much so that when describing
+      for the hundredth time the raid by bandits he got to the point of saying
+      &ldquo;Then I dished out arms to my staff. Hoisted the consular flag and we
+      fired &lsquo;Pan! Pan!&rsquo; Through the windows at the bandits.&rdquo; On hearing this the
+      members would exchange suitably solemn looks.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Tartarin then, you will say, is just a frightful liar. No!.... A thousand
+      times no! How is that? you may say, he must know vey well that he has not
+      been to Shanghai... to be sure he knows... only.... Perhaps the time has
+      come when we should settle the question of the reputation for lying which
+      has been given to the people of the Midi.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      There are no liars in the Midi, neither at Marseille, nor Nimes, nor
+      Toulouse, nor Tarascon. The man of the Midi does not lie, he deceives
+      himself. He does not always speak the truth but he believes he speaks it.
+      His untruth, for him, is not a lie, it is a sort of mirage. To understand
+      better you must visit the Midi yourself. You will see a countryside where
+      the sun transfigures everything and makes it larger than life-size. The
+      little hills of Provence, no bigger than the Butte Montmartre will seem to
+      you gigantic. The Maison Carrée at Nimes, a pretty little Roman temple,
+      will seem to you as big as Notre Dame. You will see that the only liar in
+      the Midi, if there is one, is the sun; everything that he touches he
+      exaggerates. Can you be surprised that this sun shining down on Tarascon
+      has been able to make a retired Captain Quartermaster into the gallant
+      Commandant Bravida, to make a thing like a turnip into a baobab and a man
+      who almost went to Shanghai into one who has really been there.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <a name="link2HCH0007" id="link2HCH0007">
+      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      Chapter 7.
+    </h2>
+    <p>
+      Now that we have shown Tartarin as he was in his private life, before fame
+      had crowned his head with laurels. Now that we have recounted the story of
+      his heroic existance in modest surroundings, the story of his joys and
+      sorrows, his dreams and his hopes, let us hurry forward to the important
+      pages of his history and to the event which lent wings to his destiny.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      It was one evening at Costecalde the gunsmith&rsquo;s; Tartarin was explaining
+      to some listeners the working of a pin-fire rifle, then something quite
+      new, when suddenly the door was opened and a hat hunter rushed into the
+      room in a great state shouting &ldquo;A lion! a lion!&rdquo; General amazement,
+      fright, tumult and confusion. Tartarin grabbed a bayonet, Costecalde ran
+      to close the door. The newcomer was surrounded and questioned nosily. What
+      they learned was that the Menagerie Mitaine, returning from the fair at
+      Beaucaire, had arranged to make a stop of several days at Tarascon, and
+      had just set itself up in the Place du Château with a collection of
+      snakes, seals, crocodiles, and a magnificent African lion.... An African
+      lion at Tarascon!... such a thing had never been seen before, never in
+      living memory.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      The brave band of hat hunters gazed proudly at one another. Their manly
+      features glowed with pleasure and, in every corner of the shop, firm
+      handshakes were silently exchanged. The emotion was so overwhelming, so
+      unforseen that no one could find a word to say. Not even Tartarin. Pale
+      and trembling, with the new rifle clutched in his hands, he stood in a
+      trance at the shop counter. A lion!... an African lion!... nearby... a few
+      paces away... A lion, the ferocious king of the beasts... the quarry of
+      his dreams... one of the leading actors in that imaginary cast which
+      played out such fine dramas in his fantasies. It was too much for Tartarin
+      to bear. Suddenly the blood flooded to his cheeks. His eyes blazed, and
+      with a convulsive gesture he slapped the rifle onto his shoulder, then
+      turning to the brave Commandant Bravida (quartermaster. Ret) he said in a
+      voice of thunder, &ldquo;Come, Commandant, let us go and see this.&rdquo; &ldquo;Excuse me.
+      Excuse me. My new rifle.&rdquo; The prudent Costecalde hazarded timidly, but
+      Tartarin was already in the street, and behind him all the hat hunters
+      fell proudly into step.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      When they arrived at the menagerie it was already crowded. The brave
+      people of Tarascon, too long deprived of sensational spectacles, had
+      descended on the place and taken it by storm. The big madame Mitaine was
+      in her element; dressed in an oriental costume, her arms bare to the
+      elbows and with iron bracelets round her ankles, she had a whip in one
+      hand and in the other a live chicken. She welcomed the Tarasconais to the
+      show, and as she too had &ldquo;Double muscles&rdquo; she aroused almost as much
+      interest as the animals in her charge.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      The arrival of Tartarin with the rifle on his shoulder produced something
+      of a chill, all the bold Tarasconais who had been walking tranquilly
+      before the cages, unarmed, trusting, with no notion of danger, became
+      suddenly alarmed at the sight of the great Tartarin entering the place,
+      carrying this lethal weapon. There must be something to fear if he, their
+      hero.... In the blink of an eye the area in front of the cages was
+      deserted, children were crying with fright and the ladies were eying the
+      doorway. Bezuquet the chemist left hurridly, saying that he was going to
+      fetch a gun.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Little by little, however, the attitude of Tartarin restored their
+      courage. Calm and erect, the intrepid Tarasconais strolled round the
+      menagerie. He passed the seals without stopping. He cast a contemptuous
+      eye on the container full of noise, where the boa was swallowing its
+      chicken, and at last halted in front of the lion&rsquo;s cage.... A dramatic
+      confrontation.... The lion of Tarascon and the lion of the Atlas mountains
+      face to face.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      On one side stood Tartarin, his legs planted firmly apart, his arms
+      resting on his rifle, on the other was the lion, a gigantic lion,
+      sprawling in the straw, blinking its eyes drowsily and resting its
+      enormous yellow-haired muzzle on its front paws... they regarded one
+      another calmly... then something odd happened. Perhaps it was the sight of
+      the rifle, perhaps it recognised an enemy of its kind, but the lion which
+      up until then had looked on the people of Tarascon with sovereign disdain,
+      yawning in their faces, seemed to feel a stirring of anger. First it
+      sniffed and uttered a rumbling growl, it stretched out its forefeet and
+      unsheathed its claws, then it got up, raised its head, shook its mane,
+      opened its huge maw and directed at Tartarin a most ear-splitting roar.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      This was greeted by a cry of terror. Tarascon, in panic, rushed for the
+      doors. Everyone, men, women, children, the hat shooters and even the brave
+      Commandant Bravida himself. Only Tartarin did not move... he remained firm
+      and resolute before the cage, a light shining in his eyes, and wearing
+      that grim expression which the town knew so well. After a few moments, the
+      hat shooters, somewhat reassured by his attitude and the solidity of the
+      cage bars, rejoined their chief, to hear him mutter &ldquo;Now that is something
+      worth hunting.&rdquo; And that was all that he said.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <a name="link2HCH0008" id="link2HCH0008">
+      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      Chapter 8.
+    </h2>
+    <p>
+      Although at the memagerie he had said nothing more, he had already said
+      too much. The following day all the talk of the town was of the impending
+      departure of Tartarin for Africa, to shoot lions.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      You will bear witness that the good fellow had not breathed a word of
+      this, but you know how it is... the mirage.... In short the whole of
+      Tarascon could talk of nothing else.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      On the pavement, at the club, at Costecalde&rsquo;s shop, people accosted one
+      another with an air of excitement.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Et autrement, have you heard the latest, au moins?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Et autrement, what now, is Tartarin going, au moins?&rdquo; For in Tarascon
+      every remark begins with &ldquo;Et autrement&rdquo; which is pronounced &ldquo;autremain&rdquo;
+       and ends with &ldquo;au moins&rdquo; which is pronounced &ldquo;au mouain&rdquo; and in these days
+      the sound of &ldquo;autremain&rdquo; and &ldquo;au mouain&rdquo; was enough to rattle the windows.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      The most surprised person in the town to hear that he was leaving for
+      Africa was Tartarin, but now see the effects of vanity. Instead of
+      replying that he was not going and had never intended to go, poor
+      Tartarin, on the first occasion that the subject was broached adopted a
+      somewhat evasive air, &ldquo;Hé!... Hé!... perhaps... I can&rsquo;t say.&rdquo; On the
+      second occasion, now a little more accustomed to the idea, he replied
+      &ldquo;Probably&rdquo; and on the third &ldquo;Yes, definitely.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      Eventually, one evening at the club, carried away by some glasses of
+      egg-nog, the public interest and the plaudits, he declared formally that
+      he was tired of shooting at hats and was going shortly in pursuit of the
+      great lions of Africa.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      A loud cheer greeted this declaration, then came more egg-nog, handshakes,
+      embraces and torchlight serenades until midnight before the little house
+      of the baobab.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Tartarin-Sancho, however, was far from pleased. The idea of travelling to
+      Africa and hunting lions scared him stiff and when they went into the
+      house, and while the serenade of honour was still going on outside, he
+      made the most frightful scene with Tartarin-Quixote, calling him a crazy
+      dreamer, a rash triple idiot and detailing one by one the catastrophes
+      which would await him on such an expedition. Shipwreck, fever, dysentery,
+      plague, elephantiasis and so on... it was useless for Tartarin-Quixote to
+      swear that he would be careful, that he would dress warmly, that he would
+      take with him everything that might be needed, Tartarin-Sancho refused to
+      listen. The poor fellow saw himself already torn to pieces by lions or
+      swallowed up in the sands of the desert, and the other Tartarin could
+      pacify him only a little by pointing out that these were plans for the
+      future, that there was no hurry, that they had not yet actually started.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Obviously one cannot embark on such an expedition without some
+      preparation. One cannot take off like a bird. As a first measure Tartarin
+      set about reading the reports of the great African explorers, the journals
+      of Livingstone, Burton, Caille and the like, there he saw that those
+      intrepid travellers, before they put their boots on for these distant
+      excursions, prepared themselves in advance to undergo hunger, thirst, long
+      treks and privations of all sorts.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Tartarin decided to follow their example and took to a diet of &ldquo;Eau
+      bouillie&rdquo;. What is called eau bouillie in Tarascon consists of several
+      slices of bread soaked in warm water, with a clove of garlic, a little
+      thyme and a bay leaf. It is not very palatable and you may imagine how
+      Tartarin-Sancho enjoyed it.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Tartarin de Tarascon combined this with several other sensible methods of
+      training. For instance, to habituate himself to long marches he would go
+      round his morning constitutional seven or eight times, sometimes at a
+      brisk walk, sometimes at the trot with two pebbles in his mouth. Then to
+      accustom himself to nocturnal chills and the mists of dawn, he went into
+      the garden and stayed there until ten or eleven at night, alone with his
+      rifle, on watch behind the baobab.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Finally, for as long as the menagerie remained in Tarascon, those hat
+      hunters who had stayed late at Costecalde&rsquo;s could see in the shadows, as
+      they passed the Place du Château, a figure pacing up and down behind the
+      cages... it was Tartarin training himself to listen unmoved to the roaring
+      of lions in the African night.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <a name="link2HCH0009" id="link2HCH0009">
+      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      Chapter 9.
+    </h2>
+    <p>
+      While Tartarin was preparing himself by these strenuous methods, all
+      Tarascon had its eyes on him. Nothing else was of interest. Hat shooting
+      was abandoned, the ballads languished; in Bezuquet the chemist&rsquo;s the piano
+      was silent beneath a green dust cover, with cantharides flies drying,
+      belly up, on the top... Tartarin&rsquo;s expedition had brought everything to a
+      halt.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      You should have seen the success of our hero in the drawing-rooms. He was
+      seized, squabbled over, borrowed and stolen. There was no greater triumph
+      for the ladies than to go, on the arm of Tartarin, to the menagerie
+      Mitaine and to have him explain, in front of the lion&rsquo;s cage, how one goes
+      about hunting these great beasts, at what point one aims and at what
+      distance, whether there are many accidents, and so on... through his
+      reading Tartarin had gained almost as much knowledge about lion hunting as
+      if he had actually engaged in it himself, and so he spoke of these matters
+      with much authority.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Where Tartarin really excelled, however, was after dinner at the home of
+      president Ladevèze or the brave Commandant Bravida (quartermaster. Ret)
+      when coffee had been served and the chairs pulled together, then with his
+      elbow on the table, between sips of his coffee, our hero gave a moving
+      description of all the dangers which awaited him &ldquo;Over there&rdquo; He spoke of
+      long moonless watches, of pestilential marshes, of rivers poisoned by the
+      leaves of oleanders, of snows, scorching suns, scorpions and clouds of
+      locusts; he also spoke of the habits of the great lions of the Atlas,
+      their phenomenal strength, their ferocity in the mating season.... Then,
+      carried away by his own words, he would rise from the table and bound into
+      the middle of the room, imitating the roar of the lion, the noise of the
+      rifle &ldquo;Pan! Pan!&rdquo; The whistle of the bullet. Gesticulating, shouting,
+      knocking over chairs... while at the table faces are grave, the men
+      looking at one another and nodding their heads, the ladies closing their
+      eyes with little cries of alarm. A grandfather brandishes his
+      walking-stick in a bellicose manner and, in the next room, the small
+      children who have been put to bed earlier are startled out of their sleep
+      by the banging and bellowing, and greatly frightened demand lights.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Tartarin, however, showed no sign of leaving for Africa... did he really
+      have any intention of going? That is a delicate question and one to which
+      his biographer would find difficulty in replying. The fact is that the
+      menagerie had now been gone for three months but the killer of lions had
+      not budged... could it be that our innocent hero, blinded perhaps by a new
+      mirage, honestly believed that he had been to Africa, and by talking so
+      much about his hunting expedition believed that it had actually taken
+      place. Unfortunately, if this was the case and Tartarin had once more
+      fallen victim to the mirage, the people of Tarascon had not. When it was
+      observed that after three months of waiting the hunter had not packed a
+      single bag, people began to talk.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;This will turn out to be another Shanghai.&rdquo; Said Costecalde, smiling, and
+      this remark spread round the town like wildfire, for people had lost their
+      belief in Tartarin. The ignorant, the chicken-hearted, people like
+      Bezuquet, whom a flea could put to flight, and who could not fire a gun
+      without closing both eyes, these above all were pitiless. At the club, on
+      the esplanade, they accosted poor Tartarin with little mocking remarks,
+      &ldquo;Et autremain, what about this trip then?&rdquo; At Costecalde&rsquo;s shop his
+      opinion was no longer law. The hat hunters had deserted their leader.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Then there were the epigrams. President Ladevèze who in his spare time
+      dabbled in provencal poetry, composed a little song in dialect which was a
+      great success. It concerned a certain hunter named master Gervaise whose
+      redoubtable rifle was to exterminate every last lion in Africa. Sadly this
+      rifle had a singular fault, although always loaded it never went off....
+      It never went off... you will understand the allusion. This song achieved
+      instant popularity, and when Tartarin was passing, the stevedores on the
+      quay and the grubby urchins hanging round his door would chant this
+      insulting little ditty... only they sang it from a safe distance because
+      of the double muscles.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      The great man himself pretended to see nothing, to hear nothing. Although
+      at heart this underhand, venomous campaign hurt him deeply, in spite of
+      his suffering, he continued to go about his life with a smile; but
+      sometimes the mask of cheerful indifference which pride had pinned on his
+      features slipped, then instead of laughter one saw indignation and grief.
+      So it was one morning when some street urchins were chanting their jeers
+      beneath the window of the room where our poor hero was trimming his beard.
+      Suddenly the window was thrown open and Tartarin&rsquo;s head appeared, his face
+      covered in soapsuds, waving a razor and shaving brush and shouting
+      &ldquo;Sword-thrusts, gentlemen, sword-thrusts, not pin-pricks!&rdquo; Fine words but
+      wasted on a bunch of brats about two bricks tall.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Amid the general defection, the army alone stood firmly by Tartarin, the
+      brave Commandant Bravida continued to treat him with esteem. &ldquo;He&rsquo;s a stout
+      fellow,&rdquo; He persisted in saying, and this affirmation was worth a good
+      deal more, I should imagine, than anything said by Bezuquet the chemist.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      The gallant Commandant had never uttered a word about the African journey,
+      but at last, when the public clamour became too loud to ignore, he decided
+      to speak.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      One evening, the unhappy Tartarin was alone in his study thinking sad
+      thoughts, when the Commandant appeared, somberly dressed and gloved, with
+      every button fastened &ldquo;Tartarin!&rdquo; said the former captain, with authority,
+      &ldquo;Tartarin, you must go!&rdquo; and he stood, upright and rigid in the doorway,
+      the very embodiment of duty.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      All that was implied in that &ldquo;Tartarin you must go&rdquo; Tartarin understood.
+      Very pale, he rose to his feet and cast a tender look round his pleasant
+      study, so snug, so warm, so well lit, and at the the large, so comfortable
+      armchair, at his books, his carpet and at the big white blinds of his
+      window, beyond which swayed the slender stems of the little garden. Then
+      advancing to the the brave Commandant, he took his hand, shook it
+      vigorously and in a voice close to tears said stoically, &ldquo;I shall go,
+      Bravida.&rdquo; And he did go as he had said he would. Though not before he had
+      gathered the necessary equipment.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      First, he ordered from Blompard two large cases lined with copper and with
+      a large plaque inscribed TARTARIN DE TARASCON. FIREARMS. The lining and
+      the engraving took a long time. He ordered from M. Tastevin a magnificent
+      log-book in which to write his journal. Then he sent to Marseille for a
+      whole cargo of preserved food, for pemmican tablets to make soup, for a
+      bivouac tent of the latest design, which could be erected or struck in a
+      few minutes, a pair of sea-boots, two umbrellas, a waterproof and a pair
+      of dark glasses to protect his eyes. Finally, Bezuquet the chemist made up
+      a medicine chest full of sticking plaster, pills and lotions. All these
+      preparations were made in the hope that by these and other delicate
+      attentions he could appease the fury of Tartarin-Sancho, which, since the
+      departure had been decided, had raged unabated by day and by night.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <a name="link2HCH0010" id="link2HCH0010">
+      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      Chapter 10.
+    </h2>
+    <p>
+      At last the great day arrived. From first light the whole of Terascon was
+      afoot, blocking the Avignon road and the approaches to the little house of
+      the baobab. There were people at windows, on roofs, up trees. Bargees from
+      the Rhône, stevedores, boot-blacks, clerks, weavers, the club members, in
+      fact the whole town. Then there were people from Beaucaire who had come
+      across the bridge, market-gardeners from the suburbs, carts with big
+      hoods, vignerons mounted on fine mules ornamented with ribbons, tassels,
+      bows and bells, and even here and there some pretty girls from Arles, with
+      blue kerchiefs round their heads, riding on the crupper behind their
+      sweethearts on the small iron-grey horses of the Camargue. All this crowd
+      pushed and jostled before Tartarin&rsquo;s gate, the gate of this fine M.
+      Tartarin who was going to kill lions in the country of the &ldquo;Teurs&rdquo;. (In
+      Tarascon: Africa, Greece, Turkey and Mesopotamia formed a vast, vague
+      almost mythical country which was called the Teurs... that is the Turks).
+      Throughout this mob the hat shooters came and went, proud of the triumph
+      of their leader, and leaving in their wake, as it were, little trails of
+      glory.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      In front of the house of the baobab there were two large handcarts. From
+      time to time the gate was opened and one could see men walking busily
+      about in the garden. They carried out trunks, cases and carpet-bags which
+      they piled onto the carts. On the arrival of each new package the crowd
+      stirred and a description of the article was shouted out. &ldquo;That&rsquo;s his
+      tent! There&rsquo;s the preserved foods! The medicine chest! The arms chest!&rdquo;
+       While the hat shooters gave a running commentary.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Suddenly, at about ten o&rsquo;clock, there was a great movement in the crowd.
+      The garden gate swung back violently on its hinges.... &ldquo;It&rsquo;s him!.... Its
+      him!&rdquo; they cried.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      It was indeed him. When he appeared on the threshold, two cries of
+      amazement rose from the crowd:&mdash;&ldquo;He&rsquo;s a Teur!.... He&rsquo;s wearing
+      sun-glasses!&rdquo;.... Tartarin, it is true, had believed that as he was going
+      to Algeria he should adopt Algerian costume. Large baggy pantaloons of
+      white cloth, a small tight jacket with metal buttons, a red sash wound
+      round his stomach and on his head a gigantic &ldquo;Chechia&rdquo; (a red floppy
+      bonnet) with an immensely long blue tassel dangling from its crown. Added
+      to this, he carried two rifles, one on each shoulder, a hunting knife
+      stuck into the sash round his middle, a cartridge-bag slung on one side
+      and a revolver in a leather holster on the other. That was it. Ah!...
+      forgive me... I forgot the sun-glasses, a huge pair of blue sun-glasses
+      which were just the very thing to correct any suggestion of extravagance
+      in his turnout.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Vive Tartarin!... Vive Tartarin!&rdquo; Yelled the people. The great man smiled
+      but did not wave, partly because of the rifles, which were giving him some
+      trouble and partly because he had learned what little value one can place
+      on popular favour. Perhaps even, in the depths of his soul, he cursed
+      these terrible compatriots who were forcing him to leave, to quit his
+      pretty little house with its green shutters and white walls, but if so he
+      did not show it. Calm and proud, though a little pale, he marched down the
+      pathway, inspected his handcarts and seeing that all was in order set off
+      jauntily on the road to the station, without looking back even once at the
+      house of the baobab.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      On his arrival at the station he was greeted by the station-master, a
+      former soldier, who shook him warmly by the hand several times. The
+      Paris-Marseille express had not yet arrived, so Tartarin and his general
+      staff went into the waiting-room. To keep back the following crowd the
+      station-master closed the barriers.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      For fifteen minutes Tartarin paced back and forward, surrounded by the hat
+      shooters. He spoke to them of his coming expedition, promising to send
+      them skins, and entering their orders in his note-book as if they were a
+      list of groceries. As tranquil as was Socrates at the moment when he drank
+      the hemlock, the bold Tartarin had a word for everyone. He spoke simply
+      and affably, as if before departing he wished to leave behind a legacy of
+      charm, happy memories and regrets. To hear their chief speak thus brought
+      tears to the eyes of the hat shooters, and to some, such as the president
+      Ladevèze and the chemist Bezuquet, even a twinge of remorse. Some of the
+      station staff were dabbing their eyes in corners, while outside the crowd
+      peered through the railings and shouted &ldquo;Vive Tartarin!&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      Then a bell rang. There was a rumbling noise of wheels. A piercing whistle
+      split the heavens... All aboard!... All aboard!... Goodbye Tartarin!...
+      Goodbye Tartarin!. &ldquo;Goodbye everyone&rdquo; murmured the great man, and on the
+      cheeks of the brave Commandant Bravida he planted a farewell salute to his
+      beloved Tarascon. Then he hurried along the platform and got into a
+      carriage full of Parisian ladies, who almost died of fright at the
+      appearance of this strange man with his revolver and rifles.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <a name="link2HCH0011" id="link2HCH0011">
+      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      Chapter 11.
+    </h2>
+    <p>
+      On the first day of December 186-, in the clear bright winter sunshine of
+      Provence, the startled inhabitants of Marseille witnessed the arrival of a
+      Teur. Never had they seen one like this before, though God knows there is
+      no shortage of Teurs in Marseille. The Teur, need I tell you, was none
+      other than Tartarin de Tarascon, who was proceeding down the quay followed
+      by his case of arms, his medicine chest and his preserved foods, in search
+      of the embarkation point of the Compagnie Touache and the ferry-boat &ldquo;Le
+      Zouave&rdquo; which was to carry him away.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      His ears still ringing with the cheers of Tarascon and bemused by the
+      brightness of the sky and the smell of the sea, Tartarin marched along,
+      his rifles slung on his shoulders, gazing around in wonder at this
+      marvellous port of Marseille, which he was seeing for the first time and
+      which quite dazzled him. He almost felt that he was dreaming and that like
+      Sinbad he was wandering in one of the fabulous cities of the Thousand and
+      one Nights.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      As far as the eye could see, there stretched a jumble of masts and yards,
+      criss-crossing in all directions. The flags of a multitude of nations
+      fluttering in the wind. The ships level with the quay, their bowsprits
+      projecting over the edge like a row of bayonets, and below them the carved
+      and painted wooden figureheads of nymphs, goddesses and saintly virgins
+      from which the ships took their names. From time to time, between the
+      hulls one could see a patch of sea, like a great sheet of cloth spattered
+      with oil, while in the entanglement of yardarms a host of seagulls made
+      pretty splashes of white against the blue sky. On the quay, amid the
+      streams which trickled from the soapworks, thick, green, streaked with
+      black, full of oil and soda, there was a whole population of customs
+      officers, shipping agents, and stevedores with trollies drawn by little
+      Corsican ponies. There were shops selling strange sweetmeats. Smoke
+      enshrouded huts where seamen were cooking. There were merchants selling
+      monkeys, parrots, rope, sailcloth and fantastic collections of bric-a-brac
+      where, heaped up pell-mell, were old culverins, great gilded lanterns, old
+      blocks and tackle, old rusting anchors, old rigging, old megaphones, old
+      telescopes, dating from the time of Jean Bart.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      There were women selling shellfish, crouched bawling beside their wares,
+      sailors passing, some with pots of tar, some with steaming pots of stew,
+      others with baskets full of squid which they were taking to wash in the
+      fresh water of the fountains. Everywhere prodigious heaps of merchandise
+      of every kind. Silks, minerals, baulks of timber, ingots of lead, carobs,
+      rape-seed, liquorice, sugar cane, great piles of dutch cheeses. East and
+      west hugger-mugger.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Here is the grain berth. Stevedores empty the sacks onto the quay from a
+      scaffold, the grain pours down in a golden torrent raising a cloud of pale
+      dust, and is loaded by men wearing red fezes into carts, which set off
+      followed by a regiment of women and children with brushes and buckets for
+      gleaning.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      There is the careening basin. The huge vessels lie over on one side and
+      are flamed with fires of brushwood to rid them of seaweed, while their
+      yardarms soak in the water. There is a smell of pitch and the deafening
+      hammering of shipwrights lining the hulls with sheets of copper.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Sometimes, between the masts, a gap opened and Tartarin could see the
+      harbour mouth and the movement of ships. An English frigate leaving for
+      Malta, spruce and scrubbed, with officers in yellow gloves, or a big
+      Marseilles brig, casting off amid shouting and cursing, with, in the bows,
+      a fat captain in an overcoat and a top hat, supervising the manoeuvre in
+      broad provencal. There were ships outward bound, running before the wind
+      with all sails set, there were others, far out at sea, beating their way
+      in and seeming in the sunshine to be floating on air.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Then, all the time the most fearsome racket. The rumbling of cart wheels,
+      the cries of the sailors, oaths, songs, the sirens of steam-boats, the
+      drums and bugles of Fort St. Jean and Fort St. Nicolas, the bells of
+      nearby churches and, up above, the mistral, which took all of these
+      sounds, rolled them together, shook them up and mingled them with its own
+      voice to make mad, wild, heroic music, like a great fanfare, urging one to
+      set sail for distant lands, to spread one&rsquo;s wings and go. It was to the
+      sound of this fine fanfare that Tartarin embarked for the country of
+      lions.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <a name="link2HCH0012" id="link2HCH0012">
+      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      Chapter 12.
+    </h2>
+    <p>
+      I wish that I was a painter, a really good painter, so that I could
+      present to you a picture of the different positions adopted by Tartarin&rsquo;s
+      chechia during the three days of the passage from France to Algeria.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      I would show it to you first at the departure, proud and stately as it was
+      then, crowning that noble Tarascon head. I would show it next when, having
+      left the harbour, the Zouave began to lift on the swell. I would show it
+      fluttering and astonished, as if feeling the first premonitions of
+      distress.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Then, in the gulf of Lion, when the Zouave was further offshore and the
+      sea a little rougher, I would present it at grips with the storm,
+      clutching, bewildered, at the head of our hero, its long blue woollen
+      tassel streaming in the spume and gusting wind.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      The fourth position. Six in the evening. Off the coast of Corsica. The
+      wretched chechia is leaning over the rail and sadly contemplating the
+      depths of the ocean.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Fifth and last position. Down in a narrow cabin, in a little bed which has
+      the appearance of a drawer in a commode, something formless and desolate
+      rolls about, moaning, on the pillow. It is the chechia, the heroic
+      chechia, now reduced to the vulgar status of a night-cap, and jammed down
+      to the ears of a pallid and convulsing invalid.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Ah! If the townsfolk of Tarascon could have seen the great Tartarin, lying
+      in his commode drawer, in the pale, dismal light which filtered through
+      the porthole, amongst the stale smell of cooking and wet wood, the
+      depressing odour of the ferry boat. If they had heard him groan at every
+      turn of the propeller, ask for tea every five minutes, and complain to the
+      steward in the weak voice of a child, would they have regretted having
+      forced him to leave? On my word, the poor Tuer deserved pity. Overcome by
+      sea-sickness, he had not the will even to loosen his sash or rid himself
+      of his weapons. The hunting knife with the big handle dug into his ribs.
+      His revolver bruised his leg, and the final straw was the nagging of
+      Tartarin-Sancho, who never ceased whining and carping:&mdash;&ldquo;Imbecile!
+      Va! I warned you didn&rsquo;t I?.... But you had to go to Africa!.... Well now
+      you&rsquo;re on your way, how do you like it?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      What was every bit as cruel was that, shut in his cabin, between his
+      groans he could hear the other passengers in the saloon, laughing, eating,
+      singing, playing cards. The society in the Zouave was as cheerful as it
+      was diverse. There were some officers on their way to rejoin their units,
+      a bevy of tarts from Marseille, a rich Mahommedan merchant, returning from
+      Mecca, some strolling players, a Montenegran prince, a great joker this,
+      who did impersonations.... Not one of these people was sea-sick and they
+      spent the time drinking champagne with the captain of the Zouave, a fat
+      &ldquo;Bon viveur&rdquo; from Marseille, who had an establishment there and another in
+      Algiers, and who rejoiced in the name of Barbassou. Tartarin hated all
+      these people. Their gaity redoubled his misery.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      At last, in the afternoon of the third day, there was some unusual
+      activity on board the ship, which roused our hero from his torpor. The
+      bell in the bows rang out... the heavy boots of the sailors could be heard
+      running on the deck... &ldquo;Engine ahead!... engine astern!.&rdquo; Shouted the
+      hoarse voice of Captain Barbassou. Then &ldquo;Stop engine!&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      The engine stopped, there was a little tremor and then nothing. The ferry
+      lay rocking gently from side to side, like a balloon in the air. This
+      strange silence horrified Tartarin. &ldquo;My God! We are sinking!&rdquo; He cried in
+      a voice of terror, and recovering his strength as if by magic, he rushed
+      up onto the deck.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <a name="link2HCH0013" id="link2HCH0013">
+      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      Chapter 13.
+    </h2>
+    <p>
+      The Zouave was not sinking. She had just dropped her anchor in a fine
+      anchorage of deep, dark water. Opposite, on the hillside, was Algiers, its
+      little matt-white houses running down to the sea, huddled one against the
+      other, like a pile of white washing laid out on a river bank. Up above a
+      great sky of satin blue... but oh!... So blue!
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Tartarin, somewhat recovered from his fright, gazed at the landscape,
+      while listening respectfully to the Montenegrin prince, who standing
+      beside him, pointed out the different quarters of the town. The Casbah,
+      the upper town, the Rue Bab-Azoum. Very well educated this prince of
+      Montenegro. What is more he knew Algiers well and spoke Arabic. Tartarin
+      had decided to cultivate his acquaintance when suddenly, along the rail on
+      which they were leaning, he saw a row of big black hands grasping it from
+      below. Almost immediately a curly black head appeared in front of him and
+      before he could open his mouth the deck was invaded from all side by a
+      swarm of pirates; black, yellow, half naked, hideous and terrible.
+      Tartarin knew at once that it was &ldquo;Them&rdquo; The fearsome &ldquo;Them&rdquo; who he had so
+      often expected at night in the streets of Tarascon. Now they had arrived.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      At first surprise glued him to the spot, but when he saw the pirates hurl
+      themselves on the baggage, tear off the tarpaulin covers and begin to
+      pillage the ship, our hero came to life. Drawing his hunting knife and
+      shouting &ldquo;Aux armes!... Aux armes!&rdquo; To his fellow passengers, he prepared
+      to lead an assault on the raiders. &ldquo;Ques aco?... What&rsquo;s the matter with
+      you?&rdquo; Said Captain Barbassou as he came off the bridge. &ldquo;Ah!... There you
+      are Captain.... Quick! Quick! Arm your men!&rdquo; &ldquo;Hé!... Do what? Why for
+      God&rsquo;s sake?&rdquo; &ldquo;But don&rsquo;t you see?&rdquo; &ldquo;See what?&rdquo; &ldquo;There, in front of you...
+      the pirates!&rdquo; Captain Barbassou regarded him with astonishment..... At
+      that moment a huge monster of a black man ran past carrying the medicine
+      chest. &ldquo;Wretch! Wait till I catch you!&rdquo; Yelled Tartarin, starting forward
+      with his knife held aloft. Barbassou caught him and held him by his sash.
+      &ldquo;Calm down for Chrissake.&rdquo; He said, &ldquo;These are not pirates, there have
+      been no pirates for ages, these are stevedores.&rdquo; &ldquo;Stevedores?&rdquo; &ldquo;Hé! Yes,
+      stevedores who have come to collect the baggage and take it ashore. Put
+      away your cutlass, give me your ticket and follow that negro, an excellent
+      fellow, who will take you ashore and even to your hotel if you wish.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      Somewhat confused Tartarin surrendered his ticket and following the negro
+      he went down the gangplank into a large boat which was bobbing alongside
+      the ferry. All his baggage was there, his trunks, cases of weapons and
+      preserved food, as they took up all the room in the boat, there was no
+      need to wait for other passengers. The negro climbed onto the baggage and
+      squatted there with his arms wrapped round his knees. Another negro took
+      the oars... the two of them regarded Tartarin, laughing and showing their
+      white teeth.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Standing in the stern, wearing his fiercest expression, Tartarin nervously
+      fingered the handle of his hunting knife, for in spite of what Barbassou
+      had told him, he was only half reassured about the intentions of these
+      ebony-skinned stevedores, who looked so different from honest longshoremen
+      of Tarascon.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Three minutes later the boat reached land and Tartarin set foot on the
+      little Barbary quay, where three hundred years earlier a galley-slave
+      named Michael Cervantes, under the whip of an Algerian galley-master, had
+      begun to plan the wonderful story of Don Quixote.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <a name="link2HCH0014" id="link2HCH0014">
+      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      Chapter 14.
+    </h2>
+    <p>
+      If by any chance the ghost of Micheal Cervantes was abroad on that bit of
+      the Barbary coast, it must have been delighted at the arrival of this
+      splendid specimen of a Frenchman from the Midi, in whom were combined the
+      two heroes of his book, Don Quixote and Sancho Panza.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      It was a warm day. On the quay, bathed in sunshine, were five or six
+      customs officers, some settlers awaiting news from France, some squatting
+      Moors, smoking their long pipes, some Maltese fishermen, hauling in a
+      large net, in the meshes of which thousands of sardines glittered like
+      pieces of silver; but scarcely had Tartarin set foot there when the quay
+      sprang into life and changed entirely its appearance.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      A band of savages, more hideous even than the pirates of the boat, seemed
+      to rise from the very cobble-stones to hurl themselves on the newcomer.
+      Huge Arabs, naked beneath their long woolen garments, little Moors dressed
+      in rags, Negroes, Tunisians, hotel waiters in white aprons, pushing and
+      shouting, plucking at his clothes, fighting over his luggage; one grabbing
+      his preserves another his medicine chest and, in a screeching babel of
+      noise, throwing at his head the improbable names of hotels.... Deafened by
+      this tumult, Tartarin ran hither and thither,struggling, fuming, and
+      cursing after his baggage, and not knowing how to communicate with these
+      barbarians, harangued them in French, Provencal and even what he could
+      remember of Latin. It was a wasted effort, no one was listening....
+      Happily, however, a little man dressed in a tunic with a yellow collar and
+      armed with a long cane arrived on the scene and dispersed the rabble with
+      blows from his stick. He was an Algerian policeman. Very politely he
+      arranged for Tartarin to go to the Hotel de l&rsquo;Europe, and confided him to
+      the care of some locals who led him away with all his baggage loaded on
+      several barrows.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      As he took his first steps in Algiers, Tartarin looked about him
+      wide-eyed. He had imagined beforehand a fairylike Arabian city, something
+      between Constantinople and Zanzibar... but here he was back in Tarascon.
+      Some cafés some restaurants, wide streets, houses of four stories, a small
+      tarmac square where a military band played Offenbach polkas, men seated on
+      chairs, drinking beer and nibbling snacks, a few ladies, a sprinkling of
+      tarts and soldiers, more soldiers, everywhere soldiers... and not a single
+      &ldquo;Teur&rdquo; in sight except for him... so he found walking across the square a
+      bit embarrassing. Everyone stared.... The military band stopped playing
+      and the Offenbach polka came to a halt with one foot in the air.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      With his two rifles on his shoulders, his revolver by his side,
+      unflinching and stately he passed through the throng, but on reaching the
+      hotel his strength deserted him. The departure from Tarascon. The harbour
+      at Marseille. The crossing. The Montenegrin prince. The pirates, all
+      whirled in confusion round his brain. He had to be taken up to his room,
+      disarmed and undressed... there was even talk of sending for a doctor, but
+      hardly had his head touched the pillow than he began to snore so loudly
+      and vigorously that the hotel manager decided that medical assistance was
+      not required, and everyone discreetly withdrew.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <a name="link2HCH0015" id="link2HCH0015">
+      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      Chapter 15.
+    </h2>
+    <p>
+      The bell of the government clock was sounding three when Tartarin awoke.
+      He had slept all evening, all night, all morning and even a good part of
+      the afternoon. It has, of course, to be admitted that over the preceding
+      three days the chechia had had a pretty rough time.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      His first thought on waking was &ldquo;Here I am, in lion country!&rdquo; and it must
+      be confessed that this notion that he was surrounded by lions and was
+      about to go in pursuit of them produced a marked chill, and he buried
+      himself safely under the bedclothes.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Soon, however, the gaiety of the scene outside, the sky so blue, the
+      bright sunshine which flooded into his room through the large window which
+      opened towards the sea, and a good meal which he had served in bed, washed
+      down by a carafe of wine, quickly restored his courage. &ldquo;To the lions! To
+      the lions!&rdquo; He cried, and throwing off the bed clothes he dressed himself
+      hurriedly.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      His plan of action was this. Leave town and go well out into the desert.
+      Wait until nightfall. Lie in hiding, and at the first lion that comes
+      along... Pan! Pan!.... Return in the morning. Lunch at hotel. Receive the
+      congratulations of the Algerians and hire a cart to go and collect the
+      kill.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      He armed himself hastily, strapped onto his back the bivouac tent, the
+      pole of which stuck up above his head, and then, held rigid by this
+      contraption, he went down to the street. He turned sharply to the right
+      and walked to the end of the shopping arcade of Bab-Azoum, where a series
+      of Algerian store-keepers watched him pass, concealed in corners of their
+      dark boutiques like spiders. He went through the Place du théatre, through
+      the suburbs and eventually reached the dusty main road to Mustapha.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Here was a fantastic confusion of traffic. There were coaches, cabs,
+      curricles, military supply wagons, great carts of hay drawn by oxen, some
+      squadrons of Chasseurs d&rsquo;Afrique, troops of microscopic little donkeys,
+      negresses selling galettes, loads of emigrants from Alsasce, some Spahis
+      in red cloaks. All passing in a great cloud of dust, with cries, songs and
+      trumpet calls, between two rows of miserable shacks, where could be seen
+      prostitutes applying their make-up at their doors, tap-rooms full of
+      soldiers and the stalls of butchers and slaughtermen. The tales I have
+      been told about this place are quite untrue, thought Tartarin, there are
+      fewer &ldquo;Teurs&rdquo; here than there are in Marseille.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Suddenly he saw striding past him, long-legged and proud as a turkey cock,
+      a magnificent camel. The sight quickened his pulse; where there were
+      camels lions could not be far away, and indeed within five minutes he saw
+      coming towards him with guns on their shoulders, a whole company of lion
+      hunters with their dogs.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      A cowardly lot, thought Tartarin, as he came alongside them... hunting
+      lions in a group and with dogs... for it had never occurred to him that In
+      Algeria one could hunt anything but lions. However these hunters looked
+      like comfortably retired businessmen, and Tartarin, curious about this way
+      of hunting lions with dogs and game-bags, took it on himself to address
+      one of them.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Et autrement, my friend, a good day?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Not bad&rdquo; Replied the other, looking with some surprise at the heavy
+      armament of our Tarascon warrior.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;You have killed some of them?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Yes... a few... as you can see.&rdquo; And the Algerian pointed to his
+      game-bag, bulging with rabbits and woodcock.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;How is that?... you put them in your game-bag?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Where would you like me to put them?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;But then they... they must be very small!&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Some big, some small.&rdquo; Said the hunter, and as he was in a hurry to catch
+      up with his companions and go home, he made off at high speed. Tartarin
+      stood, stupefied, in the middle of the road. Then after a moment of
+      thought &ldquo;Bah!&rdquo; He said to himself, &ldquo;These people are trying to have me on,
+      they haven&rsquo;t shot anything.&rdquo; And he continued on his way.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Already the houses were becoming more scattered, the passers-by less
+      frequent. Night was falling. Objects becoming less distinct.... He marched
+      on for another half an hour, and then he stopped. It was now completely
+      dark, a moonless night spangled with stars. There was no one on the road,
+      but in spite of that Tartarin reckoned that lions were not like coaches
+      and would not stick to the highway. He set off across country. At every
+      step there were ditches, thorns and bushes. No matter, he walked on until
+      at last he reached a spot he thought suited to his purpose. A likely place
+      for lions.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <a name="link2HCH0016" id="link2HCH0016">
+      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      Chapter 16.
+    </h2>
+    <p>
+      He was in a vast, wild desert, bristling with bizarre plants. African
+      plants, which have the appearance of savage animals. In the faint light
+      from the stars their shadows spread over the ground in all directions. On
+      the right was the confused, looming mass of a mountain, the Atlas perhaps,
+      to the left could be heard the dull surge of the invisible sea. An ideal
+      spot to tempt wild animals!
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Placing one rifle on the ground before him and taking the other in his
+      hands, Tartarin settled down and waited... he waited for an hour... two
+      hours.... Then he remembered that in his books the famous lion hunters
+      always used a kid as bait, which they tethered at some distance in front
+      of them and made to bleat by pulling on a string attached to its leg.
+      Lacking a kid, he had the idea of trying an imitation and began to bleat
+      in a goat-like manner, &ldquo;Mé!... Mé!....&rdquo; At first very quietly, because, in
+      the depths of his heart he was a little afraid that the lion might hear
+      him... then seeing that nothing happened he bleated more loudly, &ldquo;Mé!...
+      Mé!... Mé!....&rdquo; And then louder still, &ldquo;MÉ!... MÉ!... MÉ!...&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      Suddenly, a few paces in front of him, something black and gigantic
+      materialised. He shut up... the thing crouched, sniffed the ground, leapt
+      up, turned and ran off at a gallop... then it came back and stopped short.
+      It was a lion! There could be no doubt. Now one could see quite clearly
+      the four short legs, the formidable forequarters and two huge eyes
+      gleaming in the darkness.... Aim!... Fire!... Pan!... Pan!.... Tartarin
+      backed away, drawing his hunting knife
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Following Tartarin&rsquo;s shot there was a terrible outcry, &ldquo;I&rsquo;ve got him!&rdquo;
+       Cried the good Tarasconais and prepared himself to receive a possible
+      attack, but the creature had had enough and it fled at top speed,
+      bellowing.... He, however, did not budge: he was waiting for the female...
+      as happened in all his books. Unfortunately the female failed to turn up,
+      and after two or three hours of waiting Tartarin became tired. The ground
+      was damp, the night was growing cool, there was a nip in the breeze from
+      the sea... &ldquo;Perhaps I should have a nap while I wait for daylight&rdquo; he said
+      to himself, and to provide some shelter he had recourse to the bivouac
+      tent. A difficulty now arose, the bivouac tent was of such an ingenious
+      design that he was quite unable to erect it. He struggled and sweated for
+      a long time, but there was no way in which he could get the thing up, so
+      at last he threw it on the ground and lay on top of it, cursing it in
+      Provencal.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Ta!... Ta!... Ta!... Tarata! &ldquo;Ques aco?&rdquo; said Tartarin, waking up with a
+      start. It was the trumpets of the Chasseurs d&rsquo;Afrique sounding reveille in
+      the barracks at Mustapha. The lion killer rubbed his eyes in amazement. He
+      who had believed that he was in the middle of a desert... do you know
+      where he was?... In a field full of artichokes, between a cauliflower and
+      a swede... his Sahara was a vegetable patch.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Nearby, on the pretty green coast of upper Mustapha, white Algerian villas
+      gleamed in the dawn light, one might have been among the suburban houses
+      in the outskirts of Marseille. The bourgeois appearance of the sleeping
+      countryside greatly astonished Tartarin and put him in a bad humour.
+      &ldquo;These people are crazy&rdquo;, he said to himself, &ldquo;To plant their artichokes
+      in an area infested by lions. For I was not dreaming, there are lions here
+      and there is the proof&rdquo;.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      The proof was a trail of blood which the fleeing beast had left behind it.
+      Following this blood-spoor, with watchful eye and revolver in hand, the
+      valiant Tarasconais went from artichoke to artichoke until he arrived at a
+      small field of oats.... In a patch of flattened grain was a pool of blood
+      and in the middle of the pool, lying on its side with a large wound to its
+      head, was... what?... a lion?... No Parbleu!... A donkey! One of the tiny
+      donkeys so common in Algeria, which there are called &ldquo;Bourriquots&rdquo;.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <a name="link2HCH0017" id="link2HCH0017">
+      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      Chapter 17.
+    </h2>
+    <p>
+      Tartarin&rsquo;s first reaction at the sight of his unfortunate victim was one
+      of annoyance. There is after all a considerable difference between a lion
+      and a bourriquot. This was quickly replaced by a feeling of pity. The poor
+      bourriqout was so pretty, so gentle, its warm flanks rising and falling as
+      it breathed. Tartarin knelt down and with the end of his sash he tried to
+      staunch the blood from its wound. The sight of this great man tending the
+      little donkey was the most touching thing you could imagine. At the
+      soothing contact of the sash, the bourriquot, which was already at death&rsquo;s
+      door, opened a big grey eye and twitched once or twice its long ears, as
+      if to say &ldquo;Thank you!... Thank you!&rdquo;. Then a final tremor shook it from
+      head to tail and it moved no more.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Noiraud!... Noiraud!&rdquo; Came a sudden cry from a strident, anxious voice,
+      and the branches of some nearby bushes were thrust aside. Tartarin had
+      barely time to get up and put himself on guard. It was the female!... She
+      arrived, roaring and terrible, in the guise of an elderly Alsation lady in
+      a rabbit-skin coat, armed with a red umbrella and calling for her donkey
+      in a voice which woke all the echoes of Mustapha. Certainly it might have
+      been better for Tartarin to have had to deal with an angry lioness than
+      this infuriated old lady. In vain he tried to explain what had happened...
+      how he had mistaken Noiraud for a lion, she thought he was trying to make
+      fun of her and, uttering loud cries of indignation, she set about our hero
+      with blows from her umbrella. Tartarin, in confusion, defended himself as
+      best he could, parrying the blows with his rifle, sweating, puffing,
+      jumping about and crying &ldquo;But Madame!... But Madame!&rdquo;. To no avail. Madame
+      was deaf to his pleas and redoubled her efforts.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Happily a third party arrived on the field of battle. It was the husband
+      of the Alsation lady, also an Alsation.... A tavern keeper and a shrewd
+      man of business. When he saw with whom he was dealing and that the
+      assassin was willing to pay for his crime, he disarmed his spouse and took
+      her to one side. Tartarin gave two hundred francs. The donkey was worth at
+      least ten, which is the going price for bourriquots in the Arab market.
+      Then the poor Noiraud was buried beneath a fig tree, and the Alsation, put
+      in a good humour at the sight of so much money, invited our hero to break
+      a crust at his tavern, which was not far away at the edge of the main
+      road. The Algerian hunters went there every Sunday for luncheon; for the
+      countryside was full of game, and for two leagues about the city there was
+      not a better place for rabbits. &ldquo;And the lions?&rdquo; Asked Tartarin. The
+      Alsation looked at him with surprise... &ldquo;The lions?&rdquo; &ldquo;Yes, the lions, do
+      you see them sometimes?&rdquo; Tartarin replied, with a little less assurance.
+      The tavern-keeper burst out laughing, &ldquo;Lions!... Lions!... What is all
+      this about lions?&rdquo; &ldquo;Are there no lions in Algeria then?&rdquo; &ldquo;Moi foi! I have
+      been here for twenty years and I have never seen any.... though I did once
+      hear... I think there was a report in the newspaper... but it was long
+      ago... somewhere in the south&rdquo;....
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      At that moment they reached the tavern, a wayside pot house, the sort of
+      thing one can see by any main road. It had a very faded sign above the
+      door, some billiard cues painted on the wall and the inoffensive name &ldquo;Au
+      rendezvous des lapins&rdquo;.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <a name="link2HCH0018" id="link2HCH0018">
+      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      Chapter 18.
+    </h2>
+    <p>
+      This first adventure would have been enough to discourage many people, but
+      seasoned characters such as Tartarin are not so easily disheartened. The
+      lions are in the south, thought our hero, very well I shall go to the
+      south.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      As soon as he had swallowed his last morsel, he got up, thanked his host,
+      took leave of the old lady without any ill-feeling, shed a last tear over
+      the unfortunate Noiraud and headed quickly for Algiers, with the firm
+      intention of packing his trunks and departing that same day for the south.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Sadly, the main Mustapha road seemed to have grown longer during the
+      night. There was so much sunshine, so much dust, the bivouac tent was so
+      heavy, that Tartarin could not face the walk back to the town and he
+      hailed the first horse-drawn omnibus which came along and climbed in....
+      Poor Tartarin! How much better it would have been for his reputation if he
+      had not entered that fateful vehicle, and had continued his journey on
+      foot, even at the risk of collapsing from the heat and the weight of his
+      two double-barreled rifles and the bivouac tent.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      With Tartarin aboard, the omnibus was now full. At the far end was an
+      Algerian priest with a big black beard, his nose stuck in his breviary.
+      Opposite was a young Moorish merchant, puffing at a large cigarette, then
+      a Maltese seaman, and four or five Moorish women, with white linen masks,
+      whose eyes alone were visible. These ladies had been on a visit to the
+      cemetery of Abd-el-Kader, but this did not seem to have depressed them.
+      Behind their masks they laughed and chattered among themselves and munched
+      pastries.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      It seemed to Tartarin that they cast many glances in his direction, and
+      one in particular, who was seated opposite him, fixed her gaze on him and
+      did not remove it.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Although the lady was veiled, the liveliness of her large dark eyes,
+      emphasised by kohl, a delicate little wrist, encircled by gold bracelets,
+      which one glimpsed from time to time amidst her draperies, the sound of
+      her voice, the graceful movements of her head, all suggested that beneath
+      her garments was someone young, pretty and loveable.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      The embarrassed Tartarin did not know which way to turn. The silent caress
+      of these beautiful dark eyes set his heart aflutter. He blushed and paled
+      by turns. Then to complete his downfall he felt on his massive boot the
+      lady&rsquo;s dainty slipper scurrying about like a little red mouse.... What was
+      he to do?... Reply to these looks, this touch?... Yes... but an amorous
+      intrigue in this part of the world can have terrible consequences. In his
+      imagination Tartarin already saw himself seized by eunuchs, decapitated or
+      even worse, sewn into a sack and tossed into the sea with his head beside
+      him.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      This thought cooled his ardour a little, but the little slipper continued
+      to tease and the he eyes opened very wide, like two black velvet flowers
+      which seemed to say &ldquo;Come and gather us!&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      The omnibus stopped. It had arrived at the Place du théatre, at the
+      entrance to the Rue Bab Azoum. One by one, enveloped in their billowing
+      garments and drawing their veils about them with savage grace, the Moors
+      dismounted. Tartarin&rsquo;s neighbour was the last to leave and as she rose to
+      go her face was so close to that of our hero that their breaths mingled
+      and he was aware of a bouquet of youth, jasmine, musk and pastries.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      He could no longer resist. Drunk with love and ready to face anything, he
+      scrambled after the Moor... At the sound of his clumsy footsteps she
+      turned and put her finger to her lips, as if to say &ldquo;Hush&rdquo; and with the
+      other hand she tossed him a little scented garland made of jasmine
+      flowers. Tartarin bent to pick it up, but as he was somewhat overweight
+      and much encumbered by his weapons, the operation took a little time...
+      When he rose, the garland pressed to his heart, the little Moor had
+      disappeared.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <a name="link2HCH0019" id="link2HCH0019">
+      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      Chapter 19.
+    </h2>
+    <p>
+      Sleep, lions of the Atlas! Sleep tranquilly in your lairs amongst the
+      aloes and the cactus! It wil be some time before Tartarin de Tarascon
+      comes to slaughter you. At the moment his equipment, his arms, his
+      medicine chest, the preserved food and the bivouac tent are piled up
+      peacefully in a corner of room 36 in the Hotel de l&rsquo;Europe. Sleep without
+      fear, great tawny lions! The Tarasconais is searching for his Moor.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Since the events in the omnibus, the unhappy man seems to feel constantly
+      on his feet the scurrying of the little red mouse, and the sea breeze
+      which wafts across his face seems somehow perfumed by an amorous odour of
+      patisserie and anise. He must find his Dulcinea; but to find in a city of
+      one hundred thousand inhabitants a person of whom one knows only the scent
+      of their breath, the appearance of their slippers and the colour of their
+      eyes is no light undertaking. Only a lovesick Tarasconais would attempt
+      such a task. To make matters worse, it must be confessed that beneath
+      their masks all Moorish ladies tend to look very much the same; and then
+      they do not go out a great deal, and if one wants to see them one must go
+      to the upper town, the Arab town, the town of the Teurs.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      A real cut-throat place that upper town. Little dark alley-ways, very
+      narrow, climbing steeply between two rows of silent, mysterious houses
+      whose roofs touch to make a tunnel. Low doorways and small windows, opaque
+      and barred, and then, to right and left, little shops within whose deep
+      shade fierce &ldquo;Teurs&rdquo; with piratical faces, glittering eyes and gleaming
+      teeth, smoke their hookahs and converse in low tones, as if planning some
+      wicked deed.... To say that Tartarin walked through this fearsome township
+      unmoved would be to lie. He was on the contrary moved a good deal, and in
+      those obscure alleys where his large stomach took up almost the entire
+      width, the brave fellow advanced with the greatest caution, his eyes
+      alert, his finger on the trigger of his revolver, just as he used to be at
+      Tarascon on his way to the club. At any moment he expected to be jumped on
+      from behind by a whole gang of janissaries and eunuchs, but his desire to
+      find the lady endowed him with the courage and determination of a giant.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      For eight days the intrepid Tartarin did not quit his search. Sometimes he
+      could be seen hanging about the turkish baths, waiting for the women to
+      emerge in chattering groups, scented from the bath. Sometimes he appeared
+      at the entrance of a mosque, puffing and blowing as he removed his heavy
+      boots before entering the sacred premises. On other occasions, at
+      nightfall, when he was returning to the hotel, downcast at having
+      discovered nothing at the mosque or the baths, he would hear, as he passed
+      one of the Moorish houses, monotonous songs, the muffled sound of guitars,
+      the rattle of tambourines and the light laughter of women, which made his
+      heart beat faster. &ldquo;Perhaps she is there&rdquo; He would say to himself, and
+      approaching the house he would lift the heavy knocker and let it fall
+      timidly.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Immediately the song and the laughter stop. Nothing can be heard within
+      but faint vague cluckings as if in a sleeping hen-house. Hold on thinks
+      our hero, something is about to happen, but what happened mostly was a big
+      pot of cold water on his head, or orange peel and fig skins.... Sleep
+      lions!
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <a name="link2HCH0020" id="link2HCH0020">
+      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      Chapter 20.
+    </h2>
+    <p>
+      For two long weeks the unhappy Tartarin searched for his Algerian
+      lady-love, and it is likely that he would be searching still, if that
+      providence which looks after lovers had not come to his aid in the guise
+      of a Montenegrin gentleman.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      The Théatre in Algiers, like the &ldquo;Opera&rdquo; in Paris, organises every
+      Saturday night during the winter a Bal Masque. This is, however, a
+      provincial version. There are few people in the dance-hall; the occasional
+      drifter from out of town, unemployed stevedores, some rustic tarts, who
+      are in business but who still retain from their more virtuous days a faint
+      aroma of garlic and saffron sauce... the real spectacle is in the foyer,
+      which has been converted for the occasion into a gambling saloon.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      A feverish, multicoloured crowd jostles about the long green cloths.
+      Algerian soldiers on leave, gambling their meagre pay. Moorish merchants
+      from the upper town. Negroes. Maltese. Colonists who have come a hundred
+      miles to wager the price of a cart or a pair of oxen on the turn of a
+      card. Pale, tense and anxious as they watch the game.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      There are Algerian Jews, gambling en famille. The men in oriental costume,
+      the women in gold coloured bodices. They gather round the table, chatter
+      and and plan, count on their fingers, but play little. From time to time,
+      and only after long consultation, an elderly, bearded patriarch goes to
+      place the family stake. Then as long as play lasts there is a
+      concentration of dark hebraic eyes on the table, which would seem to draw
+      the gold pieces lying there as if by an invisible thread....
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Then there are the quarrels. Fights. Oaths in many languages. Knives are
+      drawn. A guard arrives. Money is missing.... In the midst of this
+      saturnalia wandered poor Tartarin, who had come that evening in search of
+      forgetfulness and peace of heart.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      As he went about through the crowd, thinking of his Moor, suddenly, at one
+      of the gaming tables, above the cries and the chinking of coins, two angry
+      voices were raised. &ldquo;I tell you, there are twenty francs of mine missing,
+      m&rsquo;sieu!&rdquo; &ldquo;M&rsquo;sieu!!!&rdquo; &ldquo;Well, what have you to say, m&rsquo;sieu?&rdquo; &ldquo;Do you know to
+      whom you are talking, m&rsquo;sieu?&rdquo; &ldquo;I should be delighted to find out,
+      m&rsquo;sieu!&rdquo; &ldquo;I am prince Gregory of Montenegro, m&rsquo;sieu!&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      At this name, Tartarin, much moved, pushed through the crowd until he
+      reached the front row, delighted to have found once more his prince, the
+      distinguished Montenegrin nobleman whose acquaintance he had made on the
+      packet-boat.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Unfortunately this title of prince which had so dazzled the worthy
+      Tarasconais, did not produce the least impression on the officer of the
+      Chasseurs with whom the prince was in dispute. &ldquo;A likely story&rdquo; said the
+      officer with a sneer, and then turning to the onlookers, &ldquo;Prince Gregory
+      of Montenegro, who has ever heard of him?... No one!&rdquo; Tartarin, indignant,
+      took a pace forward. &ldquo;Pardon... I know the prince.&rdquo; He said firmly in his
+      best Tarrascon accent.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      The officer of the Chasseurs stared him in the face for a few moments,
+      then shrugging his shoulders, he said &ldquo;Well now, is&rsquo;nt that just fine?...
+      Share out the twenty francs between you and we&rsquo;ll leave it at that.&rdquo; So
+      saying he turned on his heel and was lost in the crowd.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Tartarin, furious, wanted to go after him, but the prince prevented him.
+      &ldquo;Leave it... It&rsquo;s my affair.&rdquo; He said, and taking Tartarin by the arm he
+      led him outside.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      When they had reached the square, prince Gregory of Montenegro took off
+      his hat, held out his hand to our hero and vaguely recalling his name
+      began in vibrant tones, &ldquo;Monsieur Barbarin...&rdquo; &ldquo;Tartarin.&rdquo; Breathed the
+      other, timidly. &ldquo;Tartarin... Barbarin, it makes no difference, we are now
+      friends for life.&rdquo; And the noble Montenegrin shook his hand with ferocious
+      energy. Tartarin was was overwhelmed by pride. &ldquo;Prince.... Prince&rdquo; He
+      murmured in confusion.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Fifteen minutes later the two gentlemen were seated in the Restaurant des
+      Platanes, an agreeable spot whose terraces sloped down toward the sea, and
+      there before a large Russian salad and a bottle of good wine they renewed
+      their acquaintance.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      You cannot imagine anything more beguiling than this Montenegrin prince.
+      Slim, elegant, his hair curled and waved, smooth-shaven and powdered and
+      decked with strange orders, he had a sharp eye an ingratiating manner and
+      spoke with a vaguely Italian accent, faintly suggestive of a renaissance
+      Cardinal. Of ancient aristocratic lineage, his brothers, it seemed, had
+      driven him into exile at the age of ten, because of his liberal opinions;
+      since when he had travelled the world for his instruction and pleasure...
+      a philosopher prince. By a remarkable coincidence the prince had spent
+      three years in Tarascon, but when Tartarin expressed astonishment at never
+      having seen him at the club or on the promonade, &ldquo;I didn&rsquo;t go out much&rdquo;
+       Said the prince in a somewhat evasive manner, and Tartarin discretely
+      asked no more questions. Important people, he knew, had diplomatic
+      secrets.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      All in all a very fine prince this Gregory. While sipping his wine he
+      listened patiently to Tartarin, who told him of his Moorish love, and as
+      he claimed to have contacts among these ladies, he even undertook to help
+      look for her.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      They drank long and deep. They drank to the ladies of Algeria. They drank
+      to free Montenegro. Outside, below the terrace, the sea rolled, the waves
+      slapping wetly on the beach. The air was warm, the sky bright with stars,
+      in the plane trees a nightingale sang... It was Tartarin who paid the
+      bill.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <a name="link2HCH0021" id="link2HCH0021">
+      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      Chapter 21.
+    </h2>
+    <p>
+      The Montenegrin prince was as good as his word. Shortly after the reunion
+      at the Restaurant des Platanes he arrived early one morning at Tartarin&rsquo;s
+      room. &ldquo;Quick!... quick!... get dressed&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;Your Moor has been
+      found... her name is Baia... as pretty as a picture, twenty years old and
+      already a widow.&rdquo; &ldquo;A widow!.... Well that&rsquo;s a bit of luck&rdquo; Said Tartarin
+      who was a little uneasy at the thought of Moorish husbands. &ldquo;Yes, but
+      closely guarded by her brother&rdquo; &ldquo;Oh! That&rsquo;s a bit awkward&rdquo; &ldquo;A ferocious
+      Moor who sells hookahs in the bazaar&rdquo; There was a silence, &ldquo;Good!&rdquo; Said
+      the prince, &ldquo;You&rsquo;re not the chap to be put off by a little thing like
+      that, and anyway we can perhaps buy off this villain by purchasing some of
+      his pipes. So come on, get dressed... you lucky dog!&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      Pale and excited, his heart full of love, Tartarin jumped out of bed and
+      as he climbed into his ample underwear he asked &ldquo;What shall I do now?&rdquo;
+       &ldquo;Write to the lady quite simply and ask for a meeting&rdquo; &ldquo;She understands
+      French then?&rdquo; Said Tartarin with an air of disappointment. For his dreams
+      had been of an Arabian Houri, uncontaminated by the west. &ldquo;She doesn&rsquo;t
+      understand a word&rdquo; Replied the prince imperturbably, &ldquo;but you will dictate
+      the letter to me and I shall translate it.&rdquo; &ldquo;Oh prince, how good you are.&rdquo;
+       And Tartarin strode about the room silent and deep in thought.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      As you may imagine one does not write to a Moorish lady as one might to a
+      little shop-girl in Beaucaire. Happily our hero was able to cull from his
+      reading many phrases of oriental rhetoric and combining these with some
+      distant memories of the &ldquo;Song of Songs&rdquo; he was able to compose the most
+      flowery epistle you could wish for, full of unlikely similes and
+      improbable metaphors. With this romantic missive Tartarin would have liked
+      to combine a bouquet of flowers with emblematic meanings, but prince
+      Gregory thought it would be better to buy some pipes from the brother,
+      which could not fail to soften the savage temperament of the gentleman and
+      would please the lady, who greatly enjoyed smoking. &ldquo;Let us go quickly
+      then and buy some pipes,&rdquo; Said Tartarin. &ldquo;No, no.&rdquo; Replied the prince,
+      &ldquo;Let me go alone, I shall get them at a better price.&rdquo; &ldquo;Oh prince! How
+      good you are to take such trouble.&rdquo; And the trusting fellow held out his
+      purse to the obliging Montenegrin, exhorting him to neglect nothing which
+      might make the lady happy.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Unfortunately, the affair which had started so well, did not progress as
+      rapidly as one might have wished. Very touched, it seemed, by Tartarin&rsquo;s
+      eloquence, and already three parts won over, she would have liked nothing
+      better than to have received him, but her brother had scruples, and to lay
+      these to rest it was necessary to buy an astonishing number of pipes.
+      Sometimes Tartarin wondered what on earth the lady did with them all, but
+      he paid up nevertheless, and without stinting.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      At last, after the purchase of many pipes and the composing of many sheets
+      of oriental prose, a rendezvous was arranged. I need hardly tell you with
+      what fluttering of heart Tartarin prepared himself; with what care he
+      trimmed, washed and scented his beard, without forgetting&mdash;for one
+      must always be prepared&mdash;to slip into his pockets a life-preserver
+      and a revolver. The ever-obliging prince attended this first meeting in
+      the role of interpreter
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      The lady lived in the upper part of the town. Outside her door lounged a
+      young Moor of fourteen or fifteen, smoking a cigarette, it was Ali, her
+      brother. When the two visitors arrived he knocked twice on the postern and
+      retired from the scene. The door was opened and a negress appeared, who,
+      without saying a word, conducted the two gentlemen across a narrow
+      interior courtyard to a small, cool room where the lady awaited them,
+      posed on a divan.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      At first glance it seemed to Tartarin that she was smaller and sturdier
+      than the Moor on the omnibus... were they in fact the same? But this
+      suspicion was only momentary: the lady was so pretty, with her bare feet
+      and her plump fingers, rosy and delicate, loaded with rings; while beneath
+      her bodice of gold cloth and the blossoms of her flowered robe was the
+      suggestion of a charming form, a little chubby, dainty and curvaceous. The
+      amber mouthpiece of a narghile was between her lips and she was enveloped
+      in a cloud of pale smoke.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      On entering, Tartarin placed his hand on his heart and bowed in the most
+      Moorish manner possible, rolling big, passionate eyes... Baia looked at
+      him for a moment without speaking, then letting go of the amber
+      mouthpiece, she turned her back, hid her face in her hands and one could
+      see only her neck, shaken by uncontrollable laughter.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <a name="link2HCH0022" id="link2HCH0022">
+      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      Chapter 22.
+    </h2>
+    <p>
+      If you go in the evening into some of the coffee-houses of the Algerian
+      upper town, you will hear even today, Moors speak among themselves, with
+      winks and chuckles, of a certain Sidi ben Tart&rsquo;ri, an amiable, rich
+      European who&mdash;it now some years ago&mdash;lived in the upper town
+      with a little local girl called Baia.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      This Sidi ben Tart&rsquo;ri was of course none other than Tartarin. Well what
+      could you expect. This sort of thing happens even in the lives of Saints
+      and Heroes. The illustrious Tartarin was, like anyone else, not exempt
+      from these failings and that is why for two whole months, forgetful of
+      lions, forgetful of fame, he wallowed in oriental love, and slumbered,
+      like Hannibal in Capua, amid the delights of Algiers.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      He had rented in the heart of the Arab quarter, a pretty little local
+      house with an interior courtyard, banana trees, cool galleries and
+      fountains. He lived there quietly in the company of his Moor, a Moor
+      himself from head to foot. Puffing at his hookah and munching
+      musk-flavoured condiments. Stretched on a divan opposite him, Baia with a
+      guitar in her hands droned monotonous songs, or to amuse her master she
+      perhaps mimed a belly-dance, holding in her hands a small mirror in which
+      she admired her white teeth and made faces at herself.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      As the lady did not understand French and Tartarin did not speak a word of
+      Arabic, conversation languished somewhat and the talkative Tarasconais had
+      time to repent of any intemperate loquaciousness of which he might have
+      been guilty at Bezuquet&rsquo;s pharmacy or Costecalde the gunsmith&rsquo;s shop. This
+      penance even had a certain charm. There was something almost voluptuous in
+      going all day without speaking, hearing only the bubble of the hookah, the
+      strumming of the guitar and the gentle splashing of the fountain amid the
+      mosaic tiles of his courtyard.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Smoking, the Turkish bath and &ldquo;l&rsquo;amour&rdquo; occupied his time. They went out
+      little. Sometimes Sidi Tart&rsquo;ri, with his lady mounted on the crupper, went
+      on mule-back to eat pomegranates in a little garden which he had bought in
+      the neighbourhood... but never on any account did they go down to the
+      European part of the town, which with its drunken Zouaves, its bordellos
+      full of officers and the sound of sabres trailing on the ground beneath
+      the arcade, seemed to him to be insupportably ugly. Altogether our
+      Tartarin was perfectly happy. Tartarin-Sancho in particular, very fond of
+      Turkish pastries, declared himself entirely satisfied with his new
+      existence. Tartarin-Quixote had perhaps now and then some regrets, when he
+      remembered Tarascon and the promised lion skins... but they did not last
+      for long, and to dispel these moments of sadness all that was needed was a
+      look from Baia or a spoonful of her diabolic confections, scented and
+      bewitching like some brew of Circe&rsquo;s.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      In the evenings prince Gregory came, to talk a little about free
+      Montenegro. Of indefatigable complaisance, this agreeable nobleman
+      undertook in the house the function of interpreter and, if need be, even
+      that of steward, and all for nothing. Apart from him, Tartarin had only
+      &ldquo;Teurs&rdquo; as visitors. All of those ferocious bandits which in the depths of
+      their dark shops he once found so frightening, turned out to be harmless
+      tradesmen, embroiderers, spice sellers, turners of pipe mouthpieces.
+      Discrete, courteous people, modest, shrewd, and good at cards. Four or
+      five times a week they would spend the evening with Tartarin, winning his
+      money and eating his confitures, and on the stroke of ten leaving
+      politely, giving thanks to the Prophet.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      After they had left, Sidi Tart&rsquo;ri and his faithful spouse would finish the
+      evening on their terrace, a large white-walled terrace which formed the
+      roof of the building and looked out over the town. All about them a
+      thousand other terraces, tranquil in the moonlight, dropped one below the
+      other down to the sea. Suddenly, like a burst of stars, a great clear
+      chant rose heavenward and on the minaret of the nearby mosque a handsome
+      Muezzin appeared, his white outline silhouetted against the deep blue of
+      the night sky. As he invoked the praise of Allah in a splendid voice which
+      filled the horizon, Baia laid aside her guitar and with her eyes fixed on
+      the Muezzin seemed to be rapt in prayer. For as long as the chant lasted
+      she remained ecstatic, like an Arabic St. Theresa. Tartarin watched her
+      and thought that it must be a beautiful and powerful religion which could
+      give rise to such transports of faith. Tarascon hide your face, your
+      Tartarin dreams of becoming apostate.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <a name="link2HCH0023" id="link2HCH0023">
+      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      Chapter 23.
+    </h2>
+    <p>
+      One fine afternoon of blue sky and warm breeze, Sidi Tart&rsquo;ri, astride his
+      mule, was returning alone from his little garden, his legs spread widely
+      over hay filled bags which were further swollen by citrus and water-melon.
+      Lulled by the creaking of the harness and swaying to the clip-clop of the
+      animal the good man progressed through the delightful countryside, his
+      hands crossed on his stomach, three-quarters asleep from the effect of
+      warmth and wellbeing. Suddenly, as he was entering the town, a loud hail
+      woke him up. &ldquo;Hé! You, you great lump! You&rsquo;re Monsieur Tartarin aren&rsquo;t
+      you?&rdquo; At the name of Tartarin and the sound of the Provencal accent
+      Tartarin raised his head and saw, a few feet away, the tanned features of
+      Barbassou, the Captain of the Zouave, who was drinking an absinthe and
+      smoking his pipe at the door of a little café. &ldquo;Hé! Barbassou by God!&rdquo;
+       Said Tartarin, pulling up his mule.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Instead of replying Barbassou regarded him wide-eyed for a few moments,
+      and then he began to laugh and laugh, so that Tartarin sat stunned among
+      his water-melons. &ldquo;What a get-up, my poor monsieur Tartarin. It&rsquo;s true
+      then what people say, that you have become a Teur? And little Baia, does
+      she still sing &lsquo;Marco la belle&rsquo; all the time?&rdquo; &ldquo;Marco la belle,&rdquo; said
+      Tartarin indignantly, &ldquo;I&rsquo;ll have you know Captain, that the person of whom
+      you speak is an honest Moorish girl who doesn&rsquo;t know a word of French!&rdquo;
+       &ldquo;Baia?... Not a word of French?... Where have you come from?&rdquo; And the
+      Captain began to laugh again, more than ever. Then noticing the long face
+      of poor Sidi Tart&rsquo;ri, he changed tack. &ldquo;Well perhaps it isn&rsquo;t the same
+      one,&rdquo; He said, &ldquo;I&rsquo;ve probably got her mixed up with someone else... only
+      look here, M. Tartarin, you would be wise not to put too much trust in
+      Algerian Moors, or Montenegrin princes.&rdquo; Tartarin stood up in his
+      stirrups, and made his grimace, &ldquo;The prince is my friend, Captain!&rdquo; He
+      said. &ldquo;All right... all right... Don&rsquo;t let&rsquo;s quarrel... would you like a
+      drink?... no. Any message you would like me to take back?... none. Well
+      that&rsquo;s it then. Bon voyage.... Oh!... While I think of it, I have some
+      good French tobacco here, if you would like a few pipes-full take some,
+      help yourself, it will do you good, it&rsquo;s those blasted local tobaccos that
+      scramble your brain.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      With that the Captain returned to his absinthe and Tartarin pensively
+      trotted his mule down the road to his little house. Although in his loyal
+      heart he refused to believe any of the insinuations made by the Captain,
+      they had upset him, and his rough oaths and country accent had combined to
+      awake in him a vague feeling of remorse. When he reached home, Baia had
+      gone to the baths, the negress seemed to him ugly, the house dismal, and
+      prey to an indefinable melancholy, he went and sat by the fountain and
+      filled his pipe with Barbassou&rsquo;s tobacco. The tobacco had been wrapped in
+      a fragment of paper torn from &ldquo;The Semaphore&rdquo; and when he spread it out
+      the name of his home town caught his eye.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;News from Tarascon,&rdquo; He read, &ldquo;The town is in a state of alarm. Tartarin
+      the lion killer, who went to hunt the big cats in Africa, has not been
+      heard of for several months.... What has happened to our heroic
+      compatriot? One dare hardly ask oneself, knowing as we do his ardent
+      nature, his courage and love of adventure.... Has he, like so many others,
+      been swallowed up in the desert sands, or has he perhaps fallen victim to
+      the murderous teeth of those feline monsters, whose skins he promised to
+      the municipality.... A terrible incertitude! However, some African
+      merchants who came to the fair at Beaucaire, claim to have met, in the
+      heart of the desert, a white man whose description corresponds with his
+      and who was heading for Timbuctoo. May God preserve our Tartarin!&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      When he read this, Tartarin blushed and trembled. All Tarascon rose before
+      his eyes. The club. The hat hunters. The green armchair at Costecalde&rsquo;s
+      shop: and soaring above, like the extended wings of an eagle, the
+      formidable moustache of the brave Commandant Bravida. Then to see himself
+      squatting slothfully on his mat, while he was believed to be engaged in
+      slaying lions, filled him with shame. Suddenly he leaped to his feet. &ldquo;To
+      the lions!... To the lions!&rdquo; He cried, and hurrying to the dusty corner
+      where lay idle his bivouac tent, his medicine chest, his preserved foods
+      and his weapons, he dragged them into the middle of the courtyard.
+      Tartarin-Sancho had just perished, only Tartarin-Quixote was left.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      There was just time enough to inspect his equipment, to don his arms and
+      accoutrements, to put on his big boots, to write a few lines to prince
+      Gregory, confiding Baia to his care, to slip into an envelope some
+      banknotes, wet with tears, and the intrepid Tarasconais was in a
+      stage-coach, rolling down the road to Blidah, leaving the stupefied
+      negress in his house, gazing at the turban, the slippers and all the
+      muslim rig-out of Sidi Tart&rsquo;ri, hanging discarded on the wall.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <a name="link2HCH0024" id="link2HCH0024">
+      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      Chapter 24.
+    </h2>
+    <p>
+      It was an ancient, old-fashioned stage-coach, upholstered in the old way
+      in heavy blue cloth, very faded, and with enormous pom-poms, which after a
+      few hours on the road dug uncomfortably into one&rsquo;s back. Tartarin had an
+      inside seat, where he installed himself as best he could, and where,
+      instead of the musky scent of the great cats, he could savour the ripe
+      perfume of the coach, compounded of a thousand odours of men, women,
+      horses, leather, food and damp straw.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      The other passengers on the coach were a mixed lot. A Trappist monk, some
+      Jewish merchants, two Cocottes, returning to their unit, the third
+      Hussars, and a photographer from Orleansville.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      No matter how charming and varied the company, Tartarin did not feel like
+      chatting and remained silent, his arm hooked into the arm-strap and his
+      weaponry between his knees.... His hurried departure, the dark eyes of
+      Baia, the dangerous chase on which he was about to engage, these thoughts
+      troubled his mind, and also there was something about this venerable
+      stage-coach, now domiciled in Africa, which recalled to him vaguely the
+      Tarascon of his youth. Trips to the country. Dinners by the banks of the
+      Rhône, a host of memories.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Little by little it grew dark. The guard lit the lanterns. The old coach
+      swayed and squeaked on its worn springs. The horses trotted, the bells on
+      their harness jingling, and from time to time there sounded the clash of
+      ironmongery from Tartarin&rsquo;s arms chest on the top of the coach.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Sleepily Tartarin contemplated his fellow passengers as they danced before
+      his eyes, shaken by the jolting of the coach, then his eyes closed and he
+      heard no more, except vaguely, the rumble of the axles and the groaning of
+      the coach sides....
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Suddenly an ancient female voice, rough, hoarse and cracked, called the
+      Tarasconais by name: &ldquo;Monsieur Tartarin!... Monsieur Tartarin!&rdquo; &ldquo;Who is
+      calling me?&rdquo; &ldquo;It is I, Monsieur Tartarin, don&rsquo;t you recognise me?... I am
+      the stage-coach which once ran... it is now twenty years ago... the
+      service from Tarascon to Nimes.... How many times have I carried you and
+      your friends when you went hat shooting over by Joncquières or
+      Bellegarde... I didn&rsquo;t recognise you at first because of your bonnet and
+      the amount of weight you have put on, but as soon as you began to snore,
+      you old rascal, I knew you right away.&rdquo; &ldquo;Bon!... Bon!&rdquo; Replied Tartarin,
+      somewhat vexed, but then softening, he added: &ldquo;But now, my poor old lady,
+      what are you doing here?&rdquo; &ldquo;Ah! My dear M. Tartarin, I did not come here of
+      my own free will I can promise you. Once the railway reached Beaucaire no
+      one could find a use for me so I was shipped off to Africa... and I am not
+      the only one, nearly all the stage-coaches in France have been deported
+      like me; we were found too old fashioned and now here we all are, leading
+      a life of slavery.&rdquo; Here the old coach gave a long sigh, then she went on:
+      &ldquo;I can&rsquo;t tell you monsieur Tartarin how much I miss my lovely Tarascon.
+      These were good times for me, the time of my youth. You should have seen
+      me leaving in the morning, freshly washed and polished, with new varnish
+      on my wheels, my lamps shining like suns and my tarpaulin newly dressed
+      with oil. How grand it was when the postillion cracked his whip and sang
+      out, &lsquo;Lagadigadeou, la Tarasque, la Tarasque&rsquo; and the guard, with his
+      ticket-punch slung on its bandolier and his braided cap tipped over one
+      ear, chucked his little yapping dog onto the tarpaulin of the coach-roof
+      and scrambled up himself crying &lsquo;Let&rsquo;s go!... Let&rsquo;s go!&rsquo; Then my four
+      horses would start off with a jingle of bells, barking and fanfares.
+      Windows would open and all Tarascon would watch with pride the stage-coach
+      setting off along the king&rsquo;s highway.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;What a fine road it was, Monsieur Tartarin, wide and well kept, with its
+      kilometre markers, its heaps of roadmender&rsquo;s stones at regular intervals,
+      and to right and left vinyards and pretty groves of olive trees. Then inns
+      every few yards, post-houses every five minutes... and my travellers! What
+      fine folk!... Mayors and curés going to Nimes to see their Prefect or
+      Bishop, honest workmen, students on holiday, peasants in embroidered
+      smocks, all freshly shaved that morning, and up on top, all of you hat
+      shooters, who were always in such good form and who sang so well to the
+      stars as we returned home in the evening.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Now it is a different story... God knows the sort of people I carry. A
+      load of miscreants from goodness knows where, who infest me with vermin.
+      Negroes, Bedouins, rascals and adventurers from every country, colonists
+      who stink me out with their pipes, and all of them talking a language
+      which even our Heavenly Father couldn&rsquo;t understand.... And then you see
+      how they treat me. Never brushed. Never washed. They grudge me the grease
+      for my axles, and instead of the fine big, quiet horses which I used to
+      have, they give me little Arab horses which have the devil in them,
+      fighting, biting, dancing about and running like goats, breaking my shafts
+      with kicks. Aie!... Aie! They are at it again now.... And the roads! It&rsquo;s
+      still all right here, because we are near Government House, but out there,
+      nothing! No road of any sort. One goes as best one can over hill and dale
+      through dwarf palms and mastic trees. Not a single fixed stop. One pulls
+      up at wherever the guard fancies, sometimes at one farm, sometimes at
+      another. Sometimes this rogue takes me on a detour of two leagues just so
+      that he can go and drink with a friend. After that it&rsquo;s &lsquo;Whip up
+      postillion, we must make up for lost time.&rsquo; The sun burns. The dust
+      chokes... Whip!... Whip! We crash. We tip over. More whip. We swim across
+      rivers, we are cold, soaked and half drowned... Whip!... Whip!... Whip!
+      Then in the evening, dripping wet... that&rsquo;s good for me at my age... I
+      have to bed down in the yard of some caravan halt, exposed to all the
+      winds. At night jackals and hyenas come to sniff at my lockers and
+      creatures which fear the dawn hide in my compartments. That&rsquo;s the life I
+      lead, monsieur Tartarin, and I shall lead until the day when, scorched by
+      sun and rotted by humid nights, I shall fall at some corner of this
+      beastly road, where Arabs will boil their cous-cous on the remains of my
+      old carcase.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Blidah!... Blidah!&rdquo; Shouted the guard, opening the coach door.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <a name="link2HCH0025" id="link2HCH0025">
+      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      Chapter 25.
+    </h2>
+    <p>
+      Indistinctly, through the steamed up windows, Tartarin could see the
+      pretty square of a neatly laid out little township, surrounded by arcades
+      and planted with orange trees, in the centre of which a group of soldiers
+      was drilling in the thin, pink haze of early morning. The cafés were
+      taking down their shutters, in one corner a vegetable market was under
+      way. It was charming, but in no way did it suggest lions. &ldquo;To the south,
+      further to the south.&rdquo; Murmured Tartarin, settling back in his corner.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      At that moment the coach door was opened, letting in a gust of fresh air,
+      which bore on its wings, amongst the scent of orange blossom, a very small
+      gentleman in a brown overcoat. Neat, elderly, thin and wrinkled, with a
+      face no bigger than a fist, a silk cravat five fingers high, a leather
+      brief-case and an umbrella. The perfect image of a village notary. On
+      seeing Tartarin&rsquo;s weaponry, the little gentleman, who was seated opposite
+      him, looked very surprised, and began to stare at our hero.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      The horses were changed and the coach set off... the little gentleman
+      continued to stare. At length Tartarin became offended and staring in his
+      turn at the little gentleman he asked &ldquo;Do you find this surprising?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Not at all, but it does rather get in the way.&rdquo; Was the reply, and the
+      fact is that with his tent, his revolver, his two rifles and their covers,
+      not to mention his natural corpulence, Tartarin de Tarascon did take up
+      quite a lot of space.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      This reply from the little gentleman annoyed Tartarin, &ldquo;Do you suppose
+      that I would go after lions with an umbrella?&rdquo; Asked the great man
+      proudly. The little gentleman looked at his umbrella, smiled and and asked
+      calmly, &ldquo;You monsieur are...?&rdquo; &ldquo;Tartarin de Tarascon, lion hunter.&rdquo; And in
+      pronouncing these words the brave Tartarin shook the tassel of his chechia
+      as if it were a mane.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      In the coach there was a startled response. The Trappist crossed himself,
+      the Cocottes uttered little squeaks of excitement and the photographer
+      edged closer to the lion killer, thinking that he might be a good subject
+      for a picture. The little gentleman was not in the least disturbed. &ldquo;Have
+      you killed many lions, Monsieur Tartarin?&rdquo; He asked quietly. Tartarin
+      adopted a lofty air, &ldquo;Yes many of them. More than you have hairs on your
+      head.&rdquo; And all the passengers laughed at the sight of the three or four
+      yellow hairs which sprouted from the little gentleman&rsquo;s scalp.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      The photographer then spoke up, &ldquo;A terrible profession yours, Monsieur
+      Tartarin, you must have moments of danger sometimes like that brave M.
+      Bombonnel.&rdquo; &ldquo;Ah!... yes... M. Bombonnel, the man who hunts panthers.&rdquo; Said
+      Tartarin, with some disdain. &ldquo;Do you know him?&rdquo; Asked the little
+      gentleman. &ldquo;Ti!... Pardi!... To be sure I know him, we have hunted
+      together more than twenty times.&rdquo; &ldquo;You hunt panthers also M. Tartarin?&rdquo;
+       &ldquo;Occasionally, as a pastime.&rdquo; Said Tartarin casually, and raising his head
+      with a heroic gesture which went straight to the hearts of the two
+      Cocottes, he added &ldquo;They cannot be compared to lions.&rdquo; &ldquo;One could say,&rdquo;
+       Hazarded the photographer, &ldquo;That a panther is no more than a large
+      pussy-cat.&rdquo; &ldquo;Quite right.&rdquo; Said Tartarin, who was not reluctant to lower
+      the reputation of this M. Bombonnel, particularly in front of the ladies.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      At this moment the coach stopped. The guard came to open the door and he
+      addressed the little old man, &ldquo;This is where you want to get off
+      Monsieur.&rdquo; He said very respectfully.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      The little gentleman got up to leave, but before he closed the door he
+      said &ldquo;Would you permit me to give you a word of advice M. Tartarin?&rdquo; &ldquo;What
+      is that Monsieur?&rdquo; &ldquo;Go back quickly to Tarascon, M. Tartarin, you are
+      wasting your time here... There are a few panthers left in Algeria, but,
+      fi donc! They are too small a quarry for you... as for lions, they are
+      finished. There are no more in Algeria, my friend Chassaing has just
+      killed the last one.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      On that the little gentleman saluted, closed the door and went off,
+      laughing, with his brief-case and umbrella. &ldquo;Guard!&rdquo; Said Tartarin, making
+      his grimace. &ldquo;Who on earth was that fellow?&rdquo; &ldquo;What! Don&rsquo;t you know him?&rdquo;
+       Said the guard, &ldquo;That&rsquo;s Monsieur Bombonnel!&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      <a name="link2HCH0026" id="link2HCH0026">
+      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      Chapter 26.
+    </h2>
+    <p>
+      When the coach reached Milianah Tartarin got out and left it to continue
+      its journey to the south. Two days of being bumped about and nights spent
+      peering out of the window in the hope of seeing the outline of a lion in
+      the fields lining the road, had earned a little rest; and then it must be
+      admitted that after the misadventure over M. Bombonnel, Tartarin, in spite
+      of his weapons, his terrible grimace and his red chechia, had not felt
+      entirely at ease in the presence of the photographer and the two ladies of
+      the third Hussars.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      He made his way along the wide streets of Milianah, full of handsome trees
+      and fountains, but while he looked for a convenient hotel, he could not
+      prevent himself from mulling over the words of M. Bombonnel. What if it
+      were true... what if there were no more lions in Algeria? What then was
+      the point of all this travel and all these discomforts?
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Suddenly at a bend in the road our hero was confronted by a remarkable
+      spectacle. He found himself face to face with&mdash;believe it or not&mdash;a
+      superb lion which was seated regally at the door of a café, Its mane tawny
+      in the sunshine.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Who says there are no more lions?&rdquo; Cried Tartarin, jumping back. On
+      hearing this exclamation the lion lowered its head, and taking in its jaws
+      the wooden begging bowl which lay on the pavement before it, extended it
+      humbly in the direction of Tartarin, who was paralyzed by astonishment...
+      a passing Arab tossed in a few coppers. Then Tartarin understood. He saw
+      what his surprise had at first prevented him from seeing, a crowd of
+      people which was gathered round the poor tame lion, which was blind, and
+      the two big negroes, armed with cudgels, who led it about the town.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Tartarin&rsquo;s blood boiled. &ldquo;Wretches!&rdquo; He cried &ldquo;To debase this noble
+      creature!&rdquo; And running to the lion he snatched the sordid begging bowl
+      from the royal jaws.... The two negroes, believing they were dealing with
+      a thief, threw themselves on Tartarin with raised cudgels. It was a
+      terrible set-to. Women were screeching children laughing there were calls
+      for the police and the lion in its darkness joined in with a fearsome
+      roar. The unhappy Tartarin after a desperate struggle, rolled on the
+      ground among copper coins and road sweepings.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      At this moment a man pushed through the crowd. He dismissed the negroes
+      with a word and the women and children with a gesture. He helped Tartarin
+      to his feet, brushed him down and seated him, out of breath, on a bollard.
+      &ldquo;Good heavens... prince... Is it really you?&rdquo; Said Tartarin, rubbing his
+      ribs. &ldquo;Indeed yes my valiant friend... it is I. As soon as I received your
+      letter I confided Baia to her brother, hired a post-chaise, came fifty
+      leagues flat out and here I am just in time to save you from the brutality
+      of these louts.... For God&rsquo;s sake what have you been doing to get yourself
+      dragged into a mess like this?&rdquo; &ldquo;What could you expect me to do, prince,
+      when I saw this unfortunate lion with the begging bowl in its teeth,
+      humiliated, enslaved, ridiculed, serving as a laughing stock for this
+      unsavoury rabble...?&rdquo; &ldquo;But you are mistaken my noble friend.&rdquo; Said the
+      prince, &ldquo;This lion on the contrary is an object of respect and adoration.
+      It is a sacred beast, a member of a great convent of lions founded three
+      centuries ago by Mahommed-ben-Aouda, a sort of wild fierce monastry where
+      strange monks rear and tame hundreds of lions and send them throughout all
+      north Africa, accompanied by mendicant brothers. The alms which these
+      brothers receive serve to maintain the monastry and its mosque, and if
+      those two negroes were in such a rage just now, it is because they are
+      convinced that if one sou, one single sou, of their takings is lost
+      through any fault of theirs, the lion which that are leading will
+      immediately devour them.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      On hearing this unlikely but plausible tale, Tartarin recovered his
+      spirits. &ldquo;It seems evident after all,&rdquo; He said &ldquo;That in spite of what M.
+      Bombonnel said, there are still lions in Algeria.&rdquo; &ldquo;To be sure there are,&rdquo;
+       said the prince, &ldquo;And tomorrow we shall begin to search the plains by the
+      river Cheliff and you shall see.&rdquo; &ldquo;What!... prince. Do you mean to join in
+      the hunt yourself?&rdquo; &ldquo;Of course&rdquo; Said the prince &ldquo;Do you think I would
+      leave you to wander alone in the middle of Africa, among all those savage
+      tribes, of whose language and customs you know nothing? No! No! My dear
+      Tartarin. I shall not leave you again. Wherever you go I shall accompany
+      you.&rdquo; &ldquo;Oh!... prince!... prince!&rdquo; And Tartarin clasped the valiant Gregory
+      in a warm embrace.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <a name="link2HCH0027" id="link2HCH0027">
+      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      Chapter 27.
+    </h2>
+    <p>
+      Very early the next morning the intrepid Tartarin and the no less intrepid
+      prince Gregory, followed by half a dozen negro porters, left Milianah and
+      descended towards the plain of the Chetiff by a steep pathway,
+      delightfully shaded by jasmine, carobs and wild olives, between the hedges
+      of little native gardens where a thousand bubbling springs trickled
+      melodiously from rock to rock, a veritable Eden.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Carrying as much in the way of arms as the great Tartarin, the prince was
+      further adorned by a magnificent and colourful kepi, covered with gold
+      braid and decorated with oak leaves embroidered in silver thread, which
+      gave his highness the appearance of a Mexican General, or a
+      Middle-European Station-Master. This fantastic kepi greatly intrigued
+      Tartarin and he asked humbly for an explanation.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;An indispensable form of headgear for the traveller in Africa.&rdquo; The
+      prince replied gravely; and while polishing the peak on his coat-sleeve he
+      instructed his innocent companion on the important role played by the kepi
+      in colonial administration, and the deference which its appearance
+      inspires. This to such an extent that the government has been obliged to
+      issue kepis to everyone from the canteen worker to the registrar-general.
+      In fact, according to the prince, to govern the country there was no
+      necessity for an elaborate regime. All that was needed was a fine
+      gold-braided kepi glittering on the end of a big stick.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Thus conversing and philosophising, they went there way. The bare-footed
+      porters leapt from rock to rock, shouting and chattering. The armaments
+      rattled in their case. The guns glittered in the sun.. The locals who
+      passed bowed deeply before the magical kepi.... Up on the ramparts of
+      Milianah, the chief of the Arab bureau, who was walking with his lady in
+      the cool of the morning, hearing these unusual noises and seeing between
+      the branches the flash of sunlight on the weapons, feared a surprise
+      attack; whereupon he lowered the portcullis, beat the alarm and put the
+      town in a state of siege.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      This was a good start to the expedition. Regrettably, before the end of
+      the day, the situation deteriorated. One of the negroes was taken with the
+      most fearful colic, having eaten the plasters in the medicine chest.
+      Another fell, dead drunk, by the wayside, as a result of swigging spirits
+      of camphor. A third, in charge of the log-book, deceived by the gold
+      lettering on the cover, thought he had hold of the treasures of Mecca and
+      made off with it at top speed.... Clearly some planning was needed, so the
+      party halted and took council in the shade of an old fig tree. &ldquo;In my
+      opinion&rdquo; Said the prince, trying unsuccessfully to dissolve a tablet of
+      pemmican in a cooking pot, &ldquo;In my opinion, after this evening we should
+      get rid of these negro porters. There is an Arab market near here and our
+      best plan would be to go there and buy some bourriquots.&rdquo; &ldquo;No!... No!...
+      No bourriquots!&rdquo; Interrupted Tartarin, who had become very red at the
+      memory of Noiraud, adding hypocritically, &ldquo;How can these little creatures
+      carry all our equipment?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      The prince smiled, &ldquo;You are mistaken my illustrious friend,&rdquo; He said, &ldquo;The
+      bourriquot may seem to you a poor weak creature, but it has a great
+      heart... It needs it to support all it has to bear... ask the Arabs. This
+      is their idea of our administration. On top they say, is the governor with
+      a big stick which he uses to thump his staff. The staff in turn thump the
+      soldiers. The soldiers thump the colonist. The colonist thumps the Arab,
+      the Arab the negro, and the Negro thumps the bourriquot. The poor little
+      bourriquot having no one to thump, bares its back and puts up with it. So
+      you can see it is well able to carry all our gear.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;That&rsquo;s all very well.&rdquo; Replied Tartarin, &ldquo;But I don&rsquo;t think that donkeys
+      add much colour to the general appearance of our caravan. Now if we could
+      have a camel...!&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Just as you wish.&rdquo; Said his highness, and they set off for the market.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      The market was held some distance away on the bank of the Cheliff. There
+      were five or six thousand Arabs milling around in the sun, trading noisily
+      among piles of olives, pots of honey, sacks of spices and heaps of cigars.
+      There were fires at which whole sheep were roasting, dripping with butter.
+      There were open air butcheries where almost naked negroes, their feet
+      paddling in blood and their arms red to the elbow, were cutting up the
+      carcases of goats hanging from hooks... In one corner, in a tent repaired
+      in a thousand different colours, was a Moorish official with a big book
+      and spectacles. Over there is a crowd. There are cries of rage. It is a
+      roulette game that has been set up on a corn bin and the tribesmen
+      gathered about it have started fighting with knives. Elsewhere, there are
+      cheers, laughter and stamping of feet, a merchant and his mule have fallen
+      into the river and are in danger of drowning.... There are scorpions,
+      crows, dogs and flies, millions of flies, but no camels.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Eventually a camel was discovered which some nomads were trying to dispose
+      of. This was a real desert camel, with little hair, a sad expression and a
+      hump which through long shortage of fodder hung flaccidly to one side.
+      Tartarin was so taken with it that he wanted the two partners to be
+      mounted. This proved to be a mistake.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      The camel knelt, the trunks were strapped on, the prince installed himself
+      on the creature&rsquo;s neck and Tartarin was hoisted up to the top of the hump,
+      between two cases, from where he proudly saluted the assembled market and
+      gave the signal for departure.... Heavens above!.... If only Tarascon
+      could see him now!
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      The camel rose, stretched out its long legs and took off. Calamity! The
+      camel pitched and rolled like a frigate in a rough sea and the chechia
+      responded to the motion as it had on the Zouave. &ldquo;Prince... prince&rdquo;
+       Murmured Tartarin, ashen-faced, and clutching the scanty hair of the hump,
+      &ldquo;Prince... let us get down, I feel... I feel I am going to disgrace
+      France.&rdquo; But the camel was in full flight and nothing was going to stop
+      it. Four thousand Arabs were running behind, bare-footed, waving, laughing
+      like idiots, six hundred thousand white teeth glistening in the sun....
+      The great man of Tarascon had to resign himself to the inevitable, and
+      France was disgraced.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <a name="link2HCH0028" id="link2HCH0028">
+      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      Chapter 28.
+    </h2>
+    <p>
+      Despite the picturesque nature of their new mode of transport our lion
+      hunters were forced to dismount, out of regard for the chechia. They
+      continued their journey as before, on foot, and the caravan proceeded
+      tranquilly toward the south with Tartarin in front, the prince in the rear
+      and between them the camel with the baggage.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      The expedition lasted for a month. For a whole month, Tartarin, hunting
+      for non-existent lions, wandered from village to village in the immense
+      plain of the Chetiff, across this extraordinary, cock-eyed French Algeria,
+      where the perfumes of ancient Araby are mingled with a powerful stink of
+      Absinthe and barrack-room; Abraham and Zouzou combined, a strange mixture
+      like a page of the Old Testament rewritten by Sergeant Le Ramée or
+      Corporal Pitou.... A curious spectacle for those who would care to
+      look.... A savage and decadent people whom we are civilising by giving
+      them our own vices. The cruel and uncontrolled authority of Pashas,
+      inflated with self-importance in their cordons of the legion of honour,
+      who at their whim have people beaten on the soles of their feet. The
+      so-called justice of bespectacled Cadis, traitors to the koran and to the
+      law, who sell their judgements as did Esau his birthright for a plate of
+      cous-cous. Drunken and libertine headmen, former batmen to General Yussif
+      someone or other, who guzzle champagne in the company of harlots, and
+      indulge in feasts of roast mutton, while before their tents the whole
+      tribe is starving and disputes with the dogs the leavings of the
+      seigniorial banquet.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Then, all around, uncultivated plain. Scorched grass. Bushes bare of
+      leaves. Scrub. Cactus. Mastic trees... The granary of France?... A granary
+      empty of grain and rich only in jackals and bugs. Abandoned villages.
+      Bewildered tribesfolk who run they know not where, fleeing from famine and
+      sowing corpses along the road. Here and there a French settlement, the
+      houses dilapidated, the fields untilled and raging hordes of locusts who
+      eat the very curtains from the windows, while the colonists are all in
+      cafés, drinking absinthe and discussing projects for the reform of the
+      constitution.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      That is what Tartarin could have seen, if he had taken the trouble, but
+      obsessed with his fantasy the man from Tarascon marched straight ahead,
+      his vision limited to searching for these monstrous felines, of which
+      there was no trace.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Since the bivouac tent obstinately refused to open and the pemmican
+      tablets to dissolve, the hunting party was compelled to stop daily at
+      tribal villages. Everywhere, thanks to the prince&rsquo;s kepi, they were
+      received with open arms. They were lodged by chieftains in strange
+      palaces, great white buildings without windows, where were piled up
+      hookahs and mahogany commodes, Smyrna carpets and adjustable oil lamps,
+      cedar-wood chests full of Turkish sequins and clocks decorated in the
+      style of Louis Phillipe. Everywhere Tartarin was treated to fêtes and
+      official receptions. In his honour whole villages turned out, firing
+      volleys in the air, their burnous gleaming in the sun: after which the
+      good chieftain would come to present the bill.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Nowhere, however, were there any more lions than there are on the Pont
+      Neuf in Paris: but Tartarin was not discouraged, he pushed bravely on to
+      the south. His days were spent scouring the scrub, rummaging among the
+      dwarf palms with the end of his carbine and going &ldquo;Frt!... Frt!&rdquo; At each
+      bush... Then every evening a stand-to of two or three hours... A wasted
+      effort. No lions appeared.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      One evening, however, at about six o&rsquo;clock, as they were going through a
+      wood of mastic trees, where fat quail, made lazy by the heat were jumping
+      up from the grass, Tartarin thought he heard... but so far off... so
+      distorted by the wind... so faint, the wonderful roar which he had heard
+      so many times back home in Tarascon, behind the menagerie Mitaine.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      At first he thought he had imagined it, but in a moment, still far
+      distant, but now more distinct, the roaring began again, and this time one
+      could hear, all around, the barking of village dogs; while, stricken by
+      terror and rattling the boxes of arms and preserves, the camel&rsquo;s hump
+      trembled. There could be no more doubt.... It was a lion! Quick!... Quick!
+      Into position! Not a moment to lose!
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      There was, close by them, an old Marabout (the tomb of a holy man) with a
+      white dome: the big yellow slippers of the deceased lying in a recess
+      above the door, together with a bizarre jumble of votive offerings which
+      hung along the walls: fragments of burnous, some gold thread, a tuft of
+      red hair. There Tartarin installed the prince and the camel, and prepared
+      to look for a hide. He was determined to face the lion single-handed, so
+      he earnestly requested His Highness not to leave the spot, and for safe
+      keeping he handed to him his wallet, a fat wallet stuffed with valuable
+      papers and banknotes. This done our hero sought his post.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      About a hundred yards in front of the Marabout, on the banks of an almost
+      dry river, a clump of oleanders stirred in the faint twilight breeze, and
+      it was there that Tartarin concealed himself in ambush, kneeling on one
+      knee, in what he felt was an appropriate position, his rifle in his hands
+      and his big hunting knife stuck into the sandy soil of the river bank in
+      front of him.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Night was falling. The rosy daylight turned to violet and then to a sombre
+      blue.... Below, amongst the stones of the river bed, there glistened like
+      a hand-mirror a little pool of clear water: a drinking place for the wild
+      animals. On the slope of the opposite bank one could see indistinctly the
+      path which they had made through the trees: a view which Tartarin found a
+      bit unnerving. Add to this the vague noises of the African night, the
+      rustle of branches, the thin yapping of jackals, and in the sky a flock of
+      cranes passing with cries like children being murdered. You must admit
+      that this could be unsettling, and Tartarin was unsettled, he was even
+      very unsettled! His teeth chattered and the rifle shook in his hands;
+      well... there are evenings when one is not at one&rsquo;s best, and where would
+      be the merit if heroes were never afraid?
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Tartarin was, admittedly, afraid, but in spite of his fear he held on for
+      an hour... two hours, but heroism has its breaking point. In the dry river
+      bed, close to him, Tartarin heard the sound of footsteps rattling the
+      pebbles. Terror overtook him. He rose to his feet, fired both barrels
+      blindly into the night and ran at top speed to the Marabout, leaving his
+      knife stuck in the ground as a memorial to the most overwhelming panic
+      that ever affected a hero.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;A moi! prince!... A Moi!... The lion!&rdquo;... There was no answer.
+      &ldquo;Prince!... prince! Are you there?&rdquo;.... The prince was not there. Against
+      the white wall of the Marabout was only the silhouette of the worthy
+      camel&rsquo;s hump. The prince Gregory had disappeared, taking with him the
+      wallet and the banknotes. His highness had been waiting for a month for
+      such an opportunity.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <a name="link2HCH0029" id="link2HCH0029">
+      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      Chapter 29.
+    </h2>
+    <p>
+      The day after this adventurous yet tragic evening, when at first light our
+      hero awoke and realised that the prince and his money had gone and would
+      not return; when he saw himself alone in this little white tomb, betrayed,
+      robbed and abandoned in the middle of savage Algeria with a one-humped
+      camel and some loose change as his total resources, for the first time
+      some misgivings entered his mind. He began to have doubts about
+      Montenegro, about friendship, fame and even lions. Overcome by misery he
+      shed bitter tears.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      While he was sitting disconsolately at the door of the Marabout with his
+      head in his hands, his rifle between his knees and watched over by the
+      camel... behold! The undergrowth opposite was thrust aside and the
+      thunderstruck Tartarin saw not ten paces away a gigantic lion, which
+      advanced towards him uttering roars which shook the ragged offerings on
+      the wall of the Marabout and even the slippers of the holy man in their
+      recess. Only Tartarin remained unshaken. &ldquo;At last!&rdquo; He cried, jumping to
+      his feet with his rifle butt to his shoulder... Pan!... Pan!... Pft!...
+      Pft!... The lion had two explosive bullets in its head! Fragments of lion
+      erupted like fireworks into the burning African sky, and as they fell to
+      earth, Tartarin saw two furious negroes, who ran towards him with raised
+      cudgels. The two negroes of Milianah... Oh! Misère!... It was the the tame
+      lion, the poor blind lion of the convent of Mahommed that the bullets of
+      the Tarasconais had felled.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      This time Tartarin had the narrowest of escapes. Drunk with fanatical
+      fury, the two negro mendicants would surely have had him in pieces had not
+      the God of the Christians sent him a Guardian Angel in the shape of the
+      District Police Officer from Orleansville, who arrived down the pathway,
+      his sabre tucked under his arm, at that very moment. The sight of the
+      municipal kepi had an immediate calming effect on the two negroes. Stern
+      and majestic the representative of the law took down the particulars of
+      the affair, had the remains of the lion loaded onto the camel, and ordered
+      the plaintiff and the accused to follow him to Orleansville, where the
+      whole matter was placed in the hands of the legal authorities.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      There then commenced a long and involved process. After the tribal Algeria
+      in which he had been wandering, Tartarin now made the acquaintance of the
+      no less peculiar and cock-eyed Algeria of the towns: litigious and
+      legalistic. He encountered a sleazy justicary who stitched up shady deals
+      in the back rooms of cafés. The Bohemian society of the gentlemen of the
+      law; dossiers which stank of absinthe, white cravats speckled with drink
+      and coffee stains. He was embroiled with ushers, solicitors, and business
+      agents, all the locusts of officialdom, thin and ravenous, who strip the
+      colonist down to his boots and leave him shorn leaf by leaf like a stalk
+      of maize.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      The first essential point to be decided was whether the lion had been
+      killed on civil or military territory. In the first case Tartarin would
+      come before a civil tribunal, in the second he would be tried by
+      court-martial: at the word court-martial Tartarin imagined himself lying
+      shot at the foot of the ramparts, or crouching in the depths of a
+      dungeon... A major difficulty was that the delimitation of these two areas
+      was extremely vague, but at last, after months of consultation, intrigue,
+      and vigils in the sun outside the offices of the Arab Bureau, it was
+      established that on the one hand the lion was, when killed, on military
+      ground, but on the other hand that Tartarin when he fired the fatal shot
+      was in civilian territory. The affair was therefore a civil matter, and
+      Tartarin was freed on the payment of an indemnity of two thousand five
+      hundred francs, not including costs.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      How was this to be paid? The little money left after the prince&rsquo;s
+      defection had long since gone on legal documents and judicial absinthe.
+      The unfortunate lion killer was now reduced to selling off his armament
+      rifle by rifle. He sold the daggers, the knives and coshes. A grocer
+      bought the preserved food, a chemist what was left of the medicine chest.
+      Even the boots went, with the bivouac tent, into the hands of a merchant
+      of bric-a-brac. Once everything had been paid, Tartarin was left with
+      little but the lion-skin and the camel. The lion-skin he packed up
+      carefully and despatched to Tarascon, to the address of the brave
+      Commandant Bravida. As for the camel, he counted on it to get him back to
+      Algiers: not by riding it, but by selling it to raise the fare for the
+      stage-coach, which was at least better than camel-back. Sadly the camel
+      proved a difficult market, and no one offered to buy it at any price.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Tartarin was determined to get back to Algiers, even if it meant walking.
+      He longed to see once more Baia&rsquo;s blue corslet, his house, his fountain
+      and to rest on the white tiles of his his little cloister while he awaited
+      money to be sent from France. In these circumstances the camel did not
+      desert him. This strange animal had developed an inexplicable affection
+      for its master, and seeing him set out from Orleansville it followed him
+      faithfully, regulating its pace to his and not quitting him by as much as
+      a footstep.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      At first Tartarin found it touching. This fidelity, this unshakable
+      devotion seemed wholly admirable; besides which the beast was no trouble
+      and was able to find its own food. However, after a few days Tartarin grew
+      tired of having perpetually at his heels this melancholy companion, who
+      reminded him of all his misadventures. He began to be irritated. He took a
+      dislike to its air of sadness to its hump and its haughty bearing. In he
+      end he became so exasperated with it that his only wish was to be rid of
+      it; but the camel would not be dismissed. Tartarin tried to lose it, but
+      the camel always found him. He tried running away, but the camel could run
+      faster. He shouted &ldquo;Clear off!&rdquo; and threw stones: the camel stopped and
+      regarded him with a mournful expression, then after a few moments it
+      resumed its pace and caught up with him. Tartarin had to resign himself to
+      its company.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      When, after eight days of walking, Tartarin, tired and dusty, saw gleaming
+      in the distance the white terraces of Algiers, when he found himself on
+      the outskirts of the town, on the bustling Mustapha road, amid the crowds
+      who watched him go by with the camel in attendance, his patience snapped,
+      and taking advantage of some traffic congestion he ducked into a field and
+      hid in a ditch. In a few moments he saw above his head, on the causeway,
+      the camel striding along rapidly, its neck anxiously extended. Greatly
+      relieved to be rid of it, Tartarin entered the town by a side road which
+      ran along by the wall of his house.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      On his arrival at his Moorish house, Tartarin halted in astonishment. The
+      day was ending, the streets deserted. Through the low arched doorway,
+      which the negress had forgotten to close, could be heard laughter, the
+      clinking of glasses, the popping of a champagne cork and the cheerful
+      voice of a woman singing loud and clear:
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Aimes-tu Marco la belle,
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;La danse aux salons en fleurs...&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Tron de Diou!&rdquo; Said Tartarin, blenching, and he rushed into the
+      courtyard.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Unhappy Tartarin! What a spectacle awaited him!.... Amid bottles,
+      pastries, scattered cushions, tambourine, guitar, and hookah, Baia stood,
+      without her blue jacket or her corslet, dressed only in a silver gauze
+      blouse and big pink pantaloons, singing &ldquo;Marco la belle&rdquo; with a naval
+      officer&rsquo;s hat tipped over one ear... while on a rug at her feet surfeited
+      with love and confitures, was Barbassou, the infamous Barbassou, roaring
+      with laughter as he listened to her.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      The arrival of Tartarin, haggard, thin, covered in dust, with blazing eyes
+      and bristling chechia cut short this enjoyable Turco-Marseillaise orgy.
+      Baia uttered a little cry, and like a startled leveret she bolted into the
+      house, but Barbassou was not in the least put out and laughed more than
+      ever: &ldquo;Hé!... Hé!... Monsieur Tartarin. What did I tell you? You can hear
+      that she knows French all right.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      Tartarin advanced, furious: &ldquo;Captain!..&rdquo; He began; but then, leaning over
+      the balcony with a rather vulgar gesture, Baia threw down a few
+      well-chosen words. Tartarin, deflated, sat down on a drum, his Moor spoke
+      in the argot of the Marseilles back-streets.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;When I warned you not to trust Algerian women,&rdquo; Said Captain Barbassou
+      sententiously, &ldquo;The same applied to your Montenegrin prince.&rdquo; Tartarin
+      looked up, &ldquo;Do you know where the prince is?&rdquo; he asked.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Oh, he is not far away. He will spend the next five years in the fine
+      prison at Mustapha. The clown was foolish enough to be caught stealing...
+      and anyway this is not the first time His Highness has been inside, he has
+      already done three years in gaol somewhere, and... hang on!... I believe
+      it was in Tarascon!
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;In Tarascon!&rdquo; Cried Tartarin, suddenly enlightened, &ldquo;that is why I never
+      saw him there. All he knew of Tarascon was what he could see from a cell
+      window.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Hé!... without a doubt.... Ah! My poor M. Tartarin, you have to keep both
+      eyes wide open in this devilish country if you don&rsquo;t want to be taken in.
+      Like that business of the Muezzin.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;What business?... What Muezzin?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Ti!... Pardi!&rdquo; The Muezzin opposite, who was courting Baia; all Algiers
+      knew about it. Not all the prayers he was chanting were addressed to
+      Allah, some were directed to the little one, and he was making
+      propositions under your nose. &ldquo;It seems that everyone in this beastly
+      country is a crook&rdquo;, Wailed the unhappy Tartarin. Barbassou shrugged his
+      shoulders, &ldquo;My dear fellow, you know how it is. All these sort of places
+      are the same. If you take my advice you will go back to Tarascon as
+      quickly as possible.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;That&rsquo;s easy to say, but what am I to do for money? Don&rsquo;t you know how
+      they robbed me out there in the desert?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t worry about that,&rdquo; laughed the Captain, &ldquo;the Zouave is leaving
+      tomorrow and I&rsquo;ll take you back if you want... does that suit you,
+      colleague?... All right... Good! There&rsquo;s only one thing left to do, there
+      is still some champagne and some pastries left. Come, sit down and let
+      bygones be bygones.&rdquo; After a little delay which his dignity required, our
+      hero accepted the offer. They sat down and poured out a drink. Hearing the
+      clink of glasses, Baia came down and finished singing Marco la Belle, and
+      the party went on until late in the night.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <a name="link2HCH0030" id="link2HCH0030">
+      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      Chapter 30.
+    </h2>
+    <p>
+      It is mid-day. The Zouave has steam up and is ready to depart. Up above on
+      the balcony of the café Valentin, a group of officers aim the telescope,
+      and come one by one, in order of seniority, to look at the lucky little
+      ship which is going to France. It is the principle entertainment of the
+      general staff. Down below, the water of the anchorage sparkles.... The
+      breeches of the old Turkish cannons, mounted along the quay, glisten in
+      the sunshine.... Passengers arrive.... Baggage is loaded onto tenders.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Tartarin does not have any baggage. He comes down from the Rue de la
+      Marine by the little market, full of bananas and water-melons, accompanied
+      by his friend Captain Barbassou.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Tartarin de Tarascon has left on the Moorish shore his arms, his equipment
+      and his illusions, and is preparing to sail back to Tarascon with nothing
+      in his pockets but his hands. Scarcely, however, had he set foot in the
+      captain&rsquo;s launch, when a breathless creature scrambled down from the
+      square above and galloped towards him. It was the camel, the faithful
+      camel, which for twenty-four hours had been searching for its master.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      When Tartarin saw it, he changed colour and pretended not to know it; but
+      the camel was insistent. It frisked along the quay. It called to its
+      friend and regarded him with tender looks. &ldquo;Take me away!&rdquo; Its sad eyes
+      seemed to say, &ldquo;Take me away with you, far away from this mock Arabia,
+      this ridiculous Orient, full of locomotives and stage coaches, where I as
+      a second-class dromadary do not know what will become of me. You are the
+      last Teur, I am the last camel, let us never part, Oh my Tartarin!&rdquo; &ldquo;Is
+      that your camel?&rdquo; Asked the Captain.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;No!... No!... Not mine.&rdquo; Replied Tartarin, who trembled at the thought of
+      entering Tarascon with this absurd escort; and shamelessly repudiating the
+      companion of his misfortunes he repelled with his foot the soil of Algeria
+      and pushed the boat out from the shore. The camel sniffed at the water,
+      flexed its joints and leapt headlong in behind the boat, where it swam in
+      convoy toward the Zouave, its hump floating on the water like a gourd and
+      it neck lying on the surface like the ram of a trireme.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      The boat and the camel came alongside the Zouave at the same time. &ldquo;I
+      don&rsquo;t know what I should do about this dromadary.&rdquo; Said the captain, &ldquo;I
+      think I&rsquo;ll take it on board and present it to the zoo at Marseille, I
+      can&rsquo;t just leave it here.&rdquo; So by means of block and tackle the wet camel
+      was hoisted onto the deck of the Zouave, which then set sail.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Tartarin spent most of the time in his cabin. Not that the sea was rough
+      or that the chechia had to much to suffer, but because whenever he
+      appeared on the deck the camel made such a ridiculous fuss of its master.
+      You never saw a camel so attached to anyone as this.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Hour by hour, when he looked through the porthole, Tartarin could see the
+      Algerian sky turn paler, until one morning, in a silvery mist, he heard to
+      his delight the bells of Marseilles. The Zouave had arrived.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Our man, who had no baggage, disembarked without a word and hurried across
+      Marseilles, fearing all the time that he might be followed by the camel,
+      and he did not breathe easily until he was seated in a third-class railway
+      carriage, on his way to Tarascon... a false sense of security. They had
+      not gone far from Marseilles when heads appeared at windows and there were
+      cries of astonishment, Tartarin looked out in turn and what did he see but
+      the inescapable camel coming down the line behind the train with a
+      remarkable turn of speed.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Tartarin resumed his seat and closed his eyes. After this disastrous
+      expedition he had counted on getting back home unrecognised, but the
+      presence of this confounded camel made it impossible. What a return to
+      make, Bon Dieu!... No money... No lions... Nothing but a camel!....
+      &ldquo;Tarascon!... Tarascon!&rdquo;... It was time to get out.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      To Tartarin&rsquo;s utter astonishment, the heroic chechia had barely appeared
+      in the doorway, when it was greeted by a great cry of &ldquo;Vive Tartarin!...
+      Vive Tartarin!&rdquo; Which shook the glass vault of the station roof. &ldquo;Vive
+      Tartarin!... Hurrah for the lion killer!&rdquo; Then came fanfares and a choir.
+      Tartarin could have died, he thought this was a hoax: but no, all Tarascon
+      was there, tossing their hats in the air and shouting his praises. There
+      stood the brave Commandant Bravida, Costecalde the gunsmith, the President
+      Ladevèze, the chemist and all the noble body of hat shooters, who pressed
+      round their chief and carried him all the way down the steps.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      How remarkable are the effects of the &ldquo;mirage&rdquo;. The skin of the blind lion
+      sent to the Commandant was the cause of all this tumult. At the sight of
+      this modest trophy, displayed at the club, Tarascon and beyond Tarascon
+      the whole of the Midi had worked themselves into a state of excitement.
+      &ldquo;The Semaphore&rdquo; had spoken. A complete scenario had been invented. This
+      was no longer one lion killed by Tartarin, it was ten lions, twenty lions,
+      a whole troop of lions. So Tartarin, when he reached Marseilles was
+      already famous, and an enthusiastic telegram had warned his home town of
+      his imminent arrival.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      The excitement of the populace reached its peak when a fantastic animal,
+      covered in dust and sweat, stumbled down the station steps behind our
+      hero. For a moment they thought that the Tarasque had returned.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Tartarin reassured his fellow citizens, &ldquo;It is my camel&rdquo; He said, and
+      already under the influence of the Tarascon sun, that fine sun which
+      induces fanciful exaggeration, he stroked the camel&rsquo;s hump and added, &ldquo;It
+      is a noble creature, it saw me kill all my lions.&rdquo; So saying, he took the
+      arm of the Commandant, who was blushing with pride, and followed by his
+      camel, surrounded by hat shooters and acclaimed by the people, he
+      proceeded peacefully toward the little house of the baobab; and as he
+      walked along he began the story of his great expedition.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;There was one particular evening,&rdquo; He said, &ldquo;When I was out in the heart
+      of the Sahara...&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      <br /> <br />
+    </p>
+<pre xml:space="preserve">
+
+
+
+
+
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+The Project Gutenberg Etext of Tartarin de Tarascon
+by Alphonse Daudet
+
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+Title: Tartarin de Tarascon
+
+Author: Alphonse Daudet
+
+Release Date: October, 2000  [Etext #2375]
+[Yes, we are about one year ahead of schedule]
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+Edition: 11
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+Language: English
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+The Project Gutenberg Etext of Tartarin de Tarascon
+by Alphonse Daudet
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+Translated and prepared by Oliver C. Colt.
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+
+
+Tartarin de Tarascon.  
+
+By A. Daudet.  
+
+Translated by Oliver C. Colt.  
+
+Introduction.
+
+The tale of Tartarin de Tarascon was written by Alphonse Daudet in 
+1872, and was one of the many works which he produced. In it he pokes 
+gentle fun at a type of Frenchman who comes from the Midi, the area 
+where he himself was born.  Tartarin has characteristics which may 
+remind the English-speaking reader of Toad of Toad Hall, a boastful 
+braggart, easily deceived, but good-hearted au fond.
+
+The world he inhabits is, of course, very different from ours. There is 
+no radio or television, the motor car is no more than a plaything for 
+the rich. There is only the beginnings of a telephone system. Much sea 
+transport is still by sailing ship and the idea of mass air travel is 
+in the realm of science-fiction.  France lost the Franco-Prussian war 
+at the battle of Sedan in 1870, which accounts for the flood of 
+refugees from Alsasce. She had also, in the 19th century rush to carve 
+up the African continent, seized among other places, Algeria, which she 
+held in subjection by force of arms. So- called Big Game Hunters were 
+regarded with some admiration, and indeed it was a much more perilous 
+activity than it is today, when high power repeating rifles with 
+telescopic sights make motor-borne "Sportsmen" little more than 
+butchers.
+
+Daudet's humour is on the whole inoffensive, but anti-semitism was rife 
+in certain circles in France. It was the era of the Dreyfus scandal, 
+and he indulges in one or two tasteless gibes at the expense of the 
+Jews, which I have suppressed or at least amended. He also has a 
+passage which might well offend the delicate susceptabilities of the 
+less tolerant believers in Islam, although to anyone with a nodding 
+acquaintance with the tents of that faith, the incident is so far-
+fetched as to neutralise "The willing suspension of disbelief"  I have 
+therefore decided to elimiinate it from this version of the story. It 
+is not very amusing and is no great loss. 
+
+Although Daudet's humour is in the main kindly, he does not spare the 
+French colonial administration of the time. His treatment of the 
+subject is acidly satirical. It may be said that Daudet seems to know 
+little about firearms, less about lions and nothing about camels, but 
+he is not striving for verisimilitude. After all, the adventures of 
+James Bond do not mirror the reality of international espionage, nor do 
+the exploits of Bertie Wooster and Jeeves truely reflect life in  the 
+upper echelons of British society.
+
+This is not a schoolroom exercise in translation. It might be more 
+accurately described as a version in English. I have not tampered with 
+the story line nor made any changes in the events related, but where I 
+thought it necessary I have not shrunk from altering the words and 
+phrases used in the original to describe them.  All translation must be 
+a matter of paraphrase. What sounds well in one language may sound 
+ridiculous if translated literally into another, and it is for the 
+translator to judge how far this process of paraphrase may be carried.
+
+I have attempted to produce a text which will entertain the average 
+reader. Those who want to know exactly what Daudet wrote must consult 
+the French original.
+
+
+Tartarin de Tarascon  
+
+Chapter 1.  Although it is now some twelve or fifteen years since my 
+first meeting with Tartarin de Tarascon, the memory of the encounter 
+remains as fresh as if it had been yesterday.
+
+At that time Tartarin lived near the entrance to the town, in the third 
+house on the left on the Avignon road, a pretty little Tarascon villa, 
+with a garden in front, a balcony behind, very white walls and green 
+shutters. 
+
+From outside the place looked perfectly ordinary, one would never have 
+believed that it was the home of a hero, but when one went inside, 
+well... My goodness! The whole establishment had an heroic air, even 
+the garden!
+
+Ah...! The Garden...there was not another like it in Europe. Not one 
+indigenous tree grew there, not one French flower; nothing but exotic 
+plants, gum trees, calabashes, cotton trees, coconut palms, mangos, 
+bananas, cactuses,  figs and a baobab. One might have thought oneself 
+in the middle of Africa, thousands of miles from Tarascon.  Of course 
+none of these trees was fully grown, the coconut palm was about the 
+size of a swede and the baobab (arbos gigantica) fitted comfortably 
+into a pot full of earth and gravel. No matter....For Tarascon it was 
+quite splendid, and those citizens who were admitted, on Sundays, to 
+have the privilege of inspecting Tartarin's baobab went home full of 
+admiration.
+
+You may imagine my emotions as I walked through this remarkable 
+garden...they were nothing, however, to what I felt on being admitted 
+to the sanctum of the great man himself.
+
+This building, one of the curiosities of the town, was at the end of 
+the garden, to which it opened through a glass door.  Picture a large 
+room hung from floor to ceiling with firearms and swords; weapons from 
+every country in the world.  Guns, carbines, rifles, blunderbusses, 
+knives, spears, revolvers, daggers, arrows, assegais, knobkerries, 
+knuckledusters and I know not what.
+
+The brilliant sunlight glittered on the steel blades of sabres and the 
+polished butts of firearms. It was really quite a menacing scene...what 
+was a little reassuring was the good order and discipline which ruled 
+over this arsenal. Everything was neat tidy and dusted.  Here and there 
+a simple notice, reading "Poison arrows, Do not touch." or 
+"Beware.Loaded firearms."  made one feel it safe to approach.
+
+In the middle of the room was a table.  On the table was a flagon of 
+rum, a turkish tobacco pouch, The voyages of Captain Cook, stories of 
+adventure, treatises on falconry, descriptions of big-game hunts 
+etc...and finally seated at the table was the man himself.  Forty to 
+forty-five years of age, short, fat, stocky and ruddy, clad in shirt-
+sleeves and flannel trousers, with a close-clipped wiry beard and a 
+flamboyant eye.  In one hand he held a book and with the other he 
+brandished an enormous pipe, its bowl covered by a metal cap; and as he 
+read some stirring tale of the pursuit of hairy creatures, he made, 
+pushing out his lower lip, a fierce grimace which gave his features, 
+those of a comfortable Tarascon "Rentier", the same air of hearty 
+ferocity which was evident throughout the whole house. This man was 
+Tartarin... Tartarin de Tarascon... the intrepid, great and 
+incomparable Tartarin de Tarascon.
+
+At that time Tartarin was not the Tartarin which he is today, the great 
+Tartarin de Tarascon who is so popular throughout the Midi of France, 
+however, even at this epoch, he was already the king of Tarascon.
+
+Let us examine how he acquired his crown. You will be aware, for a 
+start, that everyone in these parts is a hunter. From the highest to 
+the lowest hunting is a passion with the Tarasconais and has been ever 
+since the legendary Tarasque prowled in the marshes near the town and 
+was hunted down by the citizens.
+
+Now, every Sunday morning, the men of Tarascon take up arms and leave 
+town,  bag on back and gun on shoulder, with an excited collection of 
+dogs, with ferrets, with trumpets and hunting horns, it is a splendid 
+spectacle....Sadly, however, there is a shortage of game... in fact 
+there is a total absence of game.... Animals may be dumb but they are 
+not stupid, so for miles around Tarascon the burrows are empty and the 
+nests abandoned. There is not a quail, not a blackbird, not the 
+smallest rabbit nor even the tiniest wheatear.
+
+These pretty little Tarascon hills, scented with lavender, myrtle and 
+rosemary are very tempting, and those fine muscat grapes,swollen with 
+sugar, which line the banks of the Rhone, are wonderfully 
+appetising...yes, but there is Tarascon in he distance, and in the 
+world of fur and feather Tarascon is bad news. The birds of passage 
+seem to have marked it with a cross on their maps, and when the long 
+wedges of wild duck, heading for the Camargue, see far off the town's 
+steeples, the whole flight veers away. In short there is nothing left 
+by way of game in this part of the country but an old rascal of a hare, 
+who has escaped by some miracle the guns of Tarascon and appears 
+determined to stay there. This hare is well known. He has been given a 
+name. He is called "Speedy".  He is known to live on land belonging to 
+M.Bompard...which, by the way, has doubled or even tripled its value. 
+No one has yet been able to catch him, and at the present time there 
+are not more than two or three fanatics who go after him.  The rest 
+have given up and Speedy has become something of a protected species, 
+though the Tarasconais are not very conservation minded and would make 
+a stew of the rarest of creatures, if they managed to shoot one.
+
+Now, you may say,"Since game is in such short supply, what do these 
+Tarasconais sportsmen do every Sunday?" What do they do? Eh! Mon Dieu! 
+They go out into the country, several miles from the town.  They 
+assemble in little groups of five or six.  They settle down comfortably 
+in some shady spot. They take out of their game-bags a nice piece of 
+boeuf-en-daube, some raw onions, a sausage and some anchovies and they 
+begin a very long luncheon, washed down by one of these jolly Rhone 
+wines, which encourage singing and laughter.
+
+When all have had enough, they whistle for the dogs, load their guns 
+and commence the shoot. That is to say each of these gentlemen takes 
+off his hat, sends it spinning through the air with all his strength 
+and takes a pot-shot at it.  The one who hits his hat most frequently 
+is proclaimed king of the hunt and returns to Tarascon that evening in 
+triumph, his perforated hat hanging from the end of his gun and to the 
+accompaniment of much barking and blowing of trumpets.
+
+One need hardly tell you that there is a brisk trade in hats in the 
+town, and there are even hatters who sell hats already full of holes 
+and tears for use by the less skillful, but scarcely anyone is known to 
+buy them except Bezuquet the chemist.
+
+As a hat shooter Tartarin had no equal. Every Sunday morning he left 
+with a new hat. Every evening he returned with a rag.  In the little 
+house of the baobab, the attic was full of these glorious trophies.  
+All of Tarascon recognised him as their master in this respect. The 
+gentlemen elected him as their chief justice in matters relating to the 
+chase and arbitrator in any dispute, so that every day, between the 
+hours of three and four in the afternoon, at Costecalde the gunsmith's 
+one could see the plump figure of a man, seated gravely on a green 
+leather arm-chair, in the middle of the shop, which was full of hat 
+hunters standing about and arguing. It was Tartarin delivering justice. 
+Nimrod doubling as Soloman.
+
+
+Chapter 2.  In addition to their passion for hunting the good people of 
+Tarascon had another passion, which was for drawing-room ballads.  The 
+number of ballads which were sung in this part of the world passed all 
+belief.  All the old sentimental songs, yellowing in ancient cardboard 
+boxes, could be found in Tarascon alive and flourishing.    Each family 
+had its own ballad and in the town this was well understood.  One knew, 
+for example, that for Bezuquet the chemist it was:-"Thou pale star whom 
+I adore."
+
+For the gunsmith Costecalde:-"Come with me to the forest glade."
+
+For the Town Clark :-"If I was invisible, no one would see me." (a 
+comic song)    Two or three times a week people would gather in one 
+house or another and sing, and the remarkable thing is that the songs 
+were always the same.  No matter for how long they had been singing 
+them, the people of Tarascon had no desire to change them.  They were 
+handed down in families from father to son and nobody dared to 
+interfere with them, they were sacrosanct.  They were never even 
+borrowed.  It would never occur to the Bezuquets to sing the 
+Costecaldes' song or to the Costecaldes to sing that of the Bezuquets.  
+You might suppose that having known them for some forty years they 
+might sometimes sing them to themselves, but no, everyone stuck to his 
+own.
+
+In the matter of ballads, as in that of hats, Tartarin played a leading 
+role.  His superiority over his fellow citizens arose from the fact 
+that he did not have a song of his own, and so he could take part in 
+all of them, only it was extremely difficult to get him to sing at all.
+
+Returning early from some drawing-room success, our hero preferred to 
+immerse himself in his books on hunting or spend the evening at the 
+club rather than join in a sing-song round a Nimes piano, between two 
+Tarascon candles.  He felt that musical evenings were a little beneath 
+him.
+
+Sometimes, however, when there was music at Bezuquet the chemists, he 
+would drop in as if by chance, and after much persuasion he would 
+consent to take part in the great duet from "Robert le Diable" with 
+madame Bezuquet the elder.
+
+  Anyone who has not heard this has heard nothing.  For my part, if I 
+live to be a hundred, I shall always recall the great Tartarin 
+approaching the piano with solemn steps, leaning his elbow upon it, 
+making his grimace and in the greenish light reflected from the 
+chemist's jars, trying to give his homely face the savage and satanic 
+expression of Robert le Diable.
+
+As soon as he had taken up his position, a quiver of expectation ran 
+through the gathering.  One felt that something great was about to 
+happen.
+
+After a moment of silence, madame Bezuquet the elder, accompanying 
+herself on the piano, began:
+
+       "Robert, thou whom I adore
+
+        And in whom I trust,
+
+        You see my fear (twice)
+
+        Have mercy on yourself
+
+        And mercy on me." She added, sotto voce, "Its you now 
+Tartarin."
+
+Then Tartarin, with arm extended, clenched fist and quivering nostrils, 
+said three times in a formidable voice which rolled like a clap of 
+thunder in the entrails of the piano "Non! Non! Non!" Which as a good 
+southerner he pronounced "Nan. Nan. Nan" Upon which madame Bezuquet 
+repeated "Mercy on yourself and on me"  "Nan! Nan! Nan!" Bellowed 
+Tartarin even more loudly...and the matter ended there....It was not 
+very long, but it was so well presented, so well acted, so diabolic 
+that a frisson ran round the pharmacy and he was made to repeat his 
+"Nan. Nan. Nan."  four or five times.
+
+Afterwards Tartarin wiped his forehead, smiled at the ladies, winked at 
+the men and went off triumphantly to the club, where, with a casual 
+air, he would say " I've just come from the Bezuquets. They  had me 
+singing in the duet from Robert le Diable."  What is more he believed 
+it.
+
+
+Chapter 3.  It was to the possession of these various talents that 
+Tartarin owed his high standing in the town.  There were, however, 
+other ways in which he had made his mark on society.
+
+In Tarascon the army supported Tartarin.  The gallant Commandant 
+Bravida (Quartermaster.Ret) said of him "He's a stout fellow" and one 
+may suppose that having kitted out so many stout fellows in his time, 
+he knew what he was talking about
+
+The magistrature supported Tartarin. Two or three times, on a full 
+bench, the aged president Ladev�ze had said of him "He's quite a 
+character".
+
+Finally, the people supported Tartarin, his stolid appearance, the 
+heroic reputation he had somehow acquired, the distribution of small 
+sums of money and a few clips round the ear to the youngsters who hung 
+around his doorstep, had made him lord of the neighbourhood and king of 
+the Tarascon market-place.  On the quay, on sunday evenings, when 
+Tartarin returned from the hunt, his hat dangling from the end of his 
+gun, the stevedores would nod to him respectfully and eying the arms 
+bulging the sleeves of his tightly buttoned jacket, would murmur to one 
+another," He's strong he is.  He's got double muscles." The possession 
+of double muscles is something you hear about only in Tarascon.
+
+However,in spite of his numerous talents, double muscles, popular 
+favour and the so precious esteem of the gallant Commandant Bravida 
+(Quartermaster.Ret) Tartarin was not happy. This small-town life 
+weighed him down, stifled him.  The great man of Tarascon was bored 
+with Tarascon. The fact is that for an heroic nature such as his, for a 
+daring and adventurous spirit which dreamt of battles, explorations, 
+big game hunting, desert sands, hurricanes and typhoons, to go every 
+Sunday hat shooting and for the rest of the time dispense justice at 
+Costecalde the gunsmith's was...well...hardly satisfying. It was enough 
+indeed to send one into a decline.
+
+In vain, in order to widen his horizon and forget for a while the club 
+and the market square, did he surround himself with African plants; in 
+vain did he pile up a collection of weapons; in vain did he pore over 
+tales of daring-do trying to escape by the power of his imagination 
+from the pitiless grip of reality. Alas all that he did to satisfy his 
+lust for adventure seemed only to increase it. The sight of his weapons 
+kept him in a perpetual state of furious agitation.  His rifles, his 
+arrows and his spears rang out war-cries. In the branches of the baobab 
+the wind whispered enticingly of great voyages.
+
+How often on these heavy summer afternoons, when he was alone, reading 
+amongst his weaponry, did Tartarin jump to his feet and throwing down 
+his book rush to the wall to arm himself, then, quite forgetting that 
+he was in his own house at Tarascon, cry, brandishing a gun or a spear, 
+"Let them all come"!!...Them?...What them?  Tartarin did not quite know 
+himself,"Them" was everything that attacked, that bit, that clawed.  
+"Them" was the Indian brave dancing round the stake to which his 
+wretched prisoner was tied. It was the grizzly bear, shuffling and 
+swaying, licking bloodstained lips. The Toureg of the desert, the Malay 
+pirate, the Corsican bandit. In a word it was "Them!"
+
+Alas it was fruitless for the fearless Tartarin to challenge 
+them...they never appeared; but though it seemed unlikely that they 
+would come to Tarascon, Tartarin was always ready for them, 
+particularly in the evenings when he went to the club.
+
+
+Chapter 4.  The knight of the temple preparing for a sortie against the 
+Saracen.  The Chinese warrior equipping himself for battle.  The 
+Comanchee brave taking to the warpath were as nothing compared to 
+Tartarin de Tarascon arming himself to go to the club at nine o'clock 
+on a dark evening, an hour after the bugle had blown the retreat. He 
+was cleared for action as the sailors say.
+
+On his left hand he had a metal knuckleduster. In his right he carried 
+a sword-stick. In his left pocket there was a cosh and in his right a 
+revolver. Stuck into his waistband was a knife. Before setting out, in 
+the privacy of his den, he carried out a few exercises.  He made a pass 
+at the wall with his sword-stick, drew his revolver, flexed his muscles 
+and then taking his identity papers he crossed the 
+garden...steadily...unhurriedly... � l'Anglais. That is the mark of 
+true courage.
+
+At the end of the garden he opened the heavy iron gate.  He opened it 
+brusquely, violently, so that it banged against the wall. If "They" had 
+been behind it, it would have made a fine mess of them. Unfortunately 
+they were not behind it.
+
+Having opened the gate Tartarin went out, cast a quick look right and 
+left, closed the gate swiftly and double locked it.  Then he set off.
+
+On the Avignon road there was not so much as a cat.  Doors were shut 
+and curtains drawn across windows.  Here and there a street light 
+blinked in the mist rising from the Rh�ne.
+
+Superb and calm Tartarin de Tarascon strode through the night, his 
+heels striking the road with measured tread and the metal tip of his 
+cane raising sparks from the paving-stones. On boulevards, roads or 
+lanes he was always careful to walk in the middle of the causeway, an 
+excellent precaution which allows one to see approaching danger and 
+moreover to avoid things which at night, in the streets of Tarascon, 
+sometimes fall from windows. Seeing this prudence you should not 
+entertain the notion that Tartarin was afraid. No! He was just being 
+cautious.
+
+The clearest evidence that Tartarin was unafraid is that he went to the 
+club not by the short way but by the longest and darkest way, through a 
+tangle of mean little streets, at the end of which one glimpsed the 
+sinister gleam of the Rhone. He almost hoped that at a bend in one of 
+these alleys "They" would come rushing from the shadows to attack him 
+from behind. They would have had a hot reception I can promise you; but 
+sadly Tartarin was never fated to encounter any danger...not even a 
+dog...not even a drunk... Nothing.
+
+Sometimes however there was an alarm. The sound of footsteps...Muffled 
+voices.  Tartarin comes to a halt, peering into the shadows, sniffing  
+the air, straining his ears.  The steps draw nearer, the voices more 
+distinct...there can be no doubt..."They" are here.  With heaving  
+breast and eyes ablaze Tartarin is gathering himself like a jaguar  and 
+preparing to leap on his foes, when suddenly out of the gloom a  good 
+Tarasconais voice calls "Look! There's Tartarin!  Hulloa there 
+Tartarin!"  Malediction! It is Bezuquet the chemist and his family  who 
+have been singing their ballad at the Costecaldes.  "Bon soir, bon 
+soir" growls Tartarin, furious at his mistake, and shouldering his cane 
+he disappears angrily into the night.
+
+Arrived at the club the fearless Tarasconais waits a little longer, 
+walking up and down in front of the door before entering.  In the end, 
+tired of waiting for "them" and certain that they will not show 
+themselves, he throws a last look of defiance into the dark and mutters 
+crossly "Nothing...nothing...always nothing"  With that our hero goes 
+in to play bezique with the Commandant. 
+
+
+Chapter 5.  With this lust for adventure, this need for excitement, 
+this longing for journeys to Lord knows where, how on earth, you may 
+ask, does it happen that Tartarin had never left Tarascon?  For it is a 
+fact that up to the age of forty-five the bold Tarasconais had never 
+slept away from his home town. He had never even made the ritual 
+journey to Marseille which every good Provencal makes when he comes of 
+age. He might, of course, have visited Beaucaire, albeit Beaucaire is 
+not very far from Tarascon, as one has only to cross the bridge over 
+the Rh�ne.  Regrettably, however, this wretched bridge is so often 
+swept by high winds, is so long and so flimsy and the river at that 
+point is so wide that...Ma foi...you will understand...!
+
+At this point I think one has to admit that there were two sides to our 
+hero's character.  On the one hand was the spirit of Don Quixote, 
+devoted to chivalry, to heroic ideals, to grandiose romantic folly, but 
+lacking the body of the celebrated hidalgo, that thin, bony apology of 
+a body, careless of material wants, capable of going for twenty nights 
+without unbuckling its breastplate and surviving for twenty-four hours 
+on a handful of rice. Tartarin, on the other hand, had a good solid 
+body, fat, heavy, sybaritic, soft and complaining, full of bourgeois 
+appetites and domestic necessities, the short-legged, full-bellied body 
+of Sancho Panza.
+
+Don Quixote and Sancho Panza in the same man! You may imagine the 
+arguments, the quarrels, the fights. Carried away by some lurid tale of 
+adventure, Tartarin-Quixote would clamour to be off to the fields of 
+glory, to set sail for distant lands,  but then Tartarin-Sancho ringing 
+for the maid servant, would say "Jeanette, my chocolate." Upon which 
+Jeanette would return with a fine cup of chocolate, hot, silky and 
+scented, and some succulent grilled snacks, flavoured with anise; 
+greatly pleasing Tartarin-Sancho and silencing the cries of Tartarin-
+Quixote.
+
+That is how it happens that Tartarin de Tarascon had never left 
+Tarascon. 
+
+
+Chapter 6.  There was one occasion when Tartarin nearly went on a long 
+journey. The three brothers Garcio-Camus, Tarasconais who were in 
+business in Shanghai, offered him the management of one of their 
+establishments.  Now this was the sort of life he needed. Important 
+transactions. An office full of clerks to control.  Relations with 
+Russia, Persia, Turkey. In short, Big Business, which in Tartarin's 
+eyes was of enormous proportions.
+
+The establishment had another advantage in that it was sometimes 
+attacked by bandits.  On these occasions the gates were slammed shut, 
+the staff armed themselves, the consular flag was hoisted and "Pan! 
+Pan!" They fired through the windows at the bandits.
+
+I need hardly tell you with what enthusiasm Tartarin-Quixote greeted 
+this proposal; unfortunately Tartarin-Sancho did not see the matter in 
+the same light, and as his views prevailed the affair came to nothing.
+
+At the time there was a great deal of talk in the town. Was he going or 
+not going? It was a matter for eager discussion.
+
+Although in the end Tartarin did not go, the event brought him a great 
+deal of credit. To have nearly gone to Shanghai and actually to have 
+gone there was for Tarascon much the same thing.  As a result of so 
+much talk about Tartarin's journey, people ended by believing that he 
+had just returned, and in the evenings at the club the members would 
+ask him for a description of the life in Shanghai, the customs, the 
+climate, and big business.
+
+Tartarin, who had gathered much information from the brothers was happy 
+to reply to their questions, and before long he was not entirely sure 
+himself whether he had been to Shanghai or not; so much so that when 
+describing for the hundredth time the raid by bandits he got to the 
+point of saying "Then I dished out arms to my staff.  Hoisted the 
+consular flag and we fired "Pan! Pan!" Through the windows at the 
+bandits." On hearing this the members would exchange suitably solemn 
+looks.
+
+Tartarin then, you will say, is just a frightful liar. No!.... A 
+thousand times no!  How is that? you may say, he must know vey well 
+that he has not been to Shanghai...to be sure he knows...only.... 
+Perhaps the time has come when we should settle the question of the 
+reputation for lying which has been given to the people of the Midi.
+
+  There are no liars in the Midi, neither at Marseille, nor Nimes, nor 
+Toulouse, nor Tarascon.  The man of the Midi does not lie, he deceives 
+himself.  He does not always speak the truth but he believes he speaks 
+it.  His untruth, for him, is not a lie, it is a sort of mirage. To 
+understand better you must visit the Midi yourself.  You will see a 
+countryside where the sun transfigures everything and makes it larger 
+than life-size.  The little hills of Provence, no bigger than the Butte 
+Montmartre will seem to you gigantic.  The Maison Carr�e at Nimes, a 
+pretty little Roman temple, will seem to you as big as Notre Dame. You 
+will see that the only liar in the Midi, if there is one, is the sun; 
+everything that he touches he exaggerates.  Can you be surprised that 
+this sun shining down on Tarascon has been able to make a retired 
+Captain Quartermaster into the gallant Commandant Bravida, to make a 
+thing like a turnip into a baobab and a man who almost went to Shanghai 
+into one who has really been there.
+
+
+Chapter 7.  Now that we have shown Tartarin as he was in his private 
+life, before fame had crowned his head with laurels.  Now that we have 
+recounted the story of his heroic existance in modest surroundings, the 
+story of his joys and sorrows, his dreams and his hopes, let us hurry 
+forward to the important pages of his history and to the event which 
+lent wings to his destiny.
+
+It was one evening at Costecalde the gunsmith's; Tartarin was 
+explaining to some listeners the working of a pin-fire rifle, then 
+something quite new, when suddenly the door was opened and a hat hunter 
+rushed into the room in a great state shouting "A lion! a lion!"  
+General amazement, fright, tumult and confusion. Tartarin grabbed a 
+bayonet, Costecalde ran to close the door.  The newcomer was surrounded 
+and questioned nosily.  What they learned was that the Menagerie 
+Mitaine, returning from the fair at Beaucaire, had arranged to make a 
+stop of several days at Tarascon, and had just set itself up in the 
+Place du Ch�teau with a collection of snakes, seals, crocodiles, and a 
+magnificent African lion....An African lion at Tarascon!...such a thing 
+had never been seen before, never in living memory.
+
+The brave band of hat hunters gazed proudly at one another. Their manly 
+features glowed with pleasure and, in every corner of the shop, firm 
+handshakes were silently exchanged.  The emotion was so overwhelming, 
+so unforseen that no one could find a word to say. Not even Tartarin.  
+Pale and trembling, with the new rifle clutched in his hands, he stood 
+in a trance at the shop counter.  A lion!...an African 
+lion!...nearby...a few paces away...A lion, the ferocious king of the 
+beasts...the quarry of his dreams...one of the leading actors in that 
+imaginary cast which played out such fine dramas in his fantasies. It 
+was too much for Tartarin to bear.  Suddenly the blood flooded to his 
+cheeks.  His eyes blazed, and with a convulsive gesture he slapped the 
+rifle onto his shoulder, then turning to the brave Commandant Bravida 
+(quartermaster. Ret) he said in a voice of thunder, "Come, Commandant, 
+let us go and see this."  "Excuse me. Excuse me. My new rifle."  The 
+prudent Costecalde hazarded timidly, but Tartarin was already in the 
+street, and behind him all the hat hunters fell proudly into step.
+
+When they arrived at the menagerie it was already crowded. The brave 
+people of Tarascon, too long deprived of sensational spectacles, had 
+descended on the place and taken it by storm.  The big madame Mitaine 
+was in her element; dressed in an oriental costume, her arms bare to 
+the elbows and with iron bracelets round her ankles, she had a whip in 
+one hand and in the other a live chicken.  She welcomed the Tarasconais 
+to the show, and as she too had "Double muscles" she aroused almost as 
+much interest as the animals in her charge.  
+
+The arrival of Tartarin with the rifle on his shoulder produced 
+something of a chill, all the bold Tarasconais who had been walking 
+tranquilly before the cages, unarmed, trusting , with no notion of 
+danger, became suddenly alarmed at the sight of the great Tartarin 
+entering the place,  carrying this lethal weapon.  There must be 
+something to fear if he, their hero....In the blink of an eye the area 
+in front of the cages was deserted, children were crying with fright 
+and the ladies were eying the doorway.  Bezuquet the chemist left 
+hurridly, saying that he was going to fetch a gun.
+
+Little by little, however, the attitude of Tartarin restored their 
+courage. Calm and erect, the intrepid Tarasconais strolled round the 
+menagerie.  He passed the seals without stopping.  He cast a 
+contemptuous eye on the container full of noise, where the boa was 
+swallowing its chicken, and at last halted in front of the lion's 
+cage....A dramatic confrontation....The lion of Tarascon and the lion 
+of the Atlas mountains face to face.
+
+On one side stood Tartarin, his legs planted firmly apart, his arms 
+resting on his rifle, on the other was the lion, a gigantic lion, 
+sprawling in the straw, blinking its eyes drowsily and resting its 
+enormous yellow-haired muzzle on its front paws...they regarded one 
+another calmly...then somethig odd happened.  Perhaps it was the sight 
+of the rifle, perhaps it recognised an enemy of its kind, but the lion 
+which up until then had looked on the people of Tarascon with sovereign 
+disdain, yawning in their faces, seemed to feel a stirring of anger.  
+First it sniffed and uttered a rumbling growl, it stretched out its 
+forefeet and unsheathed its claws, then it got up, raised its head, 
+shook its mane, opened its huge maw and directed at Tartarin a most 
+ear-splitting roar.
+
+This was greeted by a cry of terror.  Tarascon, in panic, rushed for 
+the doors.  Everyone, men, women, children, the hat shooters and even 
+the brave Commandant Bravida himself.  Only Tartarin did not move...he 
+remained firm and resolute before the cage, a light shining in his 
+eyes, and wearing that grim expression which the town knew so well.  
+After a few moments, the hat shooters, somewhat reassured by his 
+attitude and the solidity of the cage bars, rejoined their chief, to 
+hear him mutter "Now that is something worth hunting."  And that was 
+all that he said.
+
+
+Chapter 8.  Although at the memagerie he had said nothing more, he had 
+already said too much.  The following day all the talk of the town was 
+of the impending departure of Tartarin for Africa, to shoot lions.
+
+You will bear witness that the good fellow had not breathed a word of 
+this, but you know how it is...the mirage....In short the whole of 
+Tarascon could talk of nothing else.
+
+On the pavement, at the club, at Costecalde's shop, people accosted one 
+another with an air of excitement.
+
+"Et autrement, have you heard the latest, au moins?"
+
+"Et autrement, what now, is Tartarin going, au moins?"    For in 
+Tarascon every remark begins with "Et autrement" which is pronounced 
+"autremain" and ends with "au moins" which is pronouced "au mouain" and 
+in these days the sound of "autremain" and "au mouain" was enough to 
+rattle the windows.
+
+  The most surprised person in the town to hear that he was leaving for 
+Africa was Tartarin, but now see the effects of vanity.  Instead of 
+replying that he was not going and had never intended to go, poor 
+Tartarin, on the first occasion that the subject was broached adopted a 
+somewhat evasive air, "H�!...H�!...perhaps...I can't say."  On the 
+second occasion, now a little more accustomed to the idea, he replied 
+"Probably" and on the third "Yes, definitely."
+
+Eventually, one evening at the club, carried away by some glasses of 
+egg-nog, the public interest and the plaudits, he declared formally 
+that he was tired of shooting at hats and was going shortly in pursuit 
+of the great lions of Africa.
+
+A loud cheer greeted this declaration, then came more egg-nog,  
+handshakes, embraces and torchlight serenades until midnight before the 
+little house of the baobab.
+
+Tartarin-Sancho,however, was far from pleased.  The idea of travelling 
+to Africa and hunting lions scared him stiff and when they went into 
+the house, and while the serenade of honour was still going on outside, 
+he made the most frightful scene with Tartarin-Quixote, calling him a 
+crazy dreamer, a rash triple idiot and detailing one by one the 
+catastrophes which would await him on such an expedition.  Shipwreck, 
+fever, dysentery, plague, elephantiasis and so on...it was useless for 
+Tartarin-Quixote to swear that he would be careful, that he would dress 
+warmly, that he would take with him everything that might be needed, 
+Tartarin-Sancho refused to listen.  The poor fellow saw himself already 
+torn to pieces by lions or swallowed up in the sands of the desert, and 
+the other Tartarin could pacify him only a little by pointing out that 
+these were plans for the future, that there was no hurry, that they had 
+not yet actually started.
+
+Obviously one cannot embark on such an expedition without some 
+preparation.  One cannot take off like a bird.  As a first measure 
+Tartarin set about reading the reports of the great African explorers, 
+the journals of Livingstone, Burton, Caill� and the like, there he saw 
+that those intrepid travellers, before they put their boots on for 
+these distant excursions, prepared themselves in advance to undergo 
+hunger, thirst, long treks and privations of all sorts.
+
+Tartarin decided to follow their example and took to a diet of "Eau 
+bouillie". What is called eau bouillie in Tarascon consists of several 
+slices of bread soaked in warm water, with a clove of garlic,  a little 
+thyme and a bay leaf.  It is not very palatable and you may imagine how 
+Tartarin-Sancho enjoyed it.
+
+Tartarin de Tarascon combined this with several other sensible methods 
+of training.  For instance, to habituate himself to long marches he 
+would go round his morning constitutional seven or eight times, 
+sometimes at a brisk walk, sometimes at the trot with two pebbles in 
+his mouth.  Then to accustom himself to nocturnal chills and the mists 
+of dawn, he went into the garden and stayed there until ten or eleven 
+at night, alone with his rifle, on watch behind the baobab.
+
+Finally, for as long as the menagerie remained in Tarascon, those hat 
+hunters who had stayed late at Costecalde's could see in the shadows,  
+as they passed the Place du Ch�teau, a figure pacing up and down behind 
+the cages...it was Tartarin training himself to listen unmoved to the 
+roaring of lions in the African night.
+
+
+Chapter 9.    While Tartarin was preparing himself by these strenuous 
+methods, all Tarascon had its eyes on him.  Nothing else was of 
+interest. Hat shooting was abandoned, the ballads languished; in 
+Bezuquet the chemist's the piano was silent beneath a green dust cover, 
+with  cantharides flies drying, belly up, on the top...Tartarin's 
+expedition  had brought everything to a halt.
+
+You should have seen the success of our hero in the drawing-rooms. He 
+was seized, squabbled over, borrowed and stolen.  There was no greater 
+triumph for the ladies than to go, on the arm of Tartarin, to the 
+menagerie Mitaine and to have him explain, in front of the lion's cage, 
+how one goes about hunting these great beasts, at what point one aims 
+and at what distance, whether there are many accidents, and so 
+on...through his reading Tartarin had gained almost as much knowledge 
+about lion hunting as if he had actually engaged in it himself, and so 
+he spoke of these matters with much authority.
+
+Where Tartarin really excelled, however, was after dinner at the home 
+of president Ladev�ze or the brave Commandant Bravida 
+(quartermaster.Ret) when coffee had been. served and the chairs pulled 
+together, then with his elbow on the table, between sips of his coffee, 
+our hero gave a moving decription of all the dangers which awaited him 
+"Over there" He spoke of long moonless watches, of pestilential 
+marshes, of rivers poisoned by the leaves of oleanders, of snows, 
+scorching suns, scorpions and clouds of locusts; he also spoke of the 
+habits of the great lions of the Atlas, their phenomenal strength, 
+their ferocity in the mating season....Then, carried away by his own 
+words, he would rise from the table and bound into the middle of the 
+room, imitating the roar of the lion, the noise of the rifle "Pan! 
+Pan!" The whistle of the bullet. Gesticulating, shouting, knocking over 
+chairs...while at the table faces are grave, the men looking at one 
+another and nodding their heads, the ladies closing their eyes with 
+little cries of alarm. A grandfather brandishes his walking-stick in a 
+bellicose manner and, in the next room, the small children who have 
+been put to bed earlier are startled out of their sleep by the banging 
+and bellowing, and greatly frightened demand lights. 
+
+Tartarin, however, showed no sign of leaving for Africa...did he really 
+have any intention of going?  That is a delicate question and one to 
+which his biographer would find difficulty in replying.  The fact is 
+that the menagerie had now been gone for three months but the killer of 
+lions had not budged...could it be that our innocent hero, blinded 
+perhaps by a new mirage, honestly believed that he had been to Africa, 
+and by talking so much about his hunting expedition believed that it 
+had actually taken place. Unfortunately, if this was the case and 
+Tartarin had once more fallen victim to the mirage, the people of 
+Tarascon had not. When it was observed that after three months of 
+waiting the hunter had not packed a single bag, people began to talk.
+
+"This will turn out to be another Shanghai." Said Costecalde, smiling, 
+and this remark spread round the town like wildfire, for people had 
+lost their belief in Tartarin. The ignorant, the chicken-hearted, 
+people like Bezuquet, whom a flea could put to flight, and who could 
+not fire a gun without closing both eyes, these above all were 
+pitiless.  At the club, on the esplanade, they accosted poor Tartarin 
+with little mocking remarks, "Et autremain, what about ths trip then?"  
+At Costecalde's shop his opinion was no longer law.  The hat hunters 
+had deserted their leader.
+
+Then there were the epigrams. President Ladev�ze who in his spare time 
+dabbled in provencal poetry, composed a little song in dialect which 
+was a great success.  It concerned a certain hunter named master 
+Gervaise whose redoubtable rifle was to exterminate every last lion in 
+Africa.  Sadly this rifle had a singular fault, although always loaded 
+it never went off....It never went off...you will understand the 
+allusion.  This song achieved instant popularity, and when Tartarin was 
+passing,  the stevedores on the quay and the grubby urchins hanging 
+round his door would chant this insulting little ditty...only they sang 
+it from a safe distance because of the double muscles.
+
+  The great man himself pretended to see nothing, to hear nothing. 
+Although at heart this underhand, venomous campaign hurt him deeply,  
+in spite of his suffering, he continued to go about his life with a 
+smile; but sometimes the mask of cheerful indifference which pride had 
+pinned on his features slipped, then instead of laughter one saw 
+indignation and grief.  So it was one morning when some street urchins 
+were chanting their jeers beneath the window of the room where our poor 
+hero was trimming his beard.  Suddenly the window was thrown open and 
+Tartarin's head appeared, his face covered in soapsuds, waving a razor 
+and shaving brush and shouting "Sword-thrusts, gentlemen, sword-
+thrusts, not pin-pricks!" Fine words but wasted on a bunch of brats 
+about two bricks tall.
+
+Amid the general defection, the army alone stood firmly by Tartarin, 
+the brave Commandant Bravida continued to treat him with esteem. "He's 
+a stout fellow," He persisted in saying, and this affirmation was worth 
+a good deal more, I should imagine, than anything said by Bezuquet the 
+chemist.
+
+The gallant Commandant had never uttered a word about the African 
+journey, but at last, when the public clamour became too loud to 
+ignore, he decided to speak.
+
+One evening, the unhappy Tartarin was alone in his study thinking sad 
+thoughts, when the Commandant appeared, somberly dressed and gloved, 
+with every button fastened "Tartarin!" said the former captain, with 
+authority,"Tartarin, you must go!"  and he stood, upright and rigid in 
+the doorway, the very embodiment of duty.
+
+All that was implied in that "Tartarin you must go" Tartarin 
+understood.  Very pale, he rose to his feet and cast a tender look 
+round his pleasant study, so snug, so warm, so well lit, and at the the 
+large, so comfortable armchair, at his books, his carpet and at the big 
+white blinds of his window, beyond which swayed the slender stems of 
+the little garden.  Then advancing to the the brave Commandant, he took 
+his hand, shook it vigorously and in a voice close to tears said 
+stoicly, "I shall go, Bravida."  And he did go as he had said he would. 
+Though not before he had gathered the necessary equipment.
+
+First, he ordered from Blompard two large cases lined with copper and 
+with a large plaque inscribed TARTARIN DE TARASCON. FIREARMS.  The 
+lining and the engraving took a long time. He ordered from M.Tastevin a 
+magnificent log-book in which to write his journal.  Then he sent to 
+Marseille for a whole cargo of preserved food, for pemmican tablets to 
+make soup, for a bivouac tent of the latest design, which could be 
+erected or struck in a few minutes, a pair of sea-boots, two umbrellas, 
+a waterproof and a pair of dark glasses to protect his eyes.  Finally, 
+Bezuquet the chemist made up a medicine chest full of sticking plaster, 
+pills and lotions.  All these preparations were made in the hope that 
+by these and other delicate attentions he could appease the fury of 
+Tartarin-Sancho, which, since the departure had been decided, had raged 
+unabated by day and by night.
+
+
+Chapter 10.  At last the great day arrived.  From first light the whole 
+of Terascon was afoot, blocking the Avignon road and the approaches to 
+the little house of the baobab.  There were people at windows, on 
+roofs, up trees.  Bargees from the Rh�ne, stevedores, boot-blacks, 
+clerks, weavers, the club members, in fact the whole town.  Then there 
+were people from Beaucaire who had come across the bridge, market-
+gardeners from the suburbs, carts with big hoods, vignerons mounted on 
+fine mules ornamented with ribbons, tassels, bows and bells, and even 
+here and there some pretty girls from Arles, with blue kerchiefs round 
+their heads, riding on the crupper behind their sweethearts on the 
+small iron-grey horses of the Camargue.  All this crowd pushed and 
+jostled before Tartarin's gate, the gate of this fine M.Tartarin who 
+was going to kill lions in the country of the "Teurs".  (In Tarascon: 
+Africa, Greece, Turkey and Mesopotamia formed a vast, vague almost 
+mythical country which was called the Teurs...that is the Turks).  
+Throughout this mob the hat shooters came and went, proud of the 
+triumph of their leader, and leaving in their wake, as it were, little 
+trails of glory.
+
+In front of the house of the baobab there were two large handcarts.  
+From time to time the gate was opened and one could see men walking 
+busily about in the garden. They carried out trunks, cases and carpet-
+bags which they piled onto the carts.  On the arrival of each new 
+package the crowd stirred and a description of the article was shouted 
+out." That's his tent! There's the preserved foods! The medicine chest! 
+The arms chest!."  While the hat shooters gave a running commentary. 
+
+Suddenly, at about ten o'clock, there was a great movement in the 
+crowd.  The garden gate swung back violently on its hinges...." It's 
+him!....Its him!"  they cried.
+
+It was indeed him.  When he appeared on the threshold, two cries of 
+amazement rose from the crowd:- "He's a Teur!....He's wearing sun-
+glasses!"....Tartarin, it is true,  had believed that as he was going 
+to Algeria he should adopt Algerian costume.  Large baggy pantaloons of 
+white cloth, a small tight jacket with metal buttons, a red sash wound 
+round his stomach and on his head a gigantic "Chechia" (a red floppy 
+bonnet) with an immensely long blue tassel dangling from its crown.  
+Added to this, he carried two rifles, one on each shoulder, a hunting 
+knife stuck into the sash round his middle, a cartridge-bag slung on 
+one side and a  revolver in a leather holster on the other. That was 
+it.  Ah!... forgive me...I forgot the sun-glasses, a huge pair of blue 
+sun-glasses which were just the very thing to correct any suggestion of 
+extravagance in his turnout.
+
+"Vive Tartarin!...Vive Tartarin!"  Yelled the people. The great man 
+smiled but did not wave, partly because of the rifles, which were 
+giving him some trouble and partly because he had learned what little 
+value one can place on popular favour. Perhaps even, in the depths of 
+his soul, he cursed these terrible compatriots who were forcing him to 
+leave, to quit his pretty little house with its green shutters and 
+white walls, but if so he did not show it.  Calm and proud, though a 
+little pale, he marched down the pathway, inspected his handcarts and 
+seeing that all was in order set off jauntily on the road to the 
+station, without looking back even once at the house of the baobab.
+
+On his arrival at the station he was greeted by the station-master, a 
+former soldier, who shook him warmly by the hand several times. The 
+Paris-Marseille express had not yet arrived, so Tartarin and his 
+general staff went into the waiting-room.  To keep back the following 
+crowd the station-master closed the barriers.
+
+For fifteen minutes Tartarin paced back and forward, surrounded by the 
+hat shooters.  He spoke to them of his coming expedition, promising to 
+send them skins, and entering their orders in his note-book as if they 
+were a list of groceries. As tranquil as was Socrates at the moment 
+when he drank the hemlock, the bold Tartarin had a word for everyone.  
+He spoke simply and affably, as if before departing he wished to leave 
+behind a legacy of charm, happy memories and regrets.  To hear their 
+chief speak thus brought tears to the eyes of the hat shooters, and to 
+some, such as the president Ladev�ze and the chemist Bezuquet, even a 
+twinge of remorse. Some of the station staff were dabbing their eyes in 
+corners, while outside the crowd peered through the railings and 
+shouted "Vive Tartarin!"
+
+Then a bell rang.  There was a rumbling noise of wheels.  A piercing 
+whistle split the heavens...All aboard!...All aboard!... Goodbye 
+Tartarin!...Goodbye Tartarin!. "Goodbye everyone" murmured the great 
+man, and on the cheeks of the brave Commandant Bravida he planted a 
+farewell salute to his beloved Tarascon.  Then he hurried along the 
+platform and got into a carriage full of Parisian ladies, who almost 
+died of fright at the appearance of this strange man with his revolver 
+and rifles. 
+
+
+Chapter 11.  On the first day of December 186-, in the clear bright 
+winter sunshine of Provence, the startled inhabitants of Marseille 
+witnessed the arrival of a Teur. Never had they seen one like this 
+before, though God knows there is no shortage of Teurs in Marseille. 
+The Teur, need I tell you, was none other than Tartarin de Tarascon, 
+who was proceeding down the quay followed by his case of arms, his 
+medecine chest and his preserved foods, in search of the embarkation 
+point of the Compagnie Touache and the ferry-boat "Le Zouave" which was 
+to carry him away.
+
+His ears still ringing with the cheers of Tarascon and bemused by the 
+brightness of the sky and the smell of the sea,Tartarin marched along, 
+his rifles slung on his shoulders, gazing around in wonder at this 
+marvellous port of Marseille, which he was seeing for the first time 
+and which quite dazzled him.  He almost felt that he was dreaming and 
+that like Sinbad he was wandering in one of the fabulous cities of the 
+Thousand and one Nights.
+
+As far as the eye could see, there stretched a jumble of masts and 
+yards, criss-crossing in all directions. The flags of a multitude of 
+nations fluttering in the wind. The ships level with the quay, their 
+bowsprits projecting over the edge like a row of bayonets, and below 
+them the carved and painted wooden figureheads of nymphs, goddesses and 
+saintly virgins from which the ships took their names. From time to 
+time, between the hulls one could see a patch of sea, like a great 
+sheet of cloth spattered with oil, while in the entanglement of 
+yardarms a host of seagulls made pretty splashes of white against the 
+blue sky. On the quay, amid the streams which trickled from the 
+soapworks, thick, green, streaked with black, full of oil and soda, 
+there was a whole population of customs officers,  shipping agents, and 
+stevedores with trollies drawn by little Corsican ponies.  There were 
+shops selling strange sweetmeats.  Smoke enshrouded huts where seamen 
+were cooking.  There were merchants selling monkeys, parrots, rope, 
+sailcloth and fantastic collections of bric-a-brac where, heaped up 
+pell-mell, were old culverins, great gilded lanterns, old blocks and 
+tackle, old rusting anchors, old rigging, old megaphones, old 
+telescopes, dating from the time of Jean Bart.
+
+There were women selling shellfish, crouched bawling beside their 
+wares, sailors passing, some with pots of tar, some with steaming pots 
+of stew, others with baskets full of squid which they were taking to 
+wash in the fresh water of the fountains. Everywhere prodigious heaps 
+of merchandise of every kind. Silks, minerals, baulks of timber, ingots 
+of lead, carobs, rape-seed, liquorice, sugar cane, great piles of dutch 
+cheeses. East and west hugger-mugger.
+
+Here is the grain berth.  Stevedores empty the sacks onto the quay from 
+a scaffold, the grain pours down in a golden torrent raising a cloud of 
+pale dust, and is loaded by men wearing red fezes into carts, which set 
+off followed by a regiment of women and children with brushes and 
+buckets for gleaning.
+
+There is the careening basin.  The huge vessels lie over on one side 
+and are flamed with fires of brushwood to rid them of seaweed, while 
+their yardarms soak in the water.  There is a smell of pitch and the 
+deafening hammering of shipwrights lining the hulls with sheets of 
+copper.
+
+Sometimes, between the masts, a gap opened and Tartarin could see the 
+harbour mouth and the movement of ships.  An English frigate leaving 
+for Malta, spruce and scrubbed, with officers in yellow gloves, or a 
+big Marseilles brig, casting off amid shouting and cursing, with, in 
+the bows, a fat captain in an overcoat and a top hat, supervising the 
+manoeuvre in broad provencal.  There were ships outward bound, running 
+before the wind with all sails set, there were others, far out at sea, 
+beating their way in and seeming in the sunshine to be floating on air.
+
+  Then, all the time the most fearsome racket.  The rumbling of cart 
+wheels, the cries of the sailors, oaths, songs, the sirens of steam-
+boats, the drums and bugles of Fort St.Jean and Fort St.Nicolas, the 
+bells of nearby churches and, up above, the mistral, which took all of 
+these sounds, rolled them together, shook them up and mingled them with 
+its own voice to make mad, wild, heroic music, like a great fanfare, 
+urging one to set sail for distant lands, to spread one's wings and go.  
+It was to the sound of this fine fanfare that Tartarin embarked for the 
+country of lions.
+
+
+Chapter 12.  I wish that I was a painter, a really good painter, so 
+that I could present to you a picture of the different positions 
+adopted by Tartarin's chechia during the three days of the passage from 
+France to Algeria. 
+
+I would show it to you first at the departure, proud and stately as it 
+was then, crowning that noble Tarascon head.  I would show it next 
+when, having left the harbour, the Zouave began to lift on the swell. I 
+would show it fluttering and astonished, as if feeling the first 
+premonitions of distress.
+
+Then, in the gulf of Lion, when the Zouave was further offshore and the 
+sea a little rougher, I would present it at grips with the storm, 
+clutching, bewildered, at the head of our hero, its long blue woollen 
+tassel streaming in the spume and gusting wind.
+
+The fourth position.  Six in the evening.  Off the coast of Corsica.  
+The wretched chechia is leaning over the rail and sadly contemplating 
+the depths of the ocean.
+
+Fifth and last position.  Down in a narrow cabin, in a little bed which 
+has the appearance of a drawer in a commode, something formless and 
+desolate rolls about, moaning, on the pillow.  It is the chechia, the 
+heroic chechia, now reduced to the vulgar status of a night-cap, and 
+jammed down to the ears of a pallid and convulsing invalid.
+
+  Ah! If the townsfolk of Tarascon could have seen the great Tartarin, 
+lying in his commode drawer, in the pale, dismal light which filtered 
+through the porthole, amongst the stale smell of cooking and wet wood, 
+the depressing odour of the ferry boat.  If they had heard him groan at 
+every turn of the propeller, ask for tea every five minutes, and 
+complain to the steward in the weak voice of a child, would they have 
+regretted having forced him to leave? On my word,the poor Tuer deserved 
+pity. Overcome by sea-sickness, he had not the will even to loosen his 
+sash or rid himself of his weapons. The  hunting knife with the big 
+handle dug into his ribs.  His revolver bruised his leg, and the final 
+straw was the nagging of Tartarin-Sancho, who never ceased whining and 
+carping:- "Imbecile! Va! I warned you didn't I?....But you had to go to 
+Africa!....Well now you're on your way, how do you like it?" 
+
+What was every bit as cruel was that, shut in his cabin, between his 
+groans he could hear the other passengers in the saloon, laughing, 
+eating, singing, playing cards.  The society in the Zouave was as 
+cheerful as it was diverse.  There were some officers on their way to 
+rejoin their units, a bevy of tarts from Marseille, a rich Mahommedan 
+merchant, returning from Mecca, some strolling players, a Montenegran 
+prince, a great joker this, who did impersonations....Not one of these 
+people was sea-sick and they spent the time drinking champagne with the 
+captain of the Zouave, a fat "Bon viveur" from Marseille, who had an 
+establishment there and another in Algiers,  and who rejoiced in the 
+name of Barbassou.  Tartarin hated all these people.  Their gaity 
+redoubled his misery.
+
+At last, in the afternoon of the third day, there was some unusual 
+activity on board the ship, which roused our hero from his torpor. The 
+bell in the bows rang out...the heavy boots of the sailors could be 
+heard running on the deck..."Engine ahead!...engine astern!."  Shouted 
+the hoarse voice of Captain Barbassou.  Then "Stop engine!." 
+
+The engine stopped, there was a little tremor and then nothing.  The 
+ferry lay rocking gently from side to side, like a balloon in the air.  
+This strange silence horrified Tartarin.  "My God!  We are sinking!"  
+He cried in a voice of terror, and recovering his strength as if by 
+magic, he rushed up onto the deck. 
+
+
+Chapter 13.  The Zouave was not sinking. She had just dropped her 
+anchor in a fine anchorage of deep, dark water. Opposite, on the 
+hillside, was Algiers, its little matt-white houses running down to the 
+sea, huddled one against the other, like a pile of white washing laid 
+out on a river bank. Up above a great sky of satin blue...but oh!... So 
+blue!
+
+Tartarin, somewhat recovered from his fright, gazed at the landscape, 
+while listening respectfully to the Montenegrin prince, who standing 
+beside him, pointed out the different quarters of the town. The Casbah, 
+the upper town, the Rue Bab-Azoum.  Very well educated this prince of 
+Montenegro. What is more he knew Algiers well and spoke Arabic. 
+Tartarin had decided to cultivate his acquaintance when suddenly, along 
+the rail on which they were leaning, he saw a row of big black hands 
+grasping it from below.  Almost immediately a curly black head appeared 
+in front of him and before he could open his mouth the deck was invaded 
+from all side by a swarm of pirates; black, yellow, half naked, hideous 
+and terrible. Tartarin knew at once that it was "Them" The fearsome 
+"Them" who he had so often expected at night in the streets of 
+Tarascon. Now they had arrived. 
+
+At first surprise glued him to the spot, but when he saw the pirates 
+hurl themselves on the baggage, tear off the tarpaulin covers and begin 
+to pillage the ship, our hero came to life.  Drawing his hunting knife 
+and shouting "Aux armes!...Aux armes!" To his fellow passengers, he 
+prepared tp lead an assault on the raiders.  "Ques aco?... What's the 
+matter with you?  Said Captain Barbassou as he came off the bridge. 
+"Ah!...There you are Captain....Quick! Quick! Arm your men!" "H�!...Do 
+what?  Why for God's sake?" "But don't you see?" "See what?" "There, in 
+front of you...the pirates! Captain Barbassou regarded him with 
+astonishment..... At that moment a huge monster of a black man ran past 
+carrying the medicine chest.   "Wretch! Wait till I catch you!" Yelled 
+Tartarin, starting forward with his knife held aloft. Barbassou caught 
+him and held him by his sash. "Calm down for Chrissake." He said, 
+"These are not pirates, there have been no pirates for ages, these are 
+stevedores." "Stevedores?" "H�! Yes, stevedores who have come to 
+collect the baggage and take it ashore.  Put away your cutlass, give me 
+your ticket and follow that negro, an excellent fellow , who will take 
+you ashore and even to your hotel if you wish."
+
+Somewhat confused Tartarin surrendered his ticket and following the 
+negro he went down the gangplank into a large boat which was bobbing 
+alongside the ferry.  All his baggage was there, his trunks, cases of 
+weapons and preserved food, as they took up all the room in the boat, 
+there was no need to wait for other passengers.  The negro climbed onto 
+the baggage and squatted there with his arms wrapped round his knees. 
+Another negro took the oars...the two of them regarded 
+Tartarin,laughing and showing their white teeth.
+
+Standing in the stern, wearing his fiercest expression, Tartarin 
+nervously fingered the handle of his hunting knife, for in spite of 
+what Barbassou had told him, he was only half reassured about the 
+intentions of these ebony-skinned stevedores, who looked so different 
+from honest longshoremen of Tarascon.
+
+Three minutes later the boat reached land and Tartarin set foot on the 
+little Barbary quay, where three hundred years earlier a galley-slave 
+named Michael Cervantes, under the whip of an Algerian galley-master, 
+had begun to plan the wonderful story of Don Quixote. 
+
+
+Chapter 14.    If by any chance the ghost of Micheal Cervantes was 
+abroad on that bit of the Barbary coast, it must have been delighted at 
+the arrival of this splendid specimen of a Frenchman from the Midi, in 
+whom were combined the two heroes of his book, Don Quixote and Sancho 
+Panza. 
+
+It was a warm day. On the quay, bathed in sunshine, were five or six 
+customs officers, some settlers awaiting news from France, some 
+squatting Moors, smoking their long pipes, some Maltese fishermen, 
+hauling in a large net, in the meshes of which thousands of sardines 
+glittered like pieces of silver; but scarcely had Tartarin set foot 
+there when the quay sprang into life and changed entirely its 
+appearance.
+
+A band of savages, more hideous even than the pirates of the boat, 
+seemed to rise from the very cobble-stones to hurl themselves on the 
+newcomer. Huge Arabs, naked beneath their long woolen garments, little 
+Moors dressed in rags, Negroes, Tunisians, hotel waiters in white 
+aprons, pushing and shouting, plucking at his clothes, fighting over 
+his luggage; one grabbong his preserves another his medicine chest and, 
+in a screeching babel of noise, throwing at his head the improbable 
+names of hotels....Deafened by this tumult, Tartarin ran hither and 
+thither,struggling, fuming, and cursing after his baggage, and not 
+knowing how to communicate with these barbarians, harangued them in 
+French, Provencal and even what he could remember of Latin.  It was a 
+wasted effort, no one was listening....Happily, however, a little man 
+dressed in a tunic with a yellow collar and armed with a long cane 
+arrived on the scene and dispersed the rabble with blows from his 
+stick. He was an Algerian policeman. Very politely he arranged for 
+Tartarin to go to the Hotel de l'Europe, and confided him to the care 
+of some locals who led him away with all his baggage loaded on several 
+barrows.
+
+As he took his first steps in Algiers, Tartarin looked about him wide-
+eyed. He had imagined beforehand a fairylike Arabian city, something 
+between Constantinople and Zanzibar...but here he was back in Tarascon. 
+Some caf�s some restaurants, wide streets, houses of four stories, a 
+small tarmac square where a military band played Offenbach polkas, men 
+seated on chairs, drinking beer and nibbling snacks, a few ladies, a 
+sprinkling of tarts and soldiers, more soldiers, everywhere 
+soldiers...and not a single "Teur" in sight except for him...so he 
+found walking across the square a bit embarrassing.  Everyone 
+stared....The military band stopped playing  and the Offenbach polka 
+came to a halt with one foot in the air.
+
+With his two rifles on his shoulders, his revolver by his side, 
+unflinching and stately he passed through the throng, but on reaching 
+the hotel his strength deserted him.  The departure from Tarascon. The 
+harbour at Marseille. The crossing. The Montenegrin prince. The 
+pirates, all whirled in confusion round his brain. He had to be taken 
+up to his room, disarmed and undressed...there was even talk of sending 
+for a doctor, but hardly had his head touched the pillow than he began 
+to snore so loudly and vigorously that the hotel manager decided that 
+medical assistance was not required, and everyone discretly withdrew.  
+Chapter 15.  The bell of the government clock was sounding three when 
+Tartarin awoke.  He had slept all evening, all night, all morning and 
+even a good part of the afternoon.  It has, of course, to be admitted 
+that  over the preceding three days the chechia had had a pretty rough 
+time.
+
+His first thought on waking was "Here I am, in lion country!" and it 
+must be confessed that this notion that he was surrounded by lions and 
+was about to go in pursuit of them produced a marked chill, and he 
+buried himself safely under the bedclothes.
+
+Soon, however, the gaiety of the scene outside, the sky so blue, the 
+bright sunshine which flooded into his room through the large window 
+which opened towards the sea, and a good meal which he had served in 
+bed, washed down by a carafe of wine, quickly restored his courage. "To 
+the lions! To the lions!" He cried, and throwing off the bed clothes he 
+dressed himself hurriedly.
+
+His plan of action was this. Leave town and go well out into the 
+desert.  Wait until nightfall.  Lie in hiding, and at the first lion 
+that comes along... Pan! Pan!....Return in the morning. Lunch at hotel. 
+Receive the congratulations of the Algerians and hire a cart to go and 
+collect the kill. 
+
+He armed himself hastily, strapped onto his back the bivouac tent, the 
+pole of which stuck up above his head, and then, held rigid by this 
+contraption, he went down to the street. He turned sharply to the right 
+and walked to the end of the shopping arcade of Bab-Azoum, where a 
+series of Algerian store-keepers watched him pass, concealed in corners 
+of their dark boutiques like spiders. He went through the Place du 
+th�atre. through the suburbs and eventually reached the dusty main road 
+to Mustapha.
+
+Here was a fantastic confusion of traffic. There were coaches, cabs, 
+curricles, military supply wagons, great carts of hay drawn by oxen, 
+some squadrons of Chasseurs d'Afrique, troops of microscopic little 
+donkeys, negresses selling galettes, loads of emigrants from Alsasce, 
+some Spahis in red cloaks.  All passing in a great cloud of dust, with 
+cries, songs and trumpet calls, between two rows of miserable shacks, 
+where could be seen prostitutes applying their make-up at their doors, 
+tap-rooms full of soldiers and the stalls of butchers and slaughtermen. 
+The tales I have been told about this place are quite untrue, thought 
+Tartarin, there are fewer "Teurs" here than there are in Marseille.
+
+Suddenly he saw striding past him, long-legged and proud as a turkey 
+cock, a magnificent camel. The sight quickened his pulse; where there 
+were camels lions could not be far away, and indeed within five minutes 
+he saw coming towards him with guns on their shoulders, a whole company 
+of lion hunters with their dogs.
+
+A cowardly lot, thought Tartarin, as he came alongside them... hunting 
+lions in a group and with dogs... for it had never occurred to him that 
+In Algeria one could hunt anything but lions. However these hunters 
+looked like comfortably retired businessmen, and Tartarin, curious 
+about this way of hunting lions with dogs and game-bags, took it on 
+himself to address one of them.
+
+"Et autrement, my friend,a good day?" 
+
+"Not bad" Replied the other,looking with some surprise at the heavy 
+armament of our Tarascon warrior.
+
+"You have killed some of them?"
+
+"Yes...a few...as you can see." And the Algerian pointed to his game-
+bag, bulging with rabbits and woodcock.
+
+"How is that?...you put them in your game-bag?"
+
+"Where would you like me to put them?"
+
+"But then they...they must be very small!"
+
+"Some big, some small." Said the hunter, and as he was in a hurry to 
+catch up with his companions and go home, he made off at high speed. 
+Tartarin stood, stupefied, in the middle of the road. Then after a 
+moment of thought "Bah!" He said to himself,"These people are trying to 
+have me on, they haven't shot anything." And he continued on his way.
+
+Already the houses were becoming more scattered, the passers-by less 
+frequent. Night was falling. Objects becoming less distinct....He 
+marched on for another half an hour, and then he stopped. It was now 
+completely dark, a moonless night spangled with stars.  There was no 
+one on the road, but in spite of that Tartarin reckoned that lions were 
+not like coaches and would not stick to the highway.  He set off across 
+country.  At every step there were ditches, thorns and bushes.  No 
+matter, he walked on until at last he reached a spot he thought suited 
+to his purpose. A likely place for lions.
+
+
+Chapter 16.  He was in a vast, wild desert, bristling with bizarre 
+plants. African plants, which have the appearance of savage animals.  
+In the faint light from the stars their shadows spread over the ground 
+in all directions.  On the right was the confused, looming mass of a 
+mountain, the Atlas perhaps, to the left could be heard the dull surge 
+of the invisible sea.  An ideal spot to tempt wild animals!
+
+Placing one rifle on the ground before him and taking the other in his 
+hands, Tartarin settled down and waited...he waited for an hour...two 
+hours....Then he remembered that in his books the famous lion hunters 
+always used a kid as bait, which they tethered at some distance in 
+front of them and made to bleat by pulling on a string attached to its 
+leg. Lacking a kid, he had the idea of trying an imitation and began to 
+bleat in a goat-like manner, "M�!...M�!....At first very quietly, 
+because, in the depths of his heart he was a little afraid that the 
+lion might hear him...then seeing that nothing happened he bleated more 
+loudly, "M�!...M�!...M�!.... And then louder still, "M�!...M�!...M�!...
+
+Suddenly, a few paces in front of him, something black and gigantic 
+materialised.  He shut up...the thing crouched, sniffed the ground, 
+leapt up, turned and ran off at a gallop...then it came back and 
+stopped short.  It was a lion!  There could be no doubt. Now one could 
+see quite clearly the four short legs, the formidable forequarters and 
+two huge eyes gleaming in the darkness....Aim!... Fire!... 
+Pan!...Pan!....Tartarin backed away, drawing his hunting knife
+
+  Following Tartarin's shot there was a terrible outcry," I've got him 
+!" Cried the good Tarasconais and prepared himself to receive a 
+possible attack, but the creature had had enough and it fled at top 
+speed, bellowing....He, however, did not budge: he was waiting for the 
+female...as happened in all his books.  Unfortunately the female failed 
+to turn up, and after two or three hours of waiting Tartarin became 
+tired.  The ground was damp, the night was growing cool, there was a 
+nip in the breeze from the sea... "Perhaps I should have a nap while I 
+wait for daylight" he said to himself, and to provide some shelter he 
+had recourse to the bivouac tent. A difficulty now arose,  the bivouac 
+tent was of such an ingenious design that he was quite unable to eract 
+it.  He struggled and sweated for a long time, but there was no way in 
+which he could get the thing up, so at last he threw it on the ground 
+and lay on top of it, cursing it in Provencal. 
+
+                 Ta!... Ta!...Ta!...Tarata! "Ques aco?" said Tartarin, 
+waking up with a start.  It was the trumpets of the Chasseurs d'Afrique 
+sounding reveille in the barracks at Mustapha.  The lion killer rubbed 
+his eyes in amazement.  He who had believed that he was in the middle 
+of a desert...do you know where he was?... In a field full of 
+artichokes, between a cauliflower and a swede...his Sahara was a 
+vegetable patch.
+
+Nearby, on the pretty green coast of upper Mustapha, white Algerian 
+villas gleamed in the dawn light, one might have been among the 
+suburban houses in the outskirts of Marseille.  The bourgeois 
+appearance of the sleeping countryside greatly astonished Tartarin and 
+put him in a bad humour.  "These people are crazy", he said to himself, 
+"To plant their artichokes in an area infested by lions.  For I was not 
+dreaming, there are lions here and there is the proof".
+
+The proof was a trail of blood which the fleeing beast had left behind 
+it. Following this blood-spoor, with watchful eye and revolver in hand, 
+he valiant Tarasconais went from artichoke to artichoke until he 
+arrived at a small field of oats....In a patch of flattened grain was a 
+pool of blood and in the middle of the pool, lying on its side with a 
+large wound to its head, was... what?...a lion?...No     Parbleu!... A 
+donkey!  One of the tiny donkeys so common in Algeria, which there are 
+called "Bourriquots".
+
+
+Chapter 17.  Tartarin's first reaction at the sight of his unfortunate 
+victim was one of annoyance.  There is after all a considerable 
+difference between a lion and a bourriquot.  This was quickly replaced 
+by a feeling of pity.  The poor bourriqout was so pretty, so gentle, 
+its warm flanks rising and falling as it breathed.  Tartarin knelt down 
+and with the end of his sash he tried to staunch the blood from its 
+wound.  The sight of this great man tending the little donkey was the 
+most touching thing you could imagine.  At the soothing contact of the 
+sash, the bourriquot, which was already at death's door, opened a big 
+grey eye and twitched once or twice its long ears, as if to say "Thank 
+you!...Thank you!". Then a final tremor shook it from head to tail and 
+it moved no more.
+
+"Noiraud!...Noiraud!" Came a sudden cry from a strident, anxious voice, 
+and the branches of some nearby bushes were thrust aside. Tartarin had 
+barely time to get up and put himself on guard. It was the female!... 
+She arrived, roaring and terrible, in the guise of an elderly Alsation 
+lady in a rabbit-skin coat, armed with a red umbrella and calling for 
+her donkey in a voice which woke all the echoes of Mustapha. Certainly 
+it might have been better for Tartarin to have had to deal with an 
+angry lioness than this infuriated old lady.  In vain he tried to 
+explain what had happened...how he had mistaken Noiraud for a lion, she 
+thought he was trying to make fun of her and, uttering loud cries of 
+indignation, she set about our hero with blows from her umbrella.  
+Tartarin, in confusion, defended himself as best he could, parrying the 
+blows with his rifle, sweating, puffing, jumping about and crying "But 
+Madame!...But Madame!". To no avail. Madame was deaf to his pleas and 
+redoubled her efforts. 
+
+Happily a third party arrved on the field of battle.  It was the  
+husband of the Alsation lady, also an Alsation.... A tavern keeper  and 
+a shrewd man of business.  When he saw with whom he was dealing and 
+that the assassin was willing to pay for his crime, he disarmed his  
+spouse and took her to one side.  Tartarin gave two hundred francs. The 
+donkey was worth at least ten, which is the going price for bourriquots  
+in the Arab market. Then the poor Noiraud was buried beneath a fig 
+tree, and the Alsation, put in a good humour at the sight of so much 
+money, invited our hero to break a crust at his tavern, which was not 
+far away at the edge of the main road. The Algerian hunters went there 
+every Sunday for luncheon; for the countryside was full of game, and 
+for two leagues about the city there was not a better place for 
+rabbits. "And the lions?" Asked Tartarin. The Alsation looked at him 
+with surprise..."The lions?" "Yes, the lions, do you see them 
+sometimes?" Tartarin replied, with a little less assurance.  The 
+tavern-keeper burst out laughing, "Lions!...Lions!...What is all this 
+about lions?"   "Are there no lions in Algeria then?" "Moi foi! I have 
+been here for  twenty years and I have never seen any.... though I did 
+once hear...I  think there was a report in the newspaper...but it was 
+long ago... somewhere in the south"....
+
+At that moment they reached the tavern, a wayside pot house, the sort 
+of thing one can see by any main road.  It had a very faded sign above 
+the door, some billiard cues painted on the wall and the inoffensive 
+name "Au rendezvous des lapins". 
+
+
+Chapter 18.  This first adventure would have been enought to discourage 
+many people, but seasoned characters such as Tartarin are not so easily 
+disheartened. The lions are in the south, thought our hero, very well I 
+shall go to the south.
+
+As soon as he had swallowed his last morsel, he got up, thanked his 
+host, took leave of the old lady without any ill-feeling, shed a last 
+tear over the unfortunate Noiraud and headed quickly for Algiers, with 
+the firm intention of packing his trunks and departing that same day 
+for the south.
+
+Sadly, the main Mustapha road seemed to have grown longer during the 
+night.  There was so much sunshine, so much dust, the bivouac tent was 
+so heavy, that Tartarin could not face the walk back to the town and he 
+hailed the first horse-drawn omnibus which came along and climbed 
+in....Poor Tartarin!  How much better it would have been for his 
+reputation if he had not entered that fateful vehicle, and had 
+continued his journey on foot, even at the risk of collapsing from the 
+heat and the weight of his two double-barreled rifles and the bivouac 
+tent. 
+
+With Tartarin aboard, the omnibus was now full. At the far end was an 
+Algerian priest with a big black beard, his nose stuck in his breviary.  
+Opposite was a young Moorish merchant, puffing at a large cigarette, 
+then a Maltese seaman, and four or five Moorish women, with white linen 
+masks, whose eyes alone were visible. These ladies had been on a visit 
+to the cemetary of Abd-el-Kader, but this did not seem to have 
+depressed them.  Behind their masks they laughed and chattered among 
+themselves and munched pastries.
+
+It seemed to Tartarin that they cast many glances in his direction, and 
+one in particular, who was seated opposite him, fixed her gaze on him 
+and did not remove it.
+
+Although the lady was veiled, the livliness of her large dark eyes, 
+emphasised by kohl, a delicate little wrist, encircled by gold 
+bracelets, which one glimpsed from time to time amidst her draperies, 
+the sound of her voice, the graceful movements of her head,  all 
+suggested that beneath her garments was someone young, pretty and 
+loveable.
+
+  The embarrassed Tartarin did not know which way to turn.  The silent 
+caress of these beautiful dark eyes set his heart aflutter. He blushed 
+and paled by turns. Then to complete his downfall he felt on his 
+massive boot the lady's dainty slipper scurrying about like a little 
+red mouse....What was he to do?...Reply to these looks, this touch?... 
+Yes... but an amorous intrigue in this part of the world can have 
+terrible consequences. In his imagination Tartarin already saw himself 
+seized by eunuchs, decapitated or even worse, sewn into a sack and 
+tossed into the sea with his head beside him.
+
+This thought cooled his ardour a little, but the little slipper 
+continued to tease and the he eyes opened very wide, like two black 
+velvet flowers which seemed to say "Come and gather us!"
+
+The omnibus stopped. It had arrived at the Place du th�atre, at the 
+entrance to the Rue Bab Azoum.  One by one, enveloped in their 
+billowing garments and drawing their veils about them with savage 
+grace, the Moors dismounted.  Tartarin's neighbour was the last to 
+leave and as she rose to go her face was so close to that of our hero 
+that their breaths mingled and he was aware of a bouquet of 
+youth,jasmine, musk and pastries.
+
+He could no longer resist.  Drunk with love and ready to face anything, 
+he scrambled after the Moor...At the sound of his clumsy footsteps she 
+turned and put her finger to her lips, as if to say "Hush" and with the 
+other hand she tossed him a little scented garland made of jasmine 
+flowers.  Tartarin bent to pick it up, but as he was somewhat 
+overweight and much encumbered by his weapons, the operation took a 
+little time...When he rose, the garland pressed to his heart, the 
+little Moor had disappeared.
+
+
+Chapter 19.  Sleep, lions of the Atlas!  Sleep tranquilly in your lairs 
+amongst the aloes and the cactus!  It wil be some time before Tartarin 
+de Tarascon comes to slaughter you.  At the moment his equipment, his 
+arms, his medicine chest, the preserved food and the bivouac tent are 
+piled up peacefully in a corner of room 36 in the Hotel de l'Europe. 
+Sleep without fear, great tawny lions!  The Tarasconais is searching 
+for his Moor.
+
+Since the events in the omnibus, the unhappy man seems to feel 
+constantly on his feet the scurrying of the little red mouse, and the 
+sea breeze which wafts across his face seems somehow perfumed by an 
+amorous odour of patisserie and anise. He must find his Dulcinea; but 
+to find in a city of one hundred thousand inhabitants a person of whom 
+one knows only the scent of their breath, the appearence of their 
+slippers and the colour of their eyes is no light undertaking.  Only a 
+lovesick Tarasconais would attempt such a task. To make matters worse, 
+it must be confessed that beneath their masks all Moorish ladies tend 
+to look very much the same; and then they do not go out a great deal, 
+and if one wants to see them one must go to the upper town, the Arab 
+town, the town of the Teurs.
+
+A real cut-throat place that upper town. Little dark alley-ways, very 
+narrow, climbing steeply between two rows of silent, mysterious houses 
+whose roofs touch to make a tunnel. Low doorways and small windows, 
+opaque and barred, and then, to right and left, little shops within 
+whose deep shade fierce "Teurs" with piratical faces, glittering eyes 
+and gleaming teeth, smoke their hookahs and converse in low tones,  as 
+if planning some wicked deed....To say that Tartarin walked through 
+this fearsome township unmoved would be to lie. He was on the contrary 
+moved a good deal, and in those obscure alleys where his large stomach 
+took up almost the entire width, the brave fellow advanced with the 
+greatest caution, his eyes alert, his finger on the trigger of his 
+revolver, just as he used to be at Tarascon on his way to the club. At 
+any moment he expected to be jumped on from behind by a whole gang of 
+janissaries and eunuchs, but his desire to find the lady endowed him 
+with the courage and determination of a giant.
+
+For eight days the intrepid Tartarin did not quit his search. Sometimes 
+he could be seen hanging about the turkish baths, waiting for the women 
+to emerge in chattering groups, scented from the bath. Sometimes he 
+appeared at the entrance of a mosque, puffing and blowing as he removed 
+his heavy boots before entering the sacred premises. On other 
+occasions, at nightfall, when he was returning to the hotel, downcast 
+at having discovered nothing at the mosque or the baths, he would hear, 
+as he passed one of the Moorish houses, monotonous songs, the muffled 
+sound of guitars, the rattle of tambourines and the light laughter of 
+women, which made his heart beat faster. "Perhaps she is there" He 
+would say to himself, and approaching the house he would lift the heavy 
+knocker and let it fall timidly. 
+
+Immediately the song and the laughter stop. Nothing can be heard   
+within but faint vague cluckings as if in a sleeping hen-house.  Hold 
+on thinks our hero, something is about to happen, but what happened  
+mostly was a big pot of cold water on his head, or orange peel and fig 
+skins....Sleep lions!
+
+
+Chapter 20.  For two long weeks the unhappy Tartarin searched for his 
+Algerian lady-love, and it is likely that he would be searching still, 
+if that providence which looks after lovers had not come to his aid in 
+the guise of a Montenegrin gentleman.
+
+The Th�atre in Algiers, like the "Opera" in Paris, organises every 
+Saturday night during the winter a Bal Masqu�. This is, however, a 
+provincial version. There are few people in the dance-hall; the 
+occasional drifter from out of town, unemployed stevedores, some rustic 
+tarts, who are in business but who still retain from their more 
+virtuous days a faint aroma of garlic and saffron sauce...the real 
+spectacle is in the foyer, which has been converted for the occasion 
+into a gambling saloon.
+
+A feverish, multicoloured crowd jostles about the long green cloths. 
+Algerian soldiers on leave, gambling their meagre pay. Moorish 
+merchants from the upper town.  Negroes. Maltese. Colonists who have 
+come a hundred miles to wager the price of a cart or a pair of oxen on 
+the turn of a card. Pale, tense and anxious as they watch the game.
+
+There are Algerian Jews, gambling en famille. The men in oriental 
+costume, the women in gold coloured bodices. They gather round the 
+table, chatter and and plan, count on their fingers, but play little. 
+From time to time, and only after long consultation, an elderly, 
+bearded patriarch goes to place the family stake. Then as long as play 
+lasts there is a concentration of dark hebraic eyes on the table, which 
+would seem to draw the gold pieces lying there as if by an invisible 
+thread....
+
+Then there are the quarrels. Fights. Oaths in many languages. Knives 
+are drawn. A guard arrives. Money is missing....In the midst of this 
+saturnalia wandered poor Tartarin, who had come that evening in search 
+of forgetfulness and peace of heart.
+
+As he went about through the crowd, thinking of his Moor, suddenly,  at 
+one of the gaming tables, above the cries and the chinking of coins, 
+two angry voices were raised. "I tell you, there are twenty francs of 
+mine missing, m'sieu!" "M'sieu!!!" "Well, what have you to say, 
+m'sieu?" "Do you know to whom you are talking, m'sieu?" "I should be 
+delighted to find out, m'sieu!" "I am prince Gregory of Montenegro, 
+m'sieu!"
+
+At this name, Tartarin, much moved, pushed through the crowd until he 
+reached the front row, delighted to have found once more his prince, 
+the distinguished Montenegrin nobleman whose acquaintance he had made 
+on the packet-boat.
+
+Unfortunately this title of prince which had so dazzled the worthy 
+Tarasconais, did not produce the least impression on the officer of the 
+Chasseurs with whom the prince was in dispute. "A likely story" said 
+the officer with a sneer, and then turning to the onlookers, "Prince 
+Gregory of Montenegro, who has ever heard of him?...No one!"  Tartarin, 
+indignant, took a pace forward.  "Pardon...I know the prince." He said 
+firmly in his best Tarrascon accent.
+
+The officer of the Chasseurs stared him in the face for a few moments, 
+then shrugging his shoulders, he said "Well now, is'nt that just 
+fine?...Share out the twenty francs between you and we'll leave it at 
+that."  So saying he turned on his heel and was lost in the crowd.
+
+Tartarin, furious, wanted to go after him,  but the prince prevented 
+him. "Leave it...It's my affair."  He said, and taking Tartarin by the 
+arm he led him outside.
+
+When they had reached the square, prince Gregory of Montenegro took off 
+his hat, held out his hand to our hero and vaguely recalling his name 
+began in vibrant tones, "Monsieur Barbarin..."   "Tartarin."  Breathed 
+the other, timidly. "Tartarin...Barbarin, it makes no difference, we 
+are now friends for life."  And the noble Montenegrin shook his hand 
+with ferocious energy. Tartarin was was overwhelmed by pride. 
+"Prince....Prince" He murmured in confusion.
+
+Fifteen minutes later the two gentlemen were seated in the Restaurant 
+des Platanes, an agreeable spot whose terraces sloped down toward the 
+sea, and there before a large Russian salad and a bottle of good wine 
+they renewed their acquaintance.
+
+You cannot imagine anything more beguiling than this Montenegrin  
+prince.  Slim, elegant, his hair curled and waved, smooth-shaven and 
+powdered and decked with strange orders, he had a sharp eye an 
+ingratiating manner and spoke with a vaguely Italian accent, faintly 
+suggestive of a renaissance Cardinal. Of ancient aristocratic lineage, 
+his brothers, it seemed, had driven him into exile at the age of ten, 
+because of his liberal opinions; since when he had travelled the world 
+for his instruction and pleasure...a philosopher prince. By a 
+remarkable coincidence the prince had spent three years in Tarascon, 
+but when Tartarin expressed astonishment at never having seen him at 
+the club or on the promanade, "I didn't go out much" Said the prince in 
+a somewhat evasive manner, and Tartarin discretely asked no more 
+questions.  Important people, he knew, had diplomatic secrets.
+
+All in all a very fine prince this Gregory.  While sipping his wine he 
+listened patiently to Tartarin, who told him of his Moorish love, and 
+as he claimed to have contacts among these ladies, he even undertook to 
+help look for her.
+
+They drank long and deep. They drank to the ladies of Algeria. They 
+drank to free Montenegro. Outside, below the terrace, the sea rolled, 
+the waves slapping wetly on the beach. The air was warm, the sky bright 
+with stars, in the plane trees a nightingale sang...It was Tartarin who 
+paid the bill.
+
+
+Chapter 21.  The Montenegrin prince was as good as his word. Shortly 
+after the reunion at the Restaurant des Platanes he arrived early one 
+morning at Tartarin's room. "Quick!...quick!...get dressed" he said, 
+"Your Moor has been found...her name is Baia...as pretty as a picture, 
+twenty years old and already a widow." "A widow!....Well that's a bit 
+of luck"  Said Tartarin who was a little uneasy at the thought of 
+Moorish husbands. "Yes, but closely guarded by her brother" "Oh! That's 
+a bit awkward" "A ferocious Moor who sells hookahs in the bazaar" There 
+was a silence, "Good!" Said the prince,"You're not the chap to be put 
+off by a little thing like that, and anyway we can perhaps buy off this 
+villain by purchasing some of his pipes. So come on, get dressed...you 
+lucky dog!" 
+
+Pale and excited, his heart full of love, Tartarin jumped out of bed 
+and as he climbed into his ample underwear he asked "What shall I do 
+now?" "Write to the lady quite simply and ask for a meeting" "She 
+understands French then?" Said Tartarin with an air of  disappointment. 
+For his dreams had been of an Arabian Houri, uncontaminated by the 
+west. "She doesn't understand a word"  Replied the prince 
+imperturbably, but you will dictate the letter to me and I shall 
+translate it." "Oh prince, how good you are."  And Tartarin strode 
+about the room silent and deep in thought.
+
+As you may imagine one does not write to a Moorish lady as one might to 
+a little shop-girl in Beaucaire. Happily our hero was able to cull from 
+his reading many phrases of oriental rhetoric and combining these with 
+some distant memories of the " Song of Songs" he was able to compose 
+the most flowery epistle you could wish for, full of unlikely similes 
+and improbable metaphors. With this romantic missive Tartarin would 
+have liked to combine a bouquet of flowers with emblematic meanings, 
+but prince Gregory thought it would be better to buy some pipes from 
+the brother, which could not fail to soften the savage temperament of 
+the gentleman and would please the lady, who greatly enjoyed smoking. 
+"Let us go quickly  then and buy some pipes," Said Tartarin. "No, no." 
+Replied the prince, "Let me go alone, I shall get them at a better 
+price." "Oh  prince! How good you are to take such trouble." And the 
+trusting fellow held out his purse to the obliging Montenegrin, 
+exhorting him to neglect nothing which might make the lady happy.
+
+Unfortunately, the affair which had started so well, did not progress 
+as rapidly as one might have wished. Very touched, it seemed, by 
+Tartarin's eloquence, and already three parts won over, she would have 
+liked nothing better than to have received him, but her brother had 
+scruples, and to lay these to rest it was necessary to buy an 
+astonishing number of pipes. Sometimes Tartarin wondered what on earth 
+the lady did with them all, but he paid up nevertheless, and without 
+stinting.
+
+At last, after the purchase of many pipes and the composing of many 
+sheets of oriental prose, a rendezvous was arranged.  I need hardly 
+tell you with what fluttering of heart Tartarin prepared himself; with 
+what care he trimmed, washed and scented his beard, without forgetting 
+- for one must always be prepared - to slip into his pockets a life-
+preserver and a revolver.  The ever-obliging prince attended this first 
+meeting in the role of interpreter
+
+The lady lived in the upper part of the town.  Outside her door lounged 
+a young Moor of fourteen or fifteen, smoking a cigarette, it was Ali, 
+her brother. When the two visitors arrived he knocked twice on the 
+postern and retired from the scene. The door was opened and a negress 
+appeared, who, without saying a word, conducted the two gentlemen 
+across a narrow interior courtyard to a small, cool room where the lady 
+awaited them, posed on a divan.
+
+At first glance it seemed to Tartarin that she was smaller and sturdier 
+than the Moor on the omnibus...were they in fact the same? But this 
+suspicion was only momentary: the lady was so pretty, with her bare 
+feet and her plump fingers, rosy and delicate, loaded with rings;  
+while beneath her bodice of gold cloth and the blossoms of her flowered 
+robe was the suggestion of a charming form, a little     chubby, dainty 
+and curvaceous.  The amber mouthpiece of a narghile was between her 
+lips and she was enveloped in a cloud of pale smoke.
+
+On entering, Tartarin placed his hand on his heart and bowed in the 
+most Moorish manner possible, rolling big, passionate eyes...Baia 
+looked at him for a moment without speaking, then letting go of the 
+amber mouthpiece, she turned her back, hid her face in her hands and 
+one could see only her neck, shaken by uncontrollable laughter.
+
+
+Chapter 22.       If you go in the evening into some of the coffee-
+houses of the Algerian upper town, you will hear even today, Moors 
+speak among themselves, with winks and chuckles, of a certain Sidi ben 
+Tart'ri, an amiable, rich European who - it now some years ago - lived 
+in the upper town with a little local girl called Baia.
+
+This Sidi ben Tart'ri was of course none other than Tartarin. Well what 
+could you expect. This sort of thing happens even in the lives of 
+Saints and Heroes. The illustrious Tartarin was, like anyone else, not 
+exempt from these failings and that is why for two whole months, 
+forgetful of lions, forgetful of fame, he wallowed in oriental love, 
+and slumbered, like Hannibal in Capua, amid the delights of Algiers.
+
+He had rented in the heart of the Arab quarter, a pretty little local 
+house with an interior courtyard, banana trees, cool galleries and 
+fountains.  He lived there quietly in the company of his Moor, a Moor 
+himself from head to foot.  Puffing at his hookah and munching musk-
+flavoured condiments. Stretched on a divan opposite him, Baia with a 
+guitar in her hands droned monotonous songs, or to amuse her master she 
+perhaps mimed a belly-dance, holding in her hands a small mirror in 
+which she admired her white teeth and made faces  at herself.
+
+As the lady did not understand French and Tartarin did not speak a word 
+of Arabic, conversation languished somewhat and the talkative 
+Tarasconais had time to repent of any intemperate loquaciousness of 
+which he might have been guilty at Bezuquet's pharmacy or Costecalde 
+the gunsmith's shop. This penance even had a certain charm.  There was 
+something almost voluptuous in going all day without speaking, hearing 
+only the bubble of the hookah, the strumming of the guitar and the 
+gentle splashing of the fountain amid the mosaic tiles of his 
+courtyard.
+
+Smoking, the Turkish bath and "l'amour" occupied his time. They went 
+out little. Sometimes Sidi Tart'ri, with his lady mounted on the 
+crupper, went on mule-back to eat pomegranates in a little garden which 
+he had bought in the neighbourhood...but never on any account did they 
+go down to the European part of the town, which with its drunken 
+Zouaves, its bordellos full of officers and the sound of sabres 
+trailing on the ground beneath the arcade, seemed to him to be 
+insupportably ugly.  Altogether our Tartarin was perfectly happy.  
+Tartarin-Sancho in particular, very fond of Turkish pastries, declared 
+himself entirely satisfied with his new existence.  Tartarin-Quixote 
+had perhaps now and then some regrets, when he remembered Tarascon and 
+the promised lion skins...but they did not last for long, and to dispel 
+these moments of sadness all that was needed was a look from Baia or a 
+spoonful of her diabolic confections, scented and bewitching like some 
+brew of Circe's. 
+
+In the evenings prince Gregory came, to talk a little about free 
+Montenegro. Of indefatigable complaisance, this agreeable nobleman 
+undertook in the house the function of interpreter and, if need be,  
+even that of steward, and all for nothing.  Apart from him, Tartarin 
+had only "Teurs" as visitors. All of those ferocious bandits which in 
+the depths of their dark shops he once found so frightening, turned out 
+to be harmless tradesmen, embroiderers, spice sellers, turners of pipe 
+mouthpieces. Discrete, courteous people, modest, shrewd, and good at 
+cards.  Four or five times a week they would spend the evening with 
+Tartarin, winning his money and eating his confitures, and on the 
+stroke of ten leaving politely, giving thanks to the Prophet.
+
+After they had left, Sidi Tart'ri and his faithful spouse would finish 
+the evening on their terrace, a large white-walled terrace which formed 
+the roof of the building and looked out over the town.  All about them 
+a thousand other terraces, tranquil in the moonlight, dropped one below 
+the other down to the sea.  Suddenly, like a burst of stars, a great 
+clear chant rose heavenward and on the minaret of the nearby mosque a 
+handsome Muezzin appeared, his white outline silhouetted against the 
+deep blue of the night sky.  As he invoked the praise of Allah in a 
+splendid voice which filled the horizon, Baia laid aside her guitar and 
+with her eyes fixed on the Muezzin seemed to be rapt in prayer. For as 
+long as the chant lasted she remained ecstatic, like an Arabic 
+St.Theresa. Tartarin watched her and thought that it must be a 
+beautiful and powerful religion which could give rise to such 
+transports of faith.  Tarascon hide your face, your Tartarin dreams of 
+becoming apostate.
+
+
+Chapter 23.  One fine afternoon of blue sky and warm breeze, Sidi 
+Tart'ri, astride his mule, was returning alone from his little garden, 
+his legs spread widely over hay filled bags which were further swollen 
+by citrus and water-melon.  Lulled by the creaking of the harness and 
+swaying to the clip-clop of the animal the good man progressed through 
+the delightful countryside, his hands crossed on his stomach, three-
+quarters asleep from the effect of warmth and wellbeing. Suddenly, as 
+he was entering the town, a loud hail woke him up. "H�! You, you great 
+lump! You're Monsieur Tartarin aren't you?" At the name of Tartarin and 
+the sound of the Provencal accent Tartarin raised his head and saw, a 
+few feet away, the tanned features of Barbassou, the Captain of the 
+Zouave, who was drinking an absinthe and smoking his pipe at the door 
+of a little caf�. "H�! Barbassou by God!" Said Tartarin, pulling up his 
+mule.
+
+Instead of replying,Barbassou regarded him wide-eyed for a few moments, 
+and then he began to laugh and laugh, so that Tartarin sat stunned 
+among his water-melons. "What a get-up , my poor monsieur Tartarin. 
+It's true then what people say, that you have become a Teur? And little 
+Baia, does she still sing 'Marco la belle' all the time?"  "Marco la 
+belle,"  said Tartarin indignantly, " I'll have you know Captain, that 
+the person of whom you speak is an honest Moorish girl who doesn't know 
+a word of French!" "Baia?...Not a word of French?...Where have you come 
+from?"  And the Captain began to laugh again, more than ever. Then 
+noticing the long face of poor Sidi Tart'ri, he changed tack. "Well 
+perhaps it isn't the same one," He said, "I've probably got her mixed 
+up with someone else...only look here, M.Tartarin, you would be wise 
+not to put too much trust in Algerian Moors, or Montenegrin princes."  
+Tartarin stood up in his stirrups, and made his grimace, "The prince is 
+my friend, Captain!" He said. "All right...all right...Don't let's 
+quarrel...would you like a drink?...no. Any message you would like me 
+to take back?...none. Well that's it then.  Bon voyage....Oh!... While 
+I think of it, I have some good French tobacco here, if you would like 
+a few pipes-full take some, help yourself, it will do you good, it's 
+those blasted local tobaccos that scramble your brain."
+
+With that the Captain returned to his absinthe and Tartarin        
+pensively trotted his mule down the road to his little house.  Although 
+in his loyal heart he refused to believe any of the insinuations made 
+by the Captain, they had upset him, and his rough oaths and country 
+accent had combined to awake in him a vague feeling of remorse. When he 
+reached home, Baia had gone to the baths, the negress seemed to him 
+ugly, the house dismal, and prey to an indefinable melancholy, he went 
+and sat by the fountain and filled his pipe with Barbassou's tobacco.  
+The tobacco had been wrapped in a fragment of paper torn from "The 
+Semaphore" and when he spread it out the name of his home town caught 
+his eye. 
+
+"News from Tarascon" He read,"The town is in a state of alarm.  
+Tartarin the lion killer, who went to hunt the big cats in Africa, has 
+not been heard of for several months....What has happened to our heroic 
+compatriot? One dare hardly ask oneself, knowing as we do his ardent 
+nature, his courage and love of adventure....Has he, like so many 
+others, been swallowed up in the desert sands, or has he perhaps fallen 
+victim to the murderous teeth of those feline monsters, whose skins he 
+promised to the municipality....A terrible incertitude!  However, some 
+African merchants who came to the fair at Beaucaire, claim to have met, 
+in the heart of the desert, a white man whose description corresponds 
+with his and who was heading for Timbuctoo.  May God preserve our 
+Tartarin!" 
+
+When he read this, Tartarin blushed and trembled. All Tarascon rose 
+before his eyes. The club. The hat hunters. The green armchair at 
+Costecalde's shop: and soaring above, like the extended wings of an 
+eagle, the formidable moustache of the brave Commandant Bravida. Then 
+to see himself squatting slothfully on his mat, while he was believed 
+to be engaged in slaying lions, filled him with shame. Suddenly he 
+leaped to his feet. "To the lions!...To the lions!" He cried, and 
+hurrying to the dusty corner where lay idle his bivouac tent, his 
+medicine chest, his preserved foods and his weapons, he dragged them 
+into the middle of the courtyard.  Tartarin-Sancho had just perished, 
+only Tartarin-Quixote was left.
+
+There was just time enough to inspect his equipment, to don his arms 
+and accoutrements, to put on his big boots, to write a few lines to 
+prince Gregory, confiding Baia to his care, to slip into an envelope 
+some banknotes, wet with tears, and the intrepid Tarasconais was in a 
+stage-coach, rolling down the road to Blidah, leaving the stupefied 
+negress in his house, gazing at the turban, the slippers and all the 
+muslim rig-out of Sidi Tart'ri, hanging discarded on the wall.     
+
+
+Chapter 24.  It was an ancient, old-fashioned stage-coach, upholstered 
+in the old way in heavy blue cloth, very faded, and with enormous pom-
+poms, which after a few hours on the road dug uncomfortably into one's 
+back.  Tartarin had an inside seat, where he installed himself as best 
+he could, and where, instead of the musky scent of the great cats, he 
+could savour the ripe perfume of the coach, compounded of a thousand 
+odours of men, women, horses, leather, food and damp straw.
+
+The other passengers on the coach were a mixed lot.  A Trappist monk, 
+some Jewish merchants, two Cocottes, returning to their unit, the third 
+Hussars, and a photographer from Orleansville.
+
+No matter how charming and varied the company, Tartarin did not feel 
+like chatting and remained silent, his arm hooked into the arm-strap 
+and his weaponry between his knees....His hurried departure, the dark 
+eyes of Baia, the dangerous chase on which he was about to engage, 
+these thoughts troubled his mind, and also there was something about 
+this venerable stage-coach, now domiciled in Africa, which recalled to 
+him vaguely the Tarascon of his youth. Trips to the country. Dinners by 
+the banks of the Rh�ne, a host of memories.
+
+Little by little it grew dark.  The guard lit the lanterns.  The old 
+coach swayed and squeaked on its worn springs.  The horses trotted, the 
+bells on their harness jingling, and from time to time there sounded 
+the clash of ironmongery from Tartarin's arms chest on the top of the 
+coach.
+
+Sleepily Tartarin contemplated his fellow passengers as they danced 
+before his eyes, shaken by the jolting of the coach, then his eyes 
+closed and he heard no more, except vaguely, the rumble of the axles 
+and the groaning of the coach sides....
+
+Suddenly an ancient female voice, rough, hoarse and cracked, called the 
+Tarasconais by name: "Monsieur Tartarin!... Monsieur Tartarin!" "Who is 
+calling me?" "It is I, Monsieur Tartarin, don't you recognise me?...I 
+am the stage-coach which once ran...it is now twenty years ago...the 
+service from Tarascon to Nimes....How many times have I carried you and 
+your friends when you went hat shooting over by Joncqui�res or 
+Bellegarde...I didn't recognise you at first because of your bonnet and 
+the amount of weight you have put on, but as soon as you began to 
+snore, you old rascal, I knew you right away." "Bon!...Bon!" Replied 
+Tartarin, somewhat vexed, but then softening , he added: "But now, my 
+poor old lady, what are you doing here?" "Ah! My dear M. Tartarin, I 
+did not come here of my own free will I can promise you.  Once the 
+railway reached Beaucaire no one could find a use for me so I was 
+shipped off to Africa...and I am not the only one, nearly all the 
+stage-coaches in France have been deported like me; we were found too 
+old fashioned and now here we all are, leading a life of slavery."  
+Here the old coach gave a long sigh, then she went on: "I can't tell 
+you monsieur Tartarin how much I miss my lovely Tarascon.  These were 
+good times for me, the time of my youth.  You should have seen me 
+leaving in the morning, freshly washed and polished, with new varnish 
+on my wheels, my lamps shining like suns and my tarpaulin newly dressed 
+with oil.  How grand it was when the postillion cracked his whip and 
+sang out, 'Lagadigadeou, la Tarasque, la Tarasque' and the guard, with 
+his ticket-punch slung on its bandolier and his braided cap tipped over 
+one ear, chucked his little yapping dog onto the tarpaulin of the 
+coach-roof and scrambled up himself crying `Let's go!...Let's go!` Then 
+my four horses would start off with a jingle of bells, barking and 
+fanfares.  Windows would open and all Tarascon would watch with pride 
+the stage-coach setting off along the king's highway.
+
+What a fine road it was, Monsieur Tartarin, wide and well kept, with 
+its kilometre markers, its heaps of roadmender's stones at regular 
+intervals, and to right and left vinyards and pretty groves of olive 
+trees. Then inns every few yards, post-houses every five minutes...and 
+my travellers!  What fine folk!... Mayors and cur�s going to Nimes to 
+see their Prefect or Bishop, honest workmen, students on holiday, 
+peasants in embroidered smocks, all freshly shaved that morning, and up 
+on top, all of you hat shooters, who were always in such good form and 
+who sang so well to the stars as we returned home in the evening. 
+
+Now it is a different story...God knows the sort of people I carry. A 
+load of miscreants from goodness knows where, who infest me with 
+vermin. Negroes, Bedouins, rascals and adventurers from every country, 
+colonists who stink me out with their pipes, and all of them talking a 
+language which even our Heavenly Father couldn't  understand....And 
+then you see how they treat me.  Never brushed.  Never washed.  They 
+grudge me the grease for my axles, and instead of the fine big, quiet 
+horses which I used to have, they give me little Arab horses which have 
+the devil in them, fighting, biting, dancing about and running like 
+goats, breaking my shafts with kicks. Aie!...Aie! They are at it again 
+now....And the roads!  It's still all right here, because we are near 
+Government House, but out there, nothing! No road of any sort.  One 
+goes as best one can over hill and dale through dwarf palms and mastic 
+trees.  Not a single fixed stop.  One pulls up at wherever the guard 
+fancies, sometimes at one farm, sometimes at another.  Sometimes this 
+rogue takes me on a detour of two leagues just so that he can go and 
+drink with a friend.  After that it's `Whip up postillion, we must make 
+up for lost time.`  The sun burns.  The dust chokes...Whip!...Whip!  We 
+crash. We tip over. More whip.  We swim across rivers, we are cold, 
+soaked and half drowned...Whip!...Whip!...Whip!  Then in the evening, 
+dripping wet... that's good for me at my age... I have to bed down in 
+the yard of some caravan halt, exposed to all the winds.  At night 
+jackals and hyenas come to sniff at my lockers and creatures which fear 
+the dawn hide in my compartments.  That's the life I lead, monsieur 
+Tartarin, and I shall lead until the day when, scorched by sun and 
+rotted by humid nights, I shall fall at some corner of this beastly 
+road, where Arabs will boil their cous-cous on the remains of my old 
+carcase."
+
+"Blidah!...Blidah!" Shouted the guard, opening the coach door.
+
+
+Chapter 25.  Indistinctly,through the steamed up windows, Tartarin 
+could see the pretty square of a neatly laid out little township, 
+surrounded by arcades and planted with orange trees, in the centre of 
+which a group of soldiers was drilling in the thin, pink haze of early 
+morning.  The caf�s were taking down their shutters, in one corner a 
+vegetable market was under way.  It was charming, but in no way did it 
+suggest lions. "To the south, further to the south."  Murmured 
+Tartarin, settling back in his corner. 
+
+At that moment the coach door was opened, letting in a gust of fresh 
+air, which bore on its wings, amongst the scent of orange blossom, a 
+very small gentleman in a brown overcoat.  Neat, elderly, thin and 
+wrinkled, with a face no bigger than a fist, a silk cravat five fingers 
+high, a leather brief-case and an umbrella. The perfect image of a 
+village notary. On seeing Tartarin's weaponry, the little gentleman, 
+who was seated opposite him, looked very surprised, and began to stare 
+at our hero. 
+
+The horses were changed and the coach set off...the little gentleman 
+continued to stare. At length Tartarin became offended and staring in 
+his turn at the little gentleman he asked "Do you find this 
+surprising?" 
+
+"Not at all, but it does rather get in the way."  Was the reply, and 
+the fact is that with his tent, his revolver, his two rifles and their 
+covers, not to mention his natural corpulence, Tartarin de Tarascon did 
+take up quite a lot of space.
+
+This reply from the little gentleman annoyed Tartarin, "Do you suppose 
+that I would go after lions with an umbrella?" Asked the great man 
+proudly.  The little gentleman looked at his umbrella, smiled and and 
+asked calmly, "You monsieur are...?"   "Tartarin de Tarascon, lion 
+hunter."  And in pronouncing these words the brave Tartarin shook the 
+tassel of his chechia as if it were a mane.
+
+In the coach there was a startled response. The Trappist crossed 
+himself, the Cocottes uttered little squeaks of excitement and the 
+photographer edged closer to the lion killer, thinking that he might be 
+a good subject for a picture. The little gentleman was not in the least 
+disturbed. "Have you killed many lions, Monsieur Tartarin?" He asked 
+quietly.  Tartarin adopted a lofty air, "Yes many of them. More than 
+you have hairs on your head."  And all the passengers laughed at the 
+sight of the three or four yellow hairs which sprouted from the little 
+gentleman's scalp.
+
+The photographer then spoke up, "A terrible profession yours, Monsieur 
+Tartarin, you must have moments of danger sometimes like that brave 
+M.Bombonnel." "Ah!... yes... M. Bombonnel, the man who hunts panthers."  
+Said Tartarin, with some disdain. "Do you know him?"  Asked the little 
+gentleman. "Ti!...Pardi!...To be sure I know him, we have hunted 
+together more than twenty times." "You hunt panthers also M. Tartarin?" 
+"Occasionally, as a pastime." Said Tartarin casually, and raising his 
+head with a heroic gesture which went straight to the hearts of the two 
+Cocottes, he added "They cannot be compared to lions." "One could say,"  
+Hazarded the photographer, "That a panther is no more than a large 
+pussy-cat." "Quite right."  Said Tartarin, who was not reluctant to 
+lower the reputation of this M.Bombonnel, particularly in front of the 
+ladies.
+
+At this moment the coach stopped.  The guard came to open the door and 
+he addressed the little old man, "This is where you want to get off 
+Monsieur."  He said very respectfully.
+
+The little gentleman got up to leave, but before he closed the door he 
+said "Would you permit me to give you a word of advice M.Tartarin?" 
+"What is that Monsieur?" "Go back quickly to Tarascon, M.Tartarin, you 
+are wasting your time here...There are a few panthers left in Algeria, 
+but, fi donc! They are too small a quarry for you...as for lions, they 
+are finished. There are no more in Algeria, my friend Chassaing has 
+just killed the last one." 
+
+On that the little gentleman saluted, closed the door and went off, 
+laughing, with his brief-case and umbrella. "Guard!" Said Tartarin, 
+making his grimace. "Who on earth was that fellow?" "What! Don't you 
+know him?"  Said the guard, "That's Monsieur Bombonnel!" 
+
+
+Chapter 26.  When the coach reached Milianah Tartarin got out and left 
+it to continue its journey to the south. Two days  of being bumped 
+about and nights spent peering out of the window in the hope of seeing 
+the outline of a lion in the fields lining the road, had earned a 
+little rest; and then it must be admitted that after the misadventure 
+over M. Bombonnel, Tartarin, in spite of his weapons, his terrible 
+grimace and his red chechia, had not felt entirely at ease in the 
+presence of the photographer and the two ladies of the third Hussars.
+
+He made his way along the wide streets of Milianah, full of handsome 
+trees and fountains, but while he looked for a convenient  hotel, he 
+could not prevent himself from mulling over the words of M.Bombonnel. 
+What if it were true...what if there were no more lions in Algeria?  
+What then was the point of all this travel and all these discomforts?
+
+Suddenly at a bend in the road our hero was confronted by a remarkable 
+spectacle.  He found himself face to face with -  believe it or not -  
+a superb lion which was seated regally at the door of a caf�, Its mane 
+tawny in the sunshine.
+
+"Who says there are no more lions?" Cried  Tartarin , jumping back.  On 
+hearing this exclamation the lion lowered its head, and taking in its 
+jaws the wooden begging bowl which lay on the pavement before it, 
+extended it humbly in the direction of Tartarin, who was paralyised by 
+astonishment...a passing Arab tossed in a few coppers. Then Tartarin 
+understood.  He saw what his surprise had at first prevented him from 
+seeing, a crowd of people which was gathered round the poor tame lion, 
+which was blind, and the two big negroes, armed with cudgels, who led 
+it about the town.
+
+Tartarin's blood boiled. "Wretches!" He cried "To debase this noble 
+creature!" And running to the lion he snatched the sordid begging bowl 
+from the royal jaws... .The two negroes, believing they were dealing 
+with a thief, threw themselves on Tartarin with raised cudgels. It was 
+a terrible set-to. Women were screeching children laughing there were 
+calls for the police and the lion in its darkness joined in with a 
+fearsome roar.  The unhappy Tartarin after a desperate struggle, rolled 
+on the ground among copper coins and road sweepings.
+
+At this moment a man pushed through the crowd. He dismissed the negroes 
+with a word and the women and children with a gesture. He helped 
+Tartarin to his feet, brushed him down and seated him, out of breath, 
+on a bollard. "Good heavens...prince...Is it really you?" Said 
+Tartarin, rubbing his ribs.  "Indeed yes my valiant friend...it is I. 
+As soon as I received your letter I confided Baia to her brother, hired 
+a post-chaise, came fifty leagues flat out and here I am just in time 
+to save you from the brutality of thse louts....For God's sake what 
+have you been doing to get yourself dragged into a mess like this?" 
+"What could you expect me to do, prince, when I saw this unfortunate 
+lion with the begging bowl in its teeth, humiliated, enslaved, 
+ridiculed, serving as a laughing stock for this unsavoury rabble...?" 
+"But you are mistaken my noble friend." Said the prince, "This lion on 
+the contrary is an object of respect and adoration.  It is a sacred 
+beast, a member of a great convent of lions founded three centuries ago 
+by Mahommed-ben-Aouda, a sort of wild fierce monastry where strange 
+monks rear and tame hundreds of lions and send them throughout all 
+north Africa, accompanied by mendicant brothers.  The alms which these 
+brothers receive serve to maintain the monastry and its mosque, and if 
+those two negroes were in such a rage just now, it is because they are 
+convinced that if one sou, one single sou, of their takings is lost 
+through any fault of theirs, the lion which that are leading will 
+immediately devour them." 
+
+On hearing this unlikely but plausible tale, Tartarin recovered his 
+spirits. "It seems evident after all," He said "That in spite of what 
+M. Bombonnel said, there are still lions in Algeria." "To be sure there 
+are " Said the prince, "And tomorrow we shall begin to search the 
+plains by the river Cheliff and you shall see." "What!...prince. Do you 
+mean to join in the hunt yourself?" "Of course" Said the prince "Do you 
+think I would leave you to wander alone in the middle of Africa, among 
+all those savage tribes, of whose language and customs you know 
+nothing?  No! No! My dear Tartarin. I shall not leave you again. 
+Wherever you go I shall accompany you." "Oh!...prince!...prince! And 
+Tartarin clasped the valiant Gregory in a warm embrace.
+
+
+Chapter 27.  Very early the next morniing the intrepid Tartarin and the 
+no less intrepid prince Gregory, followed by half a dozen negro 
+porters, left Milianah and descended towards the plain of the Chetiff 
+by a steep pathway, delightfully shaded by jasmine, carobs and wild 
+olives, between the hedges of little native gardens where a thousand 
+bubbling springs trickled melodiously from rock to rock, a veritable 
+Eden.
+
+Carrying as much in the way of arms as the great Tartarin, the prince 
+was futher adorned by a magnificent and colourful kepi, covered with 
+gold braid and decorated with oak leaves embroidered in silver thread, 
+which gave his highness the appearance of a Mexican General, or a 
+Middle-European Station-Master. This fantastic kepi greatly intrigued 
+Tartarin and he asked humbly for an explanation.
+
+"An indispensable form of headgear for the traveller in Africa."  The 
+prince replied gravely; and while polishing the peak on his coat-sleeve 
+he instructed his innocent companion on the important role played by 
+the kepi in colonial administration, and the deference which its 
+appearance inspires. This to such an extent that the government has 
+been obliged to issue kepis to everyone from the canteen worker to the 
+registrar-general. In fact, according to the prince, to govern the 
+country there was no necessity for an elaborate regime. All that was 
+needed was a fine gold-braided kepi glittering on the end of a big 
+stick.
+
+Thus conversing and philosophising, they went there way.  The bare-
+footed porters leapt from rock to rock, shouting and chattering. The 
+armaments rattled in their case. The guns glittered in the sun..The 
+locals who passed bowed deeply before the magical kepi....Up on the 
+ramparts of Milianah, the chief of the Arab bureau, who was walking 
+with his lady in the cool of the morning, hearing these unusual noises 
+and seeing between the branches the flash of sunlight on the weapons, 
+feared a surprise attack; whereupon he lowered the portcullis, beat the 
+alarm and put the town in a state of siege.
+
+This was a good start to the expedition.  Regrettably, before the end 
+of the day, the situation deteriorated.  One of the negroes was taken 
+with the most fearful colic, having eaten the plasters in the medicine 
+chest. Another fell, dead drunk, by the wayside, as a result of 
+swigging spirits of camphor.  A third, in charge of the log-book, 
+deceived by the gold lettering on the cover, thought he had hold of the 
+treasures of Mecca and made off with it at top speed....Clearly some 
+planning was needed, so the party halted and took council in the shade 
+of an old fig tree.  "In my opinion" Said the prince, trying 
+unsuccessfully to dissolve a tablet of pemmican in a cooking pot, "In 
+my opinion, after this evening we should get rid of these negro 
+porters.  There is an Arab market near here and our best plan would be 
+to go there and buy some bourriquots."   "No!...No!...No bourriquots!" 
+Interrupted Tartarin, who had become very red at the memory of Noiraud, 
+adding hypocritically, "How can these little creatures carry all our 
+equipment?" 
+
+The prince smiled,"You are mistaken my illustrious friend," He said, 
+"The bourriquot may seem to you a poor weak creature, but it has a 
+great heart...It needs it to support all it has to bear...ask the 
+Arabs.  This is their idea of our administration.  On top they say, is 
+the governer with a big stick which he uses to thump his staff.  The 
+staff in turn thump the soldiers.  The soldiers thump the colonist.  
+The colonist thumps the Arab, the Arab the negro, and the Negro thumps 
+the bourriquot.  The poor little bourriquot having no one to thump, 
+bares its back and puts up with it. So you can see it is well able to 
+carry all our gear."
+
+"That's all very well." Replied Tartarin, "But I don't think that 
+donkeys add much colour to the general appearance of our caravan.  Now 
+if we could have a camel...!"
+
+"Just as you wish."  Said his highness, and they set off for the 
+market.
+
+The market was held some distance away on the bank of the Cheliff. 
+There were five or six thousand Arabs milling around in the sun, 
+trading noisily among piles of olives, pots of honey, sacks of spices 
+and heaps of cigars.  There were fires at which whole sheep were 
+roasting, dripping with butter.  There were open air butcheries where 
+almost naked negroes, their feet paddling in blood and their arms red 
+to the elbow, were cutting up the carcases of goats hanging from 
+hooks...In one corner, in a tent repaired in a thousand different 
+colours, was a Moorish official with a big book and spectacles. Over 
+there is a crowd.  There are cries of rage.  It is a roulette game that 
+has been set up on a corn bin and the tribesmen gathered about it have 
+started fighting with knives.  Elsewhere, there are cheers, laughter 
+and stamping of feet, a merchant and his mule have fallen into the 
+river and are in danger of drowning....There are scorpions, crows, dogs 
+and flies, millions of flies, but no camels. 
+
+Eventually a camel was discovered which some nomads were trying to 
+dispose of.  This was a real desert camel, with little hair, a sad 
+expression and a hump which through long shortage of fodder hung 
+flaccidly to one side. Tartarin was so taken with it that he wanted the 
+two partners to be mounted.  This proved to be a mistake.
+
+The camel knelt, the trunks were strapped on, the prince installed 
+himself on the creature's neck and Tartarin was hoisted up to the top 
+of the hump, between two cases, from where he proudly saluted the 
+assembled market and gave the signal for departure....Heavens 
+above!....If only Tarascon could see him now!
+
+The camel rose, stretched out its long legs and took off. Calamity! The 
+camel pitched and rolled like a frigate in a rough sea and  the chechia 
+responded to the motion as it had on the Zouave.  "Prince...prince"  
+Murmured Tartarin, ashen-faced, and clutching  the scanty hair of the 
+hump, "Prince...let us get down, I feel...I feel I am going to disgrace 
+France." But the camel was in full flight and nothing was going to stop 
+it. Four thousand Arabs  were running behind, bare-footed, waving, 
+laughing like idiots, six hundred thousand white teeth glistening in 
+the sun....The great man of Tarascon had to resign himself to the 
+inevitable, and France was disgraced.
+
+
+Chapter 28. 
+
+Despite the picturesque nature of their new mode of transport      our 
+lion hunters were forced to dismount, out of regard for the chechia.  
+They continued their journey as before, on foot, and the caravan 
+proceeded tranquilly toward the south with Tartarin in front, the 
+prince in the rear and between them the camel with the baggage.
+
+  The expedition lasted for a month. For a whole month, Tartarin, 
+hunting for non-existant lions, wandered from village to village in the 
+immense plain of the Chetiff, across this extraordinary, cock-eyed 
+French Algeria, where the perfumes of ancient Araby are mingled with a 
+powerful stink of Absinthe and barrack-room; Abraham and Zouzou 
+combined,  a strange mixture like a page of the Old Testament rewritten 
+by Sergeant Le Ram�e or Corporal Pitou....A curious spectacle for those 
+who would care to look....A savage and decadent people whom we are 
+civilising by giving them our own vices.  The cruel and uncontrolled 
+authority of  Pashas, inflated with self-importance in their cordons of 
+the legion of honour, who at their whim have people beaten on the soles 
+of their feet. The so-called justice of bespectacled Cadis, traitors to 
+the koran and to the law, who sell their judgements as did Esau his 
+birthright for a plate of cous-cous. Drunken and libertine headmen, 
+former batmen to General Yussif someone or other, who guzzle champagne 
+in the company of harlots, and indulge in feasts of roast mutton, while 
+before their tents the whole tribe is starving and disputes with the 
+dogs the leavings of the seigniorial banquet.
+
+Then, all around, uncultivated plain. Scorched grass. Bushes bare of 
+leaves. Scrub. Cactus. Mastic trees...The granary of France?...A 
+granary empty of grain and rich only in jackals and bugs.  Abandoned 
+villages. Bewildered tribesfolk who run they know not where, fleeing 
+from famine and sowing corpses along the road. Here and there a French 
+settlement, the houses dilapidated, the fields untilled and raging 
+hordes of locusts who eat the very curtains from the windows, while the 
+colonists are all in caf�s, drinking absinthe and discussing projects 
+for the reform of the constitution.
+
+That is what Tartarin could have seen, if he had taken the trouble, but 
+obsessed with his fantasy the man from Tarascon marched straight ahead, 
+his vision limited to searching for these monstrous felines, of which 
+there was no trace.
+
+Since the bivouac tent obstinately refused to open and the pemmican 
+tablets to dissolve, the hunting party was compelled to stop daily at 
+tribal villages. Everywhere, thanks to the prince's kepi, they were 
+received with open arms.  They were lodged by chieftains in strange 
+palaces, great white buildings without windows, where were piled up 
+hookahs and mahogany commodes, Smyrna carpets and adjustable oil lamps, 
+cedar-wood chests full of Turkish sequins and clocks decorated in the 
+style of Louis Phillipe.  Everywhere Tartarin was treated to f�tes and 
+official receptions.  In his honour whole villages turned out, firing 
+volleys in the air, their burnous gleaming in the sun: after which the 
+good chieftain would come to present the bill.
+
+Nowhere, however, were there any more lions than there are on the Pont 
+Neuf in Paris: but Tartarin was not discouraged, he pushed bravely on 
+to the south. His days were spent scouring the scrub, rummaging among 
+the dwarf palms with the end of his carbine and going "Frt!...Frt!" At 
+each bush...Then every evening a stand-to of two or three hours... A 
+wasted effort. No lions appeared.
+
+One evening, however, at about six o'clock, as they were going through 
+a wood of mastic trees, where fat quail, made lazy by the heat were 
+jumping up from the grass, Tartarin thought he heard...but so far 
+off...so distorted by the wind...so faint, the wonderful roar which he 
+had heard so many times back home in Tarascon, behind the menagerie 
+Mitaine. 
+
+At first he thought he had imagined it, but in a moment, still far 
+distant, but now more distinct, the roaring began again, and this time 
+one could hear, all around, the barking of village dogs; while, 
+stricken by terror and rattling the boxes of arms and preserves, the 
+camel's hump trembled. There could be no more doubt....It was a lion! 
+Quick!...Quick!  Into position!  Not a moment to lose!
+
+There was, close by them, an old Marabout (the tomb of a holy man) with 
+a white dome: the big yellow slippers of the deceased lying in a recess 
+above the door, together with a bizarre jumble of votive offerings 
+which hung along the walls: fragments of burnous, some gold thread, a 
+tuft of red hair. There Tartarin installed the prince and the camel, 
+and prepared to look for a hide.  He was determined to face the lion 
+single-handed, so he earnestly requested His Highness not to leave the 
+spot, and for safe keeping he handed to him his wallet, a fat wallet 
+stuffed with valuable papers and banknotes. This done our hero sought 
+his post.
+
+About a hundred yards in front of the Marabout, on the banks of an 
+almost dry river, a clump of oleanders stirred in the faint twilight 
+breeze, and it was there that Tartarin concealed himself in ambush, 
+kneeling on one knee, in what he felt was an appropriate position, his 
+rifle in his hands and his big hunting knife stuck into the sandy soil 
+of the river bank in front of him.
+
+Night was falling. The rosy daylight turned to violet and then to a 
+sombre blue....Below, amongst the stones of the river bed, there 
+glistened like a hand-mirror a little pool of clear water: a drinking 
+place for the wild animals. On the slope of the opposite bank one could 
+see indistinctly the path which they had made through the trees: a view 
+which Tartarin found a bit unnerving. Add to this the vague noises of 
+the African night, the rustle of branches, the thin yapping of jackals, 
+and in the sky a flock of cranes passing with cries like children being 
+murdered.  You must admit that this could be unsettling, and Tartarin 
+was unsettled, he was even very unsettled!  His teeth chattered and the 
+rifle shook in his hands; well...there are evenings when one is not at 
+one's best, and where would be the merit if heroes were never afraid? 
+
+Tartarin was, admittedly, afraid, but in spite of his fear he held on 
+for an hour...two hours, but heroism has its breaking point. In the dry 
+river bed, close to him, Tartarin heard the sound of footsteps rattling 
+the pebbles. Terror overtook him. He rose to his feet, fired both 
+barrels blindly into the night and ran at top speed to the Marabout, 
+leaving his knife stuck in the ground as a memorial to the most 
+overwhelming panic that ever affected a hero.
+
+"A moi! prince!...A Moi!...The lion!...There was no answer. 
+"Prince!...prince! Are you there?"....The prince was not there. Against 
+the white wall of the Marabout was only the silhouette of the worthy 
+camel's hump. The prince Gregory had disappeared, taking with him the 
+wallet and the banknotes. His highness had been waiting for a month for 
+such an opportunity.
+
+
+Chapter 29.  The day after this adventurous yet tragic evening, when at 
+first light our hero awoke and realised that the prince and his money 
+had gone and would not return; when he saw himself alone in this little 
+white tomb, betrayed, robbed and abandoned in the middle of savage 
+Algeria with a one-humped camel and some loose change as his total 
+resources, for the first time some misgivings entered his mind.  He 
+began to have doubts about Montenegro, about friendship, fame and even 
+lions.  Overcome by misery he shed bitter tears
+
+While he was sitting disconsolately at the door of the Marabout with 
+his head in his hands, his rifle between his knees and watched over by 
+the camel...behold! The undergrowth opposite was thrust aside and the 
+thunderstruck Tartarin saw not ten paces away a gigantic lion, which 
+advanced towards him uttering roars which shook the ragged offerings on 
+the wall of the Marabout and even the slippers of the holy man in their 
+recess.  Only Tartarin remained unshaken. "At last!" He cried, jumping 
+to his feet with his rifle butt to his 
+shoulder...Pan!...Pan!...Pft!...Pft!...The lion had two explosive 
+bullets in its head!  Fragments of lion erupted like fireworks into the 
+burning African sky, and as they fell to earth, Tartarin saw two 
+furious negroes, who ran towards him with raised cudgels. The two 
+negroes of Milianah...Oh! Mis�re!... It was the the tame lion, the poor 
+blind lion of the convent of Mahommed that the bullets of the 
+Tarasconais had felled.
+
+This time Tartarin had the narrowest of escapes.  Drunk with fanatical 
+fury, the two negro mendicants would surely have had him in pieces had 
+not the God of the Christians sent him a Guardian Angel in the shape of 
+the District Police Officer from Orleansville, who arrived down the 
+pathway, his sabre tucked under his arm, at that very moment. The sight 
+of the municipal kepi had an immediate calming effect on the two 
+negroes.  Stern and majestic the representative of the law took down 
+the particulars of the affair, had the remains of the lion loaded onto 
+the camel, and ordered the plaintiff and the accused to follow him to 
+Orleansville, where the whole matter was placed in the hands of the 
+legal authorities.
+
+There then commenced a long and involved process. After the tribal 
+Algeria in which he had been wandering, Tartarin now made the 
+acquaintance of the no less peculiar and cock-eyed Algeria of the 
+towns: litigious and legalistic.  He encountered a sleazy justicary who 
+stitched up shady deals in the back rooms of caf�s.  The Bohemian 
+society of the gentlemen of the law; dossiers which stank of absinthe, 
+white cravats speckled with drink and coffee stains.  He was embroiled 
+with ushers, solicitors, and business agents, all the locusts of 
+officialdom, thin and ravenous, who strip the colonist down to his 
+boots and leave him shorn leaf by leaf like a stalk of maize.
+
+The first essential point to be decided was whether the lion had been 
+killed on civil or military territory. In the first case Tartarin would 
+come before a civil tribunal, in the second he would be tried by court-
+martial: at the word court-martial Tartarin imagined himself lying shot 
+at the foot of the ramparts, or crouching in the depths of a 
+dungeon...A major difficulty was that the delimitation of these two 
+areas was extremely vague, but at last, after months of consultation, 
+intrigue, and vigils in the sun outside the offices of the Arab Bureau, 
+it was established that on the one hand the lion was, when killed, on 
+military ground, but on the other hand that Tartarin when he fired the 
+fatal shot was in civilian territory. The affair was therefore a civil 
+matter, and Tartarin was freed on the payment of an indemnity of two 
+thousand five hundred francs, not including costs.
+
+How was this to be paid? The little money left after the prince's 
+defection had long since gone on legal documents and judicial absinthe.  
+The unfortunate lion killer was now reduced to selling off his armament 
+rifle by rifle.  He sold the daggers, the knives and coshes.  A grocer 
+bought the preserved food, a chemist what was left of the medicine 
+chest.  Even the boots went, with the bivouac tent, into the hands of a 
+merchant of bric-a-brac.  Once everything had been paid, Tartarin was 
+left with little but the lion-skin and the camel. The lion-skin he 
+packed up carefully and despatched to Tarascon, to the address of the 
+brave Commandant Bravida.  As for the camel, he counted on it to get 
+him back to Algiers: not by riding it, but by selling it to raise the 
+fare for the stage-coach, which was at least better than camel-back. 
+Sadly the camel proved a difficult market, and no one offered to buy it 
+at any price.
+
+Tartarin was determined to get back to Algiers, even if it meant 
+walking.  He longed to see once more Baia's blue corslet, his house, 
+his fountain and to rest on the white tiles of his his little cloister 
+while he awaited money to be sent from France. In these circumstances 
+the camel did not desert him.  This strange animal had developed an 
+inexplicable affection for its master, and seeing him set out from 
+Orleansville it followed him faithfully, regulating its pace to his and 
+not quitting him by as much as a footstep.
+
+At first Tartarin found it touching.  This fidelity, this unshakable 
+devotion seemed wholly admirable; besides which the beast was no 
+trouble and was able to find its own food.  However, after a few days 
+Tartarin grew tired of having perpetually at his heels this melancholy 
+companion, who reminded him of all his misadventures.  He began to be 
+irritated.  He took a dislike to its air of sadness to its hump and its 
+haughty bearing.  In he end he became so exasperated with it that his 
+only wish was to be rid of it; but the camel would not be dismissed.  
+Tartarin tried to lose it, but the camel always found him.  He tried 
+running away, but the camel could run faster.  He shouted "Clear off!" 
+and threw stones: the camel stopped and regarded him with a mournful 
+expression, then after a few moments it resumed its pace and caught up 
+with him.  Tartarin had to resign himself to its company.
+
+When, after eight days of walking, Tartarin, tired and  dusty, saw 
+gleaming in the distance the white terraces of Algiers, when he found 
+himself on the outskirts of the town, on the bustling Mustapha road, 
+amid the crowds who watched him go by with the camel in attendance, his 
+patience snapped, and taking advantage of some traffic congestion he 
+ducked into a field and hid in a ditch. In a few moments he saw above 
+his head, on the causeway, the camel striding along rapidly, its neck 
+anxiously extended. Greatly relieved to be rid of it, Tartarin entered 
+the town by a side road which ran along by the wall of his house.
+
+On his arrival at his Moorish house,Tartarin halted in astonishment.  
+The day was ending, the streets deserted.  Through the low arched 
+doorway, which the negress had forgotten to close, could be heard 
+laughter, the clinking of glasses, the popping of a champagne cork and 
+the cheerful voice of a woman singing loud and clear: 
+
+             "Aimes-tu Marco la belle,
+
+             La danse aux salons en fleurs..." "Tron de Diou!" Said 
+Tartarin, blenching, and he rushed into the courtyard.
+
+Unhappy Tartarin!  What a spectacle awaited him!....Amid bottles, 
+pastries, scattered cushions, tambourine, guitar, and hookah, Baia 
+stood, without her blue jacket or her corslet, dressed only in a silver 
+gauze blouse and big pink pantaloons, singing "Marco la belle" with a 
+naval officer's hat tipped over one ear...while on a rug at her feet 
+surfeited with love and confitures, was Barbassou, the infamous 
+Barbassou, roaring with laughter as he listened to her.
+
+The arrival of Tartarin, haggard, thin, covered in dust, with blazing 
+eyes and bristling chechia cut short this enjoyable Turco-Marseillaise 
+orgy.  Baia uttered a little cry, and like a startled leveret she 
+bolted into the house, but Barbassou was not in the least put out and 
+laughed more than ever: "H�!...H�!...Monsieur Tartarin.  What did I 
+tell you?  You can hear that she knows French all right."
+
+Tartarin advanced, furious:  "Captain!.."  He began;  but then,  
+leaning over the balcony with a rather vulgar gesture, Baia threw  down 
+a few well-chosen words. Tartarin, deflated, sat down on a drum, his 
+Moor spoke in the argot of the Marseilles back-streets.
+
+"When I warned you not to trust Algerian women," Said Captain Barbassou 
+sententiously, "The same applied to your Montenegrin prince."  Tartarin 
+looked up, "Do you know where the prince is?" he asked. 
+
+"Oh, he is not far away. He will spend the next five years in the fine 
+prison at Mustapha.  The clown was foolish enough to be caught 
+stealing...and anyway this is not the first time His Highness has been 
+inside, he has already done three years in gaol somewhere, and...hang 
+on!...I believe it was in Tarascon!
+
+"In Tarascon!" Cried Tartarin, suddenly enlightened, that is why I 
+never saw him there.  All he knew of Tarascon was what he could see 
+from a cell window."
+
+"H�!...without a doubt....Ah! My poor M. Tartarin, you have to keep 
+both eyes wide open in this devilish country if you don't want to be 
+taken in.  Like that business of the Muezzin."
+
+"What business?...What Muezzin?"
+
+"Ti!...Pardi!  The Muezzin opposite, who was courting Baia; all Algiers 
+knew about it. Not all the prayers he was chanting were addressed to 
+Allah, some were directed to the little one, and he was making 
+propositions under your nose.    "It seems that everyone in this 
+beastly country is a crook", Wailed the  unhappy Tartarin.  Barbassou 
+shrugged his shoulders, "My dear fellow, you know how it is.  All these 
+sort of places are the same. If you take my advice you will go back to 
+Tarascon as quickly as possible."
+
+"That's easy to say, but what am I to do for money? Don't you know how 
+they robbed me out there in the desert?"
+
+"Don't worry about that" Laughed the Captain,"The Zouave is leaving 
+tomorrow and I'll take you back if you want...does that suit you, 
+colleague?... All right...Good! There's only one thing left to do, 
+there is still some champagne and some pastries left. Come, sit down 
+and let bygones be bygones."  After a little delay which his dignity 
+required, our hero accepted the offer.  They sat down and poured out a 
+drink.  Hearing the clink of glasses, Baia came down and finished 
+singing Marco la Belle, and the party went on until late in the night.   
+
+
+Chapter 30.  It is mid-day.  The Zouave has steam up and is ready to 
+depart.  Up above on the balcony of the caf� Valentin, a group of 
+officers aim the telescope, and come one by one, in order of seniority, 
+to look at the lucky little ship which is going to France.  It is the 
+principle entertainment of the general staff.  Down below, the water of 
+the anchorage sparkles....The breeches of the old Turkish cannons, 
+mounted along the quay, glisten in the sunshine....Passengers 
+arrive....Baggage is loaded onto tenders. 
+
+Tartarin does not have any baggage.  He comes down from the Rue de la 
+Marine by the little market, full of bananas and water-melons, 
+accompanied by his friend Captain Barbassou.
+
+Tartarin de Tarascon has left on the Moorish shore his arms, his 
+equipment and his illusions, and is preparing to sail back to Tarascon 
+with nothing in his pockets but his hands. Scarcely, however,  had he 
+set foot in the captain's launch, when a breathless creature scrambled 
+down from the square above and galloped towards him.  It was the camel, 
+the faithful camel, which for twenty-four hours had been searching for 
+its master.   
+
+When Tartarin saw it, he changed colour and pretended not to know it; 
+but the camel was insistent.  It frisked along the quay.  It called to 
+its friend and regarded him with tender looks. "Take me away!" Its sad 
+eyes seemed to say, "Take me away with you, far away from this mock 
+Arabia, this ridiculous Orient, full of locomotives and stage coaches, 
+where I as a second-class dromadary do not know what will become of me.  
+You are the last Teur, I am the last camel, let us never part, Oh my 
+Tartarin!"   "Is that your camel?" Asked the Captain.
+
+"No!...No!...Not mine." Replied Tartarin, who trembled at the thought 
+of entering Tarascon with this absurd escort; and shamelessly 
+repudiating the companion of his misfortunes he repelled with his foot 
+the soil of Algeria and pushed the boat out from the shore.  The camel 
+sniffed at the water, flexed its joints and leapt headlong in behind 
+the boat, where it swam in convoy toward the Zouave, its hump floating 
+on the water like a gourd and it neck lying on the surface like the ram 
+of a trireme.
+
+The boat and the camel came alongside the Zouave at the same time. "I 
+don't know what I should do about this dromadary." Said the captain, "I 
+think I'll take it on board and present it to the zoo at Marseille, I 
+can't just leave it here." So by means of block and tackle the wet 
+camel was hoisted onto the deck of the Zouave, which then set sail.
+
+Tartarin spent most of the time in his cabin.  Not that the sea was 
+rough or that the chechia had to much to suffer, but because whenever 
+he appeared on the deck the camel made such a ridiculous fuss of its 
+master. You never saw a camel so attached to anyone as this. 
+
+Hour by hour, when he looked through the porthole, Tartarin could see 
+the Algerian sky turn paler, until one morning, in a silvery mist, he 
+heard to his delight the bells of Marseilles.  The Zouave had arrived. 
+
+Our man, who had no baggage, disembarked without a word and hurried 
+across Marseilles, fearing all the time that he might be followed by 
+the camel, and he did not breathe easily until he was seated in a 
+third-class railway carriage, on his way to Tarascon...a false sense of 
+security. They had not gone far from Marseilles when heads appeared at 
+windows and there were cries of astonishment, Tartarin looked out in 
+turn and what did he see but the inescapable camel coming down the line 
+behind the train with a remakable turn of speed.
+
+Tartarin resumed his seat and closed his eyes.  After this disastrous 
+expedition he had counted on getting back home unrecognised, but the 
+presence of this confounded camel made it impossible.  What a return to 
+make, Bon Dieu!...No money...No lions...Nothing but a camel!.... 
+"Tarascon!...Tarascon!"...It was  time to get out.
+
+To Tartarin's utter astonishment, the heroic chechia had barely 
+appeared in the doorway, when it was greeted by a great cry of "Vive 
+Tartarin!...Vive Tartarin!" Which shook the glass vault of the station 
+roof. "Vive Tartarin!...Hurrah for the lion killer!"  Then came 
+fanfares and a choir.  Tartarin could have died, he thought this was a 
+hoax: but no, all Tarascon was there, tossing their hats in the air and 
+shouting his praises.  There stood the brave Commandant Bravida, 
+Costecalde the gunsmith, the President Ladev�ze, the chemist and all 
+the noble body of hat shooters, who pressed round their chief and 
+carried him all the way down the steps.
+
+How remarkable are the effects of the "mirage". The skin of the blind 
+lion sent to the Commandant was the cause of all this tumult. At the 
+sight of this modest trophy, displayed at the club, Tarascon and beyond 
+Tarascon the whole of the Midi had worked themselves into a state of 
+excitement. "The Semaphore" had spoken. A complete scenario had been 
+invented. This was no longer one lion killed by Tartarin, it was ten 
+lions, twenty lions, a whole troop of lions.  So Tartarin, when he 
+reached Marseilles was already famous, and an enthusiastic telegram had 
+warned his home town of his imminent arrival.
+
+The excitement of the populace reached its peak when a fantastic 
+animal, covered in dust and sweat, stumbled down the station steps 
+behind our hero. For a moment they thought that the Tarasque had 
+returned.
+
+Tartarin reassured his fellow citizens, "It is my camel" He said, and 
+already under the influence of the Tarascon sun, that fine sun which 
+induces fanciful exaggeration, he stroked the camel's hump and added, 
+"It is a noble creature, it saw me kill all my lions."  So saying, he 
+took the arm of the Commandant, who was blushing with pride, and 
+followed by his camel, surrounded by hat shooters and acclaimed by the 
+people, he proceded peacefully toward the little house of the baobab; 
+and as he walked along he began the story of his great expedition.
+
+  "There was one particular evening," He said, "When I was out in the 
+heart of the Sahara..."_
+
+
+
+End of The Project Gutenberg Etext of Tartarin de Tarascon
+by Alphonse Daudet
+
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