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diff --git a/2375-h/2375-h.htm b/2375-h/2375-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..c4c60e7 --- /dev/null +++ b/2375-h/2375-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,3688 @@ +<?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> + <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%;} + +</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’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 “Sportsmen” little more than butchers. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </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’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 “Poison arrows, Do not touch.” or “Beware. Loaded + firearms.” 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 “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. + </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’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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </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’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:-“Thou pale star whom I adore.” + </p> + <p> + For the gunsmith Costecalde:-“Come with me to the forest glade.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </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 “Robert le Diable” 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’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> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + She added, sotto voce, “Its you now Tartarin.” + </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 “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. + </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, “I’ve just come from the Bezuquets. They had me singing in + the duet from Robert le Diable.” 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 “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. + </p> + <p> + 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”. + </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, “He’s strong he is. + He’s got double muscles.” 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’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, “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!” + </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’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’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 “They” 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 “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. + </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... “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. + </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 “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. + </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’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 “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. + </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’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 “Pan! Pan!” 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’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 + “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. + </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’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. + </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, “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. + </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 “Double muscles” 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’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 “Now that is something + worth hunting.” 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’s shop, people accosted one + another with an air of excitement. + </p> + <p> + “Et autrement, have you heard the latest, au moins?” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </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, “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.” + </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 “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. + </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’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’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. + </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’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 “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. + </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> + “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. + </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’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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </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 “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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </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’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. + </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. “That’s his + tent! There’s the preserved foods! The medicine chest! The arms chest!” + While the hat shooters gave a running commentary. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </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 “Vive Tartarin!” + </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!. “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. + </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 “Le + Zouave” 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’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’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:—“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?” + </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 + “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. + </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... “Engine ahead!... engine astern!.” Shouted the + hoarse voice of Captain Barbassou. Then “Stop engine!” + </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. “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. + </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 “Them” The fearsome “Them” 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 “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.” + </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’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 + “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. + </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 “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. + </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. “To the lions! To + the lions!” 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’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. + </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> + “Et autrement, my friend, a good day?” + </p> + <p> + “Not bad” Replied the other, looking with some surprise at the heavy + armament of our Tarascon warrior. + </p> + <p> + “You have killed some of them?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes... a few... as you can see.” And the Algerian pointed to his + game-bag, bulging with rabbits and woodcock. + </p> + <p> + “How is that?... you put them in your game-bag?” + </p> + <p> + “Where would you like me to put them?” + </p> + <p> + “But then they... they must be very small!” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </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, “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!...” + </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’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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </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. + “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”. + </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 “Bourriquots”. + </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’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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </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. “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”.... + </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 “Au + rendezvous des lapins”. + </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’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 “Come and gather us!” + </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’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 “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. + </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’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 “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. + </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. “Perhaps she is there” 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 “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. + </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. “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!” + </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. “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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </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, “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. + </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, “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. + </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’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!” + </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 “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. + </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 “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. + </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’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—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 + </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’ri, an amiable, rich + European who—it now some years ago—lived in the upper town + with a little local girl called Baia. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </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’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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </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 + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </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’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. + </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. “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.” + </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’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. + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </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’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. + </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’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’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’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: “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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Blidah!... Blidah!” 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. “To the south, + further to the south.” 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’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 “Do you find this surprising?” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </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. “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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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!” + </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—believe it or not—a + superb lion which was seated regally at the door of a café, Its mane tawny + in the sunshine. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </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. + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </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> + “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. + </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. “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?” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “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...!” + </p> + <p> + “Just as you wish.” 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’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. “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. + </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’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 “Frt!... Frt!” 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’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’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’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> + “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. + </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. “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. + </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’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’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 “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. + </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> + “Aimes-tu Marco la belle, + </p> + <p> + “La danse aux salons en fleurs...” + </p> + <p> + “Tron de Diou!” 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 “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. + </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: “Hé!... Hé!... Monsieur Tartarin. What did I tell you? You can hear + that she knows French all right.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “What business?... What Muezzin?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </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’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. “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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </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!.... + “Tarascon!... Tarascon!”... It was time to get out. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </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, “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. + </p> + <p> + “There was one particular evening,” He said, “When I was out in the heart + of the Sahara...” + </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. 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