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    <title>
      Tartarin de Tarascon, by A. Daudet
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The Project Gutenberg EBook of Tartarin de Tarascon, by Alphonse Daudet

This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org


Title: Tartarin de Tarascon

Author: Alphonse Daudet

Translator: Oliver C. Colt

Release Date: March 21, 2006 [EBook #2375]
Last Updated: October 1, 2016

Language: English

Character set encoding: UTF-8

*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TARTARIN DE TARASCON ***




Produced by Oliver C. Colt and David Widger





</pre>
    <p>
      <br /> <br />
    </p>



<table summary="" style="margin-right: auto; margin-left: auto" cellpadding="4" border="3">
<tr>
<td>
THERE IS ANOTHER EDITION OF THIS TITLE WITH LINKED FOOTNOTES WHICH MAY VIEWED AT EBOOK <big><b><a href="https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/10687">
[# 10687 ]</a></b></big>
</td>
</tr>
</table>

    <h1>
      TARTARIN DE TARASCON
    </h1>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <h2>
      By A. Daudet.
    </h2>
    <p>
      <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <h3>
      Translated by Oliver C. Colt.
    </h3>
    <p>
      <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <hr />
    <p>
      <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <blockquote>
      <p class="toc">
        <big><b>CONTENTS</b></big>
      </p>
      <p>
        <br />
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2H_INTR"> Translator&rsquo;s Introduction. </a>
      </p>
      <p>
        <br />
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2H_4_0002"> <big><b>TARTARIN DE TARASCON</b></big> </a>
      </p>
      <p>
        <br />
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0001"> Chapter 1. </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0002"> Chapter 2. </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0003"> Chapter 3. </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0004"> Chapter 4. </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0005"> Chapter 5. </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0006"> Chapter 6. </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0007"> Chapter 7. </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0008"> Chapter 8. </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0009"> Chapter 9. </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0010"> Chapter 10. </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0011"> Chapter 11. </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0012"> Chapter 12. </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0013"> Chapter 13. </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0014"> Chapter 14. </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0015"> Chapter 15. </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0016"> Chapter 16. </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0017"> Chapter 17. </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0018"> Chapter 18. </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0019"> Chapter 19. </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0020"> Chapter 20. </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0021"> Chapter 21. </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0022"> Chapter 22. </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0023"> Chapter 23. </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0024"> Chapter 24. </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0025"> Chapter 25. </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0026"> Chapter 26. </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0027"> Chapter 27. </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0028"> Chapter 28. </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0029"> Chapter 29. </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0030"> Chapter 30. </a>
      </p>
    </blockquote>
    <p>
      <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <hr />
    <p>
      <a name="link2H_INTR" id="link2H_INTR">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <h2>
      Introduction.
    </h2>
    <p>
      The tale of Tartarin de Tarascon was written by Alphonse Daudet in 1872,
      and was one of the many works which he produced. In it he pokes gentle fun
      at a type of Frenchman who comes from the Midi, the area where he himself
      was born. Tartarin has characteristics which may remind the
      English-speaking reader of Toad of Toad Hall, a boastful braggart, easily
      deceived, but good-hearted au fond.
    </p>
    <p>
      The world he inhabits is, of course, very different from ours. There is no
      radio or television, the motor car is no more than a plaything for the
      rich. There is only the beginnings of a telephone system. Much sea
      transport is still by sailing ship and the idea of mass air travel is in
      the realm of science-fiction. France lost the Franco-Prussian war at the
      battle of Sedan in 1870, which accounts for the flood of refugees from
      Alsasce. She had also, in the 19th century rush to carve up the African
      continent, seized among other places, Algeria, which she held in
      subjection by force of arms. So-called Big Game Hunters were regarded with
      some admiration, and indeed it was a much more perilous activity than it
      is today, when high power repeating rifles with telescopic sights make
      motor-borne &ldquo;Sportsmen&rdquo; little more than butchers.
    </p>
    <p>
      Daudet&rsquo;s humour is on the whole inoffensive, but anti-semitism was rife in
      certain circles in France. It was the era of the Dreyfus scandal, and he
      indulges in one or two tasteless gibes at the expense of the Jews, which I
      have suppressed or at least amended. He also has a passage which might
      well offend the delicate susceptabilities of the less tolerant believers
      in Islam, although to anyone with a nodding acquaintance with the tents of
      that faith, the incident is so far-fetched as to neutralise &ldquo;The willing
      suspension of disbelief&rdquo; I have therefore decided to eliminate it from
      this version of the story. It is not very amusing and is no great loss.
    </p>
    <p>
      Although Daudet&rsquo;s humour is in the main kindly, he does not spare the
      French colonial administration of the time. His treatment of the subject
      is acidly satirical. It may be said that Daudet seems to know little about
      firearms, less about lions and nothing about camels, but he is not
      striving for verisimilitude. After all, the adventures of James Bond do
      not mirror the reality of international espionage, nor do the exploits of
      Bertie Wooster and Jeeves truely reflect life in the upper echelons of
      British society.
    </p>
    <p>
      This is not a schoolroom exercise in translation. It might be more
      accurately described as a version in English. I have not tampered with the
      story line nor made any changes in the events related, but where I thought
      it necessary I have not shrunk from altering the words and phrases used in
      the original to describe them. All translation must be a matter of
      paraphrase. What sounds well in one language may sound ridiculous if
      translated literally into another, and it is for the translator to judge
      how far this process of paraphrase may be carried.
    </p>
    <p>
      I have attempted to produce a text which will entertain the average
      reader. Those who want to know exactly what Daudet wrote must consult the
      French original.
    </p>
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    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      TARTARIN DE TARASCON
    </h2>
    <p>
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    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      Chapter 1.
    </h2>
    <p>
      Although it is now some twelve or fifteen years since my first meeting
      with Tartarin de Tarascon, the memory of the encounter remains as fresh as
      if it had been yesterday.
    </p>
    <p>
      At that time Tartarin lived near the entrance to the town, in the third
      house on the left on the Avignon road, a pretty little Tarascon villa,
      with a garden in front, a balcony behind, very white walls and green
      shutters.
    </p>
    <p>
      From outside the place looked perfectly ordinary, one would never have
      believed that it was the home of a hero, but when one went inside, well...
      My goodness! The whole establishment had an heroic air, even the garden!
    </p>
    <p>
      Ah...! The Garden... there was not another like it in Europe. Not one
      indigenous tree grew there, not one French flower; nothing but exotic
      plants, gum trees, calabashes, cotton trees, coconut palms, mangos,
      bananas, cactuses, figs and a baobab. One might have thought oneself in
      the middle of Africa, thousands of miles from Tarascon. Of course none of
      these trees was fully grown, the coconut palm was about the size of a
      swede and the baobab (arbos gigantica) fitted comfortably into a pot full
      of earth and gravel. No matter.... For Tarascon it was quite splendid, and
      those citizens who were admitted, on Sundays, to have the privilege of
      inspecting Tartarin&rsquo;s baobab went home full of admiration.
    </p>
    <p>
      You may imagine my emotions as I walked through this remarkable garden...
      they were nothing, however, to what I felt on being admitted to the
      sanctum of the great man himself.
    </p>
    <p>
      This building, one of the curiosities of the town, was at the end of the
      garden, to which it opened through a glass door. Picture a large room hung
      from floor to ceiling with firearms and swords; weapons from every country
      in the world. Guns, carbines, rifles, blunderbusses, knives, spears,
      revolvers, daggers, arrows, assegais, knobkerries, knuckledusters and I
      know not what.
    </p>
    <p>
      The brilliant sunlight glittered on the steel blades of sabres and the
      polished butts of firearms. It was really quite a menacing scene... what
      was a little reassuring was the good order and discipline which ruled over
      this arsenal. Everything was neat tidy and dusted. Here and there a simple
      notice, reading &ldquo;Poison arrows, Do not touch.&rdquo; or &ldquo;Beware. Loaded
      firearms.&rdquo; made one feel it safe to approach.
    </p>
    <p>
      In the middle of the room was a table. On the table was a flagon of rum, a
      turkish tobacco pouch, The voyages of Captain Cook, stories of adventure,
      treatises on falconry, descriptions of big-game hunts etc... and finally
      seated at the table was the man himself. Forty to forty-five years of age,
      short, fat, stocky and ruddy, clad in shirt-sleeves and flannel trousers,
      with a close-clipped wiry beard and a flamboyant eye. In one hand he held
      a book and with the other he brandished an enormous pipe, its bowl covered
      by a metal cap; and as he read some stirring tale of the pursuit of hairy
      creatures, he made, pushing out his lower lip, a fierce grimace which gave
      his features, those of a comfortable Tarascon &ldquo;Rentier&rdquo;, the same air of
      hearty ferocity which was evident throughout the whole house. This man was
      Tartarin... Tartarin de Tarascon... the intrepid, great and incomparable
      Tartarin de Tarascon.
    </p>
    <p>
      At that time Tartarin was not the Tartarin which he is today, the great
      Tartarin de Tarascon who is so popular throughout the Midi of France,
      however, even at this epoch, he was already the king of Tarascon.
    </p>
    <p>
      Let us examine how he acquired his crown. You will be aware, for a start,
      that everyone in these parts is a hunter. From the highest to the lowest
      hunting is a passion with the Tarasconais and has been ever since the
      legendary Tarasque prowled in the marshes near the town and was hunted
      down by the citizens.
    </p>
    <p>
      Now, every Sunday morning, the men of Tarascon take up arms and leave
      town, bag on back and gun on shoulder, with an excited collection of dogs,
      with ferrets, with trumpets and hunting horns, it is a splendid
      spectacle.... Sadly, however, there is a shortage of game... in fact there
      is a total absence of game.... Animals may be dumb but they are not
      stupid, so for miles around Tarascon the burrows are empty and the nests
      abandoned. There is not a quail, not a blackbird, not the smallest rabbit
      nor even the tiniest wheatear.
    </p>
    <p>
      These pretty little Tarascon hills, scented with lavender, myrtle and
      rosemary are very tempting, and those fine muscat grapes, swollen with
      sugar, which line the banks of the Rhone, are wonderfully appetising...
      yes, but there is Tarascon in he distance, and in the world of fur and
      feather Tarascon is bad news. The birds of passage seem to have marked it
      with a cross on their maps, and when the long wedges of wild duck, heading
      for the Camargue, see far off the town&rsquo;s steeples, the whole flight veers
      away. In short there is nothing left by way of game in this part of the
      country but an old rascal of a hare, who has escaped by some miracle the
      guns of Tarascon and appears determined to stay there. This hare is well
      known. He has been given a name. He is called &ldquo;Speedy&rdquo;. He is known to
      live on land belonging to M. Bompard... which, by the way, has doubled or
      even tripled its value. No one has yet been able to catch him, and at the
      present time there are not more than two or three fanatics who go after
      him. The rest have given up and Speedy has become something of a protected
      species, though the Tarasconais are not very conservation minded and would
      make a stew of the rarest of creatures, if they managed to shoot one.
    </p>
    <p>
      Now, you may say, &ldquo;Since game is in such short supply, what do these
      Tarasconais sportsmen do every Sunday?&rdquo; What do they do? Eh! Mon Dieu!
      They go out into the country, several miles from the town. They assemble
      in little groups of five or six. They settle down comfortably in some
      shady spot. They take out of their game-bags a nice piece of
      boeuf-en-daube, some raw onions, a sausage and some anchovies and they
      begin a very long luncheon, washed down by one of these jolly Rhone wines,
      which encourage singing and laughter.
    </p>
    <p>
      When all have had enough, they whistle for the dogs, load their guns and
      commence the shoot. That is to say each of these gentlemen takes off his
      hat, sends it spinning through the air with all his strength and takes a
      pot-shot at it. The one who hits his hat most frequently is proclaimed
      king of the hunt and returns to Tarascon that evening in triumph, his
      perforated hat hanging from the end of his gun and to the accompaniment of
      much barking and blowing of trumpets.
    </p>
    <p>
      One need hardly tell you that there is a brisk trade in hats in the town,
      and there are even hatters who sell hats already full of holes and tears
      for use by the less skillful, but scarcely anyone is known to buy them
      except Bezuquet the chemist.
    </p>
    <p>
      As a hat shooter Tartarin had no equal. Every Sunday morning he left with
      a new hat. Every evening he returned with a rag. In the little house of
      the baobab, the attic was full of these glorious trophies. All of Tarascon
      recognised him as their master in this respect. The gentlemen elected him
      as their chief justice in matters relating to the chase and arbitrator in
      any dispute, so that every day, between the hours of three and four in the
      afternoon, at Costecalde the gunsmith&rsquo;s one could see the plump figure of
      a man, seated gravely on a green leather arm-chair, in the middle of the
      shop, which was full of hat hunters standing about and arguing. It was
      Tartarin delivering justice. Nimrod doubling as Soloman.
    </p>
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      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      Chapter 2.
    </h2>
    <p>
      In addition to their passion for hunting the good people of Tarascon had
      another passion, which was for drawing-room ballads. The number of ballads
      which were sung in this part of the world passed all belief. All the old
      sentimental songs, yellowing in ancient cardboard boxes, could be found in
      Tarascon alive and flourishing. Each family had its own ballad and in the
      town this was well understood. One knew, for example, that for Bezuquet
      the chemist it was:-&ldquo;Thou pale star whom I adore.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      For the gunsmith Costecalde:-&ldquo;Come with me to the forest glade.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      For the Town Clark:&mdash;&ldquo;If I was invisible, no one would see me.&rdquo; (a
      comic song) Two or three times a week people would gather in one house or
      another and sing, and the remarkable thing is that the songs were always
      the same. No matter for how long they had been singing them, the people of
      Tarascon had no desire to change them. They were handed down in families
      from father to son and nobody dared to interfere with them, they were
      sacrosanct. They were never even borrowed. It would never occur to the
      Bezuquets to sing the Costecaldes&rsquo; song or to the Costecaldes to sing that
      of the Bezuquets. You might suppose that having known them for some forty
      years they might sometimes sing them to themselves, but no, everyone stuck
      to his own.
    </p>
    <p>
      In the matter of ballads, as in that of hats, Tartarin played a leading
      role. His superiority over his fellow citizens arose from the fact that he
      did not have a song of his own, and so he could take part in all of them,
      only it was extremely difficult to get him to sing at all.
    </p>
    <p>
      Returning early from some drawing-room success, our hero preferred to
      immerse himself in his books on hunting or spend the evening at the club
      rather than join in a sing-song round a Nimes piano, between two Tarascon
      candles. He felt that musical evenings were a little beneath him.
    </p>
    <p>
      Sometimes, however, when there was music at Bezuquet the chemists, he
      would drop in as if by chance, and after much persuasion he would consent
      to take part in the great duet from &ldquo;Robert le Diable&rdquo; with madame
      Bezuquet the elder.
    </p>
    <p>
      Anyone who has not heard this has heard nothing. For my part, if I live to
      be a hundred, I shall always recall the great Tartarin approaching the
      piano with solemn steps, leaning his elbow upon it, making his grimace and
      in the greenish light reflected from the chemist&rsquo;s jars, trying to give
      his homely face the savage and satanic expression of Robert le Diable.
    </p>
    <p>
      As soon as he had taken up his position, a quiver of expectation ran
      through the gathering. One felt that something great was about to happen.
    </p>
    <p>
      After a moment of silence, madame Bezuquet the elder, accompanying herself
      on the piano, began:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Robert, thou whom I adore
    </p>
    <p>
      And in whom I trust,
    </p>
    <p>
      You see my fear (twice)
    </p>
    <p>
      Have mercy on yourself
    </p>
    <p>
      And mercy on me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She added, sotto voce, &ldquo;Its you now Tartarin.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Then Tartarin, with arm extended, clenched fist and quivering nostrils,
      said three times in a formidable voice which rolled like a clap of thunder
      in the entrails of the piano &ldquo;Non! Non! Non!&rdquo; Which as a good southerner
      he pronounced &ldquo;Nan. Nan. Nan&rdquo; Upon which madame Bezuquet repeated &ldquo;Mercy
      on yourself and on me&rdquo; &ldquo;Nan! Nan! Nan!&rdquo; Bellowed Tartarin even more
      loudly... and the matter ended there.... It was not very long, but it was
      so well presented, so well acted, so diabolic that a frisson ran round the
      pharmacy and he was made to repeat his &ldquo;Nan. Nan. Nan.&rdquo; four or five
      times.
    </p>
    <p>
      Afterwards Tartarin wiped his forehead, smiled at the ladies, winked at
      the men and went off triumphantly to the club, where, with a casual air,
      he would say, &ldquo;I&rsquo;ve just come from the Bezuquets. They had me singing in
      the duet from Robert le Diable.&rdquo; What is more he believed it.
    </p>
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      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      Chapter 3.
    </h2>
    <p>
      It was to the possession of these various talents that Tartarin owed his
      high standing in the town. There were, however, other ways in which he had
      made his mark on society.
    </p>
    <p>
      In Tarascon the army supported Tartarin. The gallant Commandant Bravida
      (Quartermaster. Ret) said of him &ldquo;He&rsquo;s a stout fellow,&rdquo; and one may
      suppose that having kitted out so many stout fellows in his time, he knew
      what he was talking about.
    </p>
    <p>
      The magistrature supported Tartarin. Two or three times, on a full bench,
      the aged president Ladevèze had said of him &ldquo;He&rsquo;s quite a character&rdquo;.
    </p>
    <p>
      Finally, the people supported Tartarin, his stolid appearance, the heroic
      reputation he had somehow acquired, the distribution of small sums of
      money and a few clips round the ear to the youngsters who hung around his
      doorstep, had made him lord of the neighbourhood and king of the Tarascon
      market-place. On the quay, on sunday evenings, when Tartarin returned from
      the hunt, his hat dangling from the end of his gun, the stevedores would
      nod to him respectfully and eying the arms bulging the sleeves of his
      tightly buttoned jacket, would murmur to one another, &ldquo;He&rsquo;s strong he is.
      He&rsquo;s got double muscles.&rdquo; The possession of double muscles is something
      you hear about only in Tarascon.
    </p>
    <p>
      However, in spite of his numerous talents, double muscles, popular favour
      and the so precious esteem of the gallant Commandant Bravida
      (Quartermaster. Ret) Tartarin was not happy. This small-town life weighed
      him down, stifled him. The great man of Tarascon was bored with Tarascon.
      The fact is that for an heroic nature such as his, for a daring and
      adventurous spirit which dreamt of battles, explorations, big game
      hunting, desert sands, hurricanes and typhoons, to go every Sunday hat
      shooting and for the rest of the time dispense justice at Costecalde the
      gunsmith&rsquo;s was... well... hardly satisfying. It was enough indeed to send
      one into a decline.
    </p>
    <p>
      In vain, in order to widen his horizon and forget for a while the club and
      the market square, did he surround himself with African plants; in vain
      did he pile up a collection of weapons; in vain did he pore over tales of
      daring-do trying to escape by the power of his imagination from the
      pitiless grip of reality. Alas all that he did to satisfy his lust for
      adventure seemed only to increase it. The sight of his weapons kept him in
      a perpetual state of furious agitation. His rifles, his arrows and his
      spears rang out war-cries. In the branches of the baobab the wind
      whispered enticingly of great voyages.
    </p>
    <p>
      How often on these heavy summer afternoons, when he was alone, reading
      amongst his weaponry, did Tartarin jump to his feet and throwing down his
      book rush to the wall to arm himself, then, quite forgetting that he was
      in his own house at Tarascon, cry, brandishing a gun or a spear, &ldquo;Let them
      all come&rdquo;!!... Them?... What them? Tartarin did not quite know himself,
      &ldquo;Them&rdquo; was everything that attacked, that bit, that clawed. &ldquo;Them&rdquo; was the
      Indian brave dancing round the stake to which his wretched prisoner was
      tied. It was the grizzly bear, shuffling and swaying, licking bloodstained
      lips. The Toureg of the desert, the Malay pirate, the Corsican bandit. In
      a word it was &ldquo;Them!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Alas it was fruitless for the fearless Tartarin to challenge them... they
      never appeared; but though it seemed unlikely that they would come to
      Tarascon, Tartarin was always ready for them, particularly in the evenings
      when he went to the club.
    </p>
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      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      Chapter 4.
    </h2>
    <p>
      The knight of the temple preparing for a sortie against the Saracen. The
      Chinese warrior equipping himself for battle. The Comanchee brave taking
      to the warpath were as nothing compared to Tartarin de Tarascon arming
      himself to go to the club at nine o&rsquo;clock on a dark evening, an hour after
      the bugle had blown the retreat. He was cleared for action as the sailors
      say.
    </p>
    <p>
      On his left hand he had a metal knuckleduster. In his right he carried a
      sword-stick. In his left pocket there was a cosh and in his right a
      revolver. Stuck into his waistband was a knife. Before setting out, in the
      privacy of his den, he carried out a few exercises. He made a pass at the
      wall with his sword-stick, drew his revolver, flexed his muscles and then
      taking his identity papers he crossed the garden... steadily...
      unhurriedly... à l&rsquo;Anglais. That is the mark of true courage.
    </p>
    <p>
      At the end of the garden he opened the heavy iron gate. He opened it
      brusquely, violently, so that it banged against the wall. If &ldquo;They&rdquo; had
      been behind it, it would have made a fine mess of them. Unfortunately they
      were not behind it.
    </p>
    <p>
      Having opened the gate Tartarin went out, cast a quick look right and
      left, closed the gate swiftly and double locked it. Then he set off.
    </p>
    <p>
      On the Avignon road there was not so much as a cat. Doors were shut and
      curtains drawn across windows. Here and there a street light blinked in
      the mist rising from the Rhône.
    </p>
    <p>
      Superb and calm Tartarin de Tarascon strode through the night, his heels
      striking the road with measured tread and the metal tip of his cane
      raising sparks from the paving-stones. On boulevards, roads or lanes he
      was always careful to walk in the middle of the causeway, an excellent
      precaution which allows one to see approaching danger and moreover to
      avoid things which at night, in the streets of Tarascon, sometimes fall
      from windows. Seeing this prudence you should not entertain the notion
      that Tartarin was afraid. No! He was just being cautious.
    </p>
    <p>
      The clearest evidence that Tartarin was unafraid is that he went to the
      club not by the short way but by the longest and darkest way, through a
      tangle of mean little streets, at the end of which one glimpsed the
      sinister gleam of the Rhone. He almost hoped that at a bend in one of
      these alleys &ldquo;They&rdquo; would come rushing from the shadows to attack him from
      behind. They would have had a hot reception I can promise you; but sadly
      Tartarin was never fated to encounter any danger... not even a dog... not
      even a drunk... Nothing.
    </p>
    <p>
      Sometimes however there was an alarm. The sound of footsteps... Muffled
      voices. Tartarin comes to a halt, peering into the shadows, sniffing the
      air, straining his ears. The steps draw nearer, the voices more
      distinct... there can be no doubt... &ldquo;They&rdquo; are here. With heaving breast
      and eyes ablaze Tartarin is gathering himself like a jaguar and preparing
      to leap on his foes, when suddenly out of the gloom a good Tarasconais
      voice calls &ldquo;Look! There&rsquo;s Tartarin! Hulloa there Tartarin!&rdquo; Malediction!
      It is Bezuquet the chemist and his family who have been singing their
      ballad at the Costecaldes. &ldquo;Bon soir, bon soir&rdquo; growls Tartarin, furious
      at his mistake, and shouldering his cane he disappears angrily into the
      night.
    </p>
    <p>
      Arrived at the club the fearless Tarasconais waits a little longer,
      walking up and down in front of the door before entering. In the end,
      tired of waiting for &ldquo;them&rdquo; and certain that they will not show
      themselves, he throws a last look of defiance into the dark and mutters
      crossly &ldquo;Nothing... nothing... always nothing&rdquo; With that our hero goes in
      to play bezique with the Commandant.
    </p>
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      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      Chapter 5.
    </h2>
    <p>
      With this lust for adventure, this need for excitement, this longing for
      journeys to Lord knows where, how on earth, you may ask, does it happen
      that Tartarin had never left Tarascon? For it is a fact that up to the age
      of forty-five the bold Tarasconais had never slept away from his home
      town. He had never even made the ritual journey to Marseille which every
      good Provencal makes when he comes of age. He might, of course, have
      visited Beaucaire, albeit Beaucaire is not very far from Tarascon, as one
      has only to cross the bridge over the Rhône. Regrettably, however, this
      wretched bridge is so often swept by high winds, is so long and so flimsy
      and the river at that point is so wide that... Ma foi... you will
      understand...!
    </p>
    <p>
      At this point I think one has to admit that there were two sides to our
      hero&rsquo;s character. On the one hand was the spirit of Don Quixote, devoted
      to chivalry, to heroic ideals, to grandiose romantic folly, but lacking
      the body of the celebrated hidalgo, that thin, bony apology of a body,
      careless of material wants, capable of going for twenty nights without
      unbuckling its breastplate and surviving for twenty-four hours on a
      handful of rice. Tartarin, on the other hand, had a good solid body, fat,
      heavy, sybaritic, soft and complaining, full of bourgeois appetites and
      domestic necessities, the short-legged, full-bellied body of Sancho Panza.
    </p>
    <p>
      Don Quixote and Sancho Panza in the same man! You may imagine the
      arguments, the quarrels, the fights. Carried away by some lurid tale of
      adventure, Tartarin-Quixote would clamour to be off to the fields of
      glory, to set sail for distant lands, but then Tartarin-Sancho ringing for
      the maid servant, would say &ldquo;Jeanette, my chocolate.&rdquo; Upon which Jeanette
      would return with a fine cup of chocolate, hot, silky and scented, and
      some succulent grilled snacks, flavoured with anise; greatly pleasing
      Tartarin-Sancho and silencing the cries of Tartarin-Quixote.
    </p>
    <p>
      That is how it happens that Tartarin de Tarascon had never left Tarascon.
    </p>
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    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      Chapter 6.
    </h2>
    <p>
      There was one occasion when Tartarin nearly went on a long journey. The
      three brothers Garcio-Camus, Tarasconais who were in business in Shanghai,
      offered him the management of one of their establishments. Now this was
      the sort of life he needed. Important transactions. An office full of
      clerks to control. Relations with Russia, Persia, Turkey. In short, Big
      Business, which in Tartarin&rsquo;s eyes was of enormous proportions.
    </p>
    <p>
      The establishment had another advantage in that it was sometimes attacked
      by bandits. On these occasions the gates were slammed shut, the staff
      armed themselves, the consular flag was hoisted and &ldquo;Pan! Pan!&rdquo; They fired
      through the windows at the bandits.
    </p>
    <p>
      I need hardly tell you with what enthusiasm Tartarin-Quixote greeted this
      proposal; unfortunately Tartarin-Sancho did not see the matter in the same
      light, and as his views prevailed the affair came to nothing.
    </p>
    <p>
      At the time there was a great deal of talk in the town. Was he going or
      not going? It was a matter for eager discussion.
    </p>
    <p>
      Although in the end Tartarin did not go, the event brought him a great
      deal of credit. To have nearly gone to Shanghai and actually to have gone
      there was for Tarascon much the same thing. As a result of so much talk
      about Tartarin&rsquo;s journey, people ended by believing that he had just
      returned, and in the evenings at the club the members would ask him for a
      description of the life in Shanghai, the customs, the climate, and big
      business.
    </p>
    <p>
      Tartarin, who had gathered much information from the brothers was happy to
      reply to their questions, and before long he was not entirely sure himself
      whether he had been to Shanghai or not; so much so that when describing
      for the hundredth time the raid by bandits he got to the point of saying
      &ldquo;Then I dished out arms to my staff. Hoisted the consular flag and we
      fired &lsquo;Pan! Pan!&rsquo; Through the windows at the bandits.&rdquo; On hearing this the
      members would exchange suitably solemn looks.
    </p>
    <p>
      Tartarin then, you will say, is just a frightful liar. No!.... A thousand
      times no! How is that? you may say, he must know vey well that he has not
      been to Shanghai... to be sure he knows... only.... Perhaps the time has
      come when we should settle the question of the reputation for lying which
      has been given to the people of the Midi.
    </p>
    <p>
      There are no liars in the Midi, neither at Marseille, nor Nimes, nor
      Toulouse, nor Tarascon. The man of the Midi does not lie, he deceives
      himself. He does not always speak the truth but he believes he speaks it.
      His untruth, for him, is not a lie, it is a sort of mirage. To understand
      better you must visit the Midi yourself. You will see a countryside where
      the sun transfigures everything and makes it larger than life-size. The
      little hills of Provence, no bigger than the Butte Montmartre will seem to
      you gigantic. The Maison Carrée at Nimes, a pretty little Roman temple,
      will seem to you as big as Notre Dame. You will see that the only liar in
      the Midi, if there is one, is the sun; everything that he touches he
      exaggerates. Can you be surprised that this sun shining down on Tarascon
      has been able to make a retired Captain Quartermaster into the gallant
      Commandant Bravida, to make a thing like a turnip into a baobab and a man
      who almost went to Shanghai into one who has really been there.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0007" id="link2HCH0007">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      Chapter 7.
    </h2>
    <p>
      Now that we have shown Tartarin as he was in his private life, before fame
      had crowned his head with laurels. Now that we have recounted the story of
      his heroic existance in modest surroundings, the story of his joys and
      sorrows, his dreams and his hopes, let us hurry forward to the important
      pages of his history and to the event which lent wings to his destiny.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was one evening at Costecalde the gunsmith&rsquo;s; Tartarin was explaining
      to some listeners the working of a pin-fire rifle, then something quite
      new, when suddenly the door was opened and a hat hunter rushed into the
      room in a great state shouting &ldquo;A lion! a lion!&rdquo; General amazement,
      fright, tumult and confusion. Tartarin grabbed a bayonet, Costecalde ran
      to close the door. The newcomer was surrounded and questioned nosily. What
      they learned was that the Menagerie Mitaine, returning from the fair at
      Beaucaire, had arranged to make a stop of several days at Tarascon, and
      had just set itself up in the Place du Château with a collection of
      snakes, seals, crocodiles, and a magnificent African lion.... An African
      lion at Tarascon!... such a thing had never been seen before, never in
      living memory.
    </p>
    <p>
      The brave band of hat hunters gazed proudly at one another. Their manly
      features glowed with pleasure and, in every corner of the shop, firm
      handshakes were silently exchanged. The emotion was so overwhelming, so
      unforseen that no one could find a word to say. Not even Tartarin. Pale
      and trembling, with the new rifle clutched in his hands, he stood in a
      trance at the shop counter. A lion!... an African lion!... nearby... a few
      paces away... A lion, the ferocious king of the beasts... the quarry of
      his dreams... one of the leading actors in that imaginary cast which
      played out such fine dramas in his fantasies. It was too much for Tartarin
      to bear. Suddenly the blood flooded to his cheeks. His eyes blazed, and
      with a convulsive gesture he slapped the rifle onto his shoulder, then
      turning to the brave Commandant Bravida (quartermaster. Ret) he said in a
      voice of thunder, &ldquo;Come, Commandant, let us go and see this.&rdquo; &ldquo;Excuse me.
      Excuse me. My new rifle.&rdquo; The prudent Costecalde hazarded timidly, but
      Tartarin was already in the street, and behind him all the hat hunters
      fell proudly into step.
    </p>
    <p>
      When they arrived at the menagerie it was already crowded. The brave
      people of Tarascon, too long deprived of sensational spectacles, had
      descended on the place and taken it by storm. The big madame Mitaine was
      in her element; dressed in an oriental costume, her arms bare to the
      elbows and with iron bracelets round her ankles, she had a whip in one
      hand and in the other a live chicken. She welcomed the Tarasconais to the
      show, and as she too had &ldquo;Double muscles&rdquo; she aroused almost as much
      interest as the animals in her charge.
    </p>
    <p>
      The arrival of Tartarin with the rifle on his shoulder produced something
      of a chill, all the bold Tarasconais who had been walking tranquilly
      before the cages, unarmed, trusting, with no notion of danger, became
      suddenly alarmed at the sight of the great Tartarin entering the place,
      carrying this lethal weapon. There must be something to fear if he, their
      hero.... In the blink of an eye the area in front of the cages was
      deserted, children were crying with fright and the ladies were eying the
      doorway. Bezuquet the chemist left hurridly, saying that he was going to
      fetch a gun.
    </p>
    <p>
      Little by little, however, the attitude of Tartarin restored their
      courage. Calm and erect, the intrepid Tarasconais strolled round the
      menagerie. He passed the seals without stopping. He cast a contemptuous
      eye on the container full of noise, where the boa was swallowing its
      chicken, and at last halted in front of the lion&rsquo;s cage.... A dramatic
      confrontation.... The lion of Tarascon and the lion of the Atlas mountains
      face to face.
    </p>
    <p>
      On one side stood Tartarin, his legs planted firmly apart, his arms
      resting on his rifle, on the other was the lion, a gigantic lion,
      sprawling in the straw, blinking its eyes drowsily and resting its
      enormous yellow-haired muzzle on its front paws... they regarded one
      another calmly... then something odd happened. Perhaps it was the sight of
      the rifle, perhaps it recognised an enemy of its kind, but the lion which
      up until then had looked on the people of Tarascon with sovereign disdain,
      yawning in their faces, seemed to feel a stirring of anger. First it
      sniffed and uttered a rumbling growl, it stretched out its forefeet and
      unsheathed its claws, then it got up, raised its head, shook its mane,
      opened its huge maw and directed at Tartarin a most ear-splitting roar.
    </p>
    <p>
      This was greeted by a cry of terror. Tarascon, in panic, rushed for the
      doors. Everyone, men, women, children, the hat shooters and even the brave
      Commandant Bravida himself. Only Tartarin did not move... he remained firm
      and resolute before the cage, a light shining in his eyes, and wearing
      that grim expression which the town knew so well. After a few moments, the
      hat shooters, somewhat reassured by his attitude and the solidity of the
      cage bars, rejoined their chief, to hear him mutter &ldquo;Now that is something
      worth hunting.&rdquo; And that was all that he said.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0008" id="link2HCH0008">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      Chapter 8.
    </h2>
    <p>
      Although at the memagerie he had said nothing more, he had already said
      too much. The following day all the talk of the town was of the impending
      departure of Tartarin for Africa, to shoot lions.
    </p>
    <p>
      You will bear witness that the good fellow had not breathed a word of
      this, but you know how it is... the mirage.... In short the whole of
      Tarascon could talk of nothing else.
    </p>
    <p>
      On the pavement, at the club, at Costecalde&rsquo;s shop, people accosted one
      another with an air of excitement.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Et autrement, have you heard the latest, au moins?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Et autrement, what now, is Tartarin going, au moins?&rdquo; For in Tarascon
      every remark begins with &ldquo;Et autrement&rdquo; which is pronounced &ldquo;autremain&rdquo;
       and ends with &ldquo;au moins&rdquo; which is pronounced &ldquo;au mouain&rdquo; and in these days
      the sound of &ldquo;autremain&rdquo; and &ldquo;au mouain&rdquo; was enough to rattle the windows.
    </p>
    <p>
      The most surprised person in the town to hear that he was leaving for
      Africa was Tartarin, but now see the effects of vanity. Instead of
      replying that he was not going and had never intended to go, poor
      Tartarin, on the first occasion that the subject was broached adopted a
      somewhat evasive air, &ldquo;Hé!... Hé!... perhaps... I can&rsquo;t say.&rdquo; On the
      second occasion, now a little more accustomed to the idea, he replied
      &ldquo;Probably&rdquo; and on the third &ldquo;Yes, definitely.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Eventually, one evening at the club, carried away by some glasses of
      egg-nog, the public interest and the plaudits, he declared formally that
      he was tired of shooting at hats and was going shortly in pursuit of the
      great lions of Africa.
    </p>
    <p>
      A loud cheer greeted this declaration, then came more egg-nog, handshakes,
      embraces and torchlight serenades until midnight before the little house
      of the baobab.
    </p>
    <p>
      Tartarin-Sancho, however, was far from pleased. The idea of travelling to
      Africa and hunting lions scared him stiff and when they went into the
      house, and while the serenade of honour was still going on outside, he
      made the most frightful scene with Tartarin-Quixote, calling him a crazy
      dreamer, a rash triple idiot and detailing one by one the catastrophes
      which would await him on such an expedition. Shipwreck, fever, dysentery,
      plague, elephantiasis and so on... it was useless for Tartarin-Quixote to
      swear that he would be careful, that he would dress warmly, that he would
      take with him everything that might be needed, Tartarin-Sancho refused to
      listen. The poor fellow saw himself already torn to pieces by lions or
      swallowed up in the sands of the desert, and the other Tartarin could
      pacify him only a little by pointing out that these were plans for the
      future, that there was no hurry, that they had not yet actually started.
    </p>
    <p>
      Obviously one cannot embark on such an expedition without some
      preparation. One cannot take off like a bird. As a first measure Tartarin
      set about reading the reports of the great African explorers, the journals
      of Livingstone, Burton, Caille and the like, there he saw that those
      intrepid travellers, before they put their boots on for these distant
      excursions, prepared themselves in advance to undergo hunger, thirst, long
      treks and privations of all sorts.
    </p>
    <p>
      Tartarin decided to follow their example and took to a diet of &ldquo;Eau
      bouillie&rdquo;. What is called eau bouillie in Tarascon consists of several
      slices of bread soaked in warm water, with a clove of garlic, a little
      thyme and a bay leaf. It is not very palatable and you may imagine how
      Tartarin-Sancho enjoyed it.
    </p>
    <p>
      Tartarin de Tarascon combined this with several other sensible methods of
      training. For instance, to habituate himself to long marches he would go
      round his morning constitutional seven or eight times, sometimes at a
      brisk walk, sometimes at the trot with two pebbles in his mouth. Then to
      accustom himself to nocturnal chills and the mists of dawn, he went into
      the garden and stayed there until ten or eleven at night, alone with his
      rifle, on watch behind the baobab.
    </p>
    <p>
      Finally, for as long as the menagerie remained in Tarascon, those hat
      hunters who had stayed late at Costecalde&rsquo;s could see in the shadows, as
      they passed the Place du Château, a figure pacing up and down behind the
      cages... it was Tartarin training himself to listen unmoved to the roaring
      of lions in the African night.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0009" id="link2HCH0009">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      Chapter 9.
    </h2>
    <p>
      While Tartarin was preparing himself by these strenuous methods, all
      Tarascon had its eyes on him. Nothing else was of interest. Hat shooting
      was abandoned, the ballads languished; in Bezuquet the chemist&rsquo;s the piano
      was silent beneath a green dust cover, with cantharides flies drying,
      belly up, on the top... Tartarin&rsquo;s expedition had brought everything to a
      halt.
    </p>
    <p>
      You should have seen the success of our hero in the drawing-rooms. He was
      seized, squabbled over, borrowed and stolen. There was no greater triumph
      for the ladies than to go, on the arm of Tartarin, to the menagerie
      Mitaine and to have him explain, in front of the lion&rsquo;s cage, how one goes
      about hunting these great beasts, at what point one aims and at what
      distance, whether there are many accidents, and so on... through his
      reading Tartarin had gained almost as much knowledge about lion hunting as
      if he had actually engaged in it himself, and so he spoke of these matters
      with much authority.
    </p>
    <p>
      Where Tartarin really excelled, however, was after dinner at the home of
      president Ladevèze or the brave Commandant Bravida (quartermaster. Ret)
      when coffee had been served and the chairs pulled together, then with his
      elbow on the table, between sips of his coffee, our hero gave a moving
      description of all the dangers which awaited him &ldquo;Over there&rdquo; He spoke of
      long moonless watches, of pestilential marshes, of rivers poisoned by the
      leaves of oleanders, of snows, scorching suns, scorpions and clouds of
      locusts; he also spoke of the habits of the great lions of the Atlas,
      their phenomenal strength, their ferocity in the mating season.... Then,
      carried away by his own words, he would rise from the table and bound into
      the middle of the room, imitating the roar of the lion, the noise of the
      rifle &ldquo;Pan! Pan!&rdquo; The whistle of the bullet. Gesticulating, shouting,
      knocking over chairs... while at the table faces are grave, the men
      looking at one another and nodding their heads, the ladies closing their
      eyes with little cries of alarm. A grandfather brandishes his
      walking-stick in a bellicose manner and, in the next room, the small
      children who have been put to bed earlier are startled out of their sleep
      by the banging and bellowing, and greatly frightened demand lights.
    </p>
    <p>
      Tartarin, however, showed no sign of leaving for Africa... did he really
      have any intention of going? That is a delicate question and one to which
      his biographer would find difficulty in replying. The fact is that the
      menagerie had now been gone for three months but the killer of lions had
      not budged... could it be that our innocent hero, blinded perhaps by a new
      mirage, honestly believed that he had been to Africa, and by talking so
      much about his hunting expedition believed that it had actually taken
      place. Unfortunately, if this was the case and Tartarin had once more
      fallen victim to the mirage, the people of Tarascon had not. When it was
      observed that after three months of waiting the hunter had not packed a
      single bag, people began to talk.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;This will turn out to be another Shanghai.&rdquo; Said Costecalde, smiling, and
      this remark spread round the town like wildfire, for people had lost their
      belief in Tartarin. The ignorant, the chicken-hearted, people like
      Bezuquet, whom a flea could put to flight, and who could not fire a gun
      without closing both eyes, these above all were pitiless. At the club, on
      the esplanade, they accosted poor Tartarin with little mocking remarks,
      &ldquo;Et autremain, what about this trip then?&rdquo; At Costecalde&rsquo;s shop his
      opinion was no longer law. The hat hunters had deserted their leader.
    </p>
    <p>
      Then there were the epigrams. President Ladevèze who in his spare time
      dabbled in provencal poetry, composed a little song in dialect which was a
      great success. It concerned a certain hunter named master Gervaise whose
      redoubtable rifle was to exterminate every last lion in Africa. Sadly this
      rifle had a singular fault, although always loaded it never went off....
      It never went off... you will understand the allusion. This song achieved
      instant popularity, and when Tartarin was passing, the stevedores on the
      quay and the grubby urchins hanging round his door would chant this
      insulting little ditty... only they sang it from a safe distance because
      of the double muscles.
    </p>
    <p>
      The great man himself pretended to see nothing, to hear nothing. Although
      at heart this underhand, venomous campaign hurt him deeply, in spite of
      his suffering, he continued to go about his life with a smile; but
      sometimes the mask of cheerful indifference which pride had pinned on his
      features slipped, then instead of laughter one saw indignation and grief.
      So it was one morning when some street urchins were chanting their jeers
      beneath the window of the room where our poor hero was trimming his beard.
      Suddenly the window was thrown open and Tartarin&rsquo;s head appeared, his face
      covered in soapsuds, waving a razor and shaving brush and shouting
      &ldquo;Sword-thrusts, gentlemen, sword-thrusts, not pin-pricks!&rdquo; Fine words but
      wasted on a bunch of brats about two bricks tall.
    </p>
    <p>
      Amid the general defection, the army alone stood firmly by Tartarin, the
      brave Commandant Bravida continued to treat him with esteem. &ldquo;He&rsquo;s a stout
      fellow,&rdquo; He persisted in saying, and this affirmation was worth a good
      deal more, I should imagine, than anything said by Bezuquet the chemist.
    </p>
    <p>
      The gallant Commandant had never uttered a word about the African journey,
      but at last, when the public clamour became too loud to ignore, he decided
      to speak.
    </p>
    <p>
      One evening, the unhappy Tartarin was alone in his study thinking sad
      thoughts, when the Commandant appeared, somberly dressed and gloved, with
      every button fastened &ldquo;Tartarin!&rdquo; said the former captain, with authority,
      &ldquo;Tartarin, you must go!&rdquo; and he stood, upright and rigid in the doorway,
      the very embodiment of duty.
    </p>
    <p>
      All that was implied in that &ldquo;Tartarin you must go&rdquo; Tartarin understood.
      Very pale, he rose to his feet and cast a tender look round his pleasant
      study, so snug, so warm, so well lit, and at the the large, so comfortable
      armchair, at his books, his carpet and at the big white blinds of his
      window, beyond which swayed the slender stems of the little garden. Then
      advancing to the the brave Commandant, he took his hand, shook it
      vigorously and in a voice close to tears said stoically, &ldquo;I shall go,
      Bravida.&rdquo; And he did go as he had said he would. Though not before he had
      gathered the necessary equipment.
    </p>
    <p>
      First, he ordered from Blompard two large cases lined with copper and with
      a large plaque inscribed TARTARIN DE TARASCON. FIREARMS. The lining and
      the engraving took a long time. He ordered from M. Tastevin a magnificent
      log-book in which to write his journal. Then he sent to Marseille for a
      whole cargo of preserved food, for pemmican tablets to make soup, for a
      bivouac tent of the latest design, which could be erected or struck in a
      few minutes, a pair of sea-boots, two umbrellas, a waterproof and a pair
      of dark glasses to protect his eyes. Finally, Bezuquet the chemist made up
      a medicine chest full of sticking plaster, pills and lotions. All these
      preparations were made in the hope that by these and other delicate
      attentions he could appease the fury of Tartarin-Sancho, which, since the
      departure had been decided, had raged unabated by day and by night.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0010" id="link2HCH0010">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      Chapter 10.
    </h2>
    <p>
      At last the great day arrived. From first light the whole of Terascon was
      afoot, blocking the Avignon road and the approaches to the little house of
      the baobab. There were people at windows, on roofs, up trees. Bargees from
      the Rhône, stevedores, boot-blacks, clerks, weavers, the club members, in
      fact the whole town. Then there were people from Beaucaire who had come
      across the bridge, market-gardeners from the suburbs, carts with big
      hoods, vignerons mounted on fine mules ornamented with ribbons, tassels,
      bows and bells, and even here and there some pretty girls from Arles, with
      blue kerchiefs round their heads, riding on the crupper behind their
      sweethearts on the small iron-grey horses of the Camargue. All this crowd
      pushed and jostled before Tartarin&rsquo;s gate, the gate of this fine M.
      Tartarin who was going to kill lions in the country of the &ldquo;Teurs&rdquo;. (In
      Tarascon: Africa, Greece, Turkey and Mesopotamia formed a vast, vague
      almost mythical country which was called the Teurs... that is the Turks).
      Throughout this mob the hat shooters came and went, proud of the triumph
      of their leader, and leaving in their wake, as it were, little trails of
      glory.
    </p>
    <p>
      In front of the house of the baobab there were two large handcarts. From
      time to time the gate was opened and one could see men walking busily
      about in the garden. They carried out trunks, cases and carpet-bags which
      they piled onto the carts. On the arrival of each new package the crowd
      stirred and a description of the article was shouted out. &ldquo;That&rsquo;s his
      tent! There&rsquo;s the preserved foods! The medicine chest! The arms chest!&rdquo;
       While the hat shooters gave a running commentary.
    </p>
    <p>
      Suddenly, at about ten o&rsquo;clock, there was a great movement in the crowd.
      The garden gate swung back violently on its hinges.... &ldquo;It&rsquo;s him!.... Its
      him!&rdquo; they cried.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was indeed him. When he appeared on the threshold, two cries of
      amazement rose from the crowd:&mdash;&ldquo;He&rsquo;s a Teur!.... He&rsquo;s wearing
      sun-glasses!&rdquo;.... Tartarin, it is true, had believed that as he was going
      to Algeria he should adopt Algerian costume. Large baggy pantaloons of
      white cloth, a small tight jacket with metal buttons, a red sash wound
      round his stomach and on his head a gigantic &ldquo;Chechia&rdquo; (a red floppy
      bonnet) with an immensely long blue tassel dangling from its crown. Added
      to this, he carried two rifles, one on each shoulder, a hunting knife
      stuck into the sash round his middle, a cartridge-bag slung on one side
      and a revolver in a leather holster on the other. That was it. Ah!...
      forgive me... I forgot the sun-glasses, a huge pair of blue sun-glasses
      which were just the very thing to correct any suggestion of extravagance
      in his turnout.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Vive Tartarin!... Vive Tartarin!&rdquo; Yelled the people. The great man smiled
      but did not wave, partly because of the rifles, which were giving him some
      trouble and partly because he had learned what little value one can place
      on popular favour. Perhaps even, in the depths of his soul, he cursed
      these terrible compatriots who were forcing him to leave, to quit his
      pretty little house with its green shutters and white walls, but if so he
      did not show it. Calm and proud, though a little pale, he marched down the
      pathway, inspected his handcarts and seeing that all was in order set off
      jauntily on the road to the station, without looking back even once at the
      house of the baobab.
    </p>
    <p>
      On his arrival at the station he was greeted by the station-master, a
      former soldier, who shook him warmly by the hand several times. The
      Paris-Marseille express had not yet arrived, so Tartarin and his general
      staff went into the waiting-room. To keep back the following crowd the
      station-master closed the barriers.
    </p>
    <p>
      For fifteen minutes Tartarin paced back and forward, surrounded by the hat
      shooters. He spoke to them of his coming expedition, promising to send
      them skins, and entering their orders in his note-book as if they were a
      list of groceries. As tranquil as was Socrates at the moment when he drank
      the hemlock, the bold Tartarin had a word for everyone. He spoke simply
      and affably, as if before departing he wished to leave behind a legacy of
      charm, happy memories and regrets. To hear their chief speak thus brought
      tears to the eyes of the hat shooters, and to some, such as the president
      Ladevèze and the chemist Bezuquet, even a twinge of remorse. Some of the
      station staff were dabbing their eyes in corners, while outside the crowd
      peered through the railings and shouted &ldquo;Vive Tartarin!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Then a bell rang. There was a rumbling noise of wheels. A piercing whistle
      split the heavens... All aboard!... All aboard!... Goodbye Tartarin!...
      Goodbye Tartarin!. &ldquo;Goodbye everyone&rdquo; murmured the great man, and on the
      cheeks of the brave Commandant Bravida he planted a farewell salute to his
      beloved Tarascon. Then he hurried along the platform and got into a
      carriage full of Parisian ladies, who almost died of fright at the
      appearance of this strange man with his revolver and rifles.
    </p>
    <p>
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    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      Chapter 11.
    </h2>
    <p>
      On the first day of December 186-, in the clear bright winter sunshine of
      Provence, the startled inhabitants of Marseille witnessed the arrival of a
      Teur. Never had they seen one like this before, though God knows there is
      no shortage of Teurs in Marseille. The Teur, need I tell you, was none
      other than Tartarin de Tarascon, who was proceeding down the quay followed
      by his case of arms, his medicine chest and his preserved foods, in search
      of the embarkation point of the Compagnie Touache and the ferry-boat &ldquo;Le
      Zouave&rdquo; which was to carry him away.
    </p>
    <p>
      His ears still ringing with the cheers of Tarascon and bemused by the
      brightness of the sky and the smell of the sea, Tartarin marched along,
      his rifles slung on his shoulders, gazing around in wonder at this
      marvellous port of Marseille, which he was seeing for the first time and
      which quite dazzled him. He almost felt that he was dreaming and that like
      Sinbad he was wandering in one of the fabulous cities of the Thousand and
      one Nights.
    </p>
    <p>
      As far as the eye could see, there stretched a jumble of masts and yards,
      criss-crossing in all directions. The flags of a multitude of nations
      fluttering in the wind. The ships level with the quay, their bowsprits
      projecting over the edge like a row of bayonets, and below them the carved
      and painted wooden figureheads of nymphs, goddesses and saintly virgins
      from which the ships took their names. From time to time, between the
      hulls one could see a patch of sea, like a great sheet of cloth spattered
      with oil, while in the entanglement of yardarms a host of seagulls made
      pretty splashes of white against the blue sky. On the quay, amid the
      streams which trickled from the soapworks, thick, green, streaked with
      black, full of oil and soda, there was a whole population of customs
      officers, shipping agents, and stevedores with trollies drawn by little
      Corsican ponies. There were shops selling strange sweetmeats. Smoke
      enshrouded huts where seamen were cooking. There were merchants selling
      monkeys, parrots, rope, sailcloth and fantastic collections of bric-a-brac
      where, heaped up pell-mell, were old culverins, great gilded lanterns, old
      blocks and tackle, old rusting anchors, old rigging, old megaphones, old
      telescopes, dating from the time of Jean Bart.
    </p>
    <p>
      There were women selling shellfish, crouched bawling beside their wares,
      sailors passing, some with pots of tar, some with steaming pots of stew,
      others with baskets full of squid which they were taking to wash in the
      fresh water of the fountains. Everywhere prodigious heaps of merchandise
      of every kind. Silks, minerals, baulks of timber, ingots of lead, carobs,
      rape-seed, liquorice, sugar cane, great piles of dutch cheeses. East and
      west hugger-mugger.
    </p>
    <p>
      Here is the grain berth. Stevedores empty the sacks onto the quay from a
      scaffold, the grain pours down in a golden torrent raising a cloud of pale
      dust, and is loaded by men wearing red fezes into carts, which set off
      followed by a regiment of women and children with brushes and buckets for
      gleaning.
    </p>
    <p>
      There is the careening basin. The huge vessels lie over on one side and
      are flamed with fires of brushwood to rid them of seaweed, while their
      yardarms soak in the water. There is a smell of pitch and the deafening
      hammering of shipwrights lining the hulls with sheets of copper.
    </p>
    <p>
      Sometimes, between the masts, a gap opened and Tartarin could see the
      harbour mouth and the movement of ships. An English frigate leaving for
      Malta, spruce and scrubbed, with officers in yellow gloves, or a big
      Marseilles brig, casting off amid shouting and cursing, with, in the bows,
      a fat captain in an overcoat and a top hat, supervising the manoeuvre in
      broad provencal. There were ships outward bound, running before the wind
      with all sails set, there were others, far out at sea, beating their way
      in and seeming in the sunshine to be floating on air.
    </p>
    <p>
      Then, all the time the most fearsome racket. The rumbling of cart wheels,
      the cries of the sailors, oaths, songs, the sirens of steam-boats, the
      drums and bugles of Fort St. Jean and Fort St. Nicolas, the bells of
      nearby churches and, up above, the mistral, which took all of these
      sounds, rolled them together, shook them up and mingled them with its own
      voice to make mad, wild, heroic music, like a great fanfare, urging one to
      set sail for distant lands, to spread one&rsquo;s wings and go. It was to the
      sound of this fine fanfare that Tartarin embarked for the country of
      lions.
    </p>
    <p>
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    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      Chapter 12.
    </h2>
    <p>
      I wish that I was a painter, a really good painter, so that I could
      present to you a picture of the different positions adopted by Tartarin&rsquo;s
      chechia during the three days of the passage from France to Algeria.
    </p>
    <p>
      I would show it to you first at the departure, proud and stately as it was
      then, crowning that noble Tarascon head. I would show it next when, having
      left the harbour, the Zouave began to lift on the swell. I would show it
      fluttering and astonished, as if feeling the first premonitions of
      distress.
    </p>
    <p>
      Then, in the gulf of Lion, when the Zouave was further offshore and the
      sea a little rougher, I would present it at grips with the storm,
      clutching, bewildered, at the head of our hero, its long blue woollen
      tassel streaming in the spume and gusting wind.
    </p>
    <p>
      The fourth position. Six in the evening. Off the coast of Corsica. The
      wretched chechia is leaning over the rail and sadly contemplating the
      depths of the ocean.
    </p>
    <p>
      Fifth and last position. Down in a narrow cabin, in a little bed which has
      the appearance of a drawer in a commode, something formless and desolate
      rolls about, moaning, on the pillow. It is the chechia, the heroic
      chechia, now reduced to the vulgar status of a night-cap, and jammed down
      to the ears of a pallid and convulsing invalid.
    </p>
    <p>
      Ah! If the townsfolk of Tarascon could have seen the great Tartarin, lying
      in his commode drawer, in the pale, dismal light which filtered through
      the porthole, amongst the stale smell of cooking and wet wood, the
      depressing odour of the ferry boat. If they had heard him groan at every
      turn of the propeller, ask for tea every five minutes, and complain to the
      steward in the weak voice of a child, would they have regretted having
      forced him to leave? On my word, the poor Tuer deserved pity. Overcome by
      sea-sickness, he had not the will even to loosen his sash or rid himself
      of his weapons. The hunting knife with the big handle dug into his ribs.
      His revolver bruised his leg, and the final straw was the nagging of
      Tartarin-Sancho, who never ceased whining and carping:&mdash;&ldquo;Imbecile!
      Va! I warned you didn&rsquo;t I?.... But you had to go to Africa!.... Well now
      you&rsquo;re on your way, how do you like it?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      What was every bit as cruel was that, shut in his cabin, between his
      groans he could hear the other passengers in the saloon, laughing, eating,
      singing, playing cards. The society in the Zouave was as cheerful as it
      was diverse. There were some officers on their way to rejoin their units,
      a bevy of tarts from Marseille, a rich Mahommedan merchant, returning from
      Mecca, some strolling players, a Montenegran prince, a great joker this,
      who did impersonations.... Not one of these people was sea-sick and they
      spent the time drinking champagne with the captain of the Zouave, a fat
      &ldquo;Bon viveur&rdquo; from Marseille, who had an establishment there and another in
      Algiers, and who rejoiced in the name of Barbassou. Tartarin hated all
      these people. Their gaity redoubled his misery.
    </p>
    <p>
      At last, in the afternoon of the third day, there was some unusual
      activity on board the ship, which roused our hero from his torpor. The
      bell in the bows rang out... the heavy boots of the sailors could be heard
      running on the deck... &ldquo;Engine ahead!... engine astern!.&rdquo; Shouted the
      hoarse voice of Captain Barbassou. Then &ldquo;Stop engine!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The engine stopped, there was a little tremor and then nothing. The ferry
      lay rocking gently from side to side, like a balloon in the air. This
      strange silence horrified Tartarin. &ldquo;My God! We are sinking!&rdquo; He cried in
      a voice of terror, and recovering his strength as if by magic, he rushed
      up onto the deck.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0013" id="link2HCH0013">
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    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      Chapter 13.
    </h2>
    <p>
      The Zouave was not sinking. She had just dropped her anchor in a fine
      anchorage of deep, dark water. Opposite, on the hillside, was Algiers, its
      little matt-white houses running down to the sea, huddled one against the
      other, like a pile of white washing laid out on a river bank. Up above a
      great sky of satin blue... but oh!... So blue!
    </p>
    <p>
      Tartarin, somewhat recovered from his fright, gazed at the landscape,
      while listening respectfully to the Montenegrin prince, who standing
      beside him, pointed out the different quarters of the town. The Casbah,
      the upper town, the Rue Bab-Azoum. Very well educated this prince of
      Montenegro. What is more he knew Algiers well and spoke Arabic. Tartarin
      had decided to cultivate his acquaintance when suddenly, along the rail on
      which they were leaning, he saw a row of big black hands grasping it from
      below. Almost immediately a curly black head appeared in front of him and
      before he could open his mouth the deck was invaded from all side by a
      swarm of pirates; black, yellow, half naked, hideous and terrible.
      Tartarin knew at once that it was &ldquo;Them&rdquo; The fearsome &ldquo;Them&rdquo; who he had so
      often expected at night in the streets of Tarascon. Now they had arrived.
    </p>
    <p>
      At first surprise glued him to the spot, but when he saw the pirates hurl
      themselves on the baggage, tear off the tarpaulin covers and begin to
      pillage the ship, our hero came to life. Drawing his hunting knife and
      shouting &ldquo;Aux armes!... Aux armes!&rdquo; To his fellow passengers, he prepared
      to lead an assault on the raiders. &ldquo;Ques aco?... What&rsquo;s the matter with
      you?&rdquo; Said Captain Barbassou as he came off the bridge. &ldquo;Ah!... There you
      are Captain.... Quick! Quick! Arm your men!&rdquo; &ldquo;Hé!... Do what? Why for
      God&rsquo;s sake?&rdquo; &ldquo;But don&rsquo;t you see?&rdquo; &ldquo;See what?&rdquo; &ldquo;There, in front of you...
      the pirates!&rdquo; Captain Barbassou regarded him with astonishment..... At
      that moment a huge monster of a black man ran past carrying the medicine
      chest. &ldquo;Wretch! Wait till I catch you!&rdquo; Yelled Tartarin, starting forward
      with his knife held aloft. Barbassou caught him and held him by his sash.
      &ldquo;Calm down for Chrissake.&rdquo; He said, &ldquo;These are not pirates, there have
      been no pirates for ages, these are stevedores.&rdquo; &ldquo;Stevedores?&rdquo; &ldquo;Hé! Yes,
      stevedores who have come to collect the baggage and take it ashore. Put
      away your cutlass, give me your ticket and follow that negro, an excellent
      fellow, who will take you ashore and even to your hotel if you wish.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Somewhat confused Tartarin surrendered his ticket and following the negro
      he went down the gangplank into a large boat which was bobbing alongside
      the ferry. All his baggage was there, his trunks, cases of weapons and
      preserved food, as they took up all the room in the boat, there was no
      need to wait for other passengers. The negro climbed onto the baggage and
      squatted there with his arms wrapped round his knees. Another negro took
      the oars... the two of them regarded Tartarin, laughing and showing their
      white teeth.
    </p>
    <p>
      Standing in the stern, wearing his fiercest expression, Tartarin nervously
      fingered the handle of his hunting knife, for in spite of what Barbassou
      had told him, he was only half reassured about the intentions of these
      ebony-skinned stevedores, who looked so different from honest longshoremen
      of Tarascon.
    </p>
    <p>
      Three minutes later the boat reached land and Tartarin set foot on the
      little Barbary quay, where three hundred years earlier a galley-slave
      named Michael Cervantes, under the whip of an Algerian galley-master, had
      begun to plan the wonderful story of Don Quixote.
    </p>
    <p>
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    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      Chapter 14.
    </h2>
    <p>
      If by any chance the ghost of Micheal Cervantes was abroad on that bit of
      the Barbary coast, it must have been delighted at the arrival of this
      splendid specimen of a Frenchman from the Midi, in whom were combined the
      two heroes of his book, Don Quixote and Sancho Panza.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was a warm day. On the quay, bathed in sunshine, were five or six
      customs officers, some settlers awaiting news from France, some squatting
      Moors, smoking their long pipes, some Maltese fishermen, hauling in a
      large net, in the meshes of which thousands of sardines glittered like
      pieces of silver; but scarcely had Tartarin set foot there when the quay
      sprang into life and changed entirely its appearance.
    </p>
    <p>
      A band of savages, more hideous even than the pirates of the boat, seemed
      to rise from the very cobble-stones to hurl themselves on the newcomer.
      Huge Arabs, naked beneath their long woolen garments, little Moors dressed
      in rags, Negroes, Tunisians, hotel waiters in white aprons, pushing and
      shouting, plucking at his clothes, fighting over his luggage; one grabbing
      his preserves another his medicine chest and, in a screeching babel of
      noise, throwing at his head the improbable names of hotels.... Deafened by
      this tumult, Tartarin ran hither and thither,struggling, fuming, and
      cursing after his baggage, and not knowing how to communicate with these
      barbarians, harangued them in French, Provencal and even what he could
      remember of Latin. It was a wasted effort, no one was listening....
      Happily, however, a little man dressed in a tunic with a yellow collar and
      armed with a long cane arrived on the scene and dispersed the rabble with
      blows from his stick. He was an Algerian policeman. Very politely he
      arranged for Tartarin to go to the Hotel de l&rsquo;Europe, and confided him to
      the care of some locals who led him away with all his baggage loaded on
      several barrows.
    </p>
    <p>
      As he took his first steps in Algiers, Tartarin looked about him
      wide-eyed. He had imagined beforehand a fairylike Arabian city, something
      between Constantinople and Zanzibar... but here he was back in Tarascon.
      Some cafés some restaurants, wide streets, houses of four stories, a small
      tarmac square where a military band played Offenbach polkas, men seated on
      chairs, drinking beer and nibbling snacks, a few ladies, a sprinkling of
      tarts and soldiers, more soldiers, everywhere soldiers... and not a single
      &ldquo;Teur&rdquo; in sight except for him... so he found walking across the square a
      bit embarrassing. Everyone stared.... The military band stopped playing
      and the Offenbach polka came to a halt with one foot in the air.
    </p>
    <p>
      With his two rifles on his shoulders, his revolver by his side,
      unflinching and stately he passed through the throng, but on reaching the
      hotel his strength deserted him. The departure from Tarascon. The harbour
      at Marseille. The crossing. The Montenegrin prince. The pirates, all
      whirled in confusion round his brain. He had to be taken up to his room,
      disarmed and undressed... there was even talk of sending for a doctor, but
      hardly had his head touched the pillow than he began to snore so loudly
      and vigorously that the hotel manager decided that medical assistance was
      not required, and everyone discreetly withdrew.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0015" id="link2HCH0015">
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    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      Chapter 15.
    </h2>
    <p>
      The bell of the government clock was sounding three when Tartarin awoke.
      He had slept all evening, all night, all morning and even a good part of
      the afternoon. It has, of course, to be admitted that over the preceding
      three days the chechia had had a pretty rough time.
    </p>
    <p>
      His first thought on waking was &ldquo;Here I am, in lion country!&rdquo; and it must
      be confessed that this notion that he was surrounded by lions and was
      about to go in pursuit of them produced a marked chill, and he buried
      himself safely under the bedclothes.
    </p>
    <p>
      Soon, however, the gaiety of the scene outside, the sky so blue, the
      bright sunshine which flooded into his room through the large window which
      opened towards the sea, and a good meal which he had served in bed, washed
      down by a carafe of wine, quickly restored his courage. &ldquo;To the lions! To
      the lions!&rdquo; He cried, and throwing off the bed clothes he dressed himself
      hurriedly.
    </p>
    <p>
      His plan of action was this. Leave town and go well out into the desert.
      Wait until nightfall. Lie in hiding, and at the first lion that comes
      along... Pan! Pan!.... Return in the morning. Lunch at hotel. Receive the
      congratulations of the Algerians and hire a cart to go and collect the
      kill.
    </p>
    <p>
      He armed himself hastily, strapped onto his back the bivouac tent, the
      pole of which stuck up above his head, and then, held rigid by this
      contraption, he went down to the street. He turned sharply to the right
      and walked to the end of the shopping arcade of Bab-Azoum, where a series
      of Algerian store-keepers watched him pass, concealed in corners of their
      dark boutiques like spiders. He went through the Place du théatre, through
      the suburbs and eventually reached the dusty main road to Mustapha.
    </p>
    <p>
      Here was a fantastic confusion of traffic. There were coaches, cabs,
      curricles, military supply wagons, great carts of hay drawn by oxen, some
      squadrons of Chasseurs d&rsquo;Afrique, troops of microscopic little donkeys,
      negresses selling galettes, loads of emigrants from Alsasce, some Spahis
      in red cloaks. All passing in a great cloud of dust, with cries, songs and
      trumpet calls, between two rows of miserable shacks, where could be seen
      prostitutes applying their make-up at their doors, tap-rooms full of
      soldiers and the stalls of butchers and slaughtermen. The tales I have
      been told about this place are quite untrue, thought Tartarin, there are
      fewer &ldquo;Teurs&rdquo; here than there are in Marseille.
    </p>
    <p>
      Suddenly he saw striding past him, long-legged and proud as a turkey cock,
      a magnificent camel. The sight quickened his pulse; where there were
      camels lions could not be far away, and indeed within five minutes he saw
      coming towards him with guns on their shoulders, a whole company of lion
      hunters with their dogs.
    </p>
    <p>
      A cowardly lot, thought Tartarin, as he came alongside them... hunting
      lions in a group and with dogs... for it had never occurred to him that In
      Algeria one could hunt anything but lions. However these hunters looked
      like comfortably retired businessmen, and Tartarin, curious about this way
      of hunting lions with dogs and game-bags, took it on himself to address
      one of them.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Et autrement, my friend, a good day?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not bad&rdquo; Replied the other, looking with some surprise at the heavy
      armament of our Tarascon warrior.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You have killed some of them?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes... a few... as you can see.&rdquo; And the Algerian pointed to his
      game-bag, bulging with rabbits and woodcock.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How is that?... you put them in your game-bag?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Where would you like me to put them?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But then they... they must be very small!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Some big, some small.&rdquo; Said the hunter, and as he was in a hurry to catch
      up with his companions and go home, he made off at high speed. Tartarin
      stood, stupefied, in the middle of the road. Then after a moment of
      thought &ldquo;Bah!&rdquo; He said to himself, &ldquo;These people are trying to have me on,
      they haven&rsquo;t shot anything.&rdquo; And he continued on his way.
    </p>
    <p>
      Already the houses were becoming more scattered, the passers-by less
      frequent. Night was falling. Objects becoming less distinct.... He marched
      on for another half an hour, and then he stopped. It was now completely
      dark, a moonless night spangled with stars. There was no one on the road,
      but in spite of that Tartarin reckoned that lions were not like coaches
      and would not stick to the highway. He set off across country. At every
      step there were ditches, thorns and bushes. No matter, he walked on until
      at last he reached a spot he thought suited to his purpose. A likely place
      for lions.
    </p>
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      <a name="link2HCH0016" id="link2HCH0016">
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    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      Chapter 16.
    </h2>
    <p>
      He was in a vast, wild desert, bristling with bizarre plants. African
      plants, which have the appearance of savage animals. In the faint light
      from the stars their shadows spread over the ground in all directions. On
      the right was the confused, looming mass of a mountain, the Atlas perhaps,
      to the left could be heard the dull surge of the invisible sea. An ideal
      spot to tempt wild animals!
    </p>
    <p>
      Placing one rifle on the ground before him and taking the other in his
      hands, Tartarin settled down and waited... he waited for an hour... two
      hours.... Then he remembered that in his books the famous lion hunters
      always used a kid as bait, which they tethered at some distance in front
      of them and made to bleat by pulling on a string attached to its leg.
      Lacking a kid, he had the idea of trying an imitation and began to bleat
      in a goat-like manner, &ldquo;Mé!... Mé!....&rdquo; At first very quietly, because, in
      the depths of his heart he was a little afraid that the lion might hear
      him... then seeing that nothing happened he bleated more loudly, &ldquo;Mé!...
      Mé!... Mé!....&rdquo; And then louder still, &ldquo;MÉ!... MÉ!... MÉ!...&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Suddenly, a few paces in front of him, something black and gigantic
      materialised. He shut up... the thing crouched, sniffed the ground, leapt
      up, turned and ran off at a gallop... then it came back and stopped short.
      It was a lion! There could be no doubt. Now one could see quite clearly
      the four short legs, the formidable forequarters and two huge eyes
      gleaming in the darkness.... Aim!... Fire!... Pan!... Pan!.... Tartarin
      backed away, drawing his hunting knife
    </p>
    <p>
      Following Tartarin&rsquo;s shot there was a terrible outcry, &ldquo;I&rsquo;ve got him!&rdquo;
       Cried the good Tarasconais and prepared himself to receive a possible
      attack, but the creature had had enough and it fled at top speed,
      bellowing.... He, however, did not budge: he was waiting for the female...
      as happened in all his books. Unfortunately the female failed to turn up,
      and after two or three hours of waiting Tartarin became tired. The ground
      was damp, the night was growing cool, there was a nip in the breeze from
      the sea... &ldquo;Perhaps I should have a nap while I wait for daylight&rdquo; he said
      to himself, and to provide some shelter he had recourse to the bivouac
      tent. A difficulty now arose, the bivouac tent was of such an ingenious
      design that he was quite unable to erect it. He struggled and sweated for
      a long time, but there was no way in which he could get the thing up, so
      at last he threw it on the ground and lay on top of it, cursing it in
      Provencal.
    </p>
    <p>
      Ta!... Ta!... Ta!... Tarata! &ldquo;Ques aco?&rdquo; said Tartarin, waking up with a
      start. It was the trumpets of the Chasseurs d&rsquo;Afrique sounding reveille in
      the barracks at Mustapha. The lion killer rubbed his eyes in amazement. He
      who had believed that he was in the middle of a desert... do you know
      where he was?... In a field full of artichokes, between a cauliflower and
      a swede... his Sahara was a vegetable patch.
    </p>
    <p>
      Nearby, on the pretty green coast of upper Mustapha, white Algerian villas
      gleamed in the dawn light, one might have been among the suburban houses
      in the outskirts of Marseille. The bourgeois appearance of the sleeping
      countryside greatly astonished Tartarin and put him in a bad humour.
      &ldquo;These people are crazy&rdquo;, he said to himself, &ldquo;To plant their artichokes
      in an area infested by lions. For I was not dreaming, there are lions here
      and there is the proof&rdquo;.
    </p>
    <p>
      The proof was a trail of blood which the fleeing beast had left behind it.
      Following this blood-spoor, with watchful eye and revolver in hand, the
      valiant Tarasconais went from artichoke to artichoke until he arrived at a
      small field of oats.... In a patch of flattened grain was a pool of blood
      and in the middle of the pool, lying on its side with a large wound to its
      head, was... what?... a lion?... No Parbleu!... A donkey! One of the tiny
      donkeys so common in Algeria, which there are called &ldquo;Bourriquots&rdquo;.
    </p>
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    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      Chapter 17.
    </h2>
    <p>
      Tartarin&rsquo;s first reaction at the sight of his unfortunate victim was one
      of annoyance. There is after all a considerable difference between a lion
      and a bourriquot. This was quickly replaced by a feeling of pity. The poor
      bourriqout was so pretty, so gentle, its warm flanks rising and falling as
      it breathed. Tartarin knelt down and with the end of his sash he tried to
      staunch the blood from its wound. The sight of this great man tending the
      little donkey was the most touching thing you could imagine. At the
      soothing contact of the sash, the bourriquot, which was already at death&rsquo;s
      door, opened a big grey eye and twitched once or twice its long ears, as
      if to say &ldquo;Thank you!... Thank you!&rdquo;. Then a final tremor shook it from
      head to tail and it moved no more.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Noiraud!... Noiraud!&rdquo; Came a sudden cry from a strident, anxious voice,
      and the branches of some nearby bushes were thrust aside. Tartarin had
      barely time to get up and put himself on guard. It was the female!... She
      arrived, roaring and terrible, in the guise of an elderly Alsation lady in
      a rabbit-skin coat, armed with a red umbrella and calling for her donkey
      in a voice which woke all the echoes of Mustapha. Certainly it might have
      been better for Tartarin to have had to deal with an angry lioness than
      this infuriated old lady. In vain he tried to explain what had happened...
      how he had mistaken Noiraud for a lion, she thought he was trying to make
      fun of her and, uttering loud cries of indignation, she set about our hero
      with blows from her umbrella. Tartarin, in confusion, defended himself as
      best he could, parrying the blows with his rifle, sweating, puffing,
      jumping about and crying &ldquo;But Madame!... But Madame!&rdquo;. To no avail. Madame
      was deaf to his pleas and redoubled her efforts.
    </p>
    <p>
      Happily a third party arrived on the field of battle. It was the husband
      of the Alsation lady, also an Alsation.... A tavern keeper and a shrewd
      man of business. When he saw with whom he was dealing and that the
      assassin was willing to pay for his crime, he disarmed his spouse and took
      her to one side. Tartarin gave two hundred francs. The donkey was worth at
      least ten, which is the going price for bourriquots in the Arab market.
      Then the poor Noiraud was buried beneath a fig tree, and the Alsation, put
      in a good humour at the sight of so much money, invited our hero to break
      a crust at his tavern, which was not far away at the edge of the main
      road. The Algerian hunters went there every Sunday for luncheon; for the
      countryside was full of game, and for two leagues about the city there was
      not a better place for rabbits. &ldquo;And the lions?&rdquo; Asked Tartarin. The
      Alsation looked at him with surprise... &ldquo;The lions?&rdquo; &ldquo;Yes, the lions, do
      you see them sometimes?&rdquo; Tartarin replied, with a little less assurance.
      The tavern-keeper burst out laughing, &ldquo;Lions!... Lions!... What is all
      this about lions?&rdquo; &ldquo;Are there no lions in Algeria then?&rdquo; &ldquo;Moi foi! I have
      been here for twenty years and I have never seen any.... though I did once
      hear... I think there was a report in the newspaper... but it was long
      ago... somewhere in the south&rdquo;....
    </p>
    <p>
      At that moment they reached the tavern, a wayside pot house, the sort of
      thing one can see by any main road. It had a very faded sign above the
      door, some billiard cues painted on the wall and the inoffensive name &ldquo;Au
      rendezvous des lapins&rdquo;.
    </p>
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    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      Chapter 18.
    </h2>
    <p>
      This first adventure would have been enough to discourage many people, but
      seasoned characters such as Tartarin are not so easily disheartened. The
      lions are in the south, thought our hero, very well I shall go to the
      south.
    </p>
    <p>
      As soon as he had swallowed his last morsel, he got up, thanked his host,
      took leave of the old lady without any ill-feeling, shed a last tear over
      the unfortunate Noiraud and headed quickly for Algiers, with the firm
      intention of packing his trunks and departing that same day for the south.
    </p>
    <p>
      Sadly, the main Mustapha road seemed to have grown longer during the
      night. There was so much sunshine, so much dust, the bivouac tent was so
      heavy, that Tartarin could not face the walk back to the town and he
      hailed the first horse-drawn omnibus which came along and climbed in....
      Poor Tartarin! How much better it would have been for his reputation if he
      had not entered that fateful vehicle, and had continued his journey on
      foot, even at the risk of collapsing from the heat and the weight of his
      two double-barreled rifles and the bivouac tent.
    </p>
    <p>
      With Tartarin aboard, the omnibus was now full. At the far end was an
      Algerian priest with a big black beard, his nose stuck in his breviary.
      Opposite was a young Moorish merchant, puffing at a large cigarette, then
      a Maltese seaman, and four or five Moorish women, with white linen masks,
      whose eyes alone were visible. These ladies had been on a visit to the
      cemetery of Abd-el-Kader, but this did not seem to have depressed them.
      Behind their masks they laughed and chattered among themselves and munched
      pastries.
    </p>
    <p>
      It seemed to Tartarin that they cast many glances in his direction, and
      one in particular, who was seated opposite him, fixed her gaze on him and
      did not remove it.
    </p>
    <p>
      Although the lady was veiled, the liveliness of her large dark eyes,
      emphasised by kohl, a delicate little wrist, encircled by gold bracelets,
      which one glimpsed from time to time amidst her draperies, the sound of
      her voice, the graceful movements of her head, all suggested that beneath
      her garments was someone young, pretty and loveable.
    </p>
    <p>
      The embarrassed Tartarin did not know which way to turn. The silent caress
      of these beautiful dark eyes set his heart aflutter. He blushed and paled
      by turns. Then to complete his downfall he felt on his massive boot the
      lady&rsquo;s dainty slipper scurrying about like a little red mouse.... What was
      he to do?... Reply to these looks, this touch?... Yes... but an amorous
      intrigue in this part of the world can have terrible consequences. In his
      imagination Tartarin already saw himself seized by eunuchs, decapitated or
      even worse, sewn into a sack and tossed into the sea with his head beside
      him.
    </p>
    <p>
      This thought cooled his ardour a little, but the little slipper continued
      to tease and the he eyes opened very wide, like two black velvet flowers
      which seemed to say &ldquo;Come and gather us!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The omnibus stopped. It had arrived at the Place du théatre, at the
      entrance to the Rue Bab Azoum. One by one, enveloped in their billowing
      garments and drawing their veils about them with savage grace, the Moors
      dismounted. Tartarin&rsquo;s neighbour was the last to leave and as she rose to
      go her face was so close to that of our hero that their breaths mingled
      and he was aware of a bouquet of youth, jasmine, musk and pastries.
    </p>
    <p>
      He could no longer resist. Drunk with love and ready to face anything, he
      scrambled after the Moor... At the sound of his clumsy footsteps she
      turned and put her finger to her lips, as if to say &ldquo;Hush&rdquo; and with the
      other hand she tossed him a little scented garland made of jasmine
      flowers. Tartarin bent to pick it up, but as he was somewhat overweight
      and much encumbered by his weapons, the operation took a little time...
      When he rose, the garland pressed to his heart, the little Moor had
      disappeared.
    </p>
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    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      Chapter 19.
    </h2>
    <p>
      Sleep, lions of the Atlas! Sleep tranquilly in your lairs amongst the
      aloes and the cactus! It wil be some time before Tartarin de Tarascon
      comes to slaughter you. At the moment his equipment, his arms, his
      medicine chest, the preserved food and the bivouac tent are piled up
      peacefully in a corner of room 36 in the Hotel de l&rsquo;Europe. Sleep without
      fear, great tawny lions! The Tarasconais is searching for his Moor.
    </p>
    <p>
      Since the events in the omnibus, the unhappy man seems to feel constantly
      on his feet the scurrying of the little red mouse, and the sea breeze
      which wafts across his face seems somehow perfumed by an amorous odour of
      patisserie and anise. He must find his Dulcinea; but to find in a city of
      one hundred thousand inhabitants a person of whom one knows only the scent
      of their breath, the appearance of their slippers and the colour of their
      eyes is no light undertaking. Only a lovesick Tarasconais would attempt
      such a task. To make matters worse, it must be confessed that beneath
      their masks all Moorish ladies tend to look very much the same; and then
      they do not go out a great deal, and if one wants to see them one must go
      to the upper town, the Arab town, the town of the Teurs.
    </p>
    <p>
      A real cut-throat place that upper town. Little dark alley-ways, very
      narrow, climbing steeply between two rows of silent, mysterious houses
      whose roofs touch to make a tunnel. Low doorways and small windows, opaque
      and barred, and then, to right and left, little shops within whose deep
      shade fierce &ldquo;Teurs&rdquo; with piratical faces, glittering eyes and gleaming
      teeth, smoke their hookahs and converse in low tones, as if planning some
      wicked deed.... To say that Tartarin walked through this fearsome township
      unmoved would be to lie. He was on the contrary moved a good deal, and in
      those obscure alleys where his large stomach took up almost the entire
      width, the brave fellow advanced with the greatest caution, his eyes
      alert, his finger on the trigger of his revolver, just as he used to be at
      Tarascon on his way to the club. At any moment he expected to be jumped on
      from behind by a whole gang of janissaries and eunuchs, but his desire to
      find the lady endowed him with the courage and determination of a giant.
    </p>
    <p>
      For eight days the intrepid Tartarin did not quit his search. Sometimes he
      could be seen hanging about the turkish baths, waiting for the women to
      emerge in chattering groups, scented from the bath. Sometimes he appeared
      at the entrance of a mosque, puffing and blowing as he removed his heavy
      boots before entering the sacred premises. On other occasions, at
      nightfall, when he was returning to the hotel, downcast at having
      discovered nothing at the mosque or the baths, he would hear, as he passed
      one of the Moorish houses, monotonous songs, the muffled sound of guitars,
      the rattle of tambourines and the light laughter of women, which made his
      heart beat faster. &ldquo;Perhaps she is there&rdquo; He would say to himself, and
      approaching the house he would lift the heavy knocker and let it fall
      timidly.
    </p>
    <p>
      Immediately the song and the laughter stop. Nothing can be heard within
      but faint vague cluckings as if in a sleeping hen-house. Hold on thinks
      our hero, something is about to happen, but what happened mostly was a big
      pot of cold water on his head, or orange peel and fig skins.... Sleep
      lions!
    </p>
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    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      Chapter 20.
    </h2>
    <p>
      For two long weeks the unhappy Tartarin searched for his Algerian
      lady-love, and it is likely that he would be searching still, if that
      providence which looks after lovers had not come to his aid in the guise
      of a Montenegrin gentleman.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Théatre in Algiers, like the &ldquo;Opera&rdquo; in Paris, organises every
      Saturday night during the winter a Bal Masque. This is, however, a
      provincial version. There are few people in the dance-hall; the occasional
      drifter from out of town, unemployed stevedores, some rustic tarts, who
      are in business but who still retain from their more virtuous days a faint
      aroma of garlic and saffron sauce... the real spectacle is in the foyer,
      which has been converted for the occasion into a gambling saloon.
    </p>
    <p>
      A feverish, multicoloured crowd jostles about the long green cloths.
      Algerian soldiers on leave, gambling their meagre pay. Moorish merchants
      from the upper town. Negroes. Maltese. Colonists who have come a hundred
      miles to wager the price of a cart or a pair of oxen on the turn of a
      card. Pale, tense and anxious as they watch the game.
    </p>
    <p>
      There are Algerian Jews, gambling en famille. The men in oriental costume,
      the women in gold coloured bodices. They gather round the table, chatter
      and and plan, count on their fingers, but play little. From time to time,
      and only after long consultation, an elderly, bearded patriarch goes to
      place the family stake. Then as long as play lasts there is a
      concentration of dark hebraic eyes on the table, which would seem to draw
      the gold pieces lying there as if by an invisible thread....
    </p>
    <p>
      Then there are the quarrels. Fights. Oaths in many languages. Knives are
      drawn. A guard arrives. Money is missing.... In the midst of this
      saturnalia wandered poor Tartarin, who had come that evening in search of
      forgetfulness and peace of heart.
    </p>
    <p>
      As he went about through the crowd, thinking of his Moor, suddenly, at one
      of the gaming tables, above the cries and the chinking of coins, two angry
      voices were raised. &ldquo;I tell you, there are twenty francs of mine missing,
      m&rsquo;sieu!&rdquo; &ldquo;M&rsquo;sieu!!!&rdquo; &ldquo;Well, what have you to say, m&rsquo;sieu?&rdquo; &ldquo;Do you know to
      whom you are talking, m&rsquo;sieu?&rdquo; &ldquo;I should be delighted to find out,
      m&rsquo;sieu!&rdquo; &ldquo;I am prince Gregory of Montenegro, m&rsquo;sieu!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      At this name, Tartarin, much moved, pushed through the crowd until he
      reached the front row, delighted to have found once more his prince, the
      distinguished Montenegrin nobleman whose acquaintance he had made on the
      packet-boat.
    </p>
    <p>
      Unfortunately this title of prince which had so dazzled the worthy
      Tarasconais, did not produce the least impression on the officer of the
      Chasseurs with whom the prince was in dispute. &ldquo;A likely story&rdquo; said the
      officer with a sneer, and then turning to the onlookers, &ldquo;Prince Gregory
      of Montenegro, who has ever heard of him?... No one!&rdquo; Tartarin, indignant,
      took a pace forward. &ldquo;Pardon... I know the prince.&rdquo; He said firmly in his
      best Tarrascon accent.
    </p>
    <p>
      The officer of the Chasseurs stared him in the face for a few moments,
      then shrugging his shoulders, he said &ldquo;Well now, is&rsquo;nt that just fine?...
      Share out the twenty francs between you and we&rsquo;ll leave it at that.&rdquo; So
      saying he turned on his heel and was lost in the crowd.
    </p>
    <p>
      Tartarin, furious, wanted to go after him, but the prince prevented him.
      &ldquo;Leave it... It&rsquo;s my affair.&rdquo; He said, and taking Tartarin by the arm he
      led him outside.
    </p>
    <p>
      When they had reached the square, prince Gregory of Montenegro took off
      his hat, held out his hand to our hero and vaguely recalling his name
      began in vibrant tones, &ldquo;Monsieur Barbarin...&rdquo; &ldquo;Tartarin.&rdquo; Breathed the
      other, timidly. &ldquo;Tartarin... Barbarin, it makes no difference, we are now
      friends for life.&rdquo; And the noble Montenegrin shook his hand with ferocious
      energy. Tartarin was was overwhelmed by pride. &ldquo;Prince.... Prince&rdquo; He
      murmured in confusion.
    </p>
    <p>
      Fifteen minutes later the two gentlemen were seated in the Restaurant des
      Platanes, an agreeable spot whose terraces sloped down toward the sea, and
      there before a large Russian salad and a bottle of good wine they renewed
      their acquaintance.
    </p>
    <p>
      You cannot imagine anything more beguiling than this Montenegrin prince.
      Slim, elegant, his hair curled and waved, smooth-shaven and powdered and
      decked with strange orders, he had a sharp eye an ingratiating manner and
      spoke with a vaguely Italian accent, faintly suggestive of a renaissance
      Cardinal. Of ancient aristocratic lineage, his brothers, it seemed, had
      driven him into exile at the age of ten, because of his liberal opinions;
      since when he had travelled the world for his instruction and pleasure...
      a philosopher prince. By a remarkable coincidence the prince had spent
      three years in Tarascon, but when Tartarin expressed astonishment at never
      having seen him at the club or on the promonade, &ldquo;I didn&rsquo;t go out much&rdquo;
       Said the prince in a somewhat evasive manner, and Tartarin discretely
      asked no more questions. Important people, he knew, had diplomatic
      secrets.
    </p>
    <p>
      All in all a very fine prince this Gregory. While sipping his wine he
      listened patiently to Tartarin, who told him of his Moorish love, and as
      he claimed to have contacts among these ladies, he even undertook to help
      look for her.
    </p>
    <p>
      They drank long and deep. They drank to the ladies of Algeria. They drank
      to free Montenegro. Outside, below the terrace, the sea rolled, the waves
      slapping wetly on the beach. The air was warm, the sky bright with stars,
      in the plane trees a nightingale sang... It was Tartarin who paid the
      bill.
    </p>
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    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      Chapter 21.
    </h2>
    <p>
      The Montenegrin prince was as good as his word. Shortly after the reunion
      at the Restaurant des Platanes he arrived early one morning at Tartarin&rsquo;s
      room. &ldquo;Quick!... quick!... get dressed&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;Your Moor has been
      found... her name is Baia... as pretty as a picture, twenty years old and
      already a widow.&rdquo; &ldquo;A widow!.... Well that&rsquo;s a bit of luck&rdquo; Said Tartarin
      who was a little uneasy at the thought of Moorish husbands. &ldquo;Yes, but
      closely guarded by her brother&rdquo; &ldquo;Oh! That&rsquo;s a bit awkward&rdquo; &ldquo;A ferocious
      Moor who sells hookahs in the bazaar&rdquo; There was a silence, &ldquo;Good!&rdquo; Said
      the prince, &ldquo;You&rsquo;re not the chap to be put off by a little thing like
      that, and anyway we can perhaps buy off this villain by purchasing some of
      his pipes. So come on, get dressed... you lucky dog!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Pale and excited, his heart full of love, Tartarin jumped out of bed and
      as he climbed into his ample underwear he asked &ldquo;What shall I do now?&rdquo;
       &ldquo;Write to the lady quite simply and ask for a meeting&rdquo; &ldquo;She understands
      French then?&rdquo; Said Tartarin with an air of disappointment. For his dreams
      had been of an Arabian Houri, uncontaminated by the west. &ldquo;She doesn&rsquo;t
      understand a word&rdquo; Replied the prince imperturbably, &ldquo;but you will dictate
      the letter to me and I shall translate it.&rdquo; &ldquo;Oh prince, how good you are.&rdquo;
       And Tartarin strode about the room silent and deep in thought.
    </p>
    <p>
      As you may imagine one does not write to a Moorish lady as one might to a
      little shop-girl in Beaucaire. Happily our hero was able to cull from his
      reading many phrases of oriental rhetoric and combining these with some
      distant memories of the &ldquo;Song of Songs&rdquo; he was able to compose the most
      flowery epistle you could wish for, full of unlikely similes and
      improbable metaphors. With this romantic missive Tartarin would have liked
      to combine a bouquet of flowers with emblematic meanings, but prince
      Gregory thought it would be better to buy some pipes from the brother,
      which could not fail to soften the savage temperament of the gentleman and
      would please the lady, who greatly enjoyed smoking. &ldquo;Let us go quickly
      then and buy some pipes,&rdquo; Said Tartarin. &ldquo;No, no.&rdquo; Replied the prince,
      &ldquo;Let me go alone, I shall get them at a better price.&rdquo; &ldquo;Oh prince! How
      good you are to take such trouble.&rdquo; And the trusting fellow held out his
      purse to the obliging Montenegrin, exhorting him to neglect nothing which
      might make the lady happy.
    </p>
    <p>
      Unfortunately, the affair which had started so well, did not progress as
      rapidly as one might have wished. Very touched, it seemed, by Tartarin&rsquo;s
      eloquence, and already three parts won over, she would have liked nothing
      better than to have received him, but her brother had scruples, and to lay
      these to rest it was necessary to buy an astonishing number of pipes.
      Sometimes Tartarin wondered what on earth the lady did with them all, but
      he paid up nevertheless, and without stinting.
    </p>
    <p>
      At last, after the purchase of many pipes and the composing of many sheets
      of oriental prose, a rendezvous was arranged. I need hardly tell you with
      what fluttering of heart Tartarin prepared himself; with what care he
      trimmed, washed and scented his beard, without forgetting&mdash;for one
      must always be prepared&mdash;to slip into his pockets a life-preserver
      and a revolver. The ever-obliging prince attended this first meeting in
      the role of interpreter
    </p>
    <p>
      The lady lived in the upper part of the town. Outside her door lounged a
      young Moor of fourteen or fifteen, smoking a cigarette, it was Ali, her
      brother. When the two visitors arrived he knocked twice on the postern and
      retired from the scene. The door was opened and a negress appeared, who,
      without saying a word, conducted the two gentlemen across a narrow
      interior courtyard to a small, cool room where the lady awaited them,
      posed on a divan.
    </p>
    <p>
      At first glance it seemed to Tartarin that she was smaller and sturdier
      than the Moor on the omnibus... were they in fact the same? But this
      suspicion was only momentary: the lady was so pretty, with her bare feet
      and her plump fingers, rosy and delicate, loaded with rings; while beneath
      her bodice of gold cloth and the blossoms of her flowered robe was the
      suggestion of a charming form, a little chubby, dainty and curvaceous. The
      amber mouthpiece of a narghile was between her lips and she was enveloped
      in a cloud of pale smoke.
    </p>
    <p>
      On entering, Tartarin placed his hand on his heart and bowed in the most
      Moorish manner possible, rolling big, passionate eyes... Baia looked at
      him for a moment without speaking, then letting go of the amber
      mouthpiece, she turned her back, hid her face in her hands and one could
      see only her neck, shaken by uncontrollable laughter.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0022" id="link2HCH0022">
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    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      Chapter 22.
    </h2>
    <p>
      If you go in the evening into some of the coffee-houses of the Algerian
      upper town, you will hear even today, Moors speak among themselves, with
      winks and chuckles, of a certain Sidi ben Tart&rsquo;ri, an amiable, rich
      European who&mdash;it now some years ago&mdash;lived in the upper town
      with a little local girl called Baia.
    </p>
    <p>
      This Sidi ben Tart&rsquo;ri was of course none other than Tartarin. Well what
      could you expect. This sort of thing happens even in the lives of Saints
      and Heroes. The illustrious Tartarin was, like anyone else, not exempt
      from these failings and that is why for two whole months, forgetful of
      lions, forgetful of fame, he wallowed in oriental love, and slumbered,
      like Hannibal in Capua, amid the delights of Algiers.
    </p>
    <p>
      He had rented in the heart of the Arab quarter, a pretty little local
      house with an interior courtyard, banana trees, cool galleries and
      fountains. He lived there quietly in the company of his Moor, a Moor
      himself from head to foot. Puffing at his hookah and munching
      musk-flavoured condiments. Stretched on a divan opposite him, Baia with a
      guitar in her hands droned monotonous songs, or to amuse her master she
      perhaps mimed a belly-dance, holding in her hands a small mirror in which
      she admired her white teeth and made faces at herself.
    </p>
    <p>
      As the lady did not understand French and Tartarin did not speak a word of
      Arabic, conversation languished somewhat and the talkative Tarasconais had
      time to repent of any intemperate loquaciousness of which he might have
      been guilty at Bezuquet&rsquo;s pharmacy or Costecalde the gunsmith&rsquo;s shop. This
      penance even had a certain charm. There was something almost voluptuous in
      going all day without speaking, hearing only the bubble of the hookah, the
      strumming of the guitar and the gentle splashing of the fountain amid the
      mosaic tiles of his courtyard.
    </p>
    <p>
      Smoking, the Turkish bath and &ldquo;l&rsquo;amour&rdquo; occupied his time. They went out
      little. Sometimes Sidi Tart&rsquo;ri, with his lady mounted on the crupper, went
      on mule-back to eat pomegranates in a little garden which he had bought in
      the neighbourhood... but never on any account did they go down to the
      European part of the town, which with its drunken Zouaves, its bordellos
      full of officers and the sound of sabres trailing on the ground beneath
      the arcade, seemed to him to be insupportably ugly. Altogether our
      Tartarin was perfectly happy. Tartarin-Sancho in particular, very fond of
      Turkish pastries, declared himself entirely satisfied with his new
      existence. Tartarin-Quixote had perhaps now and then some regrets, when he
      remembered Tarascon and the promised lion skins... but they did not last
      for long, and to dispel these moments of sadness all that was needed was a
      look from Baia or a spoonful of her diabolic confections, scented and
      bewitching like some brew of Circe&rsquo;s.
    </p>
    <p>
      In the evenings prince Gregory came, to talk a little about free
      Montenegro. Of indefatigable complaisance, this agreeable nobleman
      undertook in the house the function of interpreter and, if need be, even
      that of steward, and all for nothing. Apart from him, Tartarin had only
      &ldquo;Teurs&rdquo; as visitors. All of those ferocious bandits which in the depths of
      their dark shops he once found so frightening, turned out to be harmless
      tradesmen, embroiderers, spice sellers, turners of pipe mouthpieces.
      Discrete, courteous people, modest, shrewd, and good at cards. Four or
      five times a week they would spend the evening with Tartarin, winning his
      money and eating his confitures, and on the stroke of ten leaving
      politely, giving thanks to the Prophet.
    </p>
    <p>
      After they had left, Sidi Tart&rsquo;ri and his faithful spouse would finish the
      evening on their terrace, a large white-walled terrace which formed the
      roof of the building and looked out over the town. All about them a
      thousand other terraces, tranquil in the moonlight, dropped one below the
      other down to the sea. Suddenly, like a burst of stars, a great clear
      chant rose heavenward and on the minaret of the nearby mosque a handsome
      Muezzin appeared, his white outline silhouetted against the deep blue of
      the night sky. As he invoked the praise of Allah in a splendid voice which
      filled the horizon, Baia laid aside her guitar and with her eyes fixed on
      the Muezzin seemed to be rapt in prayer. For as long as the chant lasted
      she remained ecstatic, like an Arabic St. Theresa. Tartarin watched her
      and thought that it must be a beautiful and powerful religion which could
      give rise to such transports of faith. Tarascon hide your face, your
      Tartarin dreams of becoming apostate.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0023" id="link2HCH0023">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      Chapter 23.
    </h2>
    <p>
      One fine afternoon of blue sky and warm breeze, Sidi Tart&rsquo;ri, astride his
      mule, was returning alone from his little garden, his legs spread widely
      over hay filled bags which were further swollen by citrus and water-melon.
      Lulled by the creaking of the harness and swaying to the clip-clop of the
      animal the good man progressed through the delightful countryside, his
      hands crossed on his stomach, three-quarters asleep from the effect of
      warmth and wellbeing. Suddenly, as he was entering the town, a loud hail
      woke him up. &ldquo;Hé! You, you great lump! You&rsquo;re Monsieur Tartarin aren&rsquo;t
      you?&rdquo; At the name of Tartarin and the sound of the Provencal accent
      Tartarin raised his head and saw, a few feet away, the tanned features of
      Barbassou, the Captain of the Zouave, who was drinking an absinthe and
      smoking his pipe at the door of a little café. &ldquo;Hé! Barbassou by God!&rdquo;
       Said Tartarin, pulling up his mule.
    </p>
    <p>
      Instead of replying Barbassou regarded him wide-eyed for a few moments,
      and then he began to laugh and laugh, so that Tartarin sat stunned among
      his water-melons. &ldquo;What a get-up, my poor monsieur Tartarin. It&rsquo;s true
      then what people say, that you have become a Teur? And little Baia, does
      she still sing &lsquo;Marco la belle&rsquo; all the time?&rdquo; &ldquo;Marco la belle,&rdquo; said
      Tartarin indignantly, &ldquo;I&rsquo;ll have you know Captain, that the person of whom
      you speak is an honest Moorish girl who doesn&rsquo;t know a word of French!&rdquo;
       &ldquo;Baia?... Not a word of French?... Where have you come from?&rdquo; And the
      Captain began to laugh again, more than ever. Then noticing the long face
      of poor Sidi Tart&rsquo;ri, he changed tack. &ldquo;Well perhaps it isn&rsquo;t the same
      one,&rdquo; He said, &ldquo;I&rsquo;ve probably got her mixed up with someone else... only
      look here, M. Tartarin, you would be wise not to put too much trust in
      Algerian Moors, or Montenegrin princes.&rdquo; Tartarin stood up in his
      stirrups, and made his grimace, &ldquo;The prince is my friend, Captain!&rdquo; He
      said. &ldquo;All right... all right... Don&rsquo;t let&rsquo;s quarrel... would you like a
      drink?... no. Any message you would like me to take back?... none. Well
      that&rsquo;s it then. Bon voyage.... Oh!... While I think of it, I have some
      good French tobacco here, if you would like a few pipes-full take some,
      help yourself, it will do you good, it&rsquo;s those blasted local tobaccos that
      scramble your brain.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      With that the Captain returned to his absinthe and Tartarin pensively
      trotted his mule down the road to his little house. Although in his loyal
      heart he refused to believe any of the insinuations made by the Captain,
      they had upset him, and his rough oaths and country accent had combined to
      awake in him a vague feeling of remorse. When he reached home, Baia had
      gone to the baths, the negress seemed to him ugly, the house dismal, and
      prey to an indefinable melancholy, he went and sat by the fountain and
      filled his pipe with Barbassou&rsquo;s tobacco. The tobacco had been wrapped in
      a fragment of paper torn from &ldquo;The Semaphore&rdquo; and when he spread it out
      the name of his home town caught his eye.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;News from Tarascon,&rdquo; He read, &ldquo;The town is in a state of alarm. Tartarin
      the lion killer, who went to hunt the big cats in Africa, has not been
      heard of for several months.... What has happened to our heroic
      compatriot? One dare hardly ask oneself, knowing as we do his ardent
      nature, his courage and love of adventure.... Has he, like so many others,
      been swallowed up in the desert sands, or has he perhaps fallen victim to
      the murderous teeth of those feline monsters, whose skins he promised to
      the municipality.... A terrible incertitude! However, some African
      merchants who came to the fair at Beaucaire, claim to have met, in the
      heart of the desert, a white man whose description corresponds with his
      and who was heading for Timbuctoo. May God preserve our Tartarin!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      When he read this, Tartarin blushed and trembled. All Tarascon rose before
      his eyes. The club. The hat hunters. The green armchair at Costecalde&rsquo;s
      shop: and soaring above, like the extended wings of an eagle, the
      formidable moustache of the brave Commandant Bravida. Then to see himself
      squatting slothfully on his mat, while he was believed to be engaged in
      slaying lions, filled him with shame. Suddenly he leaped to his feet. &ldquo;To
      the lions!... To the lions!&rdquo; He cried, and hurrying to the dusty corner
      where lay idle his bivouac tent, his medicine chest, his preserved foods
      and his weapons, he dragged them into the middle of the courtyard.
      Tartarin-Sancho had just perished, only Tartarin-Quixote was left.
    </p>
    <p>
      There was just time enough to inspect his equipment, to don his arms and
      accoutrements, to put on his big boots, to write a few lines to prince
      Gregory, confiding Baia to his care, to slip into an envelope some
      banknotes, wet with tears, and the intrepid Tarasconais was in a
      stage-coach, rolling down the road to Blidah, leaving the stupefied
      negress in his house, gazing at the turban, the slippers and all the
      muslim rig-out of Sidi Tart&rsquo;ri, hanging discarded on the wall.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0024" id="link2HCH0024">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      Chapter 24.
    </h2>
    <p>
      It was an ancient, old-fashioned stage-coach, upholstered in the old way
      in heavy blue cloth, very faded, and with enormous pom-poms, which after a
      few hours on the road dug uncomfortably into one&rsquo;s back. Tartarin had an
      inside seat, where he installed himself as best he could, and where,
      instead of the musky scent of the great cats, he could savour the ripe
      perfume of the coach, compounded of a thousand odours of men, women,
      horses, leather, food and damp straw.
    </p>
    <p>
      The other passengers on the coach were a mixed lot. A Trappist monk, some
      Jewish merchants, two Cocottes, returning to their unit, the third
      Hussars, and a photographer from Orleansville.
    </p>
    <p>
      No matter how charming and varied the company, Tartarin did not feel like
      chatting and remained silent, his arm hooked into the arm-strap and his
      weaponry between his knees.... His hurried departure, the dark eyes of
      Baia, the dangerous chase on which he was about to engage, these thoughts
      troubled his mind, and also there was something about this venerable
      stage-coach, now domiciled in Africa, which recalled to him vaguely the
      Tarascon of his youth. Trips to the country. Dinners by the banks of the
      Rhône, a host of memories.
    </p>
    <p>
      Little by little it grew dark. The guard lit the lanterns. The old coach
      swayed and squeaked on its worn springs. The horses trotted, the bells on
      their harness jingling, and from time to time there sounded the clash of
      ironmongery from Tartarin&rsquo;s arms chest on the top of the coach.
    </p>
    <p>
      Sleepily Tartarin contemplated his fellow passengers as they danced before
      his eyes, shaken by the jolting of the coach, then his eyes closed and he
      heard no more, except vaguely, the rumble of the axles and the groaning of
      the coach sides....
    </p>
    <p>
      Suddenly an ancient female voice, rough, hoarse and cracked, called the
      Tarasconais by name: &ldquo;Monsieur Tartarin!... Monsieur Tartarin!&rdquo; &ldquo;Who is
      calling me?&rdquo; &ldquo;It is I, Monsieur Tartarin, don&rsquo;t you recognise me?... I am
      the stage-coach which once ran... it is now twenty years ago... the
      service from Tarascon to Nimes.... How many times have I carried you and
      your friends when you went hat shooting over by Joncquières or
      Bellegarde... I didn&rsquo;t recognise you at first because of your bonnet and
      the amount of weight you have put on, but as soon as you began to snore,
      you old rascal, I knew you right away.&rdquo; &ldquo;Bon!... Bon!&rdquo; Replied Tartarin,
      somewhat vexed, but then softening, he added: &ldquo;But now, my poor old lady,
      what are you doing here?&rdquo; &ldquo;Ah! My dear M. Tartarin, I did not come here of
      my own free will I can promise you. Once the railway reached Beaucaire no
      one could find a use for me so I was shipped off to Africa... and I am not
      the only one, nearly all the stage-coaches in France have been deported
      like me; we were found too old fashioned and now here we all are, leading
      a life of slavery.&rdquo; Here the old coach gave a long sigh, then she went on:
      &ldquo;I can&rsquo;t tell you monsieur Tartarin how much I miss my lovely Tarascon.
      These were good times for me, the time of my youth. You should have seen
      me leaving in the morning, freshly washed and polished, with new varnish
      on my wheels, my lamps shining like suns and my tarpaulin newly dressed
      with oil. How grand it was when the postillion cracked his whip and sang
      out, &lsquo;Lagadigadeou, la Tarasque, la Tarasque&rsquo; and the guard, with his
      ticket-punch slung on its bandolier and his braided cap tipped over one
      ear, chucked his little yapping dog onto the tarpaulin of the coach-roof
      and scrambled up himself crying &lsquo;Let&rsquo;s go!... Let&rsquo;s go!&rsquo; Then my four
      horses would start off with a jingle of bells, barking and fanfares.
      Windows would open and all Tarascon would watch with pride the stage-coach
      setting off along the king&rsquo;s highway.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What a fine road it was, Monsieur Tartarin, wide and well kept, with its
      kilometre markers, its heaps of roadmender&rsquo;s stones at regular intervals,
      and to right and left vinyards and pretty groves of olive trees. Then inns
      every few yards, post-houses every five minutes... and my travellers! What
      fine folk!... Mayors and curés going to Nimes to see their Prefect or
      Bishop, honest workmen, students on holiday, peasants in embroidered
      smocks, all freshly shaved that morning, and up on top, all of you hat
      shooters, who were always in such good form and who sang so well to the
      stars as we returned home in the evening.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Now it is a different story... God knows the sort of people I carry. A
      load of miscreants from goodness knows where, who infest me with vermin.
      Negroes, Bedouins, rascals and adventurers from every country, colonists
      who stink me out with their pipes, and all of them talking a language
      which even our Heavenly Father couldn&rsquo;t understand.... And then you see
      how they treat me. Never brushed. Never washed. They grudge me the grease
      for my axles, and instead of the fine big, quiet horses which I used to
      have, they give me little Arab horses which have the devil in them,
      fighting, biting, dancing about and running like goats, breaking my shafts
      with kicks. Aie!... Aie! They are at it again now.... And the roads! It&rsquo;s
      still all right here, because we are near Government House, but out there,
      nothing! No road of any sort. One goes as best one can over hill and dale
      through dwarf palms and mastic trees. Not a single fixed stop. One pulls
      up at wherever the guard fancies, sometimes at one farm, sometimes at
      another. Sometimes this rogue takes me on a detour of two leagues just so
      that he can go and drink with a friend. After that it&rsquo;s &lsquo;Whip up
      postillion, we must make up for lost time.&rsquo; The sun burns. The dust
      chokes... Whip!... Whip! We crash. We tip over. More whip. We swim across
      rivers, we are cold, soaked and half drowned... Whip!... Whip!... Whip!
      Then in the evening, dripping wet... that&rsquo;s good for me at my age... I
      have to bed down in the yard of some caravan halt, exposed to all the
      winds. At night jackals and hyenas come to sniff at my lockers and
      creatures which fear the dawn hide in my compartments. That&rsquo;s the life I
      lead, monsieur Tartarin, and I shall lead until the day when, scorched by
      sun and rotted by humid nights, I shall fall at some corner of this
      beastly road, where Arabs will boil their cous-cous on the remains of my
      old carcase.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Blidah!... Blidah!&rdquo; Shouted the guard, opening the coach door.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0025" id="link2HCH0025">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      Chapter 25.
    </h2>
    <p>
      Indistinctly, through the steamed up windows, Tartarin could see the
      pretty square of a neatly laid out little township, surrounded by arcades
      and planted with orange trees, in the centre of which a group of soldiers
      was drilling in the thin, pink haze of early morning. The cafés were
      taking down their shutters, in one corner a vegetable market was under
      way. It was charming, but in no way did it suggest lions. &ldquo;To the south,
      further to the south.&rdquo; Murmured Tartarin, settling back in his corner.
    </p>
    <p>
      At that moment the coach door was opened, letting in a gust of fresh air,
      which bore on its wings, amongst the scent of orange blossom, a very small
      gentleman in a brown overcoat. Neat, elderly, thin and wrinkled, with a
      face no bigger than a fist, a silk cravat five fingers high, a leather
      brief-case and an umbrella. The perfect image of a village notary. On
      seeing Tartarin&rsquo;s weaponry, the little gentleman, who was seated opposite
      him, looked very surprised, and began to stare at our hero.
    </p>
    <p>
      The horses were changed and the coach set off... the little gentleman
      continued to stare. At length Tartarin became offended and staring in his
      turn at the little gentleman he asked &ldquo;Do you find this surprising?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not at all, but it does rather get in the way.&rdquo; Was the reply, and the
      fact is that with his tent, his revolver, his two rifles and their covers,
      not to mention his natural corpulence, Tartarin de Tarascon did take up
      quite a lot of space.
    </p>
    <p>
      This reply from the little gentleman annoyed Tartarin, &ldquo;Do you suppose
      that I would go after lions with an umbrella?&rdquo; Asked the great man
      proudly. The little gentleman looked at his umbrella, smiled and and asked
      calmly, &ldquo;You monsieur are...?&rdquo; &ldquo;Tartarin de Tarascon, lion hunter.&rdquo; And in
      pronouncing these words the brave Tartarin shook the tassel of his chechia
      as if it were a mane.
    </p>
    <p>
      In the coach there was a startled response. The Trappist crossed himself,
      the Cocottes uttered little squeaks of excitement and the photographer
      edged closer to the lion killer, thinking that he might be a good subject
      for a picture. The little gentleman was not in the least disturbed. &ldquo;Have
      you killed many lions, Monsieur Tartarin?&rdquo; He asked quietly. Tartarin
      adopted a lofty air, &ldquo;Yes many of them. More than you have hairs on your
      head.&rdquo; And all the passengers laughed at the sight of the three or four
      yellow hairs which sprouted from the little gentleman&rsquo;s scalp.
    </p>
    <p>
      The photographer then spoke up, &ldquo;A terrible profession yours, Monsieur
      Tartarin, you must have moments of danger sometimes like that brave M.
      Bombonnel.&rdquo; &ldquo;Ah!... yes... M. Bombonnel, the man who hunts panthers.&rdquo; Said
      Tartarin, with some disdain. &ldquo;Do you know him?&rdquo; Asked the little
      gentleman. &ldquo;Ti!... Pardi!... To be sure I know him, we have hunted
      together more than twenty times.&rdquo; &ldquo;You hunt panthers also M. Tartarin?&rdquo;
       &ldquo;Occasionally, as a pastime.&rdquo; Said Tartarin casually, and raising his head
      with a heroic gesture which went straight to the hearts of the two
      Cocottes, he added &ldquo;They cannot be compared to lions.&rdquo; &ldquo;One could say,&rdquo;
       Hazarded the photographer, &ldquo;That a panther is no more than a large
      pussy-cat.&rdquo; &ldquo;Quite right.&rdquo; Said Tartarin, who was not reluctant to lower
      the reputation of this M. Bombonnel, particularly in front of the ladies.
    </p>
    <p>
      At this moment the coach stopped. The guard came to open the door and he
      addressed the little old man, &ldquo;This is where you want to get off
      Monsieur.&rdquo; He said very respectfully.
    </p>
    <p>
      The little gentleman got up to leave, but before he closed the door he
      said &ldquo;Would you permit me to give you a word of advice M. Tartarin?&rdquo; &ldquo;What
      is that Monsieur?&rdquo; &ldquo;Go back quickly to Tarascon, M. Tartarin, you are
      wasting your time here... There are a few panthers left in Algeria, but,
      fi donc! They are too small a quarry for you... as for lions, they are
      finished. There are no more in Algeria, my friend Chassaing has just
      killed the last one.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      On that the little gentleman saluted, closed the door and went off,
      laughing, with his brief-case and umbrella. &ldquo;Guard!&rdquo; Said Tartarin, making
      his grimace. &ldquo;Who on earth was that fellow?&rdquo; &ldquo;What! Don&rsquo;t you know him?&rdquo;
       Said the guard, &ldquo;That&rsquo;s Monsieur Bombonnel!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0026" id="link2HCH0026">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      Chapter 26.
    </h2>
    <p>
      When the coach reached Milianah Tartarin got out and left it to continue
      its journey to the south. Two days of being bumped about and nights spent
      peering out of the window in the hope of seeing the outline of a lion in
      the fields lining the road, had earned a little rest; and then it must be
      admitted that after the misadventure over M. Bombonnel, Tartarin, in spite
      of his weapons, his terrible grimace and his red chechia, had not felt
      entirely at ease in the presence of the photographer and the two ladies of
      the third Hussars.
    </p>
    <p>
      He made his way along the wide streets of Milianah, full of handsome trees
      and fountains, but while he looked for a convenient hotel, he could not
      prevent himself from mulling over the words of M. Bombonnel. What if it
      were true... what if there were no more lions in Algeria? What then was
      the point of all this travel and all these discomforts?
    </p>
    <p>
      Suddenly at a bend in the road our hero was confronted by a remarkable
      spectacle. He found himself face to face with&mdash;believe it or not&mdash;a
      superb lion which was seated regally at the door of a café, Its mane tawny
      in the sunshine.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Who says there are no more lions?&rdquo; Cried Tartarin, jumping back. On
      hearing this exclamation the lion lowered its head, and taking in its jaws
      the wooden begging bowl which lay on the pavement before it, extended it
      humbly in the direction of Tartarin, who was paralyzed by astonishment...
      a passing Arab tossed in a few coppers. Then Tartarin understood. He saw
      what his surprise had at first prevented him from seeing, a crowd of
      people which was gathered round the poor tame lion, which was blind, and
      the two big negroes, armed with cudgels, who led it about the town.
    </p>
    <p>
      Tartarin&rsquo;s blood boiled. &ldquo;Wretches!&rdquo; He cried &ldquo;To debase this noble
      creature!&rdquo; And running to the lion he snatched the sordid begging bowl
      from the royal jaws.... The two negroes, believing they were dealing with
      a thief, threw themselves on Tartarin with raised cudgels. It was a
      terrible set-to. Women were screeching children laughing there were calls
      for the police and the lion in its darkness joined in with a fearsome
      roar. The unhappy Tartarin after a desperate struggle, rolled on the
      ground among copper coins and road sweepings.
    </p>
    <p>
      At this moment a man pushed through the crowd. He dismissed the negroes
      with a word and the women and children with a gesture. He helped Tartarin
      to his feet, brushed him down and seated him, out of breath, on a bollard.
      &ldquo;Good heavens... prince... Is it really you?&rdquo; Said Tartarin, rubbing his
      ribs. &ldquo;Indeed yes my valiant friend... it is I. As soon as I received your
      letter I confided Baia to her brother, hired a post-chaise, came fifty
      leagues flat out and here I am just in time to save you from the brutality
      of these louts.... For God&rsquo;s sake what have you been doing to get yourself
      dragged into a mess like this?&rdquo; &ldquo;What could you expect me to do, prince,
      when I saw this unfortunate lion with the begging bowl in its teeth,
      humiliated, enslaved, ridiculed, serving as a laughing stock for this
      unsavoury rabble...?&rdquo; &ldquo;But you are mistaken my noble friend.&rdquo; Said the
      prince, &ldquo;This lion on the contrary is an object of respect and adoration.
      It is a sacred beast, a member of a great convent of lions founded three
      centuries ago by Mahommed-ben-Aouda, a sort of wild fierce monastry where
      strange monks rear and tame hundreds of lions and send them throughout all
      north Africa, accompanied by mendicant brothers. The alms which these
      brothers receive serve to maintain the monastry and its mosque, and if
      those two negroes were in such a rage just now, it is because they are
      convinced that if one sou, one single sou, of their takings is lost
      through any fault of theirs, the lion which that are leading will
      immediately devour them.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      On hearing this unlikely but plausible tale, Tartarin recovered his
      spirits. &ldquo;It seems evident after all,&rdquo; He said &ldquo;That in spite of what M.
      Bombonnel said, there are still lions in Algeria.&rdquo; &ldquo;To be sure there are,&rdquo;
       said the prince, &ldquo;And tomorrow we shall begin to search the plains by the
      river Cheliff and you shall see.&rdquo; &ldquo;What!... prince. Do you mean to join in
      the hunt yourself?&rdquo; &ldquo;Of course&rdquo; Said the prince &ldquo;Do you think I would
      leave you to wander alone in the middle of Africa, among all those savage
      tribes, of whose language and customs you know nothing? No! No! My dear
      Tartarin. I shall not leave you again. Wherever you go I shall accompany
      you.&rdquo; &ldquo;Oh!... prince!... prince!&rdquo; And Tartarin clasped the valiant Gregory
      in a warm embrace.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0027" id="link2HCH0027">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      Chapter 27.
    </h2>
    <p>
      Very early the next morning the intrepid Tartarin and the no less intrepid
      prince Gregory, followed by half a dozen negro porters, left Milianah and
      descended towards the plain of the Chetiff by a steep pathway,
      delightfully shaded by jasmine, carobs and wild olives, between the hedges
      of little native gardens where a thousand bubbling springs trickled
      melodiously from rock to rock, a veritable Eden.
    </p>
    <p>
      Carrying as much in the way of arms as the great Tartarin, the prince was
      further adorned by a magnificent and colourful kepi, covered with gold
      braid and decorated with oak leaves embroidered in silver thread, which
      gave his highness the appearance of a Mexican General, or a
      Middle-European Station-Master. This fantastic kepi greatly intrigued
      Tartarin and he asked humbly for an explanation.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;An indispensable form of headgear for the traveller in Africa.&rdquo; The
      prince replied gravely; and while polishing the peak on his coat-sleeve he
      instructed his innocent companion on the important role played by the kepi
      in colonial administration, and the deference which its appearance
      inspires. This to such an extent that the government has been obliged to
      issue kepis to everyone from the canteen worker to the registrar-general.
      In fact, according to the prince, to govern the country there was no
      necessity for an elaborate regime. All that was needed was a fine
      gold-braided kepi glittering on the end of a big stick.
    </p>
    <p>
      Thus conversing and philosophising, they went there way. The bare-footed
      porters leapt from rock to rock, shouting and chattering. The armaments
      rattled in their case. The guns glittered in the sun.. The locals who
      passed bowed deeply before the magical kepi.... Up on the ramparts of
      Milianah, the chief of the Arab bureau, who was walking with his lady in
      the cool of the morning, hearing these unusual noises and seeing between
      the branches the flash of sunlight on the weapons, feared a surprise
      attack; whereupon he lowered the portcullis, beat the alarm and put the
      town in a state of siege.
    </p>
    <p>
      This was a good start to the expedition. Regrettably, before the end of
      the day, the situation deteriorated. One of the negroes was taken with the
      most fearful colic, having eaten the plasters in the medicine chest.
      Another fell, dead drunk, by the wayside, as a result of swigging spirits
      of camphor. A third, in charge of the log-book, deceived by the gold
      lettering on the cover, thought he had hold of the treasures of Mecca and
      made off with it at top speed.... Clearly some planning was needed, so the
      party halted and took council in the shade of an old fig tree. &ldquo;In my
      opinion&rdquo; Said the prince, trying unsuccessfully to dissolve a tablet of
      pemmican in a cooking pot, &ldquo;In my opinion, after this evening we should
      get rid of these negro porters. There is an Arab market near here and our
      best plan would be to go there and buy some bourriquots.&rdquo; &ldquo;No!... No!...
      No bourriquots!&rdquo; Interrupted Tartarin, who had become very red at the
      memory of Noiraud, adding hypocritically, &ldquo;How can these little creatures
      carry all our equipment?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The prince smiled, &ldquo;You are mistaken my illustrious friend,&rdquo; He said, &ldquo;The
      bourriquot may seem to you a poor weak creature, but it has a great
      heart... It needs it to support all it has to bear... ask the Arabs. This
      is their idea of our administration. On top they say, is the governor with
      a big stick which he uses to thump his staff. The staff in turn thump the
      soldiers. The soldiers thump the colonist. The colonist thumps the Arab,
      the Arab the negro, and the Negro thumps the bourriquot. The poor little
      bourriquot having no one to thump, bares its back and puts up with it. So
      you can see it is well able to carry all our gear.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That&rsquo;s all very well.&rdquo; Replied Tartarin, &ldquo;But I don&rsquo;t think that donkeys
      add much colour to the general appearance of our caravan. Now if we could
      have a camel...!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Just as you wish.&rdquo; Said his highness, and they set off for the market.
    </p>
    <p>
      The market was held some distance away on the bank of the Cheliff. There
      were five or six thousand Arabs milling around in the sun, trading noisily
      among piles of olives, pots of honey, sacks of spices and heaps of cigars.
      There were fires at which whole sheep were roasting, dripping with butter.
      There were open air butcheries where almost naked negroes, their feet
      paddling in blood and their arms red to the elbow, were cutting up the
      carcases of goats hanging from hooks... In one corner, in a tent repaired
      in a thousand different colours, was a Moorish official with a big book
      and spectacles. Over there is a crowd. There are cries of rage. It is a
      roulette game that has been set up on a corn bin and the tribesmen
      gathered about it have started fighting with knives. Elsewhere, there are
      cheers, laughter and stamping of feet, a merchant and his mule have fallen
      into the river and are in danger of drowning.... There are scorpions,
      crows, dogs and flies, millions of flies, but no camels.
    </p>
    <p>
      Eventually a camel was discovered which some nomads were trying to dispose
      of. This was a real desert camel, with little hair, a sad expression and a
      hump which through long shortage of fodder hung flaccidly to one side.
      Tartarin was so taken with it that he wanted the two partners to be
      mounted. This proved to be a mistake.
    </p>
    <p>
      The camel knelt, the trunks were strapped on, the prince installed himself
      on the creature&rsquo;s neck and Tartarin was hoisted up to the top of the hump,
      between two cases, from where he proudly saluted the assembled market and
      gave the signal for departure.... Heavens above!.... If only Tarascon
      could see him now!
    </p>
    <p>
      The camel rose, stretched out its long legs and took off. Calamity! The
      camel pitched and rolled like a frigate in a rough sea and the chechia
      responded to the motion as it had on the Zouave. &ldquo;Prince... prince&rdquo;
       Murmured Tartarin, ashen-faced, and clutching the scanty hair of the hump,
      &ldquo;Prince... let us get down, I feel... I feel I am going to disgrace
      France.&rdquo; But the camel was in full flight and nothing was going to stop
      it. Four thousand Arabs were running behind, bare-footed, waving, laughing
      like idiots, six hundred thousand white teeth glistening in the sun....
      The great man of Tarascon had to resign himself to the inevitable, and
      France was disgraced.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0028" id="link2HCH0028">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      Chapter 28.
    </h2>
    <p>
      Despite the picturesque nature of their new mode of transport our lion
      hunters were forced to dismount, out of regard for the chechia. They
      continued their journey as before, on foot, and the caravan proceeded
      tranquilly toward the south with Tartarin in front, the prince in the rear
      and between them the camel with the baggage.
    </p>
    <p>
      The expedition lasted for a month. For a whole month, Tartarin, hunting
      for non-existent lions, wandered from village to village in the immense
      plain of the Chetiff, across this extraordinary, cock-eyed French Algeria,
      where the perfumes of ancient Araby are mingled with a powerful stink of
      Absinthe and barrack-room; Abraham and Zouzou combined, a strange mixture
      like a page of the Old Testament rewritten by Sergeant Le Ramée or
      Corporal Pitou.... A curious spectacle for those who would care to
      look.... A savage and decadent people whom we are civilising by giving
      them our own vices. The cruel and uncontrolled authority of Pashas,
      inflated with self-importance in their cordons of the legion of honour,
      who at their whim have people beaten on the soles of their feet. The
      so-called justice of bespectacled Cadis, traitors to the koran and to the
      law, who sell their judgements as did Esau his birthright for a plate of
      cous-cous. Drunken and libertine headmen, former batmen to General Yussif
      someone or other, who guzzle champagne in the company of harlots, and
      indulge in feasts of roast mutton, while before their tents the whole
      tribe is starving and disputes with the dogs the leavings of the
      seigniorial banquet.
    </p>
    <p>
      Then, all around, uncultivated plain. Scorched grass. Bushes bare of
      leaves. Scrub. Cactus. Mastic trees... The granary of France?... A granary
      empty of grain and rich only in jackals and bugs. Abandoned villages.
      Bewildered tribesfolk who run they know not where, fleeing from famine and
      sowing corpses along the road. Here and there a French settlement, the
      houses dilapidated, the fields untilled and raging hordes of locusts who
      eat the very curtains from the windows, while the colonists are all in
      cafés, drinking absinthe and discussing projects for the reform of the
      constitution.
    </p>
    <p>
      That is what Tartarin could have seen, if he had taken the trouble, but
      obsessed with his fantasy the man from Tarascon marched straight ahead,
      his vision limited to searching for these monstrous felines, of which
      there was no trace.
    </p>
    <p>
      Since the bivouac tent obstinately refused to open and the pemmican
      tablets to dissolve, the hunting party was compelled to stop daily at
      tribal villages. Everywhere, thanks to the prince&rsquo;s kepi, they were
      received with open arms. They were lodged by chieftains in strange
      palaces, great white buildings without windows, where were piled up
      hookahs and mahogany commodes, Smyrna carpets and adjustable oil lamps,
      cedar-wood chests full of Turkish sequins and clocks decorated in the
      style of Louis Phillipe. Everywhere Tartarin was treated to fêtes and
      official receptions. In his honour whole villages turned out, firing
      volleys in the air, their burnous gleaming in the sun: after which the
      good chieftain would come to present the bill.
    </p>
    <p>
      Nowhere, however, were there any more lions than there are on the Pont
      Neuf in Paris: but Tartarin was not discouraged, he pushed bravely on to
      the south. His days were spent scouring the scrub, rummaging among the
      dwarf palms with the end of his carbine and going &ldquo;Frt!... Frt!&rdquo; At each
      bush... Then every evening a stand-to of two or three hours... A wasted
      effort. No lions appeared.
    </p>
    <p>
      One evening, however, at about six o&rsquo;clock, as they were going through a
      wood of mastic trees, where fat quail, made lazy by the heat were jumping
      up from the grass, Tartarin thought he heard... but so far off... so
      distorted by the wind... so faint, the wonderful roar which he had heard
      so many times back home in Tarascon, behind the menagerie Mitaine.
    </p>
    <p>
      At first he thought he had imagined it, but in a moment, still far
      distant, but now more distinct, the roaring began again, and this time one
      could hear, all around, the barking of village dogs; while, stricken by
      terror and rattling the boxes of arms and preserves, the camel&rsquo;s hump
      trembled. There could be no more doubt.... It was a lion! Quick!... Quick!
      Into position! Not a moment to lose!
    </p>
    <p>
      There was, close by them, an old Marabout (the tomb of a holy man) with a
      white dome: the big yellow slippers of the deceased lying in a recess
      above the door, together with a bizarre jumble of votive offerings which
      hung along the walls: fragments of burnous, some gold thread, a tuft of
      red hair. There Tartarin installed the prince and the camel, and prepared
      to look for a hide. He was determined to face the lion single-handed, so
      he earnestly requested His Highness not to leave the spot, and for safe
      keeping he handed to him his wallet, a fat wallet stuffed with valuable
      papers and banknotes. This done our hero sought his post.
    </p>
    <p>
      About a hundred yards in front of the Marabout, on the banks of an almost
      dry river, a clump of oleanders stirred in the faint twilight breeze, and
      it was there that Tartarin concealed himself in ambush, kneeling on one
      knee, in what he felt was an appropriate position, his rifle in his hands
      and his big hunting knife stuck into the sandy soil of the river bank in
      front of him.
    </p>
    <p>
      Night was falling. The rosy daylight turned to violet and then to a sombre
      blue.... Below, amongst the stones of the river bed, there glistened like
      a hand-mirror a little pool of clear water: a drinking place for the wild
      animals. On the slope of the opposite bank one could see indistinctly the
      path which they had made through the trees: a view which Tartarin found a
      bit unnerving. Add to this the vague noises of the African night, the
      rustle of branches, the thin yapping of jackals, and in the sky a flock of
      cranes passing with cries like children being murdered. You must admit
      that this could be unsettling, and Tartarin was unsettled, he was even
      very unsettled! His teeth chattered and the rifle shook in his hands;
      well... there are evenings when one is not at one&rsquo;s best, and where would
      be the merit if heroes were never afraid?
    </p>
    <p>
      Tartarin was, admittedly, afraid, but in spite of his fear he held on for
      an hour... two hours, but heroism has its breaking point. In the dry river
      bed, close to him, Tartarin heard the sound of footsteps rattling the
      pebbles. Terror overtook him. He rose to his feet, fired both barrels
      blindly into the night and ran at top speed to the Marabout, leaving his
      knife stuck in the ground as a memorial to the most overwhelming panic
      that ever affected a hero.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A moi! prince!... A Moi!... The lion!&rdquo;... There was no answer.
      &ldquo;Prince!... prince! Are you there?&rdquo;.... The prince was not there. Against
      the white wall of the Marabout was only the silhouette of the worthy
      camel&rsquo;s hump. The prince Gregory had disappeared, taking with him the
      wallet and the banknotes. His highness had been waiting for a month for
      such an opportunity.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0029" id="link2HCH0029">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      Chapter 29.
    </h2>
    <p>
      The day after this adventurous yet tragic evening, when at first light our
      hero awoke and realised that the prince and his money had gone and would
      not return; when he saw himself alone in this little white tomb, betrayed,
      robbed and abandoned in the middle of savage Algeria with a one-humped
      camel and some loose change as his total resources, for the first time
      some misgivings entered his mind. He began to have doubts about
      Montenegro, about friendship, fame and even lions. Overcome by misery he
      shed bitter tears.
    </p>
    <p>
      While he was sitting disconsolately at the door of the Marabout with his
      head in his hands, his rifle between his knees and watched over by the
      camel... behold! The undergrowth opposite was thrust aside and the
      thunderstruck Tartarin saw not ten paces away a gigantic lion, which
      advanced towards him uttering roars which shook the ragged offerings on
      the wall of the Marabout and even the slippers of the holy man in their
      recess. Only Tartarin remained unshaken. &ldquo;At last!&rdquo; He cried, jumping to
      his feet with his rifle butt to his shoulder... Pan!... Pan!... Pft!...
      Pft!... The lion had two explosive bullets in its head! Fragments of lion
      erupted like fireworks into the burning African sky, and as they fell to
      earth, Tartarin saw two furious negroes, who ran towards him with raised
      cudgels. The two negroes of Milianah... Oh! Misère!... It was the the tame
      lion, the poor blind lion of the convent of Mahommed that the bullets of
      the Tarasconais had felled.
    </p>
    <p>
      This time Tartarin had the narrowest of escapes. Drunk with fanatical
      fury, the two negro mendicants would surely have had him in pieces had not
      the God of the Christians sent him a Guardian Angel in the shape of the
      District Police Officer from Orleansville, who arrived down the pathway,
      his sabre tucked under his arm, at that very moment. The sight of the
      municipal kepi had an immediate calming effect on the two negroes. Stern
      and majestic the representative of the law took down the particulars of
      the affair, had the remains of the lion loaded onto the camel, and ordered
      the plaintiff and the accused to follow him to Orleansville, where the
      whole matter was placed in the hands of the legal authorities.
    </p>
    <p>
      There then commenced a long and involved process. After the tribal Algeria
      in which he had been wandering, Tartarin now made the acquaintance of the
      no less peculiar and cock-eyed Algeria of the towns: litigious and
      legalistic. He encountered a sleazy justicary who stitched up shady deals
      in the back rooms of cafés. The Bohemian society of the gentlemen of the
      law; dossiers which stank of absinthe, white cravats speckled with drink
      and coffee stains. He was embroiled with ushers, solicitors, and business
      agents, all the locusts of officialdom, thin and ravenous, who strip the
      colonist down to his boots and leave him shorn leaf by leaf like a stalk
      of maize.
    </p>
    <p>
      The first essential point to be decided was whether the lion had been
      killed on civil or military territory. In the first case Tartarin would
      come before a civil tribunal, in the second he would be tried by
      court-martial: at the word court-martial Tartarin imagined himself lying
      shot at the foot of the ramparts, or crouching in the depths of a
      dungeon... A major difficulty was that the delimitation of these two areas
      was extremely vague, but at last, after months of consultation, intrigue,
      and vigils in the sun outside the offices of the Arab Bureau, it was
      established that on the one hand the lion was, when killed, on military
      ground, but on the other hand that Tartarin when he fired the fatal shot
      was in civilian territory. The affair was therefore a civil matter, and
      Tartarin was freed on the payment of an indemnity of two thousand five
      hundred francs, not including costs.
    </p>
    <p>
      How was this to be paid? The little money left after the prince&rsquo;s
      defection had long since gone on legal documents and judicial absinthe.
      The unfortunate lion killer was now reduced to selling off his armament
      rifle by rifle. He sold the daggers, the knives and coshes. A grocer
      bought the preserved food, a chemist what was left of the medicine chest.
      Even the boots went, with the bivouac tent, into the hands of a merchant
      of bric-a-brac. Once everything had been paid, Tartarin was left with
      little but the lion-skin and the camel. The lion-skin he packed up
      carefully and despatched to Tarascon, to the address of the brave
      Commandant Bravida. As for the camel, he counted on it to get him back to
      Algiers: not by riding it, but by selling it to raise the fare for the
      stage-coach, which was at least better than camel-back. Sadly the camel
      proved a difficult market, and no one offered to buy it at any price.
    </p>
    <p>
      Tartarin was determined to get back to Algiers, even if it meant walking.
      He longed to see once more Baia&rsquo;s blue corslet, his house, his fountain
      and to rest on the white tiles of his his little cloister while he awaited
      money to be sent from France. In these circumstances the camel did not
      desert him. This strange animal had developed an inexplicable affection
      for its master, and seeing him set out from Orleansville it followed him
      faithfully, regulating its pace to his and not quitting him by as much as
      a footstep.
    </p>
    <p>
      At first Tartarin found it touching. This fidelity, this unshakable
      devotion seemed wholly admirable; besides which the beast was no trouble
      and was able to find its own food. However, after a few days Tartarin grew
      tired of having perpetually at his heels this melancholy companion, who
      reminded him of all his misadventures. He began to be irritated. He took a
      dislike to its air of sadness to its hump and its haughty bearing. In he
      end he became so exasperated with it that his only wish was to be rid of
      it; but the camel would not be dismissed. Tartarin tried to lose it, but
      the camel always found him. He tried running away, but the camel could run
      faster. He shouted &ldquo;Clear off!&rdquo; and threw stones: the camel stopped and
      regarded him with a mournful expression, then after a few moments it
      resumed its pace and caught up with him. Tartarin had to resign himself to
      its company.
    </p>
    <p>
      When, after eight days of walking, Tartarin, tired and dusty, saw gleaming
      in the distance the white terraces of Algiers, when he found himself on
      the outskirts of the town, on the bustling Mustapha road, amid the crowds
      who watched him go by with the camel in attendance, his patience snapped,
      and taking advantage of some traffic congestion he ducked into a field and
      hid in a ditch. In a few moments he saw above his head, on the causeway,
      the camel striding along rapidly, its neck anxiously extended. Greatly
      relieved to be rid of it, Tartarin entered the town by a side road which
      ran along by the wall of his house.
    </p>
    <p>
      On his arrival at his Moorish house, Tartarin halted in astonishment. The
      day was ending, the streets deserted. Through the low arched doorway,
      which the negress had forgotten to close, could be heard laughter, the
      clinking of glasses, the popping of a champagne cork and the cheerful
      voice of a woman singing loud and clear:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Aimes-tu Marco la belle,
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;La danse aux salons en fleurs...&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Tron de Diou!&rdquo; Said Tartarin, blenching, and he rushed into the
      courtyard.
    </p>
    <p>
      Unhappy Tartarin! What a spectacle awaited him!.... Amid bottles,
      pastries, scattered cushions, tambourine, guitar, and hookah, Baia stood,
      without her blue jacket or her corslet, dressed only in a silver gauze
      blouse and big pink pantaloons, singing &ldquo;Marco la belle&rdquo; with a naval
      officer&rsquo;s hat tipped over one ear... while on a rug at her feet surfeited
      with love and confitures, was Barbassou, the infamous Barbassou, roaring
      with laughter as he listened to her.
    </p>
    <p>
      The arrival of Tartarin, haggard, thin, covered in dust, with blazing eyes
      and bristling chechia cut short this enjoyable Turco-Marseillaise orgy.
      Baia uttered a little cry, and like a startled leveret she bolted into the
      house, but Barbassou was not in the least put out and laughed more than
      ever: &ldquo;Hé!... Hé!... Monsieur Tartarin. What did I tell you? You can hear
      that she knows French all right.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Tartarin advanced, furious: &ldquo;Captain!..&rdquo; He began; but then, leaning over
      the balcony with a rather vulgar gesture, Baia threw down a few
      well-chosen words. Tartarin, deflated, sat down on a drum, his Moor spoke
      in the argot of the Marseilles back-streets.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;When I warned you not to trust Algerian women,&rdquo; Said Captain Barbassou
      sententiously, &ldquo;The same applied to your Montenegrin prince.&rdquo; Tartarin
      looked up, &ldquo;Do you know where the prince is?&rdquo; he asked.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, he is not far away. He will spend the next five years in the fine
      prison at Mustapha. The clown was foolish enough to be caught stealing...
      and anyway this is not the first time His Highness has been inside, he has
      already done three years in gaol somewhere, and... hang on!... I believe
      it was in Tarascon!
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;In Tarascon!&rdquo; Cried Tartarin, suddenly enlightened, &ldquo;that is why I never
      saw him there. All he knew of Tarascon was what he could see from a cell
      window.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hé!... without a doubt.... Ah! My poor M. Tartarin, you have to keep both
      eyes wide open in this devilish country if you don&rsquo;t want to be taken in.
      Like that business of the Muezzin.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What business?... What Muezzin?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ti!... Pardi!&rdquo; The Muezzin opposite, who was courting Baia; all Algiers
      knew about it. Not all the prayers he was chanting were addressed to
      Allah, some were directed to the little one, and he was making
      propositions under your nose. &ldquo;It seems that everyone in this beastly
      country is a crook&rdquo;, Wailed the unhappy Tartarin. Barbassou shrugged his
      shoulders, &ldquo;My dear fellow, you know how it is. All these sort of places
      are the same. If you take my advice you will go back to Tarascon as
      quickly as possible.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That&rsquo;s easy to say, but what am I to do for money? Don&rsquo;t you know how
      they robbed me out there in the desert?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t worry about that,&rdquo; laughed the Captain, &ldquo;the Zouave is leaving
      tomorrow and I&rsquo;ll take you back if you want... does that suit you,
      colleague?... All right... Good! There&rsquo;s only one thing left to do, there
      is still some champagne and some pastries left. Come, sit down and let
      bygones be bygones.&rdquo; After a little delay which his dignity required, our
      hero accepted the offer. They sat down and poured out a drink. Hearing the
      clink of glasses, Baia came down and finished singing Marco la Belle, and
      the party went on until late in the night.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0030" id="link2HCH0030">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      Chapter 30.
    </h2>
    <p>
      It is mid-day. The Zouave has steam up and is ready to depart. Up above on
      the balcony of the café Valentin, a group of officers aim the telescope,
      and come one by one, in order of seniority, to look at the lucky little
      ship which is going to France. It is the principle entertainment of the
      general staff. Down below, the water of the anchorage sparkles.... The
      breeches of the old Turkish cannons, mounted along the quay, glisten in
      the sunshine.... Passengers arrive.... Baggage is loaded onto tenders.
    </p>
    <p>
      Tartarin does not have any baggage. He comes down from the Rue de la
      Marine by the little market, full of bananas and water-melons, accompanied
      by his friend Captain Barbassou.
    </p>
    <p>
      Tartarin de Tarascon has left on the Moorish shore his arms, his equipment
      and his illusions, and is preparing to sail back to Tarascon with nothing
      in his pockets but his hands. Scarcely, however, had he set foot in the
      captain&rsquo;s launch, when a breathless creature scrambled down from the
      square above and galloped towards him. It was the camel, the faithful
      camel, which for twenty-four hours had been searching for its master.
    </p>
    <p>
      When Tartarin saw it, he changed colour and pretended not to know it; but
      the camel was insistent. It frisked along the quay. It called to its
      friend and regarded him with tender looks. &ldquo;Take me away!&rdquo; Its sad eyes
      seemed to say, &ldquo;Take me away with you, far away from this mock Arabia,
      this ridiculous Orient, full of locomotives and stage coaches, where I as
      a second-class dromadary do not know what will become of me. You are the
      last Teur, I am the last camel, let us never part, Oh my Tartarin!&rdquo; &ldquo;Is
      that your camel?&rdquo; Asked the Captain.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No!... No!... Not mine.&rdquo; Replied Tartarin, who trembled at the thought of
      entering Tarascon with this absurd escort; and shamelessly repudiating the
      companion of his misfortunes he repelled with his foot the soil of Algeria
      and pushed the boat out from the shore. The camel sniffed at the water,
      flexed its joints and leapt headlong in behind the boat, where it swam in
      convoy toward the Zouave, its hump floating on the water like a gourd and
      it neck lying on the surface like the ram of a trireme.
    </p>
    <p>
      The boat and the camel came alongside the Zouave at the same time. &ldquo;I
      don&rsquo;t know what I should do about this dromadary.&rdquo; Said the captain, &ldquo;I
      think I&rsquo;ll take it on board and present it to the zoo at Marseille, I
      can&rsquo;t just leave it here.&rdquo; So by means of block and tackle the wet camel
      was hoisted onto the deck of the Zouave, which then set sail.
    </p>
    <p>
      Tartarin spent most of the time in his cabin. Not that the sea was rough
      or that the chechia had to much to suffer, but because whenever he
      appeared on the deck the camel made such a ridiculous fuss of its master.
      You never saw a camel so attached to anyone as this.
    </p>
    <p>
      Hour by hour, when he looked through the porthole, Tartarin could see the
      Algerian sky turn paler, until one morning, in a silvery mist, he heard to
      his delight the bells of Marseilles. The Zouave had arrived.
    </p>
    <p>
      Our man, who had no baggage, disembarked without a word and hurried across
      Marseilles, fearing all the time that he might be followed by the camel,
      and he did not breathe easily until he was seated in a third-class railway
      carriage, on his way to Tarascon... a false sense of security. They had
      not gone far from Marseilles when heads appeared at windows and there were
      cries of astonishment, Tartarin looked out in turn and what did he see but
      the inescapable camel coming down the line behind the train with a
      remarkable turn of speed.
    </p>
    <p>
      Tartarin resumed his seat and closed his eyes. After this disastrous
      expedition he had counted on getting back home unrecognised, but the
      presence of this confounded camel made it impossible. What a return to
      make, Bon Dieu!... No money... No lions... Nothing but a camel!....
      &ldquo;Tarascon!... Tarascon!&rdquo;... It was time to get out.
    </p>
    <p>
      To Tartarin&rsquo;s utter astonishment, the heroic chechia had barely appeared
      in the doorway, when it was greeted by a great cry of &ldquo;Vive Tartarin!...
      Vive Tartarin!&rdquo; Which shook the glass vault of the station roof. &ldquo;Vive
      Tartarin!... Hurrah for the lion killer!&rdquo; Then came fanfares and a choir.
      Tartarin could have died, he thought this was a hoax: but no, all Tarascon
      was there, tossing their hats in the air and shouting his praises. There
      stood the brave Commandant Bravida, Costecalde the gunsmith, the President
      Ladevèze, the chemist and all the noble body of hat shooters, who pressed
      round their chief and carried him all the way down the steps.
    </p>
    <p>
      How remarkable are the effects of the &ldquo;mirage&rdquo;. The skin of the blind lion
      sent to the Commandant was the cause of all this tumult. At the sight of
      this modest trophy, displayed at the club, Tarascon and beyond Tarascon
      the whole of the Midi had worked themselves into a state of excitement.
      &ldquo;The Semaphore&rdquo; had spoken. A complete scenario had been invented. This
      was no longer one lion killed by Tartarin, it was ten lions, twenty lions,
      a whole troop of lions. So Tartarin, when he reached Marseilles was
      already famous, and an enthusiastic telegram had warned his home town of
      his imminent arrival.
    </p>
    <p>
      The excitement of the populace reached its peak when a fantastic animal,
      covered in dust and sweat, stumbled down the station steps behind our
      hero. For a moment they thought that the Tarasque had returned.
    </p>
    <p>
      Tartarin reassured his fellow citizens, &ldquo;It is my camel&rdquo; He said, and
      already under the influence of the Tarascon sun, that fine sun which
      induces fanciful exaggeration, he stroked the camel&rsquo;s hump and added, &ldquo;It
      is a noble creature, it saw me kill all my lions.&rdquo; So saying, he took the
      arm of the Commandant, who was blushing with pride, and followed by his
      camel, surrounded by hat shooters and acclaimed by the people, he
      proceeded peacefully toward the little house of the baobab; and as he
      walked along he began the story of his great expedition.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There was one particular evening,&rdquo; He said, &ldquo;When I was out in the heart
      of the Sahara...&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br />
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">





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