Tartarin de Tarascon. English

by Alphonse Daudet

  It seemed to Tartarin that they cast many glances in his direction, andone in particular, who was seated opposite him, fixed her gaze on himand did not remove it.

  Although the lady was veiled, the liveliness of her large dark eyes,emphasised by kohl, a delicate little wrist, encircled by goldbracelets, which one glimpsed from time to time amidst her draperies,the sound of her voice, the graceful movements of her head, allsuggested that beneath her garments was someone young, pretty andloveable.

  The embarrassed Tartarin did not know which way to turn. The silentcaress of these beautiful dark eyes set his heart aflutter. He blushedand paled by turns. Then to complete his downfall he felt on hismassive boot the lady's dainty slipper scurrying about like a littlered mouse.... What was he to do?... Reply to these looks, this touch?...Yes... but an amorous intrigue in this part of the world can haveterrible consequences. In his imagination Tartarin already saw himselfseized by eunuchs, decapitated or even worse, sewn into a sack andtossed into the sea with his head beside him.

  This thought cooled his ardour a little, but the little slippercontinued to tease and the he eyes opened very wide, like two blackvelvet flowers which seemed to say "Come and gather us!"

  The omnibus stopped. It had arrived at the Place du theatre, at theentrance to the Rue Bab Azoum. One by one, enveloped in their billowinggarments and drawing their veils about them with savage grace, the Moorsdismounted. Tartarin's neighbour was the last to leave and as she roseto go her face was so close to that of our hero that their breathsmingled and he was aware of a bouquet of youth, jasmine, musk andpastries.

  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 sheturned and put her finger to her lips, as if to say "Hush" and withthe other hand she tossed him a little scented garland made of jasmineflowers. Tartarin bent to pick it up, but as he was somewhat overweightand much encumbered by his weapons, the operation took a littletime... When he rose, the garland pressed to his heart, the little Moorhad disappeared.

  Chapter 19.

  Sleep, lions of the Atlas! Sleep tranquilly in your lairs amongst thealoes and the cactus! It wil be some time before Tartarin de Tarasconcomes to slaughter you. At the moment his equipment, his arms, hismedicine chest, the preserved food and the bivouac tent are piledup peacefully in a corner of room 36 in the Hotel de l'Europe. Sleepwithout fear, great tawny lions! The Tarasconais is searching for hisMoor.

  Since the events in the omnibus, the unhappy man seems to feelconstantly on his feet the scurrying of the little red mouse, and thesea breeze which wafts across his face seems somehow perfumed by anamorous odour of patisserie and anise. He must find his Dulcinea; but tofind in a city of one hundred thousand inhabitants a person of whom oneknows only the scent of their breath, the appearance of their slippersand the colour of their eyes is no light undertaking. Only a lovesickTarasconais would attempt such a task. To make matters worse, it must beconfessed that beneath their masks all Moorish ladies tend to look verymuch the same; and then they do not go out a great deal, and if onewants to see them one must go to the upper town, the Arab town, the townof the Teurs.

  A real cut-throat place that upper town. Little dark alley-ways, verynarrow, climbing steeply between two rows of silent, mysterious houseswhose roofs touch to make a tunnel. Low doorways and small windows,opaque and barred, and then, to right and left, little shops withinwhose deep shade fierce "Teurs" with piratical faces, glittering eyesand gleaming teeth, smoke their hookahs and converse in low tones, asif planning some wicked deed.... To say that Tartarin walked through thisfearsome township unmoved would be to lie. He was on the contrary moveda good deal, and in those obscure alleys where his large stomach tookup almost the entire width, the brave fellow advanced with the greatestcaution, his eyes alert, his finger on the trigger of his revolver, justas he used to be at Tarascon on his way to the club. At any moment heexpected to be jumped on from behind by a whole gang of janissaries andeunuchs, but his desire to find the lady endowed him with the courageand determination of a giant.

  For eight days the intrepid Tartarin did not quit his search. Sometimeshe could be seen hanging about the turkish baths, waiting for the womento emerge in chattering groups, scented from the bath. Sometimes heappeared at the entrance of a mosque, puffing and blowing as he removedhis heavy boots before entering the sacred premises. On other occasions,at nightfall, when he was returning to the hotel, downcast at havingdiscovered nothing at the mosque or the baths, he would hear, as hepassed one of the Moorish houses, monotonous songs, the muffled soundof guitars, the rattle of tambourines and the light laughter of women,which made his heart beat faster. "Perhaps she is there" He would say tohimself, and approaching the house he would lift the heavy knocker andlet it fall timidly.

  Immediately the song and the laughter stop. Nothing can be heard withinbut faint vague cluckings as if in a sleeping hen-house. Hold on thinksour hero, something is about to happen, but what happened mostly was abig pot of cold water on his head, or orange peel and fig skins.... Sleeplions!

  Chapter 20.

  For two long weeks the unhappy Tartarin searched for his Algerianlady-love, and it is likely that he would be searching still, if thatprovidence which looks after lovers had not come to his aid in the guiseof a Montenegrin gentleman.

  The Theatre in Algiers, like the "Opera" in Paris, organises everySaturday night during the winter a Bal Masque,. This is, however,a provincial version. There are few people in the dance-hall; theoccasional drifter from out of town, unemployed stevedores, some rustictarts, who are in business but who still retain from their more virtuousdays a faint aroma of garlic and saffron sauce... the real spectacle isin the foyer, which has been converted for the occasion into a gamblingsaloon.

  A feverish, multicoloured crowd jostles about the long green cloths.Algerian soldiers on leave, gambling their meagre pay. Moorish merchantsfrom the upper town. Negroes. Maltese. Colonists who have come a hundredmiles to wager the price of a cart or a pair of oxen on the turn of acard. Pale, tense and anxious as they watch the game.

  There are Algerian Jews, gambling en famille. The men in orientalcostume, the women in gold coloured bodices. They gather round thetable, chatter and and plan, count on their fingers, but play little.From time to time, and only after long consultation, an elderly, beardedpatriarch goes to place the family stake. Then as long as play laststhere is a concentration of dark hebraic eyes on the table, whichwould seem to draw the gold pieces lying there as if by an invisiblethread....

  Then there are the quarrels. Fights. Oaths in many languages. Knivesare drawn. A guard arrives. Money is missing.... In the midst of thissaturnalia wandered poor Tartarin, who had come that evening in searchof forgetfulness and peace of heart.

  As he went about through the crowd, thinking of his Moor, suddenly, atone of the gaming tables, above the cries and the chinking of coins, twoangry voices were raised. "I tell you, there are twenty francs of minemissing, m'sieu!" "M'sieu!!!" "Well, what have you to say, m'sieu?" "Doyou know to whom you are talking, m'sieu?" "I should be delighted tofind out, m'sieu!" "I am prince Gregory of Montenegro, m'sieu!"

  At this name, Tartarin, much moved, pushed through the crowd until hereached the front row, delighted to have found once more his prince, thedistinguished Montenegrin nobleman whose acquaintance he had made on thepacket-boat.

  Unfortunately this title of prince which had so dazzled the worthyTarasconais, did not produce the least impression on the officer of theChasseurs with whom the prince was in dispute. "A likely story" said theofficer with a sneer, and then turning to the onlookers, "PrinceGregory of Montenegro, who has ever heard of him?... No one!" Tartarin,indignant, took a pace forward. "Pardon... I know the prince." He saidfirmly in his best Tarrascon accent.

  The officer of the Chasseurs stared him in the face for a few moments,then shrugging his shoulders, he said "Well now, is'nt that justfine?... Share out the twenty francs between you and we'll leave it atthat
." So saying he turned on his heel and was lost in the crowd.

  Tartarin, furious, wanted to go after him, but the prince prevented him."Leave it... It's my affair." He said, and taking Tartarin by the arm heled him outside.

  When they had reached the square, prince Gregory of Montenegro took offhis hat, held out his hand to our hero and vaguely recalling his namebegan in vibrant tones, "Monsieur Barbarin..." "Tartarin." Breathed theother, timidly. "Tartarin... Barbarin, it makes no difference, we arenow friends for life." And the noble Montenegrin shook his handwith ferocious energy. Tartarin was was overwhelmed by pride."Prince.... Prince" He murmured in confusion.

  Fifteen minutes later the two gentlemen were seated in the Restaurantdes Platanes, an agreeable spot whose terraces sloped down toward thesea, and there before a large Russian salad and a bottle of good winethey renewed their acquaintance.

  You cannot imagine anything more beguiling than this Montenegrin prince.Slim, elegant, his hair curled and waved, smooth-shaven and powdered anddecked with strange orders, he had a sharp eye an ingratiating mannerand spoke with a vaguely Italian accent, faintly suggestive of arenaissance Cardinal. Of ancient aristocratic lineage, his brothers,it seemed, had driven him into exile at the age of ten, because ofhis liberal opinions; since when he had travelled the world for hisinstruction and pleasure... a philosopher prince. By a remarkablecoincidence the prince had spent three years in Tarascon, but whenTartarin expressed astonishment at never having seen him at the club oron the promonade, "I didn't go out much" Said the prince in a somewhatevasive manner, and Tartarin discretely asked no more questions.Important people, he knew, had diplomatic secrets.

  All in all a very fine prince this Gregory. While sipping his wine helistened patiently to Tartarin, who told him of his Moorish love, andas he claimed to have contacts among these ladies, he even undertook tohelp look for her.

  They drank long and deep. They drank to the ladies of Algeria. Theydrank to free Montenegro. Outside, below the terrace, the sea rolled,the waves slapping wetly on the beach. The air was warm, the sky brightwith stars, in the plane trees a nightingale sang... It was Tartarin whopaid the bill.

  Chapter 21.

  The Montenegrin prince was as good as his word. Shortly after thereunion at the Restaurant des Platanes he arrived early one morning atTartarin's room. "Quick!... quick!... get dressed" he said, "Your Moor hasbeen found... her name is Baia... as pretty as a picture, twenty yearsold and already a widow." "A widow!.... Well that's a bit of luck" SaidTartarin who was a little uneasy at the thought of Moorish husbands."Yes, but closely guarded by her brother" "Oh! That's a bit awkward""A ferocious Moor who sells hookahs in the bazaar" There was a silence,"Good!" Said the prince, "You're not the chap to be put off by a littlething like that, and anyway we can perhaps buy off this villain bypurchasing some of his pipes. So come on, get dressed... you lucky dog!"

  Pale and excited, his heart full of love, Tartarin jumped out of bed andas he climbed into his ample underwear he asked "What shall I do now?""Write to the lady quite simply and ask for a meeting" "She understandsFrench then?" Said Tartarin with an air of disappointment. For hisdreams had been of an Arabian Houri, uncontaminated by the west. "Shedoesn't understand a word" Replied the prince imperturbably, "but youwill dictate the letter to me and I shall translate it." "Oh prince,how good you are." And Tartarin strode about the room silent and deep inthought.

  As you may imagine one does not write to a Moorish lady as one might toa little shop-girl in Beaucaire. Happily our hero was able to cull fromhis reading many phrases of oriental rhetoric and combining these withsome distant memories of the "Song of Songs" he was able to compose themost flowery epistle you could wish for, full of unlikely similes andimprobable metaphors. With this romantic missive Tartarin would haveliked to combine a bouquet of flowers with emblematic meanings, butprince Gregory thought it would be better to buy some pipes from thebrother, which could not fail to soften the savage temperament of thegentleman and would please the lady, who greatly enjoyed smoking. "Letus go quickly then and buy some pipes," Said Tartarin. "No, no." Repliedthe prince, "Let me go alone, I shall get them at a better price." "Ohprince! How good you are to take such trouble." And the trusting fellowheld out his purse to the obliging Montenegrin, exhorting him to neglectnothing which might make the lady happy.

  Unfortunately, the affair which had started so well, did not progress asrapidly as one might have wished. Very touched, it seemed, by Tartarin'seloquence, and already three parts won over, she would have likednothing better than to have received him, but her brother had scruples,and to lay these to rest it was necessary to buy an astonishing numberof pipes. Sometimes Tartarin wondered what on earth the lady did withthem all, but he paid up nevertheless, and without stinting.

  At last, after the purchase of many pipes and the composing of manysheets of oriental prose, a rendezvous was arranged. I need hardly tellyou with what fluttering of heart Tartarin prepared himself; with whatcare he trimmed, washed and scented his beard, without forgetting--forone must always be prepared--to slip into his pockets a life-preserverand a revolver. The ever-obliging prince attended this first meeting inthe role of interpreter

  The lady lived in the upper part of the town. Outside her door lounged ayoung Moor of fourteen or fifteen, smoking a cigarette, it was Ali, herbrother. When the two visitors arrived he knocked twice on the posternand retired from the scene. The door was opened and a negress appeared,who, without saying a word, conducted the two gentlemen across a narrowinterior courtyard to a small, cool room where the lady awaited them,posed on a divan.

  At first glance it seemed to Tartarin that she was smaller and sturdierthan the Moor on the omnibus... were they in fact the same? But thissuspicion was only momentary: the lady was so pretty, with her barefeet and her plump fingers, rosy and delicate, loaded with rings; whilebeneath her bodice of gold cloth and the blossoms of her flowered robewas the suggestion of a charming form, a little chubby, dainty andcurvaceous. The amber mouthpiece of a narghile was between her lips andshe was enveloped in a cloud of pale smoke.

  On entering, Tartarin placed his hand on his heart and bowed in the mostMoorish manner possible, rolling big, passionate eyes... Baia lookedat him for a moment without speaking, then letting go of the ambermouthpiece, she turned her back, hid her face in her hands and one couldsee only her neck, shaken by uncontrollable laughter.

  Chapter 22.

  If you go in the evening into some of the coffee-houses of the Algerianupper town, you will hear even today, Moors speak among themselves,with winks and chuckles, of a certain Sidi ben Tart'ri, an amiable,rich European who--it now some years ago--lived in the upper town with alittle local girl called Baia.

  This Sidi ben Tart'ri was of course none other than Tartarin. Well whatcould you expect. This sort of thing happens even in the lives of Saintsand Heroes. The illustrious Tartarin was, like anyone else, not exemptfrom these failings and that is why for two whole months, forgetful oflions, forgetful of fame, he wallowed in oriental love, and slumbered,like Hannibal in Capua, amid the delights of Algiers.

  He had rented in the heart of the Arab quarter, a pretty little localhouse with an interior courtyard, banana trees, cool galleries andfountains. He lived there quietly in the company of his Moor, aMoor himself from head to foot. Puffing at his hookah and munchingmusk-flavoured condiments. Stretched on a divan opposite him, Baia witha guitar in her hands droned monotonous songs, or to amuse her mastershe perhaps mimed a belly-dance, holding in her hands a small mirror inwhich she admired her white teeth and made faces at herself.

  As the lady did not understand French and Tartarin did not speak aword of Arabic, conversation languished somewhat and the talkativeTarasconais had time to repent of any intemperate loquaciousness ofwhich he might have been guilty at Bezuquet's pharmacy or Costecaldethe gunsmith's shop. This penance even had a certain charm. There wassomething almost voluptuous in going all day without speaking, hearingonly the bubble of the hookah, the strumming of the guitar an
d thegentle splashing of the fountain amid the mosaic tiles of his courtyard.

  Smoking, the Turkish bath and "l'amour" occupied his time. They went outlittle. Sometimes Sidi Tart'ri, with his lady mounted on the crupper,went on mule-back to eat pomegranates in a little garden which he hadbought in the neighbourhood... but never on any account did they go downto the European part of the town, which with its drunken Zouaves, itsbordellos full of officers and the sound of sabres trailing on theground beneath the arcade, seemed to him to be insupportably ugly.Altogether our Tartarin was perfectly happy. Tartarin-Sancho inparticular, very fond of Turkish pastries, declared himself entirelysatisfied with his new existence. Tartarin-Quixote had perhaps now andthen some regrets, when he remembered Tarascon and the promised lionskins... but they did not last for long, and to dispel these moments ofsadness all that was needed was a look from Baia or a spoonful of herdiabolic confections, scented and bewitching like some brew of Circe's.

  In the evenings prince Gregory came, to talk a little about freeMontenegro. Of indefatigable complaisance, this agreeable noblemanundertook in the house the function of interpreter and, if need be, eventhat of steward, and all for nothing. Apart from him, Tartarin had only"Teurs" as visitors. All of those ferocious bandits which in the depthsof their dark shops he once found so frightening, turned out to beharmless tradesmen, embroiderers, spice sellers, turners of pipemouthpieces. Discrete, courteous people, modest, shrewd, and good atcards. Four or five times a week they would spend the evening withTartarin, winning his money and eating his confitures, and on the strokeof ten leaving politely, giving thanks to the Prophet.