After they had left, Sidi Tart'ri and his faithful spouse would finishthe evening on their terrace, a large white-walled terrace which formedthe roof of the building and looked out over the town. All about thema thousand other terraces, tranquil in the moonlight, dropped one belowthe other down to the sea. Suddenly, like a burst of stars, a greatclear chant rose heavenward and on the minaret of the nearby mosque ahandsome Muezzin appeared, his white outline silhouetted against thedeep blue of the night sky. As he invoked the praise of Allah in asplendid voice which filled the horizon, Baia laid aside her guitar andwith her eyes fixed on the Muezzin seemed to be rapt in prayer. Foras long as the chant lasted she remained ecstatic, like an ArabicSt. Theresa. Tartarin watched her and thought that it must be a beautifuland powerful religion which could give rise to such transports of faith.Tarascon hide your face, your Tartarin dreams of becoming apostate.
Chapter 23.
One fine afternoon of blue sky and warm breeze, Sidi Tart'ri, astridehis mule, was returning alone from his little garden, his legs spreadwidely over hay filled bags which were further swollen by citrus andwater-melon. Lulled by the creaking of the harness and swaying to theclip-clop of the animal the good man progressed through the delightfulcountryside, his hands crossed on his stomach, three-quarters asleepfrom the effect of warmth and wellbeing. Suddenly, as he was enteringthe town, a loud hail woke him up. "He! You, you great lump! You'reMonsieur Tartarin aren't you?" At the name of Tartarin and the sound ofthe Provencal accent Tartarin raised his head and saw, a few feet away,the tanned features of Barbassou, the Captain of the Zouave, who wasdrinking an absinthe and smoking his pipe at the door of a little cafe."He! Barbassou by God!" Said Tartarin, pulling up his mule.
Instead of replying Barbassou regarded him wide-eyed for a few moments,and then he began to laugh and laugh, so that Tartarin sat stunned amonghis water-melons. "What a get-up, my poor monsieur Tartarin. It's truethen what people say, that you have become a Teur? And little Baia, doesshe still sing 'Marco la belle' all the time?" "Marco la belle," saidTartarin indignantly, "I'll have you know Captain, that the personof whom you speak is an honest Moorish girl who doesn't know a word ofFrench!" "Baia?... Not a word of French?... Where have you come from?" Andthe Captain began to laugh again, more than ever. Then noticing the longface of poor Sidi Tart'ri, he changed tack. "Well perhaps it isn'tthe same one," He said, "I've probably got her mixed up with someoneelse... only look here, M. Tartarin, you would be wise not to put too muchtrust in Algerian Moors, or Montenegrin princes." Tartarin stood up inhis stirrups, and made his grimace, "The prince is my friend, Captain!"He said. "All right... all right... Don't let's quarrel... would you likea drink?... no. Any message you would like me to take back?... none. Wellthat's it then. Bon voyage.... Oh!... While I think of it, I have somegood French tobacco here, if you would like a few pipes-full take some,help yourself, it will do you good, it's those blasted local tobaccosthat scramble your brain."
With that the Captain returned to his absinthe and Tartarin pensivelytrotted his mule down the road to his little house. Although in hisloyal heart he refused to believe any of the insinuations made by theCaptain, they had upset him, and his rough oaths and country accent hadcombined to awake in him a vague feeling of remorse. When he reachedhome, Baia had gone to the baths, the negress seemed to him ugly, thehouse dismal, and prey to an indefinable melancholy, he went and sat bythe fountain and filled his pipe with Barbassou's tobacco. The tobaccohad been wrapped in a fragment of paper torn from "The Semaphore" andwhen he spread it out the name of his home town caught his eye.
"News from Tarascon," He read, "The town is in a state of alarm. Tartarinthe lion killer, who went to hunt the big cats in Africa, has notbeen heard of for several months.... What has happened to our heroiccompatriot? One dare hardly ask oneself, knowing as we do his ardentnature, his courage and love of adventure.... Has he, like so manyothers, been swallowed up in the desert sands, or has he perhaps fallenvictim to the murderous teeth of those feline monsters, whose skins hepromised to the municipality.... A terrible incertitude! However, someAfrican merchants who came to the fair at Beaucaire, claim to have met,in the heart of the desert, a white man whose description correspondswith his and who was heading for Timbuctoo. May God preserve ourTartarin!"
When he read this, Tartarin blushed and trembled. All Tarascon rosebefore his eyes. The club. The hat hunters. The green armchair atCostecalde's shop: and soaring above, like the extended wings of aneagle, the formidable moustache of the brave Commandant Bravida. Then tosee himself squatting slothfully on his mat, while he was believed to beengaged in slaying lions, filled him with shame. Suddenly he leaped tohis feet. "To the lions!... To the lions!" He cried, and hurrying to thedusty corner where lay idle his bivouac tent, his medicine chest, hispreserved foods and his weapons, he dragged them into the middle of thecourtyard. Tartarin-Sancho had just perished, only Tartarin-Quixote wasleft.
There was just time enough to inspect his equipment, to don his arms andaccoutrements, to put on his big boots, to write a few lines to princeGregory, confiding Baia to his care, to slip into an envelope somebanknotes, wet with tears, and the intrepid Tarasconais was in astage-coach, rolling down the road to Blidah, leaving the stupefiednegress in his house, gazing at the turban, the slippers and all themuslim rig-out of Sidi Tart'ri, hanging discarded on the wall.
Chapter 24.
It was an ancient, old-fashioned stage-coach, upholstered in the old wayin heavy blue cloth, very faded, and with enormous pom-poms, which aftera few hours on the road dug uncomfortably into one's back. Tartarin hadan 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 ripeperfume of the coach, compounded of a thousand odours of men, women,horses, leather, food and damp straw.
The other passengers on the coach were a mixed lot. A Trappist monk,some Jewish merchants, two Cocottes, returning to their unit, the thirdHussars, and a photographer from Orleansville.
No matter how charming and varied the company, Tartarin did not feellike chatting and remained silent, his arm hooked into the arm-strap andhis weaponry between his knees.... His hurried departure, the dark eyesof Baia, the dangerous chase on which he was about to engage, thesethoughts troubled his mind, and also there was something about thisvenerable stage-coach, now domiciled in Africa, which recalled to himvaguely the Tarascon of his youth. Trips to the country. Dinners by thebanks of the Rhone, a host of memories.
Little by little it grew dark. The guard lit the lanterns. The old coachswayed and squeaked on its worn springs. The horses trotted, the bellson their harness jingling, and from time to time there sounded the clashof ironmongery from Tartarin's arms chest on the top of the coach.
Sleepily Tartarin contemplated his fellow passengers as they dancedbefore his eyes, shaken by the jolting of the coach, then his eyesclosed and he heard no more, except vaguely, the rumble of the axles andthe groaning of the coach sides....
Suddenly an ancient female voice, rough, hoarse and cracked, called theTarasconais by name: "Monsieur Tartarin!... Monsieur Tartarin!" "Who iscalling me?" "It is I, Monsieur Tartarin, don't you recognise me?... Iam the stage-coach which once ran... it is now twenty years ago... theservice from Tarascon to Nimes.... How many times have I carried youand your friends when you went hat shooting over by Joncquieres orBellegarde... I didn't recognise you at first because of your bonnet andthe amount of weight you have put on, but as soon as you began to snore,you old rascal, I knew you right away." "Bon!... Bon!" Replied Tartarin,somewhat vexed, but then softening, he added: "But now, my poor oldlady, what are you doing here?" "Ah! My dear M. Tartarin, I did not comehere of my own free will I can promise you. Once the railway reachedBeaucaire no one could find a use for me so I was shipped off toAfrica... and I am not the only one, nearly all the stage-coaches inFrance have been deported like me; we were found too old fashioned andnow here we all are, leading a life of slavery." Here the old coach gavea long sigh, then she went on: "
I can't tell you monsieur Tartarin howmuch I miss my lovely Tarascon. These were good times for me, the timeof my youth. You should have seen me leaving in the morning, freshlywashed and polished, with new varnish on my wheels, my lamps shininglike suns and my tarpaulin newly dressed with oil. How grand it waswhen the postillion cracked his whip and sang out, 'Lagadigadeou, laTarasque, la Tarasque' and the guard, with his ticket-punch slung on itsbandolier and his braided cap tipped over one ear, chucked his littleyapping dog onto the tarpaulin of the coach-roof and scrambled uphimself crying 'Let's go!... Let's go!' Then my four horses would startoff with a jingle of bells, barking and fanfares. Windows would open andall Tarascon would watch with pride the stage-coach setting off alongthe king's highway.
"What a fine road it was, Monsieur Tartarin, wide and well kept, withits kilometre markers, its heaps of roadmender's stones at regularintervals, and to right and left vinyards and pretty groves of olivetrees. Then inns every few yards, post-houses every five minutes... andmy travellers! What fine folk!... Mayors and cures going to Nimes to seetheir Prefect or Bishop, honest workmen, students on holiday, peasantsin 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 sangso well to the stars as we returned home in the evening.
"Now it is a different story... God knows the sort of people I carry. Aload of miscreants from goodness knows where, who infest me with vermin.Negroes, Bedouins, rascals and adventurers from every country, colonistswho stink me out with their pipes, and all of them talking a languagewhich even our Heavenly Father couldn't understand.... And then yousee how they treat me. Never brushed. Never washed. They grudge me thegrease for my axles, and instead of the fine big, quiet horses which Iused to have, they give me little Arab horses which have the devil inthem, fighting, biting, dancing about and running like goats, breakingmy shafts with kicks. Aie!... Aie! They are at it again now.... And theroads! It's still all right here, because we are near Government House,but out there, nothing! No road of any sort. One goes as best one canover hill and dale through dwarf palms and mastic trees. Not a singlefixed stop. One pulls up at wherever the guard fancies, sometimes at onefarm, sometimes at another. Sometimes this rogue takes me on a detour oftwo leagues just so that he can go and drink with a friend. After thatit's 'Whip up postillion, we must make up for lost time.' The sun burns.The dust chokes... Whip!... Whip! We crash. We tip over.More whip. We swim across rivers, we are cold, soaked and halfdrowned... Whip!... Whip!... Whip! Then in the evening, dripping wet...that's good for me at my age... I have to bed down in the yard of somecaravan halt, exposed to all the winds. At night jackals and hyenascome to sniff at my lockers and creatures which fear the dawn hide inmy compartments. That's the life I lead, monsieur Tartarin, and I shalllead until the day when, scorched by sun and rotted by humid nights, Ishall fall at some corner of this beastly road, where Arabs will boiltheir cous-cous on the remains of my old carcase."
"Blidah!... Blidah!" Shouted the guard, opening the coach door.
Chapter 25.
Indistinctly, through the steamed up windows, Tartarin could see thepretty square of a neatly laid out little township, surrounded byarcades and planted with orange trees, in the centre of which a group ofsoldiers was drilling in the thin, pink haze of early morning. The cafeswere taking down their shutters, in one corner a vegetable market wasunder way. It was charming, but in no way did it suggest lions. "To thesouth, further to the south." Murmured Tartarin, settling back in hiscorner.
At that moment the coach door was opened, letting in a gust of freshair, which bore on its wings, amongst the scent of orange blossom,a very small gentleman in a brown overcoat. Neat, elderly, thin andwrinkled, with a face no bigger than a fist, a silk cravat five fingershigh, a leather brief-case and an umbrella. The perfect image of avillage notary. On seeing Tartarin's weaponry, the little gentleman, whowas seated opposite him, looked very surprised, and began to stare atour hero.
The horses were changed and the coach set off... the little gentlemancontinued to stare. At length Tartarin became offended and staring inhis turn at the little gentleman he asked "Do you find this surprising?"
"Not at all, but it does rather get in the way." Was the reply, andthe fact is that with his tent, his revolver, his two rifles and theircovers, not to mention his natural corpulence, Tartarin de Tarascon didtake up quite a lot of space.
This reply from the little gentleman annoyed Tartarin, "Do you supposethat I would go after lions with an umbrella?" Asked the great manproudly. The little gentleman looked at his umbrella, smiled andand asked calmly, "You monsieur are...?" "Tartarin de Tarascon, lionhunter." And in pronouncing these words the brave Tartarin shook thetassel of his chechia as if it were a mane.
In the coach there was a startled response. The Trappist crossedhimself, the Cocottes uttered little squeaks of excitement and thephotographer edged closer to the lion killer, thinking that he might bea good subject for a picture. The little gentleman was not in the leastdisturbed. "Have you killed many lions, Monsieur Tartarin?" He askedquietly. Tartarin adopted a lofty air, "Yes many of them. More than youhave hairs on your head." And all the passengers laughed at the sightof the three or four yellow hairs which sprouted from the littlegentleman's scalp.
The photographer then spoke up, "A terrible profession yours, MonsieurTartarin, you must have moments of danger sometimes like that braveM. Bombonnel." "Ah!... yes... M. Bombonnel, the man who hunts panthers."Said Tartarin, with some disdain. "Do you know him?" Asked the littlegentleman. "Ti!... Pardi!... To be sure I know him, we have huntedtogether more than twenty times." "You hunt panthers also M. Tartarin?""Occasionally, as a pastime." Said Tartarin casually, and raising hishead with a heroic gesture which went straight to the hearts of the twoCocottes, he added "They cannot be compared to lions." "One could say,"Hazarded the photographer, "That a panther is no more than a largepussy-cat." "Quite right." Said Tartarin, who was not reluctant to lowerthe reputation of this M. Bombonnel, particularly in front of the ladies.
At this moment the coach stopped. The guard came to open the door andhe addressed the little old man, "This is where you want to get offMonsieur." He said very respectfully.
The little gentleman got up to leave, but before he closed the doorhe said "Would you permit me to give you a word of advice M. Tartarin?""What is that Monsieur?" "Go back quickly to Tarascon, M. Tartarin, youare 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, theyare finished. There are no more in Algeria, my friend Chassaing has justkilled the last one."
On that the little gentleman saluted, closed the door and went off,laughing, with his brief-case and umbrella. "Guard!" Said Tartarin,making his grimace. "Who on earth was that fellow?" "What! Don't youknow him?" Said the guard, "That's Monsieur Bombonnel!"
Chapter 26.
When the coach reached Milianah Tartarin got out and left it to continueits journey to the south. Two days of being bumped about and nightsspent peering out of the window in the hope of seeing the outline of alion in the fields lining the road, had earned a little rest; and thenit must be admitted that after the misadventure over M. Bombonnel,Tartarin, in spite of his weapons, his terrible grimace and hisred chechia, had not felt entirely at ease in the presence of thephotographer and the two ladies of the third Hussars.
He made his way along the wide streets of Milianah, full of handsometrees and fountains, but while he looked for a convenient hotel, hecould 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? Whatthen was the point of all this travel and all these discomforts?
Suddenly at a bend in the road our hero was confronted by a remarkablespectacle. He found himself face to face with--believe it or not--asuperb lion which was seated regally at the door of a cafe, Its manetawny in the sunshine.
"Who says there are no more lions?" Cried Tartarin, jumping back. Onhearing this
exclamation the lion lowered its head, and taking inits jaws the wooden begging bowl which lay on the pavement before it,extended it humbly in the direction of Tartarin, who was paralyzed byastonishment... a passing Arab tossed in a few coppers. Then Tartarinunderstood. He saw what his surprise had at first prevented him fromseeing, 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 itabout the town.
Tartarin's blood boiled. "Wretches!" He cried "To debase this noblecreature!" And running to the lion he snatched the sordid begging bowlfrom the royal jaws.... The two negroes, believing they were dealingwith a thief, threw themselves on Tartarin with raised cudgels. It wasa terrible set-to. Women were screeching children laughing there werecalls for the police and the lion in its darkness joined in with afearsome roar. The unhappy Tartarin after a desperate struggle, rolledon the ground among copper coins and road sweepings.
At this moment a man pushed through the crowd. He dismissed the negroeswith a word and the women and children with a gesture. He helpedTartarin to his feet, brushed him down and seated him, out of breath,on a bollard. "Good heavens... prince... Is it really you?" Said Tartarin,rubbing his ribs. "Indeed yes my valiant friend... it is I. As soon asI received your letter I confided Baia to her brother, hired apost-chaise, came fifty leagues flat out and here I am just in time tosave you from the brutality of these louts.... For God's sake what haveyou been doing to get yourself dragged into a mess like this?" "Whatcould you expect me to do, prince, when I saw this unfortunate lion withthe begging bowl in its teeth, humiliated, enslaved, ridiculed, servingas a laughing stock for this unsavoury rabble...?" "But you are mistakenmy noble friend." Said the prince, "This lion on the contrary is anobject of respect and adoration. It is a sacred beast, a member ofa great convent of lions founded three centuries ago byMahommed-ben-Aouda, a sort of wild fierce monastry where strange monksrear and tame hundreds of lions and send them throughout all northAfrica, accompanied by mendicant brothers. The alms which these brothersreceive serve to maintain the monastry and its mosque, and if those twonegroes were in such a rage just now, it is because they are convincedthat if one sou, one single sou, of their takings is lost through anyfault of theirs, the lion which that are leading will immediately devourthem."
Tartarin de Tarascon. English Page 6
