Chapter 19.
Sleep, lions of the Atlas! Sleep tranquilly in your lairs amongst the aloes and the cactus! It wil be some time before Tartarin de Tarascon comes to slaughter you. At the moment his equipment, his arms, his medicine chest, the preserved food and the bivouac tent are piled up peacefully in a corner of room 36 in the Hotel de l’Europe. Sleep without fear, great tawny lions! The Tarasconais is searching for his Moor.
Since the events in the omnibus, the unhappy man seems to feel constantly on his feet the scurrying of the little red mouse, and the sea breeze which wafts across his face seems somehow perfumed by an amorous odour of patisserie and anise. He must find his Dulcinea; but to find in a city of one hundred thousand inhabitants a person of whom one knows only the scent of their breath, the appearance of their slippers and the colour of their eyes is no light undertaking. Only a lovesick Tarasconais would attempt such a task. To make matters worse, it must be confessed that beneath their masks all Moorish ladies tend to look very much the same; and then they do not go out a great deal, and if one wants to see them one must go to the upper town, the Arab town, the town of the Teurs.
A real cut-throat place that upper town. Little dark alley-ways, very narrow, climbing steeply between two rows of silent, mysterious houses whose roofs touch to make a tunnel. Low doorways and small windows, opaque and barred, and then, to right and left, little shops within whose deep shade fierce “Teurs” with piratical faces, glittering eyes and gleaming teeth, smoke their hookahs and converse in low tones, as if planning some wicked deed.... To say that Tartarin walked through this fearsome township unmoved would be to lie. He was on the contrary moved a good deal, and in those obscure alleys where his large stomach took up almost the entire width, the brave fellow advanced with the greatest caution, his eyes alert, his finger on the trigger of his revolver, just as he used to be at Tarascon on his way to the club. At any moment he expected to be jumped on from behind by a whole gang of janissaries and eunuchs, but his desire to find the lady endowed him with the courage and determination of a giant.
For eight days the intrepid Tartarin did not quit his search. Sometimes he could be seen hanging about the turkish baths, waiting for the women to emerge in chattering groups, scented from the bath. Sometimes he appeared at the entrance of a mosque, puffing and blowing as he removed his heavy boots before entering the sacred premises. On other occasions, at nightfall, when he was returning to the hotel, downcast at having discovered nothing at the mosque or the baths, he would hear, as he passed one of the Moorish houses, monotonous songs, the muffled sound of guitars, the rattle of tambourines and the light laughter of women, which made his heart beat faster. “Perhaps she is there” He would say to himself, and approaching the house he would lift the heavy knocker and let it fall timidly.
Immediately the song and the laughter stop. Nothing can be heard within but faint vague cluckings as if in a sleeping hen-house. Hold on thinks our hero, something is about to happen, but what happened mostly was a big pot of cold water on his head, or orange peel and fig skins.... Sleep lions!
Chapter 20.
For two long weeks the unhappy Tartarin searched for his Algerian lady-love, and it is likely that he would be searching still, if that providence which looks after lovers had not come to his aid in the guise of a Montenegrin gentleman.
The Théatre in Algiers, like the “Opera” in Paris, organises every Saturday night during the winter a Bal Masque. This is, however, a provincial version. There are few people in the dance-hall; the occasional drifter from out of town, unemployed stevedores, some rustic tarts, who are in business but who still retain from their more virtuous days a faint aroma of garlic and saffron sauce... the real spectacle is in the foyer, which has been converted for the occasion into a gambling saloon.
A feverish, multicoloured crowd jostles about the long green cloths. Algerian soldiers on leave, gambling their meagre pay. Moorish merchants from the upper town. Negroes. Maltese. Colonists who have come a hundred miles to wager the price of a cart or a pair of oxen on the turn of a card. Pale, tense and anxious as they watch the game.
There are Algerian Jews, gambling en famille. The men in oriental costume, the women in gold coloured bodices. They gather round the table, chatter and and plan, count on their fingers, but play little. From time to time, and only after long consultation, an elderly, bearded patriarch goes to place the family stake. Then as long as play lasts there is a concentration of dark hebraic eyes on the table, which would seem to draw the gold pieces lying there as if by an invisible thread....
Then there are the quarrels. Fights. Oaths in many languages. Knives are drawn. A guard arrives. Money is missing.... In the midst of this saturnalia wandered poor Tartarin, who had come that evening in search of forgetfulness and peace of heart.
As he went about through the crowd, thinking of his Moor, suddenly, at one of the gaming tables, above the cries and the chinking of coins, two angry voices were raised. “I tell you, there are twenty francs of mine missing, m’sieu!” “M’sieu!!!” “Well, what have you to say, m’sieu?” “Do you know to whom you are talking, m’sieu?” “I should be delighted to find out, m’sieu!” “I am prince Gregory of Montenegro, m’sieu!”
At this name, Tartarin, much moved, pushed through the crowd until he reached the front row, delighted to have found once more his prince, the distinguished Montenegrin nobleman whose acquaintance he had made on the packet-boat.
Unfortunately this title of prince which had so dazzled the worthy Tarasconais, did not produce the least impression on the officer of the Chasseurs with whom the prince was in dispute. “A likely story” said the officer with a sneer, and then turning to the onlookers, “Prince Gregory of Montenegro, who has ever heard of him?... No one!” Tartarin, indignant, took a pace forward. “Pardon... I know the prince.” He said firmly in his best Tarrascon accent.
The officer of the Chasseurs stared him in the face for a few moments, then shrugging his shoulders, he said “Well now, is’nt that just fine?... Share out the twenty francs between you and we’ll leave it at that.” So saying he turned on his heel and was lost in the crowd.
Tartarin, furious, wanted to go after him, but the prince prevented him. “Leave it... It’s my affair.” He said, and taking Tartarin by the arm he led him outside.
When they had reached the square, prince Gregory of Montenegro took off his hat, held out his hand to our hero and vaguely recalling his name began in vibrant tones, “Monsieur Barbarin...” “Tartarin.” Breathed the other, timidly. “Tartarin... Barbarin, it makes no difference, we are now friends for life.” And the noble Montenegrin shook his hand with ferocious energy. Tartarin was was overwhelmed by pride. “Prince.... Prince” He murmured in confusion.
Fifteen minutes later the two gentlemen were seated in the Restaurant des Platanes, an agreeable spot whose terraces sloped down toward the sea, and there before a large Russian salad and a bottle of good wine they renewed their acquaintance.
You cannot imagine anything more beguiling than this Montenegrin prince. Slim, elegant, his hair curled and waved, smooth-shaven and powdered and decked with strange orders, he had a sharp eye an ingratiating manner and spoke with a vaguely Italian accent, faintly suggestive of a renaissance Cardinal. Of ancient aristocratic lineage, his brothers, it seemed, had driven him into exile at the age of ten, because of his liberal opinions; since when he had travelled the world for his instruction and pleasure... a philosopher prince. By a remarkable coincidence the prince had spent three years in Tarascon, but when Tartarin expressed astonishment at never having seen him at the club or on the promonade, “I didn’t go out much” Said the prince in a somewhat evasive manner, and Tartarin discretely asked no more questions. Important people, he knew, had diplomatic secrets.
All in all a very fine prince this Gregory. While sipping his wine he listened patiently to Tartarin, who told him of his Moorish love, and as he claimed to have contacts among these ladies, he even undertook to help look for her.
They drank long and deep. They drank to the ladies of Algeria. They drank to free Montenegro. Outside, below the terrace, the sea rolled, the waves slapping wetly on the beach. The air was warm, the sky bright with stars, in the plane trees a nightingale sang... It was Tartarin who paid the bill.
Chapter 21.
The Montenegrin prince was as good as his word. Shortly after the reunion at the Restaurant des Platanes he arrived early one morning at Tartarin’s room. “Quick!... quick!... get dressed” he said, “Your Moor has been found... her name is Baia... as pretty as a picture, twenty years old and already a widow.” “A widow!.... Well that’s a bit of luck” Said Tartarin who was a little uneasy at the thought of Moorish husbands. “Yes, but closely guarded by her brother” “Oh! That’s a bit awkward” “A ferocious Moor who sells hookahs in the bazaar” There was a silence, “Good!” Said the prince, “You’re not the chap to be put off by a little thing like that, and anyway we can perhaps buy off this villain by purchasing some of his pipes. So come on, get dressed... you lucky dog!”
Pale and excited, his heart full of love, Tartarin jumped out of bed and as he climbed into his ample underwear he asked “What shall I do now?” “Write to the lady quite simply and ask for a meeting” “She understands French then?” Said Tartarin with an air of disappointment. For his dreams had been of an Arabian Houri, uncontaminated by the west. “She doesn’t understand a word” Replied the prince imperturbably, “but you will dictate the letter to me and I shall translate it.” “Oh prince, how good you are.” And Tartarin strode about the room silent and deep in thought.
As you may imagine one does not write to a Moorish lady as one might to a little shop-girl in Beaucaire. Happily our hero was able to cull from his reading many phrases of oriental rhetoric and combining these with some distant memories of the “Song of Songs” he was able to compose the most flowery epistle you could wish for, full of unlikely similes and improbable metaphors. With this romantic missive Tartarin would have liked to combine a bouquet of flowers with emblematic meanings, but prince Gregory thought it would be better to buy some pipes from the brother, which could not fail to soften the savage temperament of the gentleman and would please the lady, who greatly enjoyed smoking. “Let us go quickly then and buy some pipes,” Said Tartarin. “No, no.” Replied the prince, “Let me go alone, I shall get them at a better price.” “Oh prince! How good you are to take such trouble.” And the trusting fellow held out his purse to the obliging Montenegrin, exhorting him to neglect nothing which might make the lady happy.
Unfortunately, the affair which had started so well, did not progress as rapidly as one might have wished. Very touched, it seemed, by Tartarin’s eloquence, and already three parts won over, she would have liked nothing better than to have received him, but her brother had scruples, and to lay these to rest it was necessary to buy an astonishing number of pipes. Sometimes Tartarin wondered what on earth the lady did with them all, but he paid up nevertheless, and without stinting.
At last, after the purchase of many pipes and the composing of many sheets of oriental prose, a rendezvous was arranged. I need hardly tell you with what fluttering of heart Tartarin prepared himself; with what care he trimmed, washed and scented his beard, without forgetting—for one must always be prepared—to slip into his pockets a life-preserver and a revolver. The ever-obliging prince attended this first meeting in the role of interpreter
The lady lived in the upper part of the town. Outside her door lounged a young Moor of fourteen or fifteen, smoking a cigarette, it was Ali, her brother. When the two visitors arrived he knocked twice on the postern and retired from the scene. The door was opened and a negress appeared, who, without saying a word, conducted the two gentlemen across a narrow interior courtyard to a small, cool room where the lady awaited them, posed on a divan.
At first glance it seemed to Tartarin that she was smaller and sturdier than the Moor on the omnibus... were they in fact the same? But this suspicion was only momentary: the lady was so pretty, with her bare feet and her plump fingers, rosy and delicate, loaded with rings; while beneath her bodice of gold cloth and the blossoms of her flowered robe was the suggestion of a charming form, a little chubby, dainty and curvaceous. The amber mouthpiece of a narghile was between her lips and she was enveloped in a cloud of pale smoke.
On entering, Tartarin placed his hand on his heart and bowed in the most Moorish manner possible, rolling big, passionate eyes... Baia looked at him for a moment without speaking, then letting go of the amber mouthpiece, she turned her back, hid her face in her hands and one could see only her neck, shaken by uncontrollable laughter.
Chapter 22.
If you go in the evening into some of the coffee-houses of the Algerian upper town, you will hear even today, Moors speak among themselves, with winks and chuckles, of a certain Sidi ben Tart’ri, an amiable, rich European who—it now some years ago—lived in the upper town with a little local girl called Baia.
This Sidi ben Tart’ri was of course none other than Tartarin. Well what could you expect. This sort of thing happens even in the lives of Saints and Heroes. The illustrious Tartarin was, like anyone else, not exempt from these failings and that is why for two whole months, forgetful of lions, forgetful of fame, he wallowed in oriental love, and slumbered, like Hannibal in Capua, amid the delights of Algiers.
He had rented in the heart of the Arab quarter, a pretty little local house with an interior courtyard, banana trees, cool galleries and fountains. He lived there quietly in the company of his Moor, a Moor himself from head to foot. Puffing at his hookah and munching musk-flavoured condiments. Stretched on a divan opposite him, Baia with a guitar in her hands droned monotonous songs, or to amuse her master she perhaps mimed a belly-dance, holding in her hands a small mirror in which she admired her white teeth and made faces at herself.
As the lady did not understand French and Tartarin did not speak a word of Arabic, conversation languished somewhat and the talkative Tarasconais had time to repent of any intemperate loquaciousness of which he might have been guilty at Bezuquet’s pharmacy or Costecalde the gunsmith’s shop. This penance even had a certain charm. There was something almost voluptuous in going all day without speaking, hearing only the bubble of the hookah, the strumming of the guitar and the gentle splashing of the fountain amid the mosaic tiles of his courtyard.
Smoking, the Turkish bath and “l’amour” occupied his time. They went out little. Sometimes Sidi Tart’ri, with his lady mounted on the crupper, went on mule-back to eat pomegranates in a little garden which he had bought in the neighbourhood... but never on any account did they go down to the European part of the town, which with its drunken Zouaves, its bordellos full of officers and the sound of sabres trailing on the ground beneath the arcade, seemed to him to be insupportably ugly. Altogether our Tartarin was perfectly happy. Tartarin-Sancho in particular, very fond of Turkish pastries, declared himself entirely satisfied with his new existence. Tartarin-Quixote had perhaps now and then some regrets, when he remembered Tarascon and the promised lion skins... but they did not last for long, and to dispel these moments of sadness all that was needed was a look from Baia or a spoonful of her diabolic confections, scented and bewitching like some brew of Circe’s.
In the evenings prince Gregory came, to talk a little about free Montenegro. Of indefatigable complaisance, this agreeable nobleman undertook in the house the function of interpreter and, if need be, even that of steward, and all for nothing. Apart from him, Tartarin had only “Teurs” as visitors. All of those ferocious bandits which in the depths of their dark shops he once found so frightening, turned out to be harmless tradesmen, embroiderers, spice sellers, turners of pipe mouthpieces. Discrete, courteous people, modest, shrewd, and good at cards. Four or five times a week they would spend the evening with Tartarin, winning his money and eating his confitures, and on the stroke of ten leaving politely, giving thanks to the Prophet.
After they had left, Sidi Tart’ri and his faithful spouse would finish the evening on their terrace, a large white-walled terrace which formed the roof of the building and looked out over the town. All about them a thousand other terraces, tranquil in the moonlight, dropped one below the other down to the sea. Suddenly, like a burst of stars, a great clear chant rose heavenward and on the minaret of the nearby mosque a handsome Muezzin appeared, his white outline silhouetted against the deep blue of the night sky. As he invoked the praise of Allah in a splendid voice which filled the horizon, Baia laid aside her guitar and with her eyes fixed on the Muezzin seemed to be rapt in prayer. For as long as the chant lasted she remained ecstatic, like an Arabic St. Theresa. Tartarin watched her and thought that it must be a beautiful and powerful religion which could give rise to such transports of faith. Tarascon hide your face, your Tartarin dreams of becoming apostate.
Chapter 23.
One fine afternoon of blue sky and warm breeze, Sidi Tart’ri, astride his mule, was returning alone from his little garden, his legs spread widely over hay filled bags which were further swollen by citrus and water-melon. Lulled by the creaking of the harness and swaying to the clip-clop of the animal the good man progressed through the delightful countryside, his hands crossed on his stomach, three-quarters asleep from the effect of warmth and wellbeing. Suddenly, as he was entering the town, a loud hail woke him up. “Hé! You, you great lump! You’re Monsieur Tartarin aren’t you?” At the name of Tartarin and the sound of the Provencal accent Tartarin raised his head and saw, a few feet away, the tanned features of Barbassou, the Captain of the Zouave, who was drinking an absinthe and smoking his pipe at the door of a little café. “Hé! Barbassou by God!” Said Tartarin, pulling up his mule.
Instead of replying Barbassou regarded him wide-eyed for a few moments, and then he began to laugh and laugh, so that Tartarin sat stunned among his water-melons. “What a get-up, my poor monsieur Tartarin. It’s true then what people say, that you have become a Teur? And little Baia, does she still sing ‘Marco la belle’ all the time?” “Marco la belle,” said Tartarin indignantly, “I’ll have you know Captain, that the person of whom you speak is an honest Moorish girl who doesn’t know a word of French!” “Baia?... Not a word of French?... Where have you come from?” And the Captain began to laugh again, more than ever. Then noticing the long face of poor Sidi Tart’ri, he changed tack. “Well perhaps it isn’t the same one,” He said, “I’ve probably got her mixed up with someone else... only look here, M. Tartarin, you would be wise not to put too much trust in Algerian Moors, or Montenegrin princes.” Tartarin stood up in his stirrups, and made his grimace, “The prince is my friend, Captain!” He said. “All right... all right... Don’t let’s quarrel... would you like a drink?... no. Any message you would like me to take back?... none. Well that’s it then. Bon voyage.... Oh!... While I think of it, I have some good French tobacco here, if you would like a few pipes-full take some, help yourself, it will do you good, it’s those blasted local tobaccos that scramble your brain.”
With that the Captain returned to his absinthe and Tartarin pensively trotted his mule down the road to his little house. Although in his loyal heart he refused to believe any of the insinuations made by the Captain, they had upset him, and his rough oaths and country accent had combined to awake in him a vague feeling of remorse. When he reached home, Baia had gone to the baths, the negress seemed to him ugly, the house dismal, and prey to an indefinable melancholy, he went and sat by the fountain and filled his pipe with Barbassou’s tobacco. The tobacco had been wrapped in a fragment of paper torn from “The Semaphore” and when he spread it out the name of his home town caught his eye.
“News from Tarascon,” He read, “The town is in a state of alarm. Tartarin the lion killer, who went to hunt the big cats in Africa, has not been heard of for several months.... What has happened to our heroic compatriot? One dare hardly ask oneself, knowing as we do his ardent nature, his courage and love of adventure.... Has he, like so many others, been swallowed up in the desert sands, or has he perhaps fallen victim to the murderous teeth of those feline monsters, whose skins he promised to the municipality.... A terrible incertitude! However, some African merchants who came to the fair at Beaucaire, claim to have met, in the heart of the desert, a white man whose description corresponds with his and who was heading for Timbuctoo. May God preserve our Tartarin!”
When he read this, Tartarin blushed and trembled. All Tarascon rose before his eyes. The club. The hat hunters. The green armchair at Costecalde’s shop: and soaring above, like the extended wings of an eagle, the formidable moustache of the brave Commandant Bravida. Then to see himself squatting slothfully on his mat, while he was believed to be engaged in slaying lions, filled him with shame. Suddenly he leaped to his feet. “To the lions!... To the lions!” He cried, and hurrying to the dusty corner where lay idle his bivouac tent, his medicine chest, his preserved foods and his weapons, he dragged them into the middle of the courtyard. Tartarin-Sancho had just perished, only Tartarin-Quixote was left.
There was just time enough to inspect his equipment, to don his arms and accoutrements, to put on his big boots, to write a few lines to prince Gregory, confiding Baia to his care, to slip into an envelope some banknotes, wet with tears, and the intrepid Tarasconais was in a stage-coach, rolling down the road to Blidah, leaving the stupefied negress in his house, gazing at the turban, the slippers and all the muslim rig-out of Sidi Tart’ri, hanging discarded on the wall.
Chapter 24.
It was an ancient, old-fashioned stage-coach, upholstered in the old way in heavy blue cloth, very faded, and with enormous pom-poms, which after a few hours on the road dug uncomfortably into one’s back. Tartarin had an inside seat, where he installed himself as best he could, and where, instead of the musky scent of the great cats, he could savour the ripe perfume of the coach, compounded of a thousand odours of men, women, horses, leather, food and damp straw.
The other passengers on the coach were a mixed lot. A Trappist monk, some Jewish merchants, two Cocottes, returning to their unit, the third Hussars, and a photographer from Orleansville.
No matter how charming and varied the company, Tartarin did not feel like chatting and remained silent, his arm hooked into the arm-strap and his weaponry between his knees.... His hurried departure, the dark eyes of Baia, the dangerous chase on which he was about to engage, these thoughts troubled his mind, and also there was something about this venerable stage-coach, now domiciled in Africa, which recalled to him vaguely the Tarascon of his youth. Trips to the country. Dinners by the banks of the Rhône, a host of memories.
Little by little it grew dark. The guard lit the lanterns. The old coach swayed and squeaked on its worn springs. The horses trotted, the bells on their harness jingling, and from time to time there sounded the clash of ironmongery from Tartarin’s arms chest on the top of the coach.
Sleepily Tartarin contemplated his fellow passengers as they danced before his eyes, shaken by the jolting of the coach, then his eyes closed and he heard no more, except vaguely, the rumble of the axles and the groaning of the coach sides....
Suddenly an ancient female voice, rough, hoarse and cracked, called the Tarasconais by name: “Monsieur Tartarin!... Monsieur Tartarin!” “Who is calling me?” “It is I, Monsieur Tartarin, don’t you recognise me?... I am the stage-coach which once ran... it is now twenty years ago... the service from Tarascon to Nimes.... How many times have I carried you and your friends when you went hat shooting over by Joncquières or Bellegarde... I didn’t recognise you at first because of your bonnet and the amount of weight you have put on, but as soon as you began to snore, you old rascal, I knew you right away.” “Bon!... Bon!” Replied Tartarin, somewhat vexed, but then softening, he added: “But now, my poor old lady, what are you doing here?” “Ah! My dear M. Tartarin, I did not come here of my own free will I can promise you. Once the railway reached Beaucaire no one could find a use for me so I was shipped off to Africa... and I am not the only one, nearly all the stage-coaches in France have been deported like me; we were found too old fashioned and now here we all are, leading a life of slavery.” Here the old coach gave a long sigh, then she went on: “I can’t tell you monsieur Tartarin how much I miss my lovely Tarascon. These were good times for me, the time of my youth. You should have seen me leaving in the morning, freshly washed and polished, with new varnish on my wheels, my lamps shining like suns and my tarpaulin newly dressed with oil. How grand it was when the postillion cracked his whip and sang out, ‘Lagadigadeou, la Tarasque, la Tarasque’ and the guard, with his ticket-punch slung on its bandolier and his braided cap tipped over one ear, chucked his little yapping dog onto the tarpaulin of the coach-roof and scrambled up himself crying ‘Let’s go!... Let’s go!’ Then my four horses would start off with a jingle of bells, barking and fanfares. Windows would open and all Tarascon would watch with pride the stage-coach setting off along the king’s highway.
“What a fine road it was, Monsieur Tartarin, wide and well kept, with its kilometre markers, its heaps of roadmender’s stones at regular intervals, and to right and left vinyards and pretty groves of olive trees. Then inns every few yards, post-houses every five minutes... and my travellers! What fine folk!... Mayors and curés going to Nimes to see their Prefect or Bishop, honest workmen, students on holiday, peasants in embroidered smocks, all freshly shaved that morning, and up on top, all of you hat shooters, who were always in such good form and who sang so well to the stars as we returned home in the evening.
“Now it is a different story... God knows the sort of people I carry. A load of miscreants from goodness knows where, who infest me with vermin. Negroes, Bedouins, rascals and adventurers from every country, colonists who stink me out with their pipes, and all of them talking a language which even our Heavenly Father couldn’t understand.... And then you see how they treat me. Never brushed. Never washed. They grudge me the grease for my axles, and instead of the fine big, quiet horses which I used to have, they give me little Arab horses which have the devil in them, fighting, biting, dancing about and running like goats, breaking my shafts with kicks. Aie!... Aie! They are at it again now.... And the roads! It’s still all right here, because we are near Government House, but out there, nothing! No road of any sort. One goes as best one can over hill and dale through dwarf palms and mastic trees. Not a single fixed stop. One pulls up at wherever the guard fancies, sometimes at one farm, sometimes at another. Sometimes this rogue takes me on a detour of two leagues just so that he can go and drink with a friend. After that it’s ‘Whip up postillion, we must make up for lost time.’ The sun burns. The dust chokes... Whip!... Whip! We crash. We tip over. More whip. We swim across rivers, we are cold, soaked and half drowned... Whip!... Whip!... Whip! Then in the evening, dripping wet... that’s good for me at my age... I have to bed down in the yard of some caravan halt, exposed to all the winds. At night jackals and hyenas come to sniff at my lockers and creatures which fear the dawn hide in my compartments. That’s the life I lead, monsieur Tartarin, and I shall lead until the day when, scorched by sun and rotted by humid nights, I shall fall at some corner of this beastly road, where Arabs will boil their cous-cous on the remains of my old carcase.”
“Blidah!... Blidah!” Shouted the guard, opening the coach door.
Chapter 25.
Indistinctly, through the steamed up windows, Tartarin could see the pretty square of a neatly laid out little township, surrounded by arcades and planted with orange trees, in the centre of which a group of soldiers was drilling in the thin, pink haze of early morning. The cafés were taking down their shutters, in one corner a vegetable market was under way. It was charming, but in no way did it suggest lions. “To the south, further to the south.” Murmured Tartarin, settling back in his corner.
At that moment the coach door was opened, letting in a gust of fresh air, which bore on its wings, amongst the scent of orange blossom, a very small gentleman in a brown overcoat. Neat, elderly, thin and wrinkled, with a face no bigger than a fist, a silk cravat five fingers high, a leather brief-case and an umbrella. The perfect image of a village notary. On seeing Tartarin’s weaponry, the little gentleman, who was seated opposite him, looked very surprised, and began to stare at our hero.
The horses were changed and the coach set off... the little gentleman continued to stare. At length Tartarin became offended and staring in his turn at the little gentleman he asked “Do you find this surprising?”
“Not at all, but it does rather get in the way.” Was the reply, and the fact is that with his tent, his revolver, his two rifles and their covers, not to mention his natural corpulence, Tartarin de Tarascon did take up quite a lot of space.
This reply from the little gentleman annoyed Tartarin, “Do you suppose that I would go after lions with an umbrella?” Asked the great man proudly. The little gentleman looked at his umbrella, smiled and and asked calmly, “You monsieur are...?” “Tartarin de Tarascon, lion hunter.” And in pronouncing these words the brave Tartarin shook the tassel of his chechia as if it were a mane.
In the coach there was a startled response. The Trappist crossed himself, the Cocottes uttered little squeaks of excitement and the photographer edged closer to the lion killer, thinking that he might be a good subject for a picture. The little gentleman was not in the least disturbed. “Have you killed many lions, Monsieur Tartarin?” He asked quietly. Tartarin adopted a lofty air, “Yes many of them. More than you have hairs on your head.” And all the passengers laughed at the sight of the three or four yellow hairs which sprouted from the little gentleman’s scalp.
The photographer then spoke up, “A terrible profession yours, Monsieur Tartarin, you must have moments of danger sometimes like that brave M. Bombonnel.” “Ah!... yes... M. Bombonnel, the man who hunts panthers.” Said Tartarin, with some disdain. “Do you know him?” Asked the little gentleman. “Ti!... Pardi!... To be sure I know him, we have hunted together more than twenty times.” “You hunt panthers also M. Tartarin?” “Occasionally, as a pastime.” Said Tartarin casually, and raising his head with a heroic gesture which went straight to the hearts of the two Cocottes, he added “They cannot be compared to lions.” “One could say,” Hazarded the photographer, “That a panther is no more than a large pussy-cat.” “Quite right.” Said Tartarin, who was not reluctant to lower the reputation of this M. Bombonnel, particularly in front of the ladies.
At this moment the coach stopped. The guard came to open the door and he addressed the little old man, “This is where you want to get off Monsieur.” He said very respectfully.
The little gentleman got up to leave, but before he closed the door he said “Would you permit me to give you a word of advice M. Tartarin?” “What is that Monsieur?” “Go back quickly to Tarascon, M. Tartarin, you are wasting your time here... There are a few panthers left in Algeria, but, fi donc! They are too small a quarry for you... as for lions, they are finished. There are no more in Algeria, my friend Chassaing has just killed the last one.”
On that the little gentleman saluted, closed the door and went off, laughing, with his brief-case and umbrella. “Guard!” Said Tartarin, making his grimace. “Who on earth was that fellow?” “What! Don’t you know him?” Said the guard, “That’s Monsieur Bombonnel!”
Chapter 26.
When the coach reached Milianah Tartarin got out and left it to continue its journey to the south. Two days of being bumped about and nights spent peering out of the window in the hope of seeing the outline of a lion in the fields lining the road, had earned a little rest; and then it must be admitted that after the misadventure over M. Bombonnel, Tartarin, in spite of his weapons, his terrible grimace and his red chechia, had not felt entirely at ease in the presence of the photographer and the two ladies of the third Hussars.
He made his way along the wide streets of Milianah, full of handsome trees and fountains, but while he looked for a convenient hotel, he could not prevent himself from mulling over the words of M. Bombonnel. What if it were true... what if there were no more lions in Algeria? What then was the point of all this travel and all these discomforts?
Suddenly at a bend in the road our hero was confronted by a remarkable spectacle. He found himself face to face with—believe it or not—a superb lion which was seated regally at the door of a café, Its mane tawny in the sunshine.
“Who says there are no more lions?” Cried Tartarin, jumping back. On hearing this exclamation the lion lowered its head, and taking in its jaws the wooden begging bowl which lay on the pavement before it, extended it humbly in the direction of Tartarin, who was paralyzed by astonishment... a passing Arab tossed in a few coppers. Then Tartarin understood. He saw what his surprise had at first prevented him from seeing, a crowd of people which was gathered round the poor tame lion, which was blind, and the two big negroes, armed with cudgels, who led it about the town.
Tartarin’s blood boiled. “Wretches!” He cried “To debase this noble creature!” And running to the lion he snatched the sordid begging bowl from the royal jaws.... The two negroes, believing they were dealing with a thief, threw themselves on Tartarin with raised cudgels. It was a terrible set-to. Women were screeching children laughing there were calls for the police and the lion in its darkness joined in with a fearsome roar. The unhappy Tartarin after a desperate struggle, rolled on the ground among copper coins and road sweepings.
At this moment a man pushed through the crowd. He dismissed the negroes with a word and the women and children with a gesture. He helped Tartarin to his feet, brushed him down and seated him, out of breath, on a bollard. “Good heavens... prince... Is it really you?” Said Tartarin, rubbing his ribs. “Indeed yes my valiant friend... it is I. As soon as I received your letter I confided Baia to her brother, hired a post-chaise, came fifty leagues flat out and here I am just in time to save you from the brutality of these louts.... For God’s sake what have you been doing to get yourself dragged into a mess like this?” “What could you expect me to do, prince, when I saw this unfortunate lion with the begging bowl in its teeth, humiliated, enslaved, ridiculed, serving as a laughing stock for this unsavoury rabble...?” “But you are mistaken my noble friend.” Said the prince, “This lion on the contrary is an object of respect and adoration. It is a sacred beast, a member of a great convent of lions founded three centuries ago by Mahommed-ben-Aouda, a sort of wild fierce monastry where strange monks rear and tame hundreds of lions and send them throughout all north Africa, accompanied by mendicant brothers. The alms which these brothers receive serve to maintain the monastry and its mosque, and if those two negroes were in such a rage just now, it is because they are convinced that if one sou, one single sou, of their takings is lost through any fault of theirs, the lion which that are leading will immediately devour them.”
On hearing this unlikely but plausible tale, Tartarin recovered his spirits. “It seems evident after all,” He said “That in spite of what M. Bombonnel said, there are still lions in Algeria.” “To be sure there are,” said the prince, “And tomorrow we shall begin to search the plains by the river Cheliff and you shall see.” “What!... prince. Do you mean to join in the hunt yourself?” “Of course” Said the prince “Do you think I would leave you to wander alone in the middle of Africa, among all those savage tribes, of whose language and customs you know nothing? No! No! My dear Tartarin. I shall not leave you again. Wherever you go I shall accompany you.” “Oh!... prince!... prince!” And Tartarin clasped the valiant Gregory in a warm embrace.
Chapter 27.
Very early the next morning the intrepid Tartarin and the no less intrepid prince Gregory, followed by half a dozen negro porters, left Milianah and descended towards the plain of the Chetiff by a steep pathway, delightfully shaded by jasmine, carobs and wild olives, between the hedges of little native gardens where a thousand bubbling springs trickled melodiously from rock to rock, a veritable Eden.
Carrying as much in the way of arms as the great Tartarin, the prince was further adorned by a magnificent and colourful kepi, covered with gold braid and decorated with oak leaves embroidered in silver thread, which gave his highness the appearance of a Mexican General, or a Middle-European Station-Master. This fantastic kepi greatly intrigued Tartarin and he asked humbly for an explanation.
“An indispensable form of headgear for the traveller in Africa.” The prince replied gravely; and while polishing the peak on his coat-sleeve he instructed his innocent companion on the important role played by the kepi in colonial administration, and the deference which its appearance inspires. This to such an extent that the government has been obliged to issue kepis to everyone from the canteen worker to the registrar-general. In fact, according to the prince, to govern the country there was no necessity for an elaborate regime. All that was needed was a fine gold-braided kepi glittering on the end of a big stick.
Thus conversing and philosophising, they went there way. The bare-footed porters leapt from rock to rock, shouting and chattering. The armaments rattled in their case. The guns glittered in the sun.. The locals who passed bowed deeply before the magical kepi.... Up on the ramparts of Milianah, the chief of the Arab bureau, who was walking with his lady in the cool of the morning, hearing these unusual noises and seeing between the branches the flash of sunlight on the weapons, feared a surprise attack; whereupon he lowered the portcullis, beat the alarm and put the town in a state of siege.
This was a good start to the expedition. Regrettably, before the end of the day, the situation deteriorated. One of the negroes was taken with the most fearful colic, having eaten the plasters in the medicine chest. Another fell, dead drunk, by the wayside, as a result of swigging spirits of camphor. A third, in charge of the log-book, deceived by the gold lettering on the cover, thought he had hold of the treasures of Mecca and made off with it at top speed.... Clearly some planning was needed, so the party halted and took council in the shade of an old fig tree. “In my opinion” Said the prince, trying unsuccessfully to dissolve a tablet of pemmican in a cooking pot, “In my opinion, after this evening we should get rid of these negro porters. There is an Arab market near here and our best plan would be to go there and buy some bourriquots.” “No!... No!... No bourriquots!” Interrupted Tartarin, who had become very red at the memory of Noiraud, adding hypocritically, “How can these little creatures carry all our equipment?”
The prince smiled, “You are mistaken my illustrious friend,” He said, “The bourriquot may seem to you a poor weak creature, but it has a great heart... It needs it to support all it has to bear... ask the Arabs. This is their idea of our administration. On top they say, is the governor with a big stick which he uses to thump his staff. The staff in turn thump the soldiers. The soldiers thump the colonist. The colonist thumps the Arab, the Arab the negro, and the Negro thumps the bourriquot. The poor little bourriquot having no one to thump, bares its back and puts up with it. So you can see it is well able to carry all our gear.”
“That’s all very well.” Replied Tartarin, “But I don’t think that donkeys add much colour to the general appearance of our caravan. Now if we could have a camel...!”
“Just as you wish.” Said his highness, and they set off for the market.
The market was held some distance away on the bank of the Cheliff. There were five or six thousand Arabs milling around in the sun, trading noisily among piles of olives, pots of honey, sacks of spices and heaps of cigars. There were fires at which whole sheep were roasting, dripping with butter. There were open air butcheries where almost naked negroes, their feet paddling in blood and their arms red to the elbow, were cutting up the carcases of goats hanging from hooks... In one corner, in a tent repaired in a thousand different colours, was a Moorish official with a big book and spectacles. Over there is a crowd. There are cries of rage. It is a roulette game that has been set up on a corn bin and the tribesmen gathered about it have started fighting with knives. Elsewhere, there are cheers, laughter and stamping of feet, a merchant and his mule have fallen into the river and are in danger of drowning.... There are scorpions, crows, dogs and flies, millions of flies, but no camels.
Eventually a camel was discovered which some nomads were trying to dispose of. This was a real desert camel, with little hair, a sad expression and a hump which through long shortage of fodder hung flaccidly to one side. Tartarin was so taken with it that he wanted the two partners to be mounted. This proved to be a mistake.
The camel knelt, the trunks were strapped on, the prince installed himself on the creature’s neck and Tartarin was hoisted up to the top of the hump, between two cases, from where he proudly saluted the assembled market and gave the signal for departure.... Heavens above!.... If only Tarascon could see him now!
The camel rose, stretched out its long legs and took off. Calamity! The camel pitched and rolled like a frigate in a rough sea and the chechia responded to the motion as it had on the Zouave. “Prince... prince” Murmured Tartarin, ashen-faced, and clutching the scanty hair of the hump, “Prince... let us get down, I feel... I feel I am going to disgrace France.” But the camel was in full flight and nothing was going to stop it. Four thousand Arabs were running behind, bare-footed, waving, laughing like idiots, six hundred thousand white teeth glistening in the sun.... The great man of Tarascon had to resign himself to the inevitable, and France was disgraced.