Chapter 28.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Since the bivouac tent obstinately refused to open and the pemmican tablets to dissolve, the hunting party was compelled to stop daily at tribal villages. Everywhere, thanks to the prince’s kepi, they were received with open arms. They were lodged by chieftains in strange palaces, great white buildings without windows, where were piled up hookahs and mahogany commodes, Smyrna carpets and adjustable oil lamps, cedar-wood chests full of Turkish sequins and clocks decorated in the style of Louis Phillipe. Everywhere Tartarin was treated to fêtes and official receptions. In his honour whole villages turned out, firing volleys in the air, their burnous gleaming in the sun: after which the good chieftain would come to present the bill.
Nowhere, however, were there any more lions than there are on the Pont Neuf in Paris: but Tartarin was not discouraged, he pushed bravely on to the south. His days were spent scouring the scrub, rummaging among the dwarf palms with the end of his carbine and going “Frt!... Frt!” At each bush... Then every evening a stand-to of two or three hours... A wasted effort. No lions appeared.
One evening, however, at about six o’clock, as they were going through a wood of mastic trees, where fat quail, made lazy by the heat were jumping up from the grass, Tartarin thought he heard... but so far off... so distorted by the wind... so faint, the wonderful roar which he had heard so many times back home in Tarascon, behind the menagerie Mitaine.
At first he thought he had imagined it, but in a moment, still far distant, but now more distinct, the roaring began again, and this time one could hear, all around, the barking of village dogs; while, stricken by terror and rattling the boxes of arms and preserves, the camel’s hump trembled. There could be no more doubt.... It was a lion! Quick!... Quick! Into position! Not a moment to lose!
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.
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.
Night was falling. The rosy daylight turned to violet and then to a sombre blue.... Below, amongst the stones of the river bed, there glistened like a hand-mirror a little pool of clear water: a drinking place for the wild animals. On the slope of the opposite bank one could see indistinctly the path which they had made through the trees: a view which Tartarin found a bit unnerving. Add to this the vague noises of the African night, the rustle of branches, the thin yapping of jackals, and in the sky a flock of cranes passing with cries like children being murdered. You must admit that this could be unsettling, and Tartarin was unsettled, he was even very unsettled! His teeth chattered and the rifle shook in his hands; well... there are evenings when one is not at one’s best, and where would be the merit if heroes were never afraid?
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.
“A moi! prince!... A Moi!... The lion!”... There was no answer. “Prince!... prince! Are you there?”.... The prince was not there. Against the white wall of the Marabout was only the silhouette of the worthy camel’s hump. The prince Gregory had disappeared, taking with him the wallet and the banknotes. His highness had been waiting for a month for such an opportunity.
Chapter 29.
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.
While he was sitting disconsolately at the door of the Marabout with his head in his hands, his rifle between his knees and watched over by the camel... behold! The undergrowth opposite was thrust aside and the thunderstruck Tartarin saw not ten paces away a gigantic lion, which advanced towards him uttering roars which shook the ragged offerings on the wall of the Marabout and even the slippers of the holy man in their recess. Only Tartarin remained unshaken. “At last!” He cried, jumping to his feet with his rifle butt to his shoulder... Pan!... Pan!... Pft!... Pft!... The lion had two explosive bullets in its head! Fragments of lion erupted like fireworks into the burning African sky, and as they fell to earth, Tartarin saw two furious negroes, who ran towards him with raised cudgels. The two negroes of Milianah... Oh! Misère!... It was the the tame lion, the poor blind lion of the convent of Mahommed that the bullets of the Tarasconais had felled.
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.
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.
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.
How was this to be paid? The little money left after the prince’s defection had long since gone on legal documents and judicial absinthe. The unfortunate lion killer was now reduced to selling off his armament rifle by rifle. He sold the daggers, the knives and coshes. A grocer bought the preserved food, a chemist what was left of the medicine chest. Even the boots went, with the bivouac tent, into the hands of a merchant of bric-a-brac. Once everything had been paid, Tartarin was left with little but the lion-skin and the camel. The lion-skin he packed up carefully and despatched to Tarascon, to the address of the brave Commandant Bravida. As for the camel, he counted on it to get him back to Algiers: not by riding it, but by selling it to raise the fare for the stage-coach, which was at least better than camel-back. Sadly the camel proved a difficult market, and no one offered to buy it at any price.
Tartarin was determined to get back to Algiers, even if it meant walking. He longed to see once more Baia’s blue corslet, his house, his fountain and to rest on the white tiles of his his little cloister while he awaited money to be sent from France. In these circumstances the camel did not desert him. This strange animal had developed an inexplicable affection for its master, and seeing him set out from Orleansville it followed him faithfully, regulating its pace to his and not quitting him by as much as a footstep.
At first Tartarin found it touching. This fidelity, this unshakable devotion seemed wholly admirable; besides which the beast was no trouble and was able to find its own food. However, after a few days Tartarin grew tired of having perpetually at his heels this melancholy companion, who reminded him of all his misadventures. He began to be irritated. He took a dislike to its air of sadness to its hump and its haughty bearing. In he end he became so exasperated with it that his only wish was to be rid of it; but the camel would not be dismissed. Tartarin tried to lose it, but the camel always found him. He tried running away, but the camel could run faster. He shouted “Clear off!” and threw stones: the camel stopped and regarded him with a mournful expression, then after a few moments it resumed its pace and caught up with him. Tartarin had to resign himself to its company.
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.
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:
“Aimes-tu Marco la belle,
“La danse aux salons en fleurs...”
“Tron de Diou!” Said Tartarin, blenching, and he rushed into the courtyard.
Unhappy Tartarin! What a spectacle awaited him!.... Amid bottles, pastries, scattered cushions, tambourine, guitar, and hookah, Baia stood, without her blue jacket or her corslet, dressed only in a silver gauze blouse and big pink pantaloons, singing “Marco la belle” with a naval officer’s hat tipped over one ear... while on a rug at her feet surfeited with love and confitures, was Barbassou, the infamous Barbassou, roaring with laughter as he listened to her.
The arrival of Tartarin, haggard, thin, covered in dust, with blazing eyes and bristling chechia cut short this enjoyable Turco-Marseillaise orgy. Baia uttered a little cry, and like a startled leveret she bolted into the house, but Barbassou was not in the least put out and laughed more than ever: “Hé!... Hé!... Monsieur Tartarin. What did I tell you? You can hear that she knows French all right.”
Tartarin advanced, furious: “Captain!..” He began; but then, leaning over the balcony with a rather vulgar gesture, Baia threw down a few well-chosen words. Tartarin, deflated, sat down on a drum, his Moor spoke in the argot of the Marseilles back-streets.
“When I warned you not to trust Algerian women,” Said Captain Barbassou sententiously, “The same applied to your Montenegrin prince.” Tartarin looked up, “Do you know where the prince is?” he asked.
“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!
“In Tarascon!” Cried Tartarin, suddenly enlightened, “that is why I never saw him there. All he knew of Tarascon was what he could see from a cell window.”
“Hé!... without a doubt.... Ah! My poor M. Tartarin, you have to keep both eyes wide open in this devilish country if you don’t want to be taken in. Like that business of the Muezzin.”
“What business?... What Muezzin?”
“Ti!... Pardi!” The Muezzin opposite, who was courting Baia; all Algiers knew about it. Not all the prayers he was chanting were addressed to Allah, some were directed to the little one, and he was making propositions under your nose. “It seems that everyone in this beastly country is a crook”, Wailed the unhappy Tartarin. Barbassou shrugged his shoulders, “My dear fellow, you know how it is. All these sort of places are the same. If you take my advice you will go back to Tarascon as quickly as possible.”
“That’s easy to say, but what am I to do for money? Don’t you know how they robbed me out there in the desert?”
“Don’t worry about that,” laughed the Captain, “the Zouave is leaving tomorrow and I’ll take you back if you want... does that suit you, colleague?... All right... Good! There’s only one thing left to do, there is still some champagne and some pastries left. Come, sit down and let bygones be bygones.” After a little delay which his dignity required, our hero accepted the offer. They sat down and poured out a drink. Hearing the clink of glasses, Baia came down and finished singing Marco la Belle, and the party went on until late in the night.
Chapter 30.
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.
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.
Tartarin de Tarascon has left on the Moorish shore his arms, his equipment and his illusions, and is preparing to sail back to Tarascon with nothing in his pockets but his hands. Scarcely, however, had he set foot in the captain’s launch, when a breathless creature scrambled down from the square above and galloped towards him. It was the camel, the faithful camel, which for twenty-four hours had been searching for its master.
When Tartarin saw it, he changed colour and pretended not to know it; but the camel was insistent. It frisked along the quay. It called to its friend and regarded him with tender looks. “Take me away!” Its sad eyes seemed to say, “Take me away with you, far away from this mock Arabia, this ridiculous Orient, full of locomotives and stage coaches, where I as a second-class dromadary do not know what will become of me. You are the last Teur, I am the last camel, let us never part, Oh my Tartarin!” “Is that your camel?” Asked the Captain.
“No!... No!... Not mine.” Replied Tartarin, who trembled at the thought of entering Tarascon with this absurd escort; and shamelessly repudiating the companion of his misfortunes he repelled with his foot the soil of Algeria and pushed the boat out from the shore. The camel sniffed at the water, flexed its joints and leapt headlong in behind the boat, where it swam in convoy toward the Zouave, its hump floating on the water like a gourd and it neck lying on the surface like the ram of a trireme.
The boat and the camel came alongside the Zouave at the same time. “I don’t know what I should do about this dromadary.” Said the captain, “I think I’ll take it on board and present it to the zoo at Marseille, I can’t just leave it here.” So by means of block and tackle the wet camel was hoisted onto the deck of the Zouave, which then set sail.
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.
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.
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.
Tartarin resumed his seat and closed his eyes. After this disastrous expedition he had counted on getting back home unrecognised, but the presence of this confounded camel made it impossible. What a return to make, Bon Dieu!... No money... No lions... Nothing but a camel!.... “Tarascon!... Tarascon!”... It was time to get out.
To Tartarin’s utter astonishment, the heroic chechia had barely appeared in the doorway, when it was greeted by a great cry of “Vive Tartarin!... Vive Tartarin!” Which shook the glass vault of the station roof. “Vive Tartarin!... Hurrah for the lion killer!” Then came fanfares and a choir. Tartarin could have died, he thought this was a hoax: but no, all Tarascon was there, tossing their hats in the air and shouting his praises. There stood the brave Commandant Bravida, Costecalde the gunsmith, the President Ladevèze, the chemist and all the noble body of hat shooters, who pressed round their chief and carried him all the way down the steps.
How remarkable are the effects of the “mirage”. The skin of the blind lion sent to the Commandant was the cause of all this tumult. At the sight of this modest trophy, displayed at the club, Tarascon and beyond Tarascon the whole of the Midi had worked themselves into a state of excitement. “The Semaphore” had spoken. A complete scenario had been invented. This was no longer one lion killed by Tartarin, it was ten lions, twenty lions, a whole troop of lions. So Tartarin, when he reached Marseilles was already famous, and an enthusiastic telegram had warned his home town of his imminent arrival.
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.
Tartarin reassured his fellow citizens, “It is my camel” He said, and already under the influence of the Tarascon sun, that fine sun which induces fanciful exaggeration, he stroked the camel’s hump and added, “It is a noble creature, it saw me kill all my lions.” So saying, he took the arm of the Commandant, who was blushing with pride, and followed by his camel, surrounded by hat shooters and acclaimed by the people, he proceeded peacefully toward the little house of the baobab; and as he walked along he began the story of his great expedition.
“There was one particular evening,” He said, “When I was out in the heart of the Sahara...”