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Tartarin of Tarascon

A >> Alphonse Daudet >> Tartarin of Tarascon




The sight of the municipal cap suddenly calmed the Negroes'
choler. Peaceful and majestic, the officer with the brass badge drew
up a report on the affair, ordered the camel to be loaded with what
remained of the king of beasts, and the plaintiffs as well as the
delinquent to follow him, proceeding to Orleansville, where all was
deposited with the law-courts receiver.

There issued a long and alarming case!

After the Algeria of the native tribes which he had overrun, Tartarin
of Tarascon became thence acquainted with another Algeria, not
less weird and to be dreaded -- the Algeria in the towns, surcharged
with lawyers and their papers. He got to know the pettifogger who
does business at the back of a cafe -- the legal Bohemian with
documents reeking of wormwood bitters and white neckcloths
spotted with champoreau; the ushers, the attorneys, all the locusts
of stamped paper, meagre and famished, who eat up the colonist
body and boots -- ay, to the very straps of them, and leave him
peeled to the core like an Indian cornstalk, stripped leaf by leaf.

Before all else it was necessary to ascertain whether the lion had
been killed on the civil or the military territory. In the former case
the matter regarded the Tribunal of Commerce; in the second,
Tartarin would be dealt with by the Council of War: and at the
mere name the impressionable Tarasconian saw himself shot at the
foot of the ramparts or huddled up in a casemate-silo.

The puzzle lay in the limitation of the two territories being very
hazy in Algeria.

At length, after a month's running about, entanglements, and
waiting under the sun in the yards of Arab Departmental offices, it
was established that, whereas the lion had been killed on the
military territory, on the other hand Tartarin was in the civil
territory when he shot. So the case was decided in the civil courts,
and our hero was let off on paying two thousand five hundred
francs damages, costs not included.

How could he pay such a sum?

The few piashtres escaped from the prince's sweep had long since
gone in legal documents and judicial libations. The unfortunate
lion-destroyer was therefore reduced to selling the store of guns by
retail, rifle by rifle; so went the daggers, the Malay kreeses, and the
life-preservers. A grocer purchased the preserved aliments; an
apothecary what remained of the medicaments. The big boots
themselves walked off after the improved tent to a dealer of
curiosities, who elevated them to the dignity of "rarities from
Cochin-China."

When everything was paid up, only the lion's skin and the camel
remained to Tartarin. The hide he had carefully packed, to be sent
to Tarascon to the address of brave Commandant Bravida, and,
later on, we shall see what came of this fabulous trophy. As for the
camel, he reckoned on making use of him to get back to Algiers,
not by riding on him, but by selling him to pay his coach-fare -- the
best way to employ a camel in travelling. Unhappily the beast was
difficult to place, and no one would offer a copper for him.

Still Tartarin wanted to regain Algiers by hook or crook. He was in
haste again to behold Baya's blue bodice, his little snuggery and his
fountains, as well as to repose on the white trefoils of his little
cloister whilst awaiting money from France. So our hero did not
hesitate; distressed but not downcast, he undertook to make the
journey afoot and penniless by short stages.

In this enterprise the camel did not cast him off. The strange animal
had taken an unaccountable fancy for his master, and on seeing him
leave Orleansville, he set to striding steadfastly behind him,
regulating his pace by this, and never quitting him by a yard.

At the first outset Tartarin found this touching; such fidelity and
devotion above proof went to his heart, all the more because the
creature was accommodating, and fed himself on nothing.
Nevertheless, after a few days, the Tarasconian was worried by
having this glum companion perpetually at his heels, to remind him
of his misadventures. Ire arising, he hated him for his sad aspect,
hump and gait of a goose in harness. To tell the whole truth, he
held him as his Old Man of the Sea, and only pondered on how to
shake him off; but the follower would not be shaken off. Tartarin
attempted to lose him, but the camel always found him; he tried to
outrun him, but the camel ran faster. He bade him begone, and
hurled stones at him. The camel stopped with a mournful mien, but
in a minute resumed the pursuit, and always ended by overtaking
him. Tartarin had to resign himself.

For all that, when, after eight full days of tramping, the dusty and
harassed Tarasconian espied the first white housetops of Algiers
glimmer from afar in the verdure, and when he got to the city gates
on the noisy Mustapha Avenue, amid the Zouaves, Biskris, and
Mahonnais, all swarming around him and staring at him trudging by
with his camel, overtasked patience escaped him.

"No! no!" he growled, "it is not likely! I cannot enter Algiers with
such an animal!"

Profiting by a jam of vehicles, he turned off into the fields and
jumped into a ditch. In a minute or so he saw over his head on the
highway the camel flying off with long strides and stretching his
neck with a wistful air.

Relieved of a great weight thereby, the hero sneaked out of his
covert, and entered the town anew by a circuitous path which
skirted the wall of his own little garden.



VII.
Catastrophes upon Catastrophes.


ENTIRELY astonished was Tartarin before his Moorish dwelling
when he stopped.

Day was dying and the street deserted. Through the low pointed-
arch doorway which the negress had forgotten to close, laughter
was heard; and the clink of wine-glasses, the popping of champagne
corks; and, floating over all the jolly uproar, a feminine voice
singing clearly and joyously:

"Do you like, Marco la Bella, to dance in the hall hung with
bloom?"

"Throne of heaven!" ejaculated the Tarasconian, turning pale, as he
rushed into the enclosure.

Hapless Tartarin! what a sight awaited him! Beneath the arches of
the little cloister, amongst bottles, pastry, scattered cushions, pipes,
tambourines, and guitars, Baya was singing "Marco la Bella" with a
ship captain's cap over one ear. She had on no blue vest or bodice;
indeed, her only wear was a silvery gauze wrapper and full pink
trousers. At her feet, on a rug, surfeited with love and sweetmeats,
Barbassou, the infamous skipper Barbassou, was bursting with
laughter at hearing her.

The apparition of Tartarin, haggard, thinned, dusty, his flaming
eyes, and the bristling up fez tassel, sharply interrupted this tender
Turkish-Marseillais orgie. Baya piped the low whine of a
frightened leveret, and ran for safety into the house. But Barbassou
did not wince; he only laughed the louder, saying:

"Ha, ha, Monsieur Tartarin! What do you say to that now? You
see she does know French."

Tartarin of Tarascon advanced furiously, crying:

"Captain!"

"Digo-li que vengue, moun bon! -- Tell him what's happened, old
dear!" screamed the Moorish woman, leaning over the first floor
gallery with a pretty low-bred gesture!

The poor man, overwhelmed, let himself collapse upon a drum. His
genuine Moorish beauty not only knew French, but the French of
Marseilles!

"I told you not to trust the Algerian girls," observed Captain
Barbassou sententiously! "They're as tricky as your Montenegrin
prince."

Tartarin lifted his head

"Do you know where the prince is?"

"Oh, he's not far off. He has gone to live five years in the
handsome prison of Mustapha. The rogue let himself be caught
with his hand in the pocket. Anyways, this is not the first time he
has been clapped into the calaboose. His Highness has already
done three years somewhere, and -- stop a bit! I believe it was at
Tarascon."

"At Tarascon!" cried out her worthiest son, abruptly enlightened.
"That's how he only knew one part of the Town."

"Hey? Of course. Tarascon -- a jail bird's-eye view from the state
prison. I tell you, my poor Monsieur Tartarin, you have to keep
your peepers jolly well skinned in this deuce of a country, or be
exposed to very disagreeable things. For a sample, there's the
muezzin's game with you."

"What game? Which muezzin?"

"Why your'n, of course! The chap across the way who is making up
to Baya. That newspaper, the Akbar, told the yarn t'other day, and
all Algiers is laughing over it even now. It is so funny for that
steeplejack up aloft in his crow's-nest to make declarations of love
under your very nose to the little beauty whilst singing out his
prayers, and making appointments with her between bits of the
Koran."

"Why, then, they're all scamps in this country!" howled the unlucky
Tarasconian.

Barbassou snapped his fingers like a philosopher.

"My dear lad, you know, these new countries are 'rum!' But,
anyhow, if you'll believe me, you'd best cut back to Tarascon at full
speed."

"It's easy to say, 'Cut back.' Where's the money to come from?
Don't you know that I was plucked out there in the desert?"

"What does that matter?" said the captain merrily. "The Zouave
sails tomorrow, and if you like I will take you home. Does that suit
you, mate? Ay? Then all goes well. You have only one thing to do.
There are some bottles of fizz left, and half the pie. Sit you down
and pitch in without any grudge."

After the minute's wavering which self-respect commanded, the
Tarasconian chose his course manfully. Down he sat, and they
touched glasses. Baya, gliding down at that chink, sang the finale
of "Marco la Bella," and the jollification was prolonged deep into
the night.

About 3 A.M., with a light head but a heavy foot, our good
Tarasconian was returning from seeing his friend the captain off
when, in passing the mosque, the remembrance of his muezzin and
his practical jokes made him laugh, and instantly a capital idea of
revenge flitted through his brain.

The door was open. He entered, threaded long corridors hung with
mats, mounted and kept on mounting till he finally found himself in
a little oratory, where an openwork iron lantern swung from the
ceiling, and embroidered an odd pattern in shadows upon the
blanched walls.

There sat the crier on a divan, in his large turban and white pelisse,
with his Mostaganam pipe, and a bumper of absinthe before him,
which he whipped up in the orthodox manner, whilst awaiting the
hour to call true believers to prayer. At view of Tartarin, he
dropped his pipe in terror.

"Not a word, knave!" said the Tarasconian, full of his project.
"Quick! Off with turban and coat!"

The Turkish priest-crier tremblingly handed over his outer
garments, as he would have done with anything else. Tartarin
donned them, and gravely stepped out upon the minaret platform.

In the distance the sea shone. The white roofs glittered in the
moonbeams. On the sea breeze was heard the strumming of a few
belated guitars. The Tarasconian muezzin gathered himself up for
the effort during a space, and then, raising his arms, he set to
chanting in a very shrill voice:

"La Allah il Allah! Mahomet is an old humbug! The Orient, the
Koran, bashaws, lions, Moorish beauties -- they are all not worth a
fly's skip! There is nothing left but gammoners. Long live
Tarascon!"

Whilst the illustrious Tartarin, in his queer jumbling of Arabic and
Provencal, flung his mirthful maledictions to the four quarters, sea,
town, plain and mountain, the clear, solemn voices of the other
muezzins answered him, taking up the strain from minaret to
minaret, and the believers of the upper town devoutly beat their
bosoms.


VIII.
Tarascon again!


MID-DAY has come.

The Zouave had her steam up, ready to go. Upon the balcony of
the Valentin Cafe, high above, the officers were levelling
telescopes, and, with the colonel at their head, looking at the lucky
little craft that was going back to France. This is the main
distraction of the staff. On the lower level, the roads glittered. The
old Turkish cannon breaches, stuck up along the waterside, blazed
in the sun. The passengers hurried, Biskris and Mahonnais piled
their luggage up in the wherries.

Tartarin of Tarascon had no luggage. Here he comes down the Rue
de la Marine through the little market, full of bananas and melons,
accompanied by his friend Barbassou. The hapless Tarasconian left
on the Moorish strand his gun-cases and his illusions, and now he
had to sail for Tarascon with his hands in his otherwise empty
pockets. He had barely leaped into the captain's cutter before a
breathless beast slid down from the heights of the square and
galloped towards him. It was the faithful camel, who had been
hunting after his master in Algiers during the last four-and-twenty
hours.

On seeing him, Tartarin changed countenance, and feigned not to
know him, but the camel was not going to be put off. He
scampered along the quay; he whinnied for his friend, and regarded
him with affection.

"Take me away," his sad eyes seemed to say, "take me away in your
ship, far, far from this sham Arabia, this ridiculous Land of the
East, full of locomotives and stage coaches, where a camel is so
sorely out of keeping that I do not know what will become of me.
You are the last real Turk, and I am the last camel. Do not let us
part, O my Tartarin!"

"Is that camel yours?" the captain inquired.

"Not a bit of it!" replied Tartarin, who shuddered at the idea of
entering Tarascon with that ridiculous escort; and, impudently
denying the companion of his misfortunes, he spurned the Algerian
soil with his foot, and gave the cutter the shoving-off start. The
camel sniffed of the water, extended its neck, cracked its joints,
and, jumping in behind the row-boat at haphazard, he swam
towards the Zouave with his humpback floating like a bladder, and
his long neck projecting over the wave like the beak of a galley.

Cutter and camel came alongside the mail steamer together.

"This dromedary regularly cuts me up," observed Captain
Barbassou, quite affected. "I have a good mind to take him aboard
and make a present of him to the Zoological Gardens at
Marseilles."

And so they hauled up the camel with many blocks and tackles
upon the deck, being increased in weight by the brine, and the
Zouave started.

Tartarin spent the two days of the crossing by himself in his
stateroom, not because the sea was rough, or that the red fez had
too much to suffer, but because the deuced camel, as soon as his
master appeared above decks, showed him the most preposterous
attentions. You never did see a camel make such an exhibition of a
man as this.

From hour to hour, through the cabin portholes, where he stuck out
his nose now and then, Tartarin saw the Algerian blue sky pale
away; until one morning, in a silvery fog, he heard with delight
Marseilles bells ringing out. The Zouave had arrived and cast
anchor.

Our man, having no luggage, got off without saying anything,
hastily slipped through Marseilles for fear he was still pursued by
the camel, and never breathed till he was in a third-class carriage
making for Tarascon.

Deceptive security!

Hardly were they two leagues from the city before every head was
stuck out of window. There were outcries and astonishment.
Tartarin looked in his turn, and what did he descry! the camel,
reader, the inevitable camel, racing along the line behind the train,
and keeping up with it! The dismayed Tartarin drew back and shut
his eyes.

After this disastrous expedition of his he had reckoned on slipping
into his house incognito. But the presence of this burdensome
quadruped rendered the thing impossible. What kind of a triumphal
entry would he make? Good heavens! not a sou, not a lion, nothing
to show for it save a camel!

"Tarascon! Tarascon!"

He was obliged to get down.

O amazement!

Scarce had the hero's red fez popped out of the doorway before a
loud shout of "Tartarin for ever!" made the glazed roof of the
railway station tremble. "Long life to Tartarin, the lion-slayer!"
And out burst the windings of horns and the choruses of the local
musical societies.

Tartarin felt death had come: he believed in a hoax. But, no! all
Tarascon was there, waving their hats, all of the same way of
thinking. Behold the brave Commandant Bravida, Costecalde the
armourer, the Chief Judge, the chemist, and the whole noble corps
of cap-poppers, who pressed around their leader, and carried him in
triumph out through the passages.

Singular effects of the mirage! -- the hide of the blind lion sent to
Bravida was the cause of all this riot. With that humble fur
exhibited in the club-room, the Tarasconians, and, at the back of
them, the whole South of France, had grown exalted. The
Semaphore newspaper had spoken of it. A drama had been
invented. It was not merely a solitary lion which Tartarin had slain,
but ten, nay, twenty -- pooh! a herd of lions had been made
marmalade of. Hence, on disembarking at Marseilles, Tartarin was
already celebrated without being aware of it, and an enthusiastic
telegram had gone on before him by two hours to his native place.

But what capped the climax of the popular gladness was to see a
fancifully shaped animal, covered with foam and dust, appear
behind the hero, and stumble down the station stairs.

Tarascon for an instant believed that its dragon was come again.

Tartarin set his fellow-citizens at ease.

"This is my camel," he said.

Already feeling the influence of the splendid sun of Tarascon, which
makes people tell "bouncers" unwittingly, he added, as he fondled
the camel's hump:

"It is a noble beast! It saw me kill all my lions!"

Whereupon he familiarly took the arm of the commandant, who
was red with pleasure; and followed by his camel, surrounded by
the cap-hunters, acclaimed by all the population, he placidly
proceeded towards the Baobab Villa; and, on the march, thus
commenced the account of his mighty hunting:

"Once upon an evening, you are to imagine that, out in the depths
of the Sahara" --



APPENDIX

Obituary of Alphonse Daudet.


17th December 1897
DEATH OF A FRENCH NOVELIST.
ALPHONSE DAUDET.

M. Alphonse Daudet, the eminent French novelist and playwright,
died suddenly yesterday evening while at dinner The cause of death
was syncope due to failure of the heart.

Alphonse Daudet was born of poor parents at Nimes in 1840. He
studied in the Lyons Lyceum, and then became usher in a school at
Alais. Going to Paris to seek his fortune in literature in 1858, he
succeeded in publishing a book of verses entitled Les Amoreuses,
which led to his employment by several newspapers. He published
many novels and tales, and about half a dozen plays. His most
popular work is "Les Morticoles." His son, Leon Daudet, is a
litterateur of promise.

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