At first surprise glued him to the spot, but when he saw the pirateshurl themselves on the baggage, tear off the tarpaulin covers and beginto pillage the ship, our hero came to life. Drawing his hunting knifeand shouting "Aux armes!... Aux armes!" To his fellow passengers, heprepared to lead an assault on the raiders. "Ques aco?... What's thematter with you?" Said Captain Barbassou as he came off the bridge."Ah!... There you are Captain.... Quick! Quick! Arm your men!" "He!... Dowhat? Why for God's sake?" "But don't you see?" "See what?" "There,in front of you... the pirates!" Captain Barbassou regarded him withastonishment..... At that moment a huge monster of a black man ran pastcarrying the medicine chest. "Wretch! Wait till I catch you!" YelledTartarin, starting forward with his knife held aloft. Barbassou caughthim and held him by his sash. "Calm down for Chrissake." He said,"These are not pirates, there have been no pirates for ages, these arestevedores." "Stevedores?" "He! Yes, stevedores who have come to collectthe baggage and take it ashore. Put away your cutlass, give me yourticket and follow that negro, an excellent fellow, who will take youashore and even to your hotel if you wish."
Somewhat confused Tartarin surrendered his ticket and following thenegro he went down the gangplank into a large boat which was bobbingalongside the ferry. All his baggage was there, his trunks, cases ofweapons and preserved food, as they took up all the room in the boat,there was no need to wait for other passengers. The negro climbed ontothe baggage and squatted there with his arms wrapped round his knees.Another negro took the oars... the two of them regarded Tartarin, laughingand showing their white teeth.
Standing in the stern, wearing his fiercest expression, Tartarinnervously fingered the handle of his hunting knife, for in spite of whatBarbassou had told him, he was only half reassured about the intentionsof these ebony-skinned stevedores, who looked so different from honestlongshoremen of Tarascon.
Three minutes later the boat reached land and Tartarin set foot on thelittle Barbary quay, where three hundred years earlier a galley-slavenamed Michael Cervantes, under the whip of an Algerian galley-master,had begun to plan the wonderful story of Don Quixote.
Chapter 14.
If by any chance the ghost of Micheal Cervantes was abroad on that bitof the Barbary coast, it must have been delighted at the arrival of thissplendid specimen of a Frenchman from the Midi, in whom were combinedthe two heroes of his book, Don Quixote and Sancho Panza.
It was a warm day. On the quay, bathed in sunshine, were five orsix customs officers, some settlers awaiting news from France, somesquatting Moors, smoking their long pipes, some Maltese fishermen,hauling in a large net, in the meshes of which thousands of sardinesglittered like pieces of silver; but scarcely had Tartarin setfoot there when the quay sprang into life and changed entirely itsappearance.
A band of savages, more hideous even than the pirates of the boat,seemed to rise from the very cobble-stones to hurl themselves on thenewcomer. Huge Arabs, naked beneath their long woolen garments, littleMoors dressed in rags, Negroes, Tunisians, hotel waiters in whiteaprons, pushing and shouting, plucking at his clothes, fighting over hisluggage; one grabbing his preserves another his medicine chest and, in ascreeching babel of noise, throwing at his head the improbable namesof hotels.... Deafened by this tumult, Tartarin ran hither andthither,struggling, fuming, and cursing after his baggage, and notknowing how to communicate with these barbarians, harangued them inFrench, Provencal and even what he could remember of Latin. It was awasted effort, no one was listening.... Happily, however, a little mandressed in a tunic with a yellow collar and armed with a long canearrived on the scene and dispersed the rabble with blows from his stick.He was an Algerian policeman. Very politely he arranged for Tartarin togo to the Hotel de l'Europe, and confided him to the care of some localswho led him away with all his baggage loaded on several barrows.
As he took his first steps in Algiers, Tartarin looked about himwide-eyed. He had imagined beforehand a fairylike Arabian city,something between Constantinople and Zanzibar... but here he was backin Tarascon. Some cafes some restaurants, wide streets, houses of fourstories, a small tarmac square where a military band played Offenbachpolkas, men seated on chairs, drinking beer and nibbling snacks, a fewladies, a sprinkling of tarts and soldiers, more soldiers, everywheresoldiers... and not a single "Teur" in sight except for him... so he foundwalking across the square a bit embarrassing. Everyone stared.... Themilitary band stopped playing and the Offenbach polka came to a haltwith one foot in the air.
With his two rifles on his shoulders, his revolver by his side,unflinching and stately he passed through the throng, but on reachingthe hotel his strength deserted him. The departure from Tarascon. Theharbour at Marseille. The crossing. The Montenegrin prince. The pirates,all whirled in confusion round his brain. He had to be taken up to hisroom, disarmed and undressed... there was even talk of sending for adoctor, but hardly had his head touched the pillow than he began tosnore so loudly and vigorously that the hotel manager decided thatmedical assistance was not required, and everyone discreetly withdrew.
Chapter 15.
The bell of the government clock was sounding three when Tartarin awoke.He had slept all evening, all night, all morning and even a good part ofthe afternoon. It has, of course, to be admitted that over the precedingthree days the chechia had had a pretty rough time.
His first thought on waking was "Here I am, in lion country!" and itmust be confessed that this notion that he was surrounded by lionsand was about to go in pursuit of them produced a marked chill, and heburied himself safely under the bedclothes.
Soon, however, the gaiety of the scene outside, the sky so blue, thebright sunshine which flooded into his room through the large windowwhich opened towards the sea, and a good meal which he had served inbed, washed down by a carafe of wine, quickly restored his courage. "Tothe lions! To the lions!" He cried, and throwing off the bed clothes hedressed himself hurriedly.
His plan of action was this. Leave town and go well out into the desert.Wait until nightfall. Lie in hiding, and at the first lion that comesalong... Pan! Pan!.... Return in the morning. Lunch at hotel. Receive thecongratulations of the Algerians and hire a cart to go and collect thekill.
He armed himself hastily, strapped onto his back the bivouac tent, thepole of which stuck up above his head, and then, held rigid by thiscontraption, he went down to the street. He turned sharply to the rightand walked to the end of the shopping arcade of Bab-Azoum, where aseries of Algerian store-keepers watched him pass, concealed in cornersof their dark boutiques like spiders. He went through the Place dutheatre, through the suburbs and eventually reached the dusty main roadto Mustapha.
Here was a fantastic confusion of traffic. There were coaches, cabs,curricles, military supply wagons, great carts of hay drawn by oxen,some squadrons of Chasseurs d'Afrique, troops of microscopic littledonkeys, negresses selling galettes, loads of emigrants from Alsasce,some Spahis in red cloaks. All passing in a great cloud of dust, withcries, songs and trumpet calls, between two rows of miserable shacks,where could be seen prostitutes applying their make-up at their doors,tap-rooms full of soldiers and the stalls of butchers and slaughtermen.The tales I have been told about this place are quite untrue, thoughtTartarin, there are fewer "Teurs" here than there are in Marseille.
Suddenly he saw striding past him, long-legged and proud as a turkeycock, a magnificent camel. The sight quickened his pulse; where therewere camels lions could not be far away, and indeed within five minuteshe saw coming towards him with guns on their shoulders, a whole companyof lion hunters with their dogs.
A cowardly lot, thought Tartarin, as he came alongside them... huntinglions in a group and with dogs... for it had never occurred to him thatIn Algeria one could hunt anything but lions. However these hunterslooked like comfortably retired businessmen, and Tartarin, curious aboutthis way of hunting lions with dogs and game-bags, took it on himself toaddress one of them.
"Et autrement, my friend, a good day?"
"Not bad" Replied the other, lookin
g with some surprise at the heavyarmament of our Tarascon warrior.
"You have killed some of them?"
"Yes... a few... as you can see." And the Algerian pointed to hisgame-bag, bulging with rabbits and woodcock.
"How is that?... you put them in your game-bag?"
"Where would you like me to put them?"
"But then they... they must be very small!"
"Some big, some small." Said the hunter, and as he was in a hurry tocatch up with his companions and go home, he made off at high speed.Tartarin stood, stupefied, in the middle of the road. Then after amoment of thought "Bah!" He said to himself, "These people are trying tohave me on, they haven't shot anything." And he continued on his way.
Already the houses were becoming more scattered, the passers-by lessfrequent. Night was falling. Objects becoming less distinct.... Hemarched on for another half an hour, and then he stopped. It was nowcompletely dark, a moonless night spangled with stars. There was no oneon the road, but in spite of that Tartarin reckoned that lions werenot like coaches and would not stick to the highway. He set off acrosscountry. At every step there were ditches, thorns and bushes. No matter,he walked on until at last he reached a spot he thought suited to hispurpose. A likely place for lions.
Chapter 16.
He was in a vast, wild desert, bristling with bizarre plants. Africanplants, which have the appearance of savage animals. In the faint lightfrom the stars their shadows spread over the ground in all directions.On the right was the confused, looming mass of a mountain, the Atlasperhaps, to the left could be heard the dull surge of the invisible sea.An ideal spot to tempt wild animals!
Placing one rifle on the ground before him and taking the other in hishands, Tartarin settled down and waited... he waited for an hour... twohours.... Then he remembered that in his books the famous lion huntersalways used a kid as bait, which they tethered at some distance in frontof them and made to bleat by pulling on a string attached to its leg.Lacking a kid, he had the idea of trying an imitation and began to bleatin a goat-like manner, "Me!... Me!...." At first very quietly, because, inthe depths of his heart he was a little afraid that the lion mighthear him... then seeing that nothing happened he bleated more loudly,"Me!... Me!... Me!...." And then louder still, "ME!... ME!... ME!..."
Suddenly, a few paces in front of him, something black and giganticmaterialised. He shut up... the thing crouched, sniffed the ground,leapt up, turned and ran off at a gallop... then it came back and stoppedshort. It was a lion! There could be no doubt. Now one could see quiteclearly the four short legs, the formidable forequarters and twohuge eyes gleaming in the darkness.... Aim!... Fire!...Pan!... Pan!.... Tartarin backed away, drawing his hunting knife
Following Tartarin's shot there was a terrible outcry, "I've got him!"Cried the good Tarasconais and prepared himself to receive a possibleattack, but the creature had had enough and it fled at top speed,bellowing.... He, however, did not budge: he was waiting for thefemale... as happened in all his books. Unfortunately the female failedto turn up, and after two or three hours of waiting Tartarin becametired. The ground was damp, the night was growing cool, there was a nipin the breeze from the sea... "Perhaps I should have a nap while I waitfor daylight" he said to himself, and to provide some shelter he hadrecourse to the bivouac tent. A difficulty now arose, the bivouac tentwas of such an ingenious design that he was quite unable to erect it. Hestruggled and sweated for a long time, but there was no way in which hecould get the thing up, so at last he threw it on the ground and lay ontop of it, cursing it in Provencal.
Ta!... Ta!... Ta!... Tarata! "Ques aco?" said Tartarin, waking up with astart. It was the trumpets of the Chasseurs d'Afrique sounding reveillein the barracks at Mustapha. The lion killer rubbed his eyes inamazement. He who had believed that he was in the middle of adesert... do you know where he was?... In a field full of artichokes,between a cauliflower and a swede... his Sahara was a vegetable patch.
Nearby, on the pretty green coast of upper Mustapha, white Algerianvillas gleamed in the dawn light, one might have been among the suburbanhouses in the outskirts of Marseille. The bourgeois appearance of thesleeping countryside greatly astonished Tartarin and put him in a badhumour. "These people are crazy", he said to himself, "To plant theirartichokes in an area infested by lions. For I was not dreaming, thereare lions here and there is the proof".
The proof was a trail of blood which the fleeing beast had left behindit. Following this blood-spoor, with watchful eye and revolver in hand,the valiant Tarasconais went from artichoke to artichoke until he arrivedat a small field of oats.... In a patch of flattened grain was a poolof blood and in the middle of the pool, lying on its side with a largewound to its head, was... what?... a lion?... No Parbleu!... A donkey!One of the tiny donkeys so common in Algeria, which there are called"Bourriquots".
Chapter 17.
Tartarin's first reaction at the sight of his unfortunate victim wasone of annoyance. There is after all a considerable difference betweena lion and a bourriquot. This was quickly replaced by a feeling of pity.The poor bourriqout was so pretty, so gentle, its warm flanks rising andfalling as it breathed. Tartarin knelt down and with the end of his sashhe tried to staunch the blood from its wound. The sight of this greatman tending the little donkey was the most touching thing you couldimagine. At the soothing contact of the sash, the bourriquot, whichwas already at death's door, opened a big grey eye and twitched onceor twice its long ears, as if to say "Thank you!... Thank you!". Then afinal tremor shook it from head to tail and it moved no more.
"Noiraud!... Noiraud!" Came a sudden cry from a strident, anxious voice,and the branches of some nearby bushes were thrust aside. Tartarin hadbarely time to get up and put himself on guard. It was the female!...She arrived, roaring and terrible, in the guise of an elderly Alsationlady in a rabbit-skin coat, armed with a red umbrella and calling forher donkey in a voice which woke all the echoes of Mustapha. Certainlyit might have been better for Tartarin to have had to deal with an angrylioness than this infuriated old lady. In vain he tried to explain whathad happened... how he had mistaken Noiraud for a lion, she thought hewas trying to make fun of her and, uttering loud cries of indignation,she set about our hero with blows from her umbrella. Tartarin, inconfusion, defended himself as best he could, parrying the blowswith his rifle, sweating, puffing, jumping about and crying "ButMadame!... But Madame!". To no avail. Madame was deaf to his pleas andredoubled her efforts.
Happily a third party arrived on the field of battle. It was the husbandof the Alsation lady, also an Alsation.... A tavern keeper and a shrewdman of business. When he saw with whom he was dealing and that theassassin was willing to pay for his crime, he disarmed his spouse andtook her to one side. Tartarin gave two hundred francs. The donkey wasworth at least ten, which is the going price for bourriquots in the Arabmarket. Then the poor Noiraud was buried beneath a fig tree, and theAlsation, put in a good humour at the sight of so much money, invitedour hero to break a crust at his tavern, which was not far away at theedge of the main road. The Algerian hunters went there every Sundayfor luncheon; for the countryside was full of game, and for two leaguesabout the city there was not a better place for rabbits. "And thelions?" Asked Tartarin. The Alsation looked at him with surprise... "Thelions?" "Yes, the lions, do you see them sometimes?" Tartarin replied,with a little less assurance. The tavern-keeper burst out laughing,"Lions!... Lions!... What is all this about lions?" "Are there no lionsin Algeria then?" "Moi foi! I have been here for twenty years and I havenever seen any.... though I did once hear... I think there was a reportin the newspaper... but it was long ago... somewhere in the south"....
At that moment they reached the tavern, a wayside pot house, the sort ofthing one can see by any main road. It had a very faded sign above thedoor, some billiard cues painted on the wall and the inoffensive name"Au rendezvous des lapins".
Chapter 18.
This first adventure would have been enough to discourage many people,but seasoned characters such as Tartari
n are not so easily disheartened.The lions are in the south, thought our hero, very well I shall go tothe south.
As soon as he had swallowed his last morsel, he got up, thanked hishost, took leave of the old lady without any ill-feeling, shed a lasttear over the unfortunate Noiraud and headed quickly for Algiers, withthe firm intention of packing his trunks and departing that same day forthe south.
Sadly, the main Mustapha road seemed to have grown longer during thenight. There was so much sunshine, so much dust, the bivouac tent wasso heavy, that Tartarin could not face the walk back to the town andhe hailed the first horse-drawn omnibus which came along and climbedin.... Poor Tartarin! How much better it would have been for hisreputation if he had not entered that fateful vehicle, and had continuedhis journey on foot, even at the risk of collapsing from the heat andthe weight of his two double-barreled rifles and the bivouac tent.
With Tartarin aboard, the omnibus was now full. At the far end was anAlgerian priest with a big black beard, his nose stuck in his breviary.Opposite was a young Moorish merchant, puffing at a large cigarette,then a Maltese seaman, and four or five Moorish women, with white linenmasks, whose eyes alone were visible. These ladies had been on a visitto the cemetery of Abd-el-Kader, but this did not seem to have depressedthem. Behind their masks they laughed and chattered among themselves andmunched pastries.