On hearing this unlikely but plausible tale, Tartarin recovered hisspirits. "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 bythe river Cheliff and you shall see." "What!... prince. Do you mean tojoin in the hunt yourself?" "Of course" Said the prince "Do you think Iwould leave you to wander alone in the middle of Africa, among all thosesavage tribes, of whose language and customs you know nothing? No! No!My dear Tartarin. I shall not leave you again. Wherever you go I shallaccompany you." "Oh!... prince!... prince!" And Tartarin clasped thevaliant Gregory in a warm embrace.
Chapter 27.
Very early the next morning the intrepid Tartarin and the no lessintrepid prince Gregory, followed by half a dozen negro porters, leftMilianah and descended towards the plain of the Chetiff by a steeppathway, delightfully shaded by jasmine, carobs and wild olives, betweenthe hedges of little native gardens where a thousand bubbling springstrickled melodiously from rock to rock, a veritable Eden.
Carrying as much in the way of arms as the great Tartarin, the princewas further adorned by a magnificent and colourful kepi, covered withgold braid and decorated with oak leaves embroidered in silver thread,which gave his highness the appearance of a Mexican General, or aMiddle-European Station-Master. This fantastic kepi greatly intriguedTartarin and he asked humbly for an explanation.
"An indispensable form of headgear for the traveller in Africa." Theprince replied gravely; and while polishing the peak on his coat-sleevehe instructed his innocent companion on the important role played by thekepi in colonial administration, and the deference which its appearanceinspires. This to such an extent that the government has been obligedto issue kepis to everyone from the canteen worker to theregistrar-general. In fact, according to the prince, to govern thecountry there was no necessity for an elaborate regime. All that wasneeded was a fine gold-braided kepi glittering on the end of a bigstick.
Thus conversing and philosophising, they went there way. The bare-footedporters leapt from rock to rock, shouting and chattering. The armamentsrattled in their case. The guns glittered in the sun.. The locals whopassed bowed deeply before the magical kepi.... Up on the ramparts ofMilianah, the chief of the Arab bureau, who was walking with his lady inthe cool of the morning, hearing these unusual noises and seeing betweenthe branches the flash of sunlight on the weapons, feared a surpriseattack; whereupon he lowered the portcullis, beat the alarm and put thetown in a state of siege.
This was a good start to the expedition. Regrettably, before the end ofthe day, the situation deteriorated. One of the negroes was taken withthe most fearful colic, having eaten the plasters in the medicinechest. Another fell, dead drunk, by the wayside, as a result of swiggingspirits of camphor. A third, in charge of the log-book, deceived by thegold lettering on the cover, thought he had hold of the treasures ofMecca and made off with it at top speed.... Clearly some planning wasneeded, so the party halted and took council in the shade of an old figtree. "In my opinion" Said the prince, trying unsuccessfully to dissolvea tablet of pemmican in a cooking pot, "In my opinion, after thisevening we should get rid of these negro porters. There is an Arabmarket near here and our best plan would be to go there and buy somebourriquots." "No!... No!... No bourriquots!" Interrupted Tartarin, whohad 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 greatheart... It needs it to support all it has to bear... ask the Arabs. Thisis their idea of our administration. On top they say, is the governorwith a big stick which he uses to thump his staff. The staff in turnthump the soldiers. The soldiers thump the colonist. The colonist thumpsthe Arab, the Arab the negro, and the Negro thumps the bourriquot. Thepoor little bourriquot having no one to thump, bares its back and putsup 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 thatdonkeys add much colour to the general appearance of our caravan. Now ifwe 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, tradingnoisily among piles of olives, pots of honey, sacks of spices and heapsof cigars. There were fires at which whole sheep were roasting, drippingwith butter. There were open air butcheries where almost naked negroes,their feet paddling in blood and their arms red to the elbow, werecutting up the carcases of goats hanging from hooks... In one corner, ina tent repaired in a thousand different colours, was a Moorish officialwith a big book and spectacles. Over there is a crowd. There are criesof rage. It is a roulette game that has been set up on a corn bin andthe tribesmen gathered about it have started fighting with knives.Elsewhere, there are cheers, laughter and stamping of feet, amerchant and his mule have fallen into the river and are in danger ofdrowning.... There are scorpions, crows, dogs and flies, millions offlies, but no camels.
Eventually a camel was discovered which some nomads were trying todispose of. This was a real desert camel, with little hair, a sadexpression and a hump which through long shortage of fodder hungflaccidly to one side. Tartarin was so taken with it that he wanted thetwo partners to be mounted. This proved to be a mistake.
The camel knelt, the trunks were strapped on, the prince installedhimself on the creature's neck and Tartarin was hoisted up to the top ofthe hump, between two cases, from where he proudly saluted the assembledmarket and gave the signal for departure.... Heavens above!.... If onlyTarascon could see him now!
The camel rose, stretched out its long legs and took off. Calamity! Thecamel pitched and rolled like a frigate in a rough sea and the chechiaresponded to the motion as it had on the Zouave. "Prince... prince"Murmured Tartarin, ashen-faced, and clutching the scanty hair of thehump, "Prince... let us get down, I feel... I feel I am going to disgraceFrance." But the camel was in full flight and nothing was going tostop it. Four thousand Arabs were running behind, bare-footed, waving,laughing like idiots, six hundred thousand white teeth glistening inthe sun.... The great man of Tarascon had to resign himself to theinevitable, and France was disgraced.
Chapter 28.
Despite the picturesque nature of their new mode of transport our lionhunters were forced to dismount, out of regard for the chechia. Theycontinued their journey as before, on foot, and the caravan proceededtranquilly toward the south with Tartarin in front, the prince in therear and between them the camel with the baggage.
The expedition lasted for a month. For a whole month, Tartarin, huntingfor non-existent lions, wandered from village to village in the immenseplain of the Chetiff, across this extraordinary, cock-eyed FrenchAlgeria, where the perfumes of ancient Araby are mingled with a powerfulstink of Absinthe and barrack-room; Abraham and Zouzou combined, astrange mixture like a page of the Old Testament rewritten by SergeantLe Ramee or Corporal Pitou.... A curious spectacle for those who wouldcare to look.... A savage and decadent people whom we are civilisingby giving them our own vices. The cruel and uncontrolled authority ofPashas, inflated with self-importance in their cordons of the legion ofhonour, who at their whim have people beaten on the soles of their feet.The so-called justice of bespectacled Cadis, traitors to the koran andto the law, who sell their judgements as did Esau his birthright fora plate of cous-cous. Drunken and libertine headmen, former batmen toGeneral Yussif someone or other, who guzzle champagne in the company ofharlots, and indulge in feasts of roast mutton, while before their tentsthe whole tribe is starving and disputes with the dogs the leavings ofthe seigniorial banquet.
Then, all around, uncultivated plain. Scorched grass. Bushes bare ofleaves. Scrub. Cactus. Mastic trees... The granary of France?... A granaryempty of grain and rich only in jackals and bugs. Abando
ned villages.Bewildered tribesfolk who run they know not where, fleeing from famineand sowing corpses along the road. Here and there a French settlement,the houses dilapidated, the fields untilled and raging hordes of locustswho eat the very curtains from the windows, while the colonists are allin cafes, drinking absinthe and discussing projects for the reform ofthe constitution.
That is what Tartarin could have seen, if he had taken the trouble, butobsessed with his fantasy the man from Tarascon marched straight ahead,his vision limited to searching for these monstrous felines, of whichthere was no trace.
Since the bivouac tent obstinately refused to open and the pemmicantablets to dissolve, the hunting party was compelled to stop daily attribal villages. Everywhere, thanks to the prince's kepi, they werereceived with open arms. They were lodged by chieftains in strangepalaces, great white buildings without windows, where were piled uphookahs and mahogany commodes, Smyrna carpets and adjustable oil lamps,cedar-wood chests full of Turkish sequins and clocks decorated in thestyle of Louis Phillipe. Everywhere Tartarin was treated to fetes andofficial receptions. In his honour whole villages turned out, firingvolleys in the air, their burnous gleaming in the sun: after which thegood chieftain would come to present the bill.
Nowhere, however, were there any more lions than there are on the PontNeuf in Paris: but Tartarin was not discouraged, he pushed bravely on tothe south. His days were spent scouring the scrub, rummaging among thedwarf palms with the end of his carbine and going "Frt!... Frt!" At eachbush... Then every evening a stand-to of two or three hours... A wastedeffort. No lions appeared.
One evening, however, at about six o'clock, as they were going througha wood of mastic trees, where fat quail, made lazy by the heat werejumping up from the grass, Tartarin thought he heard... but so faroff... so distorted by the wind... so faint, the wonderful roar whichhe had heard so many times back home in Tarascon, behind the menagerieMitaine.
At first he thought he had imagined it, but in a moment, still fardistant, but now more distinct, the roaring began again, and this timeone could hear, all around, the barking of village dogs; while, strickenby terror and rattling the boxes of arms and preserves, the camel's humptrembled. 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) witha white dome: the big yellow slippers of the deceased lying in a recessabove the door, together with a bizarre jumble of votive offerings whichhung along the walls: fragments of burnous, some gold thread, a tuftof red hair. There Tartarin installed the prince and the camel,and prepared to look for a hide. He was determined to face the lionsingle-handed, so he earnestly requested His Highness not to leave thespot, and for safe keeping he handed to him his wallet, a fat walletstuffed with valuable papers and banknotes. This done our hero soughthis post.
About a hundred yards in front of the Marabout, on the banks of analmost dry river, a clump of oleanders stirred in the faint twilightbreeze, and it was there that Tartarin concealed himself in ambush,kneeling on one knee, in what he felt was an appropriate position, hisrifle in his hands and his big hunting knife stuck into the sandy soilof the river bank in front of him.
Night was falling. The rosy daylight turned to violet and then toa sombre blue.... Below, amongst the stones of the river bed, thereglistened like a hand-mirror a little pool of clear water: a drinkingplace for the wild animals. On the slope of the opposite bank one couldsee indistinctly the path which they had made through the trees: a viewwhich Tartarin found a bit unnerving. Add to this the vague noises ofthe African night, the rustle of branches, the thin yapping of jackals,and in the sky a flock of cranes passing with cries like children beingmurdered. You must admit that this could be unsettling, and Tartarin wasunsettled, he was even very unsettled! His teeth chattered and the rifleshook in his hands; well... there are evenings when one is not at one'sbest, and where would be the merit if heroes were never afraid?
Tartarin was, admittedly, afraid, but in spite of his fear he held onfor an hour... two hours, but heroism has its breaking point. In the dryriver bed, close to him, Tartarin heard the sound of footsteps rattlingthe pebbles. Terror overtook him. He rose to his feet, fired bothbarrels blindly into the night and ran at top speed to the Marabout,leaving his knife stuck in the ground as a memorial to the mostoverwhelming 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. Againstthe white wall of the Marabout was only the silhouette of the worthycamel's hump. The prince Gregory had disappeared, taking with him thewallet and the banknotes. His highness had been waiting for a month forsuch an opportunity.
Chapter 29.
The day after this adventurous yet tragic evening, when at first lightour hero awoke and realised that the prince and his money had gone andwould not return; when he saw himself alone in this little white tomb,betrayed, robbed and abandoned in the middle of savage Algeria with aone-humped camel and some loose change as his total resources, for thefirst time some misgivings entered his mind. He began to have doubtsabout Montenegro, about friendship, fame and even lions. Overcome bymisery he shed bitter tears.
While he was sitting disconsolately at the door of the Marabout with hishead in his hands, his rifle between his knees and watched over bythe camel... behold! The undergrowth opposite was thrust aside and thethunderstruck Tartarin saw not ten paces away a gigantic lion, whichadvanced towards him uttering roars which shook the ragged offerings onthe wall of the Marabout and even the slippers of the holy man in theirrecess. Only Tartarin remained unshaken. "At last!" He cried, jumpingto 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 rantowards him with raised cudgels. The two negroes of Milianah... Oh!Misere!... It was the the tame lion, the poor blind lion of the conventof Mahommed that the bullets of the Tarasconais had felled.
This time Tartarin had the narrowest of escapes. Drunk with fanaticalfury, the two negro mendicants would surely have had him in pieces hadnot the God of the Christians sent him a Guardian Angel in the shapeof the District Police Officer from Orleansville, who arrived down thepathway, his sabre tucked under his arm, at that very moment. Thesight of the municipal kepi had an immediate calming effect on the twonegroes. Stern and majestic the representative of the law took down theparticulars of the affair, had the remains of the lion loaded ontothe camel, and ordered the plaintiff and the accused to follow him toOrleansville, where the whole matter was placed in the hands of thelegal authorities.
There then commenced a long and involved process. After the tribalAlgeria in which he had been wandering, Tartarin now made theacquaintance of the no less peculiar and cock-eyed Algeria of the towns:litigious and legalistic. He encountered a sleazy justicary who stitchedup shady deals in the back rooms of cafes. The Bohemian society of thegentlemen of the law; dossiers which stank of absinthe, white cravatsspeckled with drink and coffee stains. He was embroiled with ushers,solicitors, and business agents, all the locusts of officialdom, thinand ravenous, who strip the colonist down to his boots and leave himshorn leaf by leaf like a stalk of maize.
The first essential point to be decided was whether the lion had beenkilled on civil or military territory. In the first case Tartarinwould come before a civil tribunal, in the second he would be tried bycourt-martial: at the word court-martial Tartarin imagined himselflying shot at the foot of the ramparts, or crouching in the depths ofa dungeon... A major difficulty was that the delimitation of these twoareas 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, onmilitary ground, but on the other hand that Tartarin when he fired thefatal shot was in civilian territory. The af
fair was therefore a civilmatter, and Tartarin was freed on the payment of an indemnity of twothousand five hundred francs, not including costs.
How was this to be paid? The little money left after the prince'sdefection had long since gone on legal documents and judicial absinthe.The unfortunate lion killer was now reduced to selling off his armamentrifle by rifle. He sold the daggers, the knives and coshes. A grocerbought the preserved food, a chemist what was left of the medicinechest. Even the boots went, with the bivouac tent, into the hands ofa merchant of bric-a-brac. Once everything had been paid, Tartarinwas left with little but the lion-skin and the camel. The lion-skin hepacked up carefully and despatched to Tarascon, to the address of thebrave Commandant Bravida. As for the camel, he counted on it to get himback to Algiers: not by riding it, but by selling it to raise the farefor the stage-coach, which was at least better than camel-back. Sadlythe camel proved a difficult market, and no one offered to buy it at anyprice.