Finally, in the evening, at Costecalde's and the club, carried away bythe egg-nogg, cheers, and illumination; intoxicated by the impressionthat bare announcement of his departure had made on the town, thehapless fellow formally declared that he was sick of banging away atcaps, and that he would shortly be on the trail of the great lions ofthe Atlas. A deafening hurrah greeted this assertion. Whereupon moreegg-nogg, bravoes, handshaking, slappings of the shoulder, and atorchlight serenade up to midnight before Baobab Villa.
It was Sancho-Tartarin who was anything but delighted. This idea oftravel in Africa and lion-hunting made him shudder beforehand; andwhen the house was re-entered, and whilst the complimentary concertwas sounding under the windows, he had a dreadful "row" withQuixote-Tartarin, calling him a cracked head, a visionary, imprudent,and thrice an idiot, and detailing by the card all the catastrophesawaiting him on such an expedition--shipwreck, rheumatism, yellow fever,dysentery, the black plague, elephantiasis, and the rest of them.
In vain did Quixote-Tartarin vow that he had not committed anyimprudence--that he would wrap himself up well, and take evensuperfluous necessaries with him. Sancho-Tartarin would listen tonothing. The poor craven saw himself already torn to tatters by thelions, or engulfed in the desert sands like his late royal highnessCambyses, and the other Tartarin only managed to appease him a little byexplaining that the start was not immediate, as nothing pressed.
It is clear enough, indeed, that none embark on such an enterprisewithout some preparations. A man is bound to know whither he goes,hang it all! and not fly off like a bird. Before anything else, theTarasconian wanted to peruse the accounts of great African tourists, thenarrations of Mungo Park, Du Chaillu, Dr. Livingstone, Stanley, and soon.
In them, he learnt that these daring explorers, before donning theirsandals for distant excursions, hardened themselves well beforehand tosupport hunger and thirst, forced marches, and all kinds of privation.Tartarin meant to act like they did, and from that day forward he livedupon water broth alone. The water broth of Tarascon is a few slices ofbread drowned in hot water, with a clove of garlic, a pinch of thyme,and a sprig of laurel. Strict diet, at which you may believe poor Sanchomade a wry face.
To the regimen of water broth Tartarin of Tarascon joined otherwise practices. To break himself into the habit of long marches,he constrained himself to go round the town seven or eight timesconsecutively every morning, either at the fast walk or run, his elbowswell set against his body, and a couple of white pebbles in the mouth,according to the antique usage.
To get inured to fog, dew, and night coolness, he would go down into hisgarden every dusk, and stop out there till ten or eleven, alone with hisgun, on the lookout, behind the baobab.
Finally, so long as Mitaine's wild beast show tarried in Tarascon, thecap-poppers who were belated at Costecalde's might spy in the shadowof the booth, as they crossed the Castle-green, a mysterious figurestalking up and down. It was Tartarin of Tarascon, habituating himselfto hear without emotion the roarings of the lion in the sombre night.
X. Before the Start.
PENDING Tartarin's delay of the event by all sorts of heroic means,all Tarascon kept an eye upon him, and nothing else was busied about.Cap-popping was winged, and ballad-singing dead. The piano in Bezuquet'sshop mouldered away under a green fungus, and the Spanish fliesdried upon it, belly up. Tartarin's expedition had a put a stopper oneverything.
Ah, you ought to have seen his success in the parlours. He was snatchedaway by one from another, fought for, loaned and borrowed, ay, stolen.There was no greater honour for the ladies than to go to Mitaine'sMenagerie on Tartarin's arms, and have it explained before the lion'sden how such large game are hunted, where they should be aimed at, athow many paces off; if the accidents were numerous, and the like ofthat.
Tartarin furnished all the elucidation desired. He had read "The Life ofJules Gerard, the Lion-Slayer," and had lion-hunting at his finger ends,as if he had been through it himself. Hence he orated upon these matterswith great eloquence.
But where he shone the brightest was at dinner at Chief JudgeLadeveze's, or brave Commandant Bravida's (the former captain in theArmy Clothing Factory, you will keep in mind), when coffee came in, andall the chairs were brought up closer together, whilst they chatted ofhis future hunts.
Thereupon, his elbow on the cloth, his nose over his Mocha, our herowould discourse in a feeling tone of all the dangers awaiting himthereaway. He spoke of the long moonless night lyings-in-wait, thepestilential fens, the rivers envenomed by leaves of poison-plants,the deep snow-drifts, the scorching suns, the scorpions, and rains ofgrasshoppers; he also descanted on the peculiarities of the great lionsof the Atlas, their way of fighting, their phenomenal vigour; and theirferocity in the mating season.
Heating with his own recital, he would rise from table, bounding to themiddle of the dining-room, imitating the roar of a lion and thegoing off of a rifle crack! bang! the zizz of the explosivebullet--gesticulating and roaring about till he had overset the chairs.
Everybody turned pale around the board: the gentlemen looking at oneanother and wagging their heads, the ladies shutting their eyes withpretty screams of fright, the elderly men combatively brandishing theircanes; and, in the side apartments, the little boys, who had been put tobed betimes, were greatly startled by the sudden outcries and imitatedgun-fire, and screamed for lights. Meanwhile, Tartarin did not start.
XI. "Let's have it out with swords gentleman, not pins!"
A DELICATE question: whether Tartarin really had any intention of going,and one which the historian of Tartarin would be highly embarrassed toanswer. In plain words, Mitaine's Menagerie had left Tarascon over threemonths, and still the lion-slayer had not started. After all, blinded bya new mirage, our candid hero may have imagined in perfectly good faiththat he had gone to Algeria. On the strength of having related hisfuture hunts, he may have believed he had performed them as sincerelyas he fancied he had hoisted the consular flag and fired on the Tartars,zizz, phit, bang! at Shanghai.
Unfortunately, granting Tartarin was this time again dupe of anillusion, his fellow-townsfolk were not. When, after the quarter'sexpectation, they perceived that the hunter had not packed even acollar-box, they commenced murmuring.
"This is going to turn out like the Shanghai expedition," remarkedCostecalde, smiling.
The gunsmith's comment was welcomed all over town, for nobody believedany longer in their late idol. The simpletons and poltroons--all thefellows of Bezuquet's stamp, whom a flea would put to flight, and whocould not fire a shot without closing their eyes--were conspicuouslypitiless. In the club-rooms or on the esplanade, they accosted poorTartarin with bantering mien:
"And furthermore, when is that trip coming off?"
In Costecalde's shop, his opinions gained no credence, for thecap-poppers renounced their chief!
Next, epigrams dropped into the affair. Chief Judge Ladevese, whowillingly paid court in his leisure hours to the native Muse, composedin local dialect a song which won much success. It told of a sportsmancalled "Master Gervais," whose dreaded rifle was bound to exterminateall the lions in Africa to the very last. Unluckily, this terrible gunwas of a strange kind: "though loaded daily, it never went off."
"It never went off"--you will catch the drift.
In less than no time, this ditty became popular; and when Tartarin cameby, the longshoremen and the little shoeblacks before his door sang inchorus--
"Muster Jarvey's roifle Allus gittin' chaarged; Muster Jarvey's roifle 'il hev to git enlaarged; Muster Jarvey's roifle's Loaded oft--don't scoff; Muster Jarvey's roifle Nivver do go off!"
But it was shouted out from a safe distance, on account of the doublemuscles.
Oh, the fragility of Tarascon's fads!
The great object himself feigned to see and hear nothing; but, under thesurface, this sullen and venomous petty warfare much afflicted him. Hefelt aware that Tarascon was slipping out of his grip, and that popularfavour was going to others; and
this made him suffer horribly.
Ah, the huge bowl of popularity! it's all very well to have a seat infront of it, but what a scalding you catch when it is overturned!
Notwithstanding his pain, Tartarin smiled and peacefully jogged on inthe same life as if nothing untoward had happened. Still, the maskof jovial heedlessness glued by pride on his face would sometimesbe suddenly detached. Then, in lieu of laughter, one saw grief andindignation. Thus it was that one morning, when the little blackguardsyelped "Muster Jarvey's Roifle" beneath his window, the wretches' voicesrose even into the poor great man's room, where he was shaving beforethe glass. (Tartarin wore a full beard, but as it grew very thick, hewas obliged to keep it trimmed orderly.)
All at once the window was violently opened, and Tartarin appeared inshirt-sleeves and nightcap, smothered in lather, flourishing his razorand shaving-brush, and roaring with a formidable voice:
"Let's have it out with swords, gentlemen, not pins!"
Fine words, worthy of history's record, with only the blemish that theywere addressed to little scamps not higher than their boot-boxes, andwho were quite incapable of holding a smallsword.
XII. A memorable Dialogue in the little Baobab Villa.
AMID the general falling off, the army alone stuck out firmly forTartarin. Brave Commandant Bravida (the former captain in the ArmyClothing Department) continued to show him the same esteem as ever."He's game!" he persisted in saying--an assertion, I beg to believe,fully worth the chemist Bezuquet's. Not once did the brave officer letout any allusion to the trip to Africa; but when the public clamour grewtoo loud, he determined to have his say.
One evening the luckless Tartarin was in his study, in a brown studyhimself, when he saw the commandant stride in, stern, wearing blackgloves, buttoned up to his ears.
"Tartarin," said the ex-captain authoritatively, "Tartarin, you'll haveto go!"
And there he dwelt, erect in the doorway frame, grand and rigid asembodied Duty. Tartarin of Tarascon comprehended all the sense in"Tartarin, you'll have to ago!"
Very pale, he rose and looked around with a softened eye upon the cosysnuggery, tightly closed in, full of warmth and tender light--upon thecommodious easy chair, his books, the carpet, the white blinds of thewindows, beyond which trembled the slender twigs of the little garden.Then, advancing towards the brave officer, he took his hand, grasped itenergetically, and said in a voice somewhat tearful, but stoical for allthat:
"I am going, Bravida."
And go he did, as he said he would. Not straight off though, for ittakes time to get the paraphernalia together.
To begin with, he ordered of Bompard two large boxes bound with brass,and an inscription to be on them:
----------------------------------------- I TARTARIN, OF TARASCON I I Firearms, &c. I -----------------------------------------
The binding in brass and the lettering took much time. He alsoordered at Tastavin's a showy album, in which to keep a diary and hisimpressions of travel; for a man cannot help having an idea or twostrike him even when he is busy lion-hunting.
Next, he had over from Marseilles a downright cargo of tinnedeatables, pemmican compressed in cakes for making soup, a new patternshelter-tent, opening out and packing up in a minute, sea-boots, acouple of umbrellas, a waterproof coat, and blue spectacles to ward offophthalmia. To conclude, Bezuquet the chemist made him up a miniatureportable medicine chest stuffed with diachylon plaister, arnica,camphor, and medicated vinegar.
Poor Tartarin! he did not take these safeguards on his own behalf;but he hoped, by dint of precaution and delicate attentions, to allaySancho-Tartarin's fury, who, since the start was fixed, never left offraging day or night.
XIII. The Departure.
EFTSOON arrived the great and solemn day. From dawn all Tarascon hadbeen on foot, encumbering the Avignon road and the approaches to BaobabVilla. People were up at the windows, on the roofs, and in the trees;the Rhone bargees, porters, dredgers, shoeblacks, gentry, tradesfolk,warpers and weavers, taffety-workers, the club members, in short thewhole town; moreover, people from Beaucaire had come over the bridge,market-gardeners from the environs, carters in their huge carts withample tilts, vinedressers upon handsome mules, tricked out with ribbons,streamers, bells, rosettes, and jingles, and even, here and there, a fewpretty maids from Arles, come on the pillion behind their sweethearts,with bonny blue ribbons round the head, upon little iron-grey Camarguehorses.
All this swarm squeezed and jostled before our good Tartarin's door, whowas going to slaughter lions in the land of the Turks.
For Tarascon, Algeria, Africa, Greece, Persia, Turkey, and Mesopotamia,all form one great hazy country, almost a myth, called the land of theTurks. They say "Tur's," but that's a linguistic digression.
In the midst of all this throng, the cap-poppers bustled to and fro,proud of their captain's triumph, leaving glorious wakes where they hadpassed.
In front of the Indian fig-tree house were two large trucks. From timeto time the door would open, and allow several persons to be spied,gravely lounging about the little garden. At every new box the throngstarted and trembled. The articles were named in a loud voice:
"That there's the shelter-tent; these the potted meats; that'sthe physic-chest; these the gun-cases,"--the cap-poppers givingexplanations.
All of a sudden, about ten o'clock, there was a great stir in themultitude, for the garden gate banged open.
"Here he is! here he is!" they shouted.
It was he indeed. When he appeared upon the threshold, two outcries ofstupefaction burst from the assemblage:
"He's a Turk!" "He's got on spectacles!"
In truth, Tartarin of Tarascon had deemed it his duty, on going toAlgeria, to don the Algerian costume. Full white linen trousers, smalltight vest with metal buttons, a red sash two feet wide around thewaist, the neck bare and the forehead shaven, and a vast red fez, orchechia, on his head, with something like a long blue tassel thereto.Together with this, two heavy guns, one on each shoulder, a broadhunting-knife in the girdle, a bandolier across the breast, a revolveron the hip, swinging in its patent leather case--that is all. No, I cryyour pardon, I was forgetting the spectacles--a pantomimically largepair of azure barnacles, which came in partly to temper what was rathertoo fierce in the bearing of our hero.
"Long life to Tartarin! hip, hip, hurrah for Tartarin!" roared thepopulace.
The great man smiled, but did not salute, on account of the firearmshindering him. Moreover, he knew now on what popular favour depends;it may even be that in the depths of his soul he cursed his terriblefellow-townsfolk, who obliged him to go away and leave his pretty littlepleasure-house with whitened walls and green venetians. But there was noshow of this.
Calm and proud, although a little pallid, he stepped out on the footway,glanced at the hand-carts, and, seeing all was right, lustily took theroad to the railway-station, without even once looking back towardsBaobab Villa. Behind him marched the brave Commandant Bravida, Ladevesethe Chief Judge, Costecalde the gunsmith next, and then all thesportsmen who pop at caps, preceding the hand-carts and the rag, tag,and bobtail.
Before the station the station-master awaited them, an old Africanveteran of 1830, who shook Tartarin's hand many times with fervency.
The Paris-to-Marseilles express was not yet in, so Tartarin and hisstaff went into the waiting-rooms. To prevent the place being overrun,the station-master ordered the gates to be closed.
During a quarter of an hour, Tartarin promenaded up and down in therooms in the midst of his brother marksmen, speaking to them of hisjourney and his hunting, and promising to send them skins; they puttheir names down in his memorandum-book for a lionskin apiece, aswaltzers book for a dance.
Gentle and placid as Socrates on the point of quaffing the hemlock, theintrepid Tarasconian had a word and a smile for each. He spoke simply,with an affable mien; it looked as if, before departing, he meant toleave behind him a wake of char
ms, regrets, and pleasant memories. Onhearing their leader speak in this way, all the sportsmen felt tearswell up, and some were stung with remorse, to wit, Chief Judge Ladeveseand the chemist Bezuquet. The railway employees blubbered in thecorners, whilst the outer public squinted through the bars and bellowed:"Long live Tartarin!"
At length the bell rang. A dull rumble was heard, and a piercing whistleshook the vault.
"The Marseilles express, gen'lemen!"
"Good-bye, Tartarin! Good luck, old fellow!"
"Good-bye to you all!" murmured the great man, as, with his armsaround the brave Commandant Bravida, he embraced his dear native placecollectively in him. Then he leaped out upon the platform, and clamberedinto a carriage full of Parisian ladies, who were ready to die withfright at sight of this stranger with so many pistols and rifles.
XIV. The Port of Marseilles--"All aboard, all aboard!"
UPON the 1st of December 18--, in clear, brilliant, splendid weather,under a south winter sun, the startled inhabitants of Marseilles behelda Turk come down the Canebiere, or their Regent Street. A Turk, aregular Turk--never had such a one been seen; and yet, Heaven knows,there is no lack of Turks at Marseilles.
The Turk in question--have I any necessity of telling you it was thegreat Tartarin of Tarascon?--waddled along the quays, followed byhis gun-cases, medicine-chest, and tinned comestibles, to reach thelanding-stage of the Touache Company and the mail steamer the Zouave,which was to transport him over the sea.