"What rubbish, to din me about the Orient!" grumbled the great Tartarin;"there are not even as many Turks here as at Marseilles."
All of a sudden he saw a splendid camel strut by him quite closely,stretching its long legs and puffing out its throat like a turkey-cock,and that made his heart throb. Camels already, eh? Lions could not befar Off now; and, indeed, in five minutes' time he did see a whole bandof lion-hunters coming his way under arms.
"Cowards!" thought our hero as he skirted them; "downright cowards, togo at a lion in companies and with dogs!"
For it never could occur to him that anything but lions were objects ofthe chase in Algeria. For all that, these Nimrods wore such complacentphizzes of retired tradesmen, and their style of lion-hunting withdogs and game-bags was so patriarchal, that the Tarasconian, a littleperplexed, deemed it incumbent to question one of the gentlemen.
"And furthermore, comrade, is the sport good?"
"Not bad," responded the other, regarding the speaker's imposing warlikeequipment with a scared eye.
"Killed any?"
"Rather! Not so bad--only look." Whereupon the Algerian sportsman showedthat it was rabbits and woodcock stuffing out the bag.
"What! do you call that your bag? Do you put such-like in your bag?"
"Where else should I put 'em?"
"But it's such little game."
"Some run small and some run large," observed the hunter.
In haste to catch up with his companions, he joined them with severallong strides. The dauntless Tartarin remained rooted in the middle ofthe road with stupefaction. "Pooh!" he ejaculated, after a moment'sreflection, "these are jokers. They haven't killed anything whatever,"and he went his way.
Already the houses became scarcer, and so did the passengers. Dark cameon and objects were blurred, though Tartarin walked on for half an hourmore, when he stopped, for it was night. A moonless night, too, butsprinkled with stars. On the highroad there was nobody. The heroconcluded that lions are not stage-coaches, and would not of their ownchoice travel the main ways. So he wheeled into the fields, where therewere brambles and ditches and bushes at every step, but he kept onnevertheless.
But suddenly he halted.
"I smell lions about here!" said our friend, sniffing right and left.
V. Bang, bang!
CERTAINLY a great wilderness, bristling with odd plants of that Orientalkind which look like wicked creatures. Under the feeble starlight theirmagnified shadows barred the ground in every way. On the right loomed upconfusedly the heavy mass of a mountain--perhaps the Atlas range. On theheart-hand, the invisible sea hollowly rolling. The very spot to attractwild beasts.
With one gun laid before him and the other in his grasp, Tartarin ofTarascon went down on one knee and waited an hour, ay, a good couple,and nothing turned up. Then he bethought him how, in his books, thegreat lion-slayers never went out hunting without having a lamb or akid along with them, which they tied up a space before them, and setbleating or baa-ing by jerking its foot with a string. Not having anygoat, the Tarasconer had the idea of employing an imitation, and he setto crying in a tremulous voice:
"Baa-a-a!"
At first it was done very softly, because at bottom he was a littlealarmed lest the lion should hear him; but as nothing came, he baa-edmore loudly. Still nothing. Losing patience, he resumed many timesrunning at the top of his voice, till the "Baa, baa, baa!" came out withso much power that the goat began to be mistakable for a bull.
Unexpectedly, a few steps in front, some gigantic black thing appeared.He was hushed. This thing lowered its head, sniffed the ground, boundedup, rolled over, and darted off at the gallop, but returned and stoppedshort. Who could doubt it was the lion? for now its four short legscould plainly be seen, its formidable mane and its large eyes gleamingin the gloom.
Up went his gun into position. Fire's the word! and bang, bang! itwas done. And immediately there was a leap back and the drawing of thehunting-knife. To the Tarasconian's shot a terrible roaring replied.
"He's got it!" cried our good Tartarin as, steadying himself on hissturdy supporters, he prepared to receive the brute's charge.
But it had more than its fill, and galloped off; howling. He did notbudge, for he expected to see the female mate appear, as the story-booksalways lay it down she should.
Unhappily, no female came. After two or three hours' waiting theTarasconian grew tired. The ground was damp, the night was getting cool,and the sea-breeze pricked sharply.
"I have a good mind to take a nap till daylight," he said to himself.
To avoid catching rheumatism, he had recourse to his patent tent. Buthere's where Old Nick interfered! This tent was of so very ingenious aconstruction that he could not manage to open it. In vain did he toilover it and perspire an hour through--the confounded apparatus wouldnot come unfolded. There are some umbrellas which amuse themselves undertorrential rains with just such tricks upon you. Fairly tired outwith the struggle, the victim dashed down the machine and lay upon it,swearing like the regular Southron he was. "Tar, tar, rar, tar! tar,rar, tar!"
"What on earth's that?" wondered Tartarin, suddenly aroused.
It was the bugles of the Chasseurs d'Afrique sounding the turn-out inthe Mustapha barracks. The stupefied lion-slayer rubbed his eyes, forhe had believed himself out in the boundless wilderness; and do you knowwhere he really was?--in a field of artichokes, between a cabbage-gardenand a patch of beets. His Sahara grew kitchen vegetables.
Close to him, on the pretty verdant slope of Upper Mustapha, the snowyvillas glowed in the rosy rising sun: anybody would believe himself inthe neighbourhood of Marseilles, amongst its bastides and bastidons.
The commonplace and kitchen-gardenish aspect of this sleep-steepedcountry much astonished the poor man, and put him in bad humour.
"These folk are crazy," he reasoned, "to plant artichokes in theprowling-ground of lions; for, in short, I have not been dreaming. Lionshave come here, and there's the proof."
What he called the proof was blood-spots left behind the beast in itsflight. Bending over this ruddy trail with his eye on the lookout andhis revolver in his fist, the valiant Tarasconian went from artichoke toartichoke up to a little field of oats. In the trampled grass was a poolof blood, and in the midst of the pool, lying on its flank, with a largewound in the head, was a--guess what?
"A lion, of course!"
Not a bit of it! An ass!--one of those little donkeys so common inAlgeria, where they are called bourriquots.
VI. Arrival of the Female--A Terrible Combat--"Game Fellows Meet Here!"
LOOKING on his hapless victim, Tartarin's first impulse was one ofvexation. There is such a wide gap between a lion and poor Jack! Hissecond feeling was one of pity. The poor bourriquot was so pretty andlooked so kindly. The hide on his still warm sides heaved and fell likewaves. Tartarin knelt down, and strove with the end of his Algerian sashto stanch the blood; and all you can imagine in the way of touchingnesswas offered by the picture of this great man tending this little ass.
At the touch of the silky cloth the donkey, who had not twopennyworth oflife in him, opened his large grey eye and winked his long ears two orthree times, as much as to say, "Oh, thank you!" before a final spasmshook it from head to tail, whereafter it stirred no more.
"Noiraud! Blackey!" suddenly screamed a voice, choking with anguish, asthe branches in a thicket hard by moved at the same time.
Tartarin had no more than enough time to rise and stand upon guard. Thiswas the female!
She rushed up, fearsome and roaring, under form of an old Alsatianwoman, her hair in a kerchief, armed with large red umbrella, andcalling for her ass, till all the echoes of Mustapha rang. It certainlywould have been better for Tartarin to have had to deal with a lionessin fury than this old virago. In vain did the luckless sportsman try tomake her understand how the blunder had occurred, and he had mistaken"Noiraud" for a lion. The harridan believed he was making fun of her,and uttering energetical "Der Teufels!" fell upon
our hero to bang himwith the gingham. A little bewildered, Tartarin defended himself asbest he could, warding off the blows with his rifle, streaming withperspiration, panting, jumping about, and crying out:
"But, Madame, but"--
Much good his buts were! Madame was dull of hearing, and her blowscontinued hard as ever.
Fortunately a third party arrived on the battlefield, the Alsatian'shusband, of the same race; a roadside innkeeper, as well as a very goodready-reckoner, which was better. When he saw what kind of a customer hehad to deal with--a slaughterer who only wanted to pay the value of hisvictim--he disarmed his better-half, and they came to an understanding.
Tartarin gave two hundred francs, the donkey being worth about ten--atleast that is the current price in the Arab markets. Then poor Blackeywas laid to rest at the root of a fig-tree, and the Alsatian, raised tojoviality by the colour of the Tarascon ducats, invited the hero to havea quencher with him in his wine-shop, which stood only a few steps offon the edge of the highway. Every Sunday the sportsmen from the citycame there to regale of a morning, for the plain abounded with game, andthere was no better place for rabbits for two leagues around.
"How about lions?" inquired Tartarin.
The Alsatian stared at him, greatly astounded.
"Lions!"
"Yes, lions. Don't you see them sometimes?" resumed the poor fellow,with less confidence.
The Boniface burst out in laughter.
"Ho, ho! bless us! lions! What would we do with lions here?"
"Are there, then, none in Algeria?"
"'Pon my faith, I never saw any, albeit I have been twenty years in thecolony. Still, I believe I have heard tell of such a thing--leastwise, Ifancy the newspapers said--but that is ever so much farther inland--downSouth, you know"--
At this point they reached the hostelry, a suburban pothouse, with awithered green bough over the door, crossed billiard-cues painted on thewall, and this harmless sign over a picture of wild rabbits, feeding:
"GAME FELLOWS MEET HERE."
"Game fellows!" It made Tartarin think of Captain Bravida.
VII. About an Omnibus, a Moorish Beauty, and a Wreath of Jessamine.
COMMON people would have been discouraged by such a first adventure, butmen of Tartarin's mettle do not easily get cast down.
"The lions are in the South, are they?" mused the hero. "Very well,then. South I go."
As soon as he had swallowed his last mouthful he jumped up, thanked hishost, nodded good-bye to the old hag without any ill-will, dropped afinal tear over the hapless Blackey, and quickly returned to Algiers,with the firm intention of packing up and starting that very day for theSouth.
The Mustapha highroad seemed, unfortunately, to have stretched sinceovernight; and what a sun and dust there were, and what a weight in thatshelter-tent! Tartarin did not feel to have the courage to walk to thetown, and he beckoned to the first omnibus coming along, and climbed in.
Oh, our poor Tartarin of Tarascon! how much better it would have beenfor his name and fame not to have stepped into that fatal ark onwheels, but to have continued on his road afoot, at the risk of fallingsuffocated beneath the burden of the atmosphere, the tent, and his heavydouble-barrelled rifles.
When Tartarin got in the 'bus was full. At the end, with his nose in hisprayer-book, sat a large and black-bearded vicar from town; facing himwas a young Moorish merchant smoking coarse cigarettes, and a Maltesesailor and four or five Moorish women muffled up in white cloths, sothat only their eyes could be spied.
These ladies had been to offer up prayers in the Abdel Kader cemetery;but this funereal visit did not seem to have much saddened them, forthey could be heard chuckling and chattering between themselves undertheir coverings whilst munching pastry. Tartarin fancied that theywatched him narrowly. One in particular, seated over against him, hadfixed her eyes upon his, and never took them off all the drive. Althoughthe dame was veiled, the liveliness of the big black eyes, lengthenedout by k'hol; a delightfully slender wrist loaded with gold bracelets,of which a glimpse was given from time to time among the folds; thesound of her voice, the graceful, almost childlike, movements of thehead, all revealed that a young, pretty, and loveable creature bloomedunderneath the veil. The unfortunate Tartarin did not know where toshrink. The fond, mute gaze of these splendrous Oriental orbs agitatedhim, perturbed him, and made him feel like dying with flushes of heatand fits of cold shivers.
To finish him, the lady's slipper meddled in the onslaught: he felt thedainty thing wander and frisk about over his heavy hunting boots like atiny red mouse. What could he do? Answer the glance and the pressure,of course. Ay, but what about the consequences? A loving intrigue in theEast is a terrible matter! With his romantic southern nature, the honestTarasconian saw himself already falling into the grip of the eunuchs,to be decapitated, or better--we mean, worse--than that, sewn up in aleather sack and sunk in the sea with his head under his arm beside him.This somewhat cooled him. In the meantime the little slipper continuedits proceedings, and the eyes, widely open opposite him like twin blackvelvet flowers, seemed to say:
"Come, cull us!"
The 'bus stopped on the Theatre place, at the mouth of the RueBab-Azoon. One by one, embedded in their voluminous trousers, anddrawing their mufflers around them with wild grace, the Moorish womenalighted. Tartarin's confrontatress was the last to rise, and in doingso her countenance skimmed so closely to our hero's that her breathenveloped him--a veritable nosegay of youth and freshness, with anindescribable after-tang of musk, jessamine, and pastry.
The Tarasconian stood out no longer. Intoxicated with love, and readyfor anything, he darted out after the beauty. At the rumpling sound ofhis belts and boots she turned, laid a finger on her veiled mouth, asone who would say, "Hush!" and with the other hand quickly tossed him alittle wreath of sweet-scented jessamine flowers. Tartarin ofTarascon stooped to pick it up; but as he was rather clumsy, and muchoverburdened with implements of war, the operation took rather long.When he did straighten up, with the jessamine garland upon his heart,the donatrix had vanished.
VIII. Ye Lions of the Atlas, repose in peace!
LIONS of the Atlas, sleep!--sleep tranquilly at the back of your lairsamid the aloes and cacti. For a few days to come, any way, Tartarinof Tarascon will not massacre you. For the time being, all his warlikeparaphernalia, gun-cases, medicine chest, alimentary preserves, dweltpeacefully under cover in a corner of room 36 in the Hotel de l'Europe.
Sleep with no fear, great red lions, the Tarasconian is engaged inlooking up that Moorish charmer. Since the adventure in the omnibus,the unfortunate swain perpetually fancied he felt the fidgeting ofthat pretty red mouse upon his huge backwoods trapper's foot; and thesea-breeze fanning his lips was ever scented, do what he would, with alove-exciting odour of sweet cakes and patchouli.
He hungered for his indispensable light of the harem! and he meant tobehold her anew.
But it was no joke of a task. To find one certain person in a city ofa hundred thousand souls, only known by the eyes, breath, andslipper,--none but a son of Tarascon, panoplied by love, would becapable of attempting such an adventure.
The plague is that, under their broad white mufflers, all the Moorishwomen resemble one another; besides, they do not go about much, and tosee them, a man has to climb up into the native or upper town, the cityof the "Turks," and that is a regular cut-throat's den.
Little black alleys, very narrow, climbing perpendicularly up betweenmysterious house-walls, whose roofs lean to touching and form a tunnel;low doors, and sad, silent little casements well barred and grated.Moreover, on both hands, stacks of darksome stalls, wherein ferocious"Turks" smoked long pipes stuck between glittering teeth in piraticalheads with white eyes, and mumbled in undertones as if hatching wickedattacks.
To say that Tartarin traversed this grisly place without any emotionwould be putting forth falsehood. On the contrary, he was muchaffected, and the stout fellow only went up the obscure lanes, where hiscorporation took up al
l the width, with the utmost precaution, his eyeskinned, and his finger on his revolver trigger, in the same manner ashe went to the clubhouse at Tarascon. At any moment he expected to havea whole gang of eunuchs and janissaries drop upon his back, yet thelonging to behold that dark damsel again gave him a giant's strength andboldness.
For a full week the undaunted Tartarin never quitted the high town. Yes;for all that period he might have been seen cooling his heels beforethe Turkish bath-houses, awaiting the hour when the ladies came forth introops, shivering and still redolent of soap and hot water; or squattingat the doorways of mosques, puffing and melting in trying to get out ofhis big boots in order to enter the temples.
Betimes at nightfall, when he was returning heart-broken at not havingdiscovered anything at either bagnio or mosque, our man from Tarascon,in passing mansions, would hear monotonous songs, smothered twangingof guitars, thumping of tambourines, and feminine laughter-peals, whichwould make his heart beat.
"Haply she is there!" he would say to himself.
Thereupon, granting the street was unpeopled, he would go up to one ofthese dwellings, lift the heavy knocker of the low postern, and timidlyrap. The songs and merriment would instantly cease. There would beaudible behind the wall nothing excepting low, dull flutterings as in aslumbering aviary.
"Let's stick to it, old boy," our hero would think. "Something willbefall us yet."