What most often befell him was the contents of the cold-water jug onthe head, or else peel of oranges and Barbary figs; never anything moreserious.
Well might the lions of the Atlas Mountains doze in peace.
IX. Prince Gregory of Montenegro.
IT was two long weeks that the unfortunate Tartarin had been seeking hisAlgerian flame, and most likely he would have been seeking after her tothis day if the little god kind to lovers had not come to his help underthe shape of a Montenegrin nobleman.
It happened as follows.
Every Saturday night in winter there is a masked ball at the GrandTheatre of Algiers, just as at the Paris Opera-House. It is the undyingand ever-tasteless county fancy dress ball--very few people on thefloor, several castaways from the Parisian students' ballrooms ormidnight dance-houses, Joans of Arc following the army, faded charactersout of the Java costume-book of 1840, and half-a-dozen laundress'sunderlings who are aiming to make loftier conquests, but still preservea faint perfume of their former life--garlic and saffron sauce. The realspectacle is not there, but in the green-room, transformed for the nonceinto a hall of green cloth or gaming saloon.
An enfevered and motley mob hustle one another around the long greentable-covers: Turcos out for the day and staking their double halfpence,Moorish traders from the native town, Negroes, Maltese, colonists fromthe inland, who have come forty leagues in order to risk on a turningcard the price of a plough or of a yoke of oxen; all a-quivering, pale,clenching their teeth, and with that singular, wavering, sidelong lookof the gamester, become a squint from always staring at the same card inthe lay-out.
A little apart are the tribes of Algerian Jews, playing amongacquaintances. The men are in the Oriental costume; hideously variedwith blue stockings and velvet caps. The puffy and flabby women sit upstiffly in tight golden bodices. Grouped around the tables, the wholetribe wail, squeal, combine, reckon on the fingers, and play but little.Now and anon, however, after long conferences, some old patriarch, witha beard like those of saints by the Old Masters, detaches himself fromthe party and goes to risk the family duro. As long as the gamelasted there would be a scintillation of Hebraic eyes directed on theboard--dreadful black diamonds, which made the gold pieces shiver, andended by gently attracting them, as if drawn by a thread. Then arosewrangles, quarrels, battles, oaths of every land, mad outcries in alltongues, knives flashing out, the guard marching in, and the moneydisappearing.
It was into the thick of this saturnalia that the great Tartarin camestraying one evening to find oblivion and heart's ease.
He was roving alone through the gathering, brooding about his Moorishbeauty, when two angered voices arose suddenly from a gaming-table aboveall the clamour and chink of coin.
"I tell you, M'sieu, that I am twenty francs short!"
"Stuff, M'sieu!"
"Stuff yourself; M'sieu!"
"You shall learn whom you are addressing, M'sieu!"
"I am dying to do that, M'sieu!"
"I am Prince Gregory of Montenegro, M'sieu."
Upon this title Tartarin, much excited, cleft the throng and placedhimself in the foremost rank, proud and happy to find his prince again,the Montenegrin noble of such politeness whose acquaintance he had begunon board of the mail steamer. Unfortunately the title of Highness, whichhad so dazzled the worthy Tarasconian, did not produce the slightestimpression upon the Chasseurs officer with whom the noble had hisdispute.
"I am much the wiser!" observed the military gentleman sneeringly; andturning to the bystanders he added: "'Prince Gregory of Montenegro'--whoknows any such a person? Nobody!"
The indignant Tartarin took one step forward.
"Allow me. I know the prince," said he, in a very firm voice, and withhis finest Tarasconian accent.
The light cavalry officer eyed him hard for a moment, and then,shrugging his shoulders, returned:
"Come, that is good! Just you two share the twenty francs lackingbetween you, and let us talk no more on the score."
Whereupon he turned his back upon them and mixed with the crowd. Thestormy Tartarin was going to rush after him, but the prince preventedthat.
"Let him go. I can manage my own affairs."
Taking the interventionist by the arm, he drew him rapidly out of doors.When they were upon the square, Prince Gregory of Montenegro lifted hishat off; extended his hand to our hero, and as he but dimly rememberedhis name, he began in a vibrating voice:
"Monsieur Barbarin--"
"Tartarin!" prompted the other, timidly.
"Tartarin, Barbarin, no matter! Between us henceforward it is a leagueof life and death!"
The Montenegrin noble shook his hand with fierce energy. You may inferthat the Tarasconian was proud.
"Prince, prince!" he repeated enthusiastically.
In a quarter of an hour subsequently the two gentlemen were installed inthe Platanes Restaurant, an agreeable late supper-house, with terracesrunning out over the sea, where, before a hearty Russian salad, secondedby a nice Crescia wine, they renewed the friendship.
You cannot image any one more bewitching than this Montenegrin prince.Slender, fine, with crisp hair curled by the tongs, shaved "a weekunder" and pumice-stoned on that, bestarred with out-of-the-waydecorations, he had the wily eye, the fondling gestures, and vaguely theaccent of an Italian, which gave him an air of Cardinal Mazarin withouthis chin-tuft and moustaches. He was deeply versed in the Latin tongues,and lugged in quotations from Tacitus, Horace, and Caesar's Commentariesat every opening.
Of an old noble strain, it appeared that his brothers had had him exiledat the age of ten, on account of his liberal opinions, since which timehe had roamed the world for pleasure and instruction as a philosophicalnoble. A singular coincidence! the prince had spent three years inTarascon; and as Tartarin showed amazement at never having met him atthe club or on the esplanade, His Highness evasively remarked that henever went about. Through delicacy, the Tarasconian did not dare toquestion further. All great existences have such mysterious nooks.
To sum up, this Signor Gregory was a very genial aristocrat. Whilstsipping the rosy Crescia juice he patiently listened to Tartarin'sexpatiating on his lovely Moor, and he even promised to find herspeedily, as he had full knowledge of the native ladies.
They drank hard and lengthily in toasts to "The ladies of Algiers" and"The freedom of Montenegro!"
Outside, upon the terrace, heaved the sea, and its rollers slapped thestrand in the darkness with much the sound of wet sails flapping. Theair was warm, and the sky full of stars.
In the plane-trees a nightingale was piping.
It was Tartarin who paid the piper.
X. "Tell me your father's name, and I will tell you the name of thatflower."
PRINCES of Montenegro are the ones to find the love-bird.
On the morrow early after this evening at the Platanes, Prince Gregorywas in the Tarasconian's bedroom.
"Quick! Dress yourself quickly! Your Moorish beauty is found, Her nameis Baya. She's scarce twenty--as pretty as a love, and already a widow."
"A widow! What a slice of luck!" joyfully exclaimed Tartarin, whodreaded Oriental husbands.
"Ay, but woefully closely guarded by her brother."
"Oh, the mischief!"
"A savage chap who vends pipes in the Orleans bazaar."
Here fell a silence.
"A fig for that!" proceeded the prince; "you are not the man to bedaunted by such a trifle; and, anyhow, this old corsair can be pacified,I daresay, by having some pipes bought of him. But be quick! On withyour courting suit, you lucky dog!"
Pale and agitated, with his heart brimming over with love, theTarasconian leaped out of his couch, and, as he hastily buttoned up hiscapacious nether garment, wanted to know how he should act.
"Write straightway to the lady and ask for a tryst."
"Do you mean to say she knows French?" queried the Tarasconiansimpleton, with the disappointed mien of one who had believed thoroughlyin the Orient.
&nbs
p; "Not one word of it," rejoined the prince imperturbably; "but you candictate the billet-doux, and I will translate it bit by bit."
"O prince, how kind you are!"
The lover began striding up and down the bedroom in silent meditation.
Naturally a man does not write to a Moorish girl in Algiers in the sameway as to a seamstress of Beaucaire. It was a very lucky thing thatour hero had in mind his numerous readings, which allowed him, byamalgamating the Red Indian eloquence of Gustave Aimard's Apaches withLamartine's rhetorical flourishes in the "Voyage en Orient," and somereminiscences of the "Song of Songs," to compose the most Eastern letterthat you could expect to see. It opened with:
"Like unto the ostrich upon the sandy waste"--
and concluded by:
"Tell me your father's name, and I will tell you the name of thatflower."
To this missive the romantic Tartarin would have much liked to join anemblematic bouquet of flowers in the Eastern fashion; but Prince Gregorythought it better to purchase some pipes at the brother's, which couldnot fail to soften his wild temper, and would certainly please the ladya very great deal, as she was much of a smoker.
"Let's be off at once to buy them!" said Tartarin, full of ardour.
"No, no! Let me go alone. I can get them cheaper."
"Eh, what? Would you save me the trouble? O prince, prince, you do meproud!"
Quite abashed, the good-hearted fellow offered his purse to the obligingMontenegrin, urging him to overlook nothing by which the lady would begratified.
Unfortunately the suit, albeit capitally commenced, did not progressas rapidly as might have been anticipated. It appeared that the Moorishbeauty was very deeply affected by Tartarin's eloquence, and, for thatmatter, three-parts won beforehand, so that she wished nothing betterthan to receive him; but that brother of hers had qualms, and to lullthem it was necessary to buy pipes by the dozens; nay, the gross--well,we had best say by the shipload at once.
"What the plague can Baya do with all these pipes?" poor Tartarin wantedto know more than once; but he paid the bills all the same, and withoutniggardliness.
At length, after having purchased a mountainous stack of pipes andpoured forth lakes of Oriental poesy, an interview was arranged. I haveno need to tell you with what throbbings of the heart the Tarasconianprepared himself; with what carefulness he trimmed, brilliantined, andperfumed his rough cap-popper's beard, and how he did not forget--foreverything must be thought of--to slip a spiky life-preserver and two orthree six-shooters into his pockets.
The ever-obliging prince was coming to this first meeting in the officeof interpreter.
The lady dwelt in the upper part of the town. Before her doorway a boyMoor of fourteen or less was smoking cigarettes; this was the brother inquestion, the celebrated Ali. On seeing the pair of visitors arrive, hegave a double knock on the postern gate and delicately glided away.
The door opened. A negress appeared, who conducted the gentlemen,without uttering a word, across the narrow inner courtyard into a smallcool room, where the lady awaited them, reclining on a low ottoman. Atfirst glance she appeared smaller and stouter than the Moorish damselmet in the omnibus by the Tarasconian. In fact, was it really the same?But the doubt merely flashed through Tartarin's brain like a stroke oflightning.
The dame was so pretty thus, with her feet bare, and plump fingers, fineand pink, loaded with rings. Under her bodice of gilded cloth and thefolds of her flower-patterned dress was suggested a lovable creature,rather blessed materially, rounded everywhere, and nice enough to eat.The amber mouthpiece of a narghileh smoked at her lips, and envelopedher wholly in a halo of light-coloured smoke.
On entering, the Tarasconian laid a hand on his heart and bowed asMoorlike as possible, whilst rolling his large impassioned eyes.
Baya gazed on him for a moment without making any answer; but then,dropping her pipe-stem, she threw her head back, hid it in her hands,and they could only see her white neck rippling with a wild laugh like abag full of pearls.
XI. Sidi Tart'ri Ben Tart'ri.
SHOULD you ever drop into the coffee-houses of the Algerian upper townafter dark, even at this day, you would still hear the natives chattingamong themselves, with many a wink and slight laugh, of one Sidi Tart'riBen Tart'ri, a rich and good-humoured European, who dwelt, a few yearsback, in that neighbourhood, with a buxom witch of local origin, namedBaya.
This Sidi Tart'ri, who has left such a merry memory around the Kasbah,is no other than our Tartarin, as will be guessed.
How could you expect things otherwise? In the lives of heroes, ofsaints, too, it happens the same way--there are moments of blindness,perturbation, and weakness. The illustrious Tarasconian was no moreexempt from this than another, and that is the reason during two monthsthat, oblivious of fame and lions, he revelled in Oriental amorousness,and dozed, like Hannibal at Capua, in the delights of Algiers the white.
The good fellow took a pretty little house in the native style inthe heart of the Arab town, with inner courtyard, banana-trees, coolverandahs, and fountains. He dwelt, afar from noise, in company with theMoorish charmer, a thorough woman to the manner born, who pulled at herhubble-bubble all day when she was not eating.
Stretched out on a divan in front of him, Baya would drone himmonotonous tunes with a guitar in her fist; or else, to distract herlord and master, favour him with the Bee Dance, holding a hand-glass up,in which she reflected her white teeth and the faces she made.
As the Esmeralda did not know a word of French, and Tartarin none inArabic, the conversation died away sometimes, and the Tarasconian hadplenty of leisure to do penance for the gush of language of which he hadbeen guilty in the shop of Bezuquet the chemist or that of Costecaldethe gunmaker.
But this penance was not devoid of charm, for he felt a kind ofenjoyable sullenness in dawdling away the whole day without speaking,and in listening to the gurgling of the hookah, the strumming of theguitar, and the faint splashing of the fountain on the mosaic pavementof the yard.
The pipe, the bath, and caresses filled his entire life. They seldomwent out of doors. Sometimes with his lady-love upon a pillion, SidiTart'ri would ride upon a sturdy mule to eat pomegranates in a littlegarden he had purchased in the suburbs. But never, without exception,did he go down into the European quarter. This kind of Algiers appearedto him as ugly and unbearable as a barracks at home, with its Zouavesin revelry, its music-halls crammed with officers, and its everlastingclank of metal sabre-sheaths under the arcades.
The sum total is, that our Tarasconian was very happy.
Sancho-Tartarin particularly, being very sweet upon Turkish pastry,declared that one could not be more satisfied than by this newexistence. Quixote-Tartarin had some twinges at whiles on thinking ofTarascon and the promises of lion-skins; but this remorse did not last,and to drive away such dampening ideas there sufficed one glancefrom Baya, or a spoonful of those diabolical dizzying and odoriferoussweetmeats like Circe's brews.
In the evening Gregory came to discourse a little about a free BlackMountain. Of indefatigable obligingness, this amiable nobleman filledthe functions of an interpreter in the household, or those of a stewardat a pinch, and all for nothing for the sheer pleasure of it. Apart fromhim, Tartarin received none but "Turks." All those fierce-headed pirateswho had given him such frights from the backs of their black stallsturned out, when once he made their acquaintance, to be goodinoffensive tradesmen, embroiderers, dealers in spice, pipe-mouthpieceturners--well-bred fellows, humble, clever, close, and first-class handsat homely card games. Four or five times a week these gentry wouldcome and spend the evening at Sidi Tart'ri's, winning his small change,eating his cakes and dainties, and delicately retiring on the stroke often with thanks to the Prophet.
Left alone, Sidi Tart'ri and his faithful spouse by the broomstickwedding would finish the evening on their terrace, a broad white roofwhich overlooked the city.
All around them a thousand of other such white flats, placid beneath themoonshine, were d
escending like steps to the sea. The breeze carried uptinkling of guitars.
Suddenly, like a shower of firework stars, a full, clear melody wouldbe softly sprinkled out from the sky, and on the minaret of theneighbouring mosque a handsome muezzin would appear, his blanched formoutlined on the deep blue of the night, as he chanted the glory of Allahwith a marvellous voice, which filled the horizon.
Thereupon Baya would let go her guitar, and with her large eyes turnedtowards the crier, seem to imbibe the prayer deliciously. As long asthe chant endured she would remain thrilled there in ecstasy, like anOriental saint. The deeply impressed Tartarin would watch her pray, andconclude that it must be a splendid and powerful creed that could causesuch frenzies of faith.
Tarascon, veil thy face! here is a son of thine on the point of becominga renegade!
XII. The Latest Intelligence from Tarascon.
PARTING from his little country seat, Sidi Tart'ri was returning aloneon his mule on a fine afternoon, when the sky was blue and the zephyrswarm. His legs were kept wide apart by ample saddle-bags of espartocloth, swelled out with cedrats and water-melons. Lulled by the ring ofhis large stirrups, and rocking his body to the swing and swaying of thebeast, the good fellow was thus traversing an adorable country, withhis hands folded on his paunch, three-quarters gone, through heat, in acomfortable doze. All at once, on entering the town, a deafening appealaroused him.
"Ahoy! What a monster Fate is! Anybody'd take this for MonsieurTartarin."
On this name, and at the jolly southern accent, the Tarasconian liftedhis head, and perceived, a couple of steps away, the honest tannedvisage of Captain Barbassou, master of the Zouave, who was taking hisabsinthe at the door of a little coffee-house.