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Tartarin of Tarascon, a novel by Alphonse Daudet |
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Chapter 23 |
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_ One fine afternoon of blue sky and warm breeze, Sidi Tart'ri, astride his mule, was returning alone from his little garden, his legs spread widely over hay filled bags which were further swollen by citrus and water-melon. Lulled by the creaking of the harness and swaying to the clip-clop of the animal the good man progressed through the delightful countryside, his hands crossed on his stomach, three-quarters asleep from the effect of warmth and wellbeing. Suddenly, as he was entering the town, a loud hail woke him up. "He! You, you great lump! You're Monsieur Tartarin aren't you?" At the name of Tartarin and the sound of the Provencal accent Tartarin raised his head and saw, a few feet away, the tanned features of Barbassou, the Captain of the Zouave, who was drinking an absinthe and smoking his pipe at the door of a little cafe. "He! Barbassou by God!" Said Tartarin, pulling up his mule. Instead of replying Barbassou regarded him wide-eyed for a few moments, and then he began to laugh and laugh, so that Tartarin sat stunned among his water-melons. "What a get-up, my poor monsieur Tartarin. It's true then what people say, that you have become a Teur? And little Baia, does she still sing 'Marco la belle' all the time?" "Marco la belle," said Tartarin indignantly, "I'll have you know Captain, that the person of whom you speak is an honest Moorish girl who doesn't know a word of French!" "Baia?... Not a word of French?... Where have you come from?" And the Captain began to laugh again, more than ever. Then noticing the long face of poor Sidi Tart'ri, he changed tack. "Well perhaps it isn't the same one," He said, "I've probably got her mixed up with someone else... only look here, M. Tartarin, you would be wise not to put too much trust in Algerian Moors, or Montenegrin princes." Tartarin stood up in his stirrups, and made his grimace, "The prince is my friend, Captain!" He said. "All right... all right... Don't let's quarrel... would you like a drink?... no. Any message you would like me to take back?... none. Well that's it then. Bon voyage.... Oh!... While I think of it, I have some good French tobacco here, if you would like a few pipes-full take some, help yourself, it will do you good, it's those blasted local tobaccos that scramble your brain." With that the Captain returned to his absinthe and Tartarin pensively trotted his mule down the road to his little house. Although in his loyal heart he refused to believe any of the insinuations made by the Captain, they had upset him, and his rough oaths and country accent had combined to awake in him a vague feeling of remorse. When he reached home, Baia had gone to the baths, the negress seemed to him ugly, the house dismal, and prey to an indefinable melancholy, he went and sat by the fountain and filled his pipe with Barbassou's tobacco. The tobacco had been wrapped in a fragment of paper torn from "The Semaphore" and when he spread it out the name of his home town caught his eye. "News from Tarascon," He read, "The town is in a state of alarm. Tartarin the lion killer, who went to hunt the big cats in Africa, has not been heard of for several months.... What has happened to our heroic compatriot? One dare hardly ask oneself, knowing as we do his ardent nature, his courage and love of adventure.... Has he, like so many others, been swallowed up in the desert sands, or has he perhaps fallen victim to the murderous teeth of those feline monsters, whose skins he promised to the municipality.... A terrible incertitude! However, some African merchants who came to the fair at Beaucaire, claim to have met, in the heart of the desert, a white man whose description corresponds with his and who was heading for Timbuctoo. May God preserve our Tartarin!" When he read this, Tartarin blushed and trembled. All Tarascon rose before his eyes. The club. The hat hunters. The green armchair at Costecalde's shop: and soaring above, like the extended wings of an eagle, the formidable moustache of the brave Commandant Bravida. Then to see himself squatting slothfully on his mat, while he was believed to be engaged in slaying lions, filled him with shame. Suddenly he leaped to his feet. "To the lions!... To the lions!" He cried, and hurrying to the dusty corner where lay idle his bivouac tent, his medicine chest, his preserved foods and his weapons, he dragged them into the middle of the courtyard. Tartarin-Sancho had just perished, only Tartarin-Quixote was left. There was just time enough to inspect his equipment, to don his arms and accoutrements, to put on his big boots, to write a few lines to prince Gregory, confiding Baia to his care, to slip into an envelope some banknotes, wet with tears, and the intrepid Tarasconais was in a stage-coach, rolling down the road to Blidah, leaving the stupefied negress in his house, gazing at the turban, the slippers and all the muslim rig-out of Sidi Tart'ri, hanging discarded on the wall. _ |
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