Tartarin of Tarascon by Alphonse Daudet (best historical fiction books of all time .TXT) 📖

were lodged by chieftains in strange palaces, great white buildings without windows, where were piled up hookahs and mahogany commodes, Smyrna carpets and adjustable oil lamps, cedar-wood chests full of Turkish sequins and clocks decorated in the style of Louis Phillipe. Everywhere Tartarin was treated to fetes and official receptions. In his honour whole villages turned out, firing volleys in the air, their burnous gleaming in the sun: after which the good chieftain would come to present the bill.
Nowhere, however, were there any more lions than there are on the Pont Neuf in Paris: but Tartarin was not discouraged, he pushed bravely on to the south. His days were spent scouring the scrub, rummaging among the dwarf palms with the end of his carbine and going "Frt!... Frt!" At each bush... Then every evening a stand-to of two or three hours... A wasted effort. No lions appeared.
One evening, however, at about six o'clock, as they were going through a wood of mastic trees, where fat quail, made lazy by the heat were jumping up from the grass, Tartarin thought he heard... but so far off... so distorted by the wind... so faint, the wonderful roar which he had heard so many times back home in Tarascon, behind the menagerie Mitaine.
At first he thought he had imagined it, but in a moment, still far distant, but now more distinct, the roaring began again, and this time one could hear, all around, the barking of village dogs; while, stricken by terror and rattling the boxes of arms and preserves, the camel's hump trembled. 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) with a white dome: the big yellow slippers of the deceased lying in a recess above the door, together with a bizarre jumble of votive offerings which hung along the walls: fragments of burnous, some gold thread, a tuft of red hair. There Tartarin installed the prince and the camel, and prepared to look for a hide. He was determined to face the lion single-handed, so he earnestly requested His Highness not to leave the spot, and for safe keeping he handed to him his wallet, a fat wallet stuffed with valuable papers and banknotes. This done our hero sought his post.
About a hundred yards in front of the Marabout, on the banks of an almost dry river, a clump of oleanders stirred in the faint twilight breeze, and it was there that Tartarin concealed himself in ambush, kneeling on one knee, in what he felt was an appropriate position, his rifle in his hands and his big hunting knife stuck into the sandy soil of the river bank in front of him.
Night was falling. The rosy daylight turned to violet and then to a sombre blue.... Below, amongst the stones of the river bed, there glistened like a hand-mirror a little pool of clear water: a drinking place for the wild animals. On the slope of the opposite bank one could see indistinctly the path which they had made through the trees: a view which Tartarin found a bit unnerving. Add to this the vague noises of the African night, the rustle of branches, the thin yapping of jackals, and in the sky a flock of cranes passing with cries like children being murdered. You must admit that this could be unsettling, and Tartarin was unsettled, he was even very unsettled! His teeth chattered and the rifle shook in his hands; well... there are evenings when one is not at one's best, and where would be the merit if heroes were never afraid?
Tartarin was, admittedly, afraid, but in spite of his fear he held on for an hour... two hours, but heroism has its breaking point. In the dry river bed, close to him, Tartarin heard the sound of footsteps rattling the pebbles. Terror overtook him. He rose to his feet, fired both barrels blindly into the night and ran at top speed to the Marabout, leaving his knife stuck in the ground as a memorial to the most overwhelming 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. Against the white wall of the Marabout was only the silhouette of the worthy camel's hump. The prince Gregory had disappeared, taking with him the wallet and the banknotes. His highness had been waiting for a month for such an opportunity.


Chapter 29.
The day after this adventurous yet tragic evening, when at first light our hero awoke and realised that the prince and his money had gone and would not return; when he saw himself alone in this little white tomb, betrayed, robbed and abandoned in the middle of savage Algeria with a one-humped camel and some loose change as his total resources, for the first time some misgivings entered his mind. He began to have doubts about Montenegro, about friendship, fame and even lions. Overcome by misery he shed bitter tears.
While he was sitting disconsolately at the door of the Marabout with his head in his hands, his rifle between his knees and watched over by the camel... behold! The undergrowth opposite was thrust aside and the thunderstruck Tartarin saw not ten paces away a gigantic lion, which advanced towards him uttering roars which shook the ragged offerings on the wall of the Marabout and even the slippers of the holy man in their recess. Only Tartarin remained unshaken. "At last!" He cried, jumping to 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 ran towards him with raised cudgels. The two negroes of Milianah... Oh! Misere!... It was the the tame lion, the poor blind lion of the convent of Mahommed that the bullets of the Tarasconais had felled.
This time Tartarin had the narrowest of escapes. Drunk with fanatical fury, the two negro mendicants would surely have had him in pieces had not the God of the Christians sent him a Guardian Angel in the shape of the District Police Officer from Orleansville, who arrived down the pathway, his sabre tucked under his arm, at that very moment. The sight of the municipal kepi had an immediate calming effect on the two negroes. Stern and majestic the representative of the law took down the particulars of the affair, had the remains of the lion loaded onto the camel, and ordered the plaintiff and the accused to follow him to Orleansville, where the whole matter was placed in the hands of the legal authorities.
There then commenced a long and involved process. After the tribal Algeria in which he had been wandering, Tartarin now made the acquaintance of the no less peculiar and cock-eyed Algeria of the towns: litigious and legalistic. He encountered a sleazy justicary who stitched up shady deals in the back rooms of cafes. The Bohemian society of the gentlemen of the law; dossiers which stank of absinthe, white cravats speckled with drink and coffee stains. He was embroiled with ushers, solicitors, and business agents, all the locusts of officialdom, thin and ravenous, who strip the colonist down to his boots and leave him shorn leaf by leaf like a stalk of maize.
The first essential point to be decided was whether the lion had been killed on civil or military territory. In the first case Tartarin would come before a civil tribunal, in the second he would be tried by court-martial: at the word court-martial Tartarin imagined himself lying shot at the foot of the ramparts, or crouching in the depths of a dungeon... A major difficulty was that the delimitation of these two areas 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, on military ground, but on the other hand that Tartarin when he fired the fatal shot was in civilian territory. The affair was therefore a civil matter, and Tartarin was freed on the payment of an indemnity of two thousand five hundred francs, not including costs.
How was this to be paid? The little money left after the prince's defection had long since gone on legal documents and judicial absinthe. The unfortunate lion killer was now reduced to selling off his armament rifle by rifle. He sold the daggers, the knives and coshes. A grocer bought the preserved food, a chemist what was left of the medicine chest. Even the boots went, with the bivouac tent, into the hands of a merchant of bric-a-brac. Once everything had been paid, Tartarin was left with little but the lion-skin and the camel. The lion-skin he packed up carefully and despatched to Tarascon, to the address of the brave Commandant Bravida. As for the camel, he counted on it to get him back to Algiers: not by riding it, but by selling it to raise the fare for the stage-coach, which was at least better than camel-back. Sadly the camel proved a difficult market, and no one offered to buy it at any price.
Tartarin was determined to get back to Algiers, even if it meant walking. He longed to see once more Baia's blue corslet, his house, his fountain and to rest on the white tiles of his his little cloister while he awaited money to be sent from France. In these circumstances the camel did not desert him. This strange animal had developed an inexplicable affection for its master, and seeing him set out from Orleansville it followed him faithfully, regulating its pace to his and not quitting him by as much as a footstep.
At first Tartarin found it touching. This fidelity, this unshakable devotion seemed wholly admirable; besides which the beast was no trouble and was able to find its own food. However, after a few days Tartarin grew tired of having perpetually at his heels this melancholy companion, who reminded him of all his misadventures. He began to be irritated. He took a dislike to its air of sadness to its hump and its haughty bearing. In he end he became so exasperated with it that his only wish was to be rid of it; but the camel would not be dismissed. Tartarin tried to lose it, but the camel always found him. He tried running away, but the camel could run faster. He shouted "Clear off!" and threw stones: the camel stopped and regarded him with a mournful expression, then after a few moments it resumed its pace and caught up with him. Tartarin had to resign himself to its company.
When, after eight days of walking, Tartarin, tired and dusty, saw gleaming in the distance the white terraces of Algiers, when he found himself on the outskirts of the town, on the bustling Mustapha road, amid the crowds who watched him go by with the camel in attendance, his patience snapped, and taking advantage of some traffic congestion he ducked into a field and hid in a ditch. In a few moments he saw above his head, on the causeway, the camel striding along rapidly, its neck anxiously extended. Greatly relieved to be rid of it, Tartarin entered the town by a side road which ran along by the wall of his house.
On his arrival at his Moorish house, Tartarin halted in astonishment. The day was ending, the streets deserted. Through the low arched doorway, which the negress had forgotten to close, could be heard laughter, the clinking of glasses, the popping of a champagne cork and the cheerful voice