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

"Me!... Me!...." At first very quietly, because, in the depths of his heart he was a little afraid that the lion might hear him... then seeing that nothing happened he bleated more loudly, "Me!... Me!... Me!...." And then louder still, "ME!... ME!... ME!..."
Suddenly, a few paces in front of him, something black and gigantic materialised. He shut up... the thing crouched, sniffed the ground, leapt up, turned and ran off at a gallop... then it came back and stopped short. It was a lion! There could be no doubt. Now one could see quite clearly the four short legs, the formidable forequarters and two huge eyes gleaming in the darkness.... Aim!... Fire!... Pan!... Pan!.... Tartarin backed away, drawing his hunting knife
Following Tartarin's shot there was a terrible outcry, "I've got him!" Cried the good Tarasconais and prepared himself to receive a possible attack, but the creature had had enough and it fled at top speed, bellowing.... He, however, did not budge: he was waiting for the female... as happened in all his books. Unfortunately the female failed to turn up, and after two or three hours of waiting Tartarin became tired. The ground was damp, the night was growing cool, there was a nip in the breeze from the sea... "Perhaps I should have a nap while I wait for daylight" he said to himself, and to provide some shelter he had recourse to the bivouac tent. A difficulty now arose, the bivouac tent was of such an ingenious design that he was quite unable to erect it. He struggled and sweated for a long time, but there was no way in which he could get the thing up, so at last he threw it on the ground and lay on top of it, cursing it in Provencal.
Ta!... Ta!... Ta!... Tarata! "Ques aco?" said Tartarin, waking up with a start. It was the trumpets of the Chasseurs d'Afrique sounding reveille in the barracks at Mustapha. The lion killer rubbed his eyes in amazement. He who had believed that he was in the middle of a desert... do you know where he was?... In a field full of artichokes, between a cauliflower and a swede... his Sahara was a vegetable patch.
Nearby, on the pretty green coast of upper Mustapha, white Algerian villas gleamed in the dawn light, one might have been among the suburban houses in the outskirts of Marseille. The bourgeois appearance of the sleeping countryside greatly astonished Tartarin and put him in a bad humour. "These people are crazy", he said to himself, "To plant their artichokes in an area infested by lions. For I was not dreaming, there are lions here and there is the proof".
The proof was a trail of blood which the fleeing beast had left behind it. Following this blood-spoor, with watchful eye and revolver in hand, the valiant Tarasconais went from artichoke to artichoke until he arrived at a small field of oats.... In a patch of flattened grain was a pool of blood and in the middle of the pool, lying on its side with a large wound to its head, was... what?... a lion?... No Parbleu!... A donkey! One of the tiny donkeys so common in Algeria, which there are called "Bourriquots".


Chapter 17.
Tartarin's first reaction at the sight of his unfortunate victim was one of annoyance. There is after all a considerable difference between a lion and a bourriquot. This was quickly replaced by a feeling of pity. The poor bourriqout was so pretty, so gentle, its warm flanks rising and falling as it breathed. Tartarin knelt down and with the end of his sash he tried to staunch the blood from its wound. The sight of this great man tending the little donkey was the most touching thing you could imagine. At the soothing contact of the sash, the bourriquot, which was already at death's door, opened a big grey eye and twitched once or twice its long ears, as if to say "Thank you!... Thank you!". Then a final tremor shook it from head to tail and it moved no more.
"Noiraud!... Noiraud!" Came a sudden cry from a strident, anxious voice, and the branches of some nearby bushes were thrust aside. Tartarin had barely time to get up and put himself on guard. It was the female!... She arrived, roaring and terrible, in the guise of an elderly Alsation lady in a rabbit-skin coat, armed with a red umbrella and calling for her donkey in a voice which woke all the echoes of Mustapha. Certainly it might have been better for Tartarin to have had to deal with an angry lioness than this infuriated old lady. In vain he tried to explain what had happened... how he had mistaken Noiraud for a lion, she thought he was trying to make fun of her and, uttering loud cries of indignation, she set about our hero with blows from her umbrella. Tartarin, in confusion, defended himself as best he could, parrying the blows with his rifle, sweating, puffing, jumping about and crying "But Madame!... But Madame!". To no avail. Madame was deaf to his pleas and redoubled her efforts.
Happily a third party arrived on the field of battle. It was the husband of the Alsation lady, also an Alsation.... A tavern keeper and a shrewd man of business. When he saw with whom he was dealing and that the assassin was willing to pay for his crime, he disarmed his spouse and took her to one side. Tartarin gave two hundred francs. The donkey was worth at least ten, which is the going price for bourriquots in the Arab market. Then the poor Noiraud was buried beneath a fig tree, and the Alsation, put in a good humour at the sight of so much money, invited our hero to break a crust at his tavern, which was not far away at the edge of the main road. The Algerian hunters went there every Sunday for luncheon; for the countryside was full of game, and for two leagues about the city there was not a better place for rabbits. "And the lions?" Asked Tartarin. The Alsation looked at him with surprise... "The lions?" "Yes, the lions, do you see them sometimes?" Tartarin replied, with a little less assurance. The tavern-keeper burst out laughing, "Lions!... Lions!... What is all this about lions?" "Are there no lions in Algeria then?" "Moi foi! I have been here for twenty years and I have never seen any.... though I did once hear... I think there was a report in the newspaper... but it was long ago... somewhere in the south"....
At that moment they reached the tavern, a wayside pot house, the sort of thing one can see by any main road. It had a very faded sign above the door, some billiard cues painted on the wall and the inoffensive name "Au rendezvous des lapins".


Chapter 18.
This first adventure would have been enough to discourage many people, but seasoned characters such as Tartarin are not so easily disheartened. The lions are in the south, thought our hero, very well I shall go to the south.
As soon as he had swallowed his last morsel, he got up, thanked his host, took leave of the old lady without any ill-feeling, shed a last tear over the unfortunate Noiraud and headed quickly for Algiers, with the firm intention of packing his trunks and departing that same day for the south.
Sadly, the main Mustapha road seemed to have grown longer during the night. There was so much sunshine, so much dust, the bivouac tent was so heavy, that Tartarin could not face the walk back to the town and he hailed the first horse-drawn omnibus which came along and climbed in.... Poor Tartarin! How much better it would have been for his reputation if he had not entered that fateful vehicle, and had continued his journey on foot, even at the risk of collapsing from the heat and the weight of his two double-barreled rifles and the bivouac tent.
With Tartarin aboard, the omnibus was now full. At the far end was an Algerian priest with a big black beard, his nose stuck in his breviary. Opposite was a young Moorish merchant, puffing at a large cigarette, then a Maltese seaman, and four or five Moorish women, with white linen masks, whose eyes alone were visible. These ladies had been on a visit to the cemetery of Abd-el-Kader, but this did not seem to have depressed them. Behind their masks they laughed and chattered among themselves and munched pastries.
It seemed to Tartarin that they cast many glances in his direction, and one in particular, who was seated opposite him, fixed her gaze on him and did not remove it.
Although the lady was veiled, the liveliness of her large dark eyes, emphasised by kohl, a delicate little wrist, encircled by gold bracelets, which one glimpsed from time to time amidst her draperies, the sound of her voice, the graceful movements of her head, all suggested that beneath her garments was someone young, pretty and loveable.
The embarrassed Tartarin did not know which way to turn. The silent caress of these beautiful dark eyes set his heart aflutter. He blushed and paled by turns. Then to complete his downfall he felt on his massive boot the lady's dainty slipper scurrying about like a little red mouse.... What was he to do?... Reply to these looks, this touch?... Yes... but an amorous intrigue in this part of the world can have terrible consequences. In his imagination Tartarin already saw himself seized by eunuchs, decapitated or even worse, sewn into a sack and tossed into the sea with his head beside him.
This thought cooled his ardour a little, but the little slipper continued to tease and the he eyes opened very wide, like two black velvet flowers which seemed to say "Come and gather us!"
The omnibus stopped. It had arrived at the Place du theatre, at the entrance to the Rue Bab Azoum. One by one, enveloped in their billowing garments and drawing their veils about them with savage grace, the Moors dismounted. Tartarin's neighbour was the last to leave and as she rose to go her face was so close to that of our hero that their breaths mingled and he was aware of a bouquet of youth, jasmine, musk and pastries.
He could no longer resist. Drunk with love and ready to face anything, he scrambled after the Moor... At the sound of his clumsy footsteps she turned and put her finger to her lips, as if to say "Hush" and with the other hand she tossed him a little scented garland made of jasmine flowers. Tartarin bent to pick it up, but as he was somewhat overweight and much encumbered by his weapons, the operation took a little time... When he rose, the garland pressed to his heart, the little Moor had disappeared.


Chapter 19.
Sleep, lions of the Atlas! Sleep tranquilly in your lairs amongst the aloes and the cactus! It wil be some time before Tartarin de Tarascon comes to slaughter you. At the moment his equipment, his arms, his medicine chest, the preserved food and the bivouac tent are piled up peacefully in a corner of room 36 in the Hotel de l'Europe. Sleep without fear, great tawny lions! The Tarasconais is searching for his Moor.
Since the events in the omnibus, the unhappy man seems to feel constantly on his feet the scurrying of the little red mouse, and the sea breeze which wafts across his face seems somehow perfumed by an amorous odour of patisserie and anise. He must find his Dulcinea; but to find in a city of one hundred thousand inhabitants a person of whom one knows only the scent of their breath, the appearance of their slippers and the colour of