tartarin of tarascon-第13节

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ked　the　city。

All　around　them　a　thousand　of　other　such　white　flats；　placid　beneath　the　moonshine；　were　descending　like　steps　to　the　sea。　　The　breeze　carried　up　tinkling　of　guitars。

Suddenly；　like　a　shower　of　firework　stars；　a　full；　clear　melody　would　be　softly　sprinkled　out　from　the　sky；　and　on　the　minaret　of　the　neighbouring　mosque　a　handsome　muezzin　would　appear；　his　blanched　form　outlined　on　the　deep　blue　of　the　night；　as　he　chanted　the　glory　of　Allah　with　a　marvellous　voice；　which　filled　the　horizon。

Thereupon　Baya　would　let　go　her　guitar；　and　with　her　large　eyes　turned　towards　the　crier；　seem　to　imbibe　the　prayer　deliciously。　As　long　as　the　chant　endured　she　would　remain　thrilled　there　in　ecstasy；　like　an　Oriental　saint。　　The　deeply　impressed　Tartarin　would　watch　her　pray；　and　conclude　that　it　must　be　a　splendid　and　powerful　creed　that　could　cause　such　frenzies　of　faith。

Tarascon；　veil　thy　face！　here　is　a　son　of　thine　on　the　point　of　becoming　a　renegade！



XII。　The　Latest　Intelligence　from　Tarascon。


PARTING　from　his　little　country　seat；　Sidi　Tart'ri　was　returning　alone　on　his　mule　on　a　fine　afternoon；　when　the　sky　was　blue　and　the　zephyrs　warm。　　His　legs　were　kept　wide　apart　by　ample　saddle…　bags　of　esparto　cloth；　swelled　out　with　cedrats　and　water…melons。　Lulled　by　the　ring　of　his　large　stirrups；　and　rocking　his　body　to　the　swing　and　swaying　of　the　beast；　the　good　fellow　was　thus　traversing　an　adorable　country；　with　his　hands　folded　on　his　paunch；　three…quarters　gone；　through　heat；　in　a　comfortable　doze。　All　at　once；　on　entering　the　town；　a　deafening　appeal　aroused　him。

〃Ahoy！　　What　a　monster　Fate　is！　　Anybody　'd　take　this　for　Monsieur　Tartarin。〃

On　this　name；　and　at　the　jolly　southern　accent；　the　Tarasconian　lifted　his　head；　and　perceived；　a　couple　of　steps　'away；　the　honest　tanned　visage　of　Captain　Barbassou；　master　of　the　Zouave；　who　was　taking　his　absinthe　at　the　door　of　a　little　coffee…house。

〃Hey！　Lord　love　you；　Barbassou！〃　said　Tartarin；　pulling　up　his　mule。

Instead　of　continuing　the　dialogue；　Barbassou　stared　at　him　for　a　space　ere　he　burst　into　a　peal　of　such　hilarity　that　Sidi　Tart'ri　sat　back　dumbfounded　on　his　melons。

〃What　a　stunning　turban；　my　poor　Monsieur　Tartarin！　　Is　it　true；　what　they　say　of　your　having　turned　Turk？　　How　is　little　Baya？　Is　she　still　singing　'Marco　la　Bella'？〃

〃Marco　la　Bella！〃　repeated　the　indignant　Tartarin。　　〃I'll　have　you　to　know；　captain；　that　the　person　you　mention　is　an　honourable　Moorish　lady；　and　one　who　does　not　know　a　word　of　French。〃

〃Baya　does　not　know　French！　　What　lunatic　asylum　do　you　hail　from；　then？〃

The　good　captain　broke　into　still　heartier　laughter；　but；　seeing　the　chops　of　poor　Sidi　Tart'ri　fall　he　changed　his　course。

〃Howsoever；　may　happen　it　is　not　the　same　lass。　　Let's　reckon　that　I　have　mixed　'em　up。　　Still；　mark　you；　Monsieur　Tartarin；　you　will　do　well；　nonetheless；　to　distrust　Algerian　Moors　and　Montenegrin　princes。〃

Tartarin　rose　in　the　stirrups；　making　a　wry　face。

〃The　prince　is　my　friend；　captain。〃

〃Come；　come；　don't　wax　wrathy。　　Won't　you　have　some　bitters　to　sweeten　you？　No？　Haven't　you　anything　to　say　to　the　folks　at　home；　neither？　　Well；　then；　a　pleasant　journey。　　By　the　way；　mate；　I　have　some　good　French　'bacco　upon　me；　and　if　you　would　like　to　carry　away　a　few　pipefuls；　you　have　only　to　take　some。　Take　it；　won't　you？　It's　your　beastly　Oriental　'baccoes　that　have　befogged　your　brain。〃

Upon　this　the　captain　went　back　to　his　absinthe；　whilst　the　moody　Tartarin　trotted　slowly　on　the　road　to　his　little　house。　Although　his　great　soul　refused　to　credit　anything；　Barbassou's　insinuations　had　vexed　him；　and　the　familiar　adjurations　and　home　accent　had　awakened　vague　remorse。

He　found　nobody　at　home；　Baya　having　gone　out　to　the　bath。　The　negress　appeared　sinister　and　the　dwelling　saddening。　　A　prey　to　inexpressible　melancholy；　he　went　and　sat　down　by　the　fountain　to　load　a　pipe　with　Barbassou's　tobacco。　　It　was　wrapped　up　in　a　piece　of　the　Marseilles　Semaphore　newspaper。　　On　flattening　it　out；　the　name　of　his　native　place　struck　his　eyes。

〃Our　Tarascon　correspondent　writes：　

〃The　city　is　in　distress。　　There　has　been　no　news　for　several　months　from　Tartarin　the　lion…slayer；　who　set　off　to　hunt　the　great　feline　tribe　in　Africa。　　What　can　have　become　of　our　heroic　fellow…　countryman？　Those　hardly　dare　ask　who　know；　as　we　do；　how　hot…　headed　he　was；　and　what　boldness　and　thirst　for　adventures　were　his。　Has　he；　like　many　others；　been　smothered　in　the　sands；　or　has　he　fallen　under　the　murderous　fangs　of　one　of　those　monsters　of　the　Atlas　Range　of　which　be　had　promised　the　skins　to　the　municipality？　What　a　dreadful　state　of　uncertainty！　It　is　true　some　Negro　traders；　come　to　Beaucaire　Fair；　assert　having　met　in　the　middle　of　the　deserts　a　European　whose　description　agreed　with　his；　he　was　proceeding　towards　Timbuctoo。　May　Heaven　preserve　our　Tartarin！〃

When　he　read　this；　the　son　of　Tarascon　reddened；　blanched；　and　shuddered。　　All　Tarascon　appeared　unto　him：　the　club；　the　cap…　poppers；　Costecalde's　green　arm…chair；　and；　hovering　over　all　like　a　spread　eagle；　the　imposing　moustaches　of　brave　Commandant　Bravida。

At　seeing　himself　here；　as　he　was；　cowardly　lolling　on　a　mat；　whilst　his　friends　believed　him　slaughtering　wild　beasts；　Tartarin　of　Tarascon　was　ashamed　of　himself；　and　could　have　wept　had　he　not　been　a　hero。

Suddenly　he　leaped　up　and　thundered：

〃The　lion；　the　lion！　　Down　with　him！〃

And　dashing　into　the　dusty　lumber…hole　where　mouldered　the　shelter…tent；　the　medicine…chest；　the　potted　meats；　and　the　gun…　cases；　he　dragged　them　out　into　the　middle　of　the　court。

Sancho…Tartarin　was　no　more：　Quixote…Tartarin　occupied　the　field　of　active　life。

Only　the　time　to　inspect　his　armament　and　stores；　don　his　harness；　get　into　his　heavy　　boots；　scribble　a　couple　of　words　to　confide　Baya　to　the　prince；　and　slip　a　few　bank…notes　sprinkled　with　tears　into　the　envelope；　and　then　the　dauntless　Tarasconian　rolled　away　in　the　stage…coach　on　the　Blidah　road；　leaving　the　house　to　the　negress；　stupor…stricken　before　the　pipe；　the　turban；　and　babooshes　　all　the　Moslem　shell　of　Sidi　Tart'ri　which　sprawled　piteously　under　the　little　white　trefoils　of　the　gallery。




EPISODE　THE　THIRD　AMONG　THE　LIONS



I。　What　becomes　of　the　Old　Stage…coaches。


Come　to　look　closely　at　the　vehicle；　it　was　an　old　stage…coach　all　of　the　olden　time；　upholstered　in　faded　deep　blue　cloth；　with　those　enormous　rough　woollen　balls　which；　after　a　few　hours'　journey；　finally　establish　a　raw　spot　in　the　small　of　your　back。

Tartarin　of　Tarascon　had　a　corner　of　the　inside；　where　he　installed　himself　most　free…and…easily：　and；　preliminarily　to　inspiring　the　rank　emanations　of　the　great　African　felines；　the　hero　had　to　content　himself　with　that　homely　old　odour　of　the　stage…coach；　oddly　composed　of　a　thousand　smells；　of　man　and　woman；　horses　and　harness；　eatables　and　mildewed　straw。

There　was　a　little　of　everything　inside　　a　Trappist　monk；　some　Jew　merchants；　two　fast　ladies　going　to　join　their　regiment；　the　Third　Hussars；　a　photographic　artist　from　Orleansville；　and　so　on：　But；　however　charming　and　varied　was　the　company；　the　Tarasconian　was　not　in　the　mood　for　chatting；　he　remained　quite　thoughtful；　with　an　arm　in　the　arm…rest　sling…strap　and　his　guns　between　his　knees。　　All　churned　up　his　wits　　the　precipitate　departure；　Baya's　eyes　of　jet；　the　terrible　chase　he　was　about　to　undertake；　to　say　nothing　of　this　European　coach；　with　its　Noah's　Ark　aspect；　rediscovered　in　the　heart　of　Africa；　vaguely　recalling　the　Tarascon　of　his　youth；　with　its　races　in　the　suburbs；　jolly　dinners　on　the　river…side　　a　throng　of　memories；　in　short。

Gradually　night　came　on。　　The　guard　lit　up　the　lamps。　　The　rusty　diligence　danced　creakingly　on　its　old　springs；　the　horses　trotted　and　their　bells　jangled。　　From　time　to　time　in　the　boot　arose　a　dreadful　clank　of　iron：　that　was　the　war　material。

Tartarin　of　Tarascon；　nearly　overcome；　dwelt　a　moment　scanning　the　fellow…passengers；　comically　shaken　by　the　jolts；　and　dancing　before　him　like　the　shadows　in　galanty…shows；　till　his　eyes　grew　cloudy　and　his　mind　befogged；　and　only　vaguely　he　heard　the　wheels　grind　and　the　sides　of　the　conveyance　squeak　complainingly。

Suddenly　a　voice　called　Tartarin　by　his　name；　the　voice　of　an　old　fairy　godmother；　hoarse；　broken；　and　cracked。

〃Monsieur　Tartarin！〃　three　times。

〃Who's　calling　me？〃

〃It's　I；　Monsieur　Tartarin。　　Don't　you　recognise　me？　　I　am　the　old　stage…coach　who　used　to　do　the　road　betwixt　Nimes　and　Tarascon　twenty　year　agone。　　How　many　times　I　have　carried　you　and　your　friends　when　you　went　to　shoot　at　caps　over　Joncquieres　or　Bellegarde　way！　　I　did　not　know　you　again　at　the　first；　on　account　of　your　Turk's　cap　and　the　flesh　you　have　accumulated　；　but　as　soon　as　you　began　snoring　　what　a　rascal　is　good…luck　！　　I　twigged　you　straight　away。〃

〃All　right；　that's　all　right　enough！〃　observed　the　Tarasconian；　a　shade　vexed；　but　softening；　he　added；　〃But　to　the　point；　my　poor　old　girl；　whatever　did　you　come　out　here　for？〃

〃Pooh！　my　good　Monsieur　Tartarin；　I　　assure　you　I　never　came　of　my　own　free　will。　　As　soon　as　the　Beaucaire　railway　wa