Tartarin De Tarascon Part 5

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 their eyes is no light undertaking. Only a lovesick Tarasconais would attempt such a task. To make matters worse, it must be confessed that beneath their masks all Moorish ladies tend to look very much the same; and then they do not go out a great deal, and if one wants to see them one must go to the upper town, the Arab town, the town of the Teurs.

A real cut-throat place that upper town. Little dark alley-ways, very narrow, climbing steeply between two rows of silent, mysterious houses whose roofs touch to make a tunnel. Low doorways and small windows, opaque and barred, and then, to right and left, little shops within whose deep shade fierce "Teurs" with piratical faces, glittering eyes and gleaming teeth, smoke their hookahs and converse in low tones, as if planning some wicked deed.... To say that Tartarin walked through this fearsome towns.h.i.+p unmoved would be to lie. He was on the contrary moved a good deal, and in those obscure alleys where his large stomach took up almost the entire width, the brave fellow advanced with the greatest caution, his eyes alert, his finger on the trigger of his revolver, just as he used to be at Tarascon on his way to the club. At any moment he expected to be jumped on from behind by a whole gang of janissaries and eunuchs, but his desire to find the lady endowed him with the courage and determination of a giant.

For eight days the intrepid Tartarin did not quit his search. Sometimes he could be seen hanging about the turkish baths, waiting for the women to emerge in chattering groups, scented from the bath. Sometimes he appeared at the entrance of a mosque, puffing and blowing as he removed his heavy boots before entering the sacred premises. On other occasions, at nightfall, when he was returning to the hotel, downcast at having discovered nothing at the mosque or the baths, he would hear, as he pa.s.sed one of the Moorish houses, monotonous songs, the m.u.f.fled sound of guitars, the rattle of tambourines and the light laughter of women, which made his heart beat faster. "Perhaps she is there" He would say to himself, and approaching the house he would lift the heavy knocker and let it fall timidly.

Immediately the song and the laughter stop. Nothing can be heard within but faint vague cluckings as if in a sleeping hen-house. Hold on thinks our hero, something is about to happen, but what happened mostly was a big pot of cold water on his head, or orange peel and fig skins.... Sleep lions!

Chapter 20.

For two long weeks the unhappy Tartarin searched for his Algerian lady-love, and it is likely that he would be searching still, if that providence which looks after lovers had not come to his aid in the guise of a Montenegrin gentleman.

The Theatre in Algiers, like the "Opera" in Paris, organises every Sat.u.r.day night during the winter a Bal Masque?. This is, however, a provincial version. There are few people in the dance-hall; the occasional drifter from out of town, unemployed stevedores, some rustic tarts, who are in business but who still retain from their more virtuous days a faint aroma of garlic and saffron sauce... the real spectacle is in the foyer, which has been converted for the occasion into a gambling saloon.

A feverish, multicoloured crowd jostles about the long green cloths.

Algerian soldiers on leave, gambling their meagre pay. Moorish merchants from the upper town. Negroes. Maltese. Colonists who have come a hundred miles to wager the price of a cart or a pair of oxen on the turn of a card. Pale, tense and anxious as they watch the game.

There are Algerian Jews, gambling en famille. The men in oriental costume, the women in gold coloured bodices. They gather round the table, chatter and and plan, count on their fingers, but play little.

From time to time, and only after long consultation, an elderly, bearded patriarch goes to place the family stake. Then as long as play lasts there is a concentration of dark hebraic eyes on the table, which would seem to draw the gold pieces lying there as if by an invisible thread....

Then there are the quarrels. Fights. Oaths in many languages. Knives are drawn. A guard arrives. Money is missing.... In the midst of this saturnalia wandered poor Tartarin, who had come that evening in search of forgetfulness and peace of heart.

As he went about through the crowd, thinking of his Moor, suddenly, at one of the gaming tables, above the cries and the c.h.i.n.king of coins, two angry voices were raised. "I tell you, there are twenty francs of mine missing, m'sieu!" "M'sieu!!!" "Well, what have you to say, m'sieu?" "Do you know to whom you are talking, m'sieu?" "I should be delighted to find out, m'sieu!" "I am prince Gregory of Montenegro, m'sieu!"

At this name, Tartarin, much moved, pushed through the crowd until he reached the front row, delighted to have found once more his prince, the distinguished Montenegrin n.o.bleman whose acquaintance he had made on the packet-boat.

Unfortunately this t.i.tle of prince which had so dazzled the worthy Tarasconais, did not produce the least impression on the officer of the Cha.s.seurs with whom the prince was in dispute. "A likely story" said the officer with a sneer, and then turning to the onlookers, "Prince Gregory of Montenegro, who has ever heard of him?... No one!" Tartarin, indignant, took a pace forward. "Pardon... I know the prince." He said firmly in his best Tarrascon accent.

The officer of the Cha.s.seurs stared him in the face for a few moments, then shrugging his shoulders, he said "Well now, is'nt that just fine?... Share out the twenty francs between you and we'll leave it at that." So saying he turned on his heel and was lost in the crowd.

Tartarin, furious, wanted to go after him, but the prince prevented him.

"Leave it... It's my affair." He said, and taking Tartarin by the arm he led him outside.

When they had reached the square, prince Gregory of Montenegro took off his hat, held out his hand to our hero and vaguely recalling his name began in vibrant tones, "Monsieur Barbarin..." "Tartarin." Breathed the other, timidly. "Tartarin... Barbarin, it makes no difference, we are now friends for life." And the n.o.ble Montenegrin shook his hand with ferocious energy. Tartarin was was overwhelmed by pride.

"Prince.... Prince" He murmured in confusion.

Fifteen minutes later the two gentlemen were seated in the Restaurant des Platanes, an agreeable spot whose terraces sloped down toward the sea, and there before a large Russian salad and a bottle of good wine they renewed their acquaintance.

You cannot imagine anything more beguiling than this Montenegrin prince.

Slim, elegant, his hair curled and waved, smooth-shaven and powdered and decked with strange orders, he had a sharp eye an ingratiating manner and spoke with a vaguely Italian accent, faintly suggestive of a renaissance Cardinal. Of ancient aristocratic lineage, his brothers, it seemed, had driven him into exile at the age of ten, because of his liberal opinions; since when he had travelled the world for his instruction and pleasure... a philosopher prince. By a remarkable coincidence the prince had spent three years in Tarascon, but when Tartarin expressed astonishment at never having seen him at the club or on the promonade, "I didn't go out much" Said the prince in a somewhat evasive manner, and Tartarin discretely asked no more questions.

Important people, he knew, had diplomatic secrets.

All in all a very fine prince this Gregory. While sipping his wine he listened patiently to Tartarin, who told him of his Moorish love, and as he claimed to have contacts among these ladies, he even undertook to help look for her.

They drank long and deep. They drank to the ladies of Algeria. They drank to free Montenegro. Outside, below the terrace, the sea rolled, the waves slapping wetly on the beach. The air was warm, the sky bright with stars, in the plane trees a nightingale sang... It was Tartarin who paid the bill.

Chapter 21.

The Montenegrin prince was as good as his word. Shortly after the reunion at the Restaurant des Platanes he arrived early one morning at Tartarin's room. "Quick!... quick!... get dressed" he said, "Your Moor has been found... her name is Baia... as pretty as a picture, twenty years old and already a widow." "A widow!.... Well that's a bit of luck" Said Tartarin who was a little uneasy at the thought of Moorish husbands.

"Yes, but closely guarded by her brother" "Oh! That's a bit awkward"

"A ferocious Moor who sells hookahs in the bazaar" There was a silence, "Good!" Said the prince, "You're not the chap to be put off by a little thing like that, and anyway we can perhaps buy off this villain by purchasing some of his pipes. So come on, get dressed... you lucky dog!"

Pale and excited, his heart full of love, Tartarin jumped out of bed and as he climbed into his ample underwear he asked "What shall I do now?"

"Write to the lady quite simply and ask for a meeting" "She understands French then?" Said Tartarin with an air of disappointment. For his dreams had been of an Arabian Houri, uncontaminated by the west. "She doesn't understand a word" Replied the prince imperturbably, "but you will dictate the letter to me and I shall translate it." "Oh prince, how good you are." And Tartarin strode about the room silent and deep in thought.

As you may imagine one does not write to a Moorish lady as one might to a little shop-girl in Beaucaire. Happily our hero was able to cull from his reading many phrases of oriental rhetoric and combining these with some distant memories of the "Song of Songs" he was able to compose the most flowery epistle you could wish for, full of unlikely similes and improbable metaphors. With this romantic missive Tartarin would have liked to combine a bouquet of flowers with emblematic meanings, but prince Gregory thought it would be better to buy some pipes from the brother, which could not fail to soften the savage temperament of the gentleman and would please the lady, who greatly enjoyed smoking. "Let us go quickly then and buy some pipes," Said Tartarin. "No, no." Replied the prince, "Let me go alone, I shall get them at a better price." "Oh prince! How good you are to take such trouble." And the trusting fellow held out his purse to the obliging Montenegrin, exhorting him to neglect nothing which might make the lady happy.

Unfortunately, the affair which had started so well, did not progress as rapidly as one might have wished. Very touched, it seemed, by Tartarin's eloquence, and already three parts won over, she would have liked nothing better than to have received him, but her brother had scruples, and to lay these to rest it was necessary to buy an astonis.h.i.+ng number of pipes. Sometimes Tartarin wondered what on earth the lady did with them all, but he paid up nevertheless, and without stinting.

At last, after the purchase of many pipes and the composing of many sheets of oriental prose, a rendezvous was arranged. I need hardly tell you with what fluttering of heart Tartarin prepared himself; with what care he trimmed, washed and scented his beard, without forgetting--for one must always be prepared--to slip into his pockets a life-preserver and a revolver. The ever-obliging prince attended this first meeting in the role of interpreter

The lady lived in the upper part of the town. Outside her door lounged a young Moor of fourteen or fifteen, smoking a cigarette, it was Ali, her brother. When the two visitors arrived he knocked twice on the postern and retired from the scene. The door was opened and a negress appeared, who, without saying a word, conducted the two gentlemen across a narrow interior courtyard to a small, cool room where the lady awaited them, posed on a divan.

At first glance it seemed to Tartarin that she was smaller and st.u.r.dier than the Moor on the omnibus... were they in fact the same? But this suspicion was only momentary: the lady was so pretty, with her bare feet and her plump fingers, rosy and delicate, loaded with rings; while beneath her bodice of gold cloth and the blossoms of her flowered robe was the suggestion of a charming form, a little chubby, dainty and curvaceous. The amber mouthpiece of a narghile was between her lips and she was enveloped in a cloud of pale smoke.

On entering, Tartarin placed his hand on his heart and bowed in the most Moorish manner possible, rolling big, pa.s.sionate eyes... Baia looked at him for a moment without speaking, then letting go of the amber mouthpiece, she turned her back, hid her face in her hands and one could see only her neck, shaken by uncontrollable laughter.

Chapter 22.

If you go in the evening into some of the coffee-houses of the Algerian upper town, you will hear even today, Moors speak among themselves, with winks and chuckles, of a certain Sidi ben Tart'ri, an amiable, rich European who--it now some years ago--lived in the upper town with a little local girl called Baia.

This Sidi ben Tart'ri was of course none other than Tartarin. Well what could you expect. This sort of thing happens even in the lives of Saints and Heroes. The ill.u.s.trious Tartarin was, like anyone else, not exempt from these failings and that is why for two whole months, forgetful of lions, forgetful of fame, he wallowed in oriental love, and slumbered, like Hannibal in Capua, amid the delights of Algiers.

He had rented in the heart of the Arab quarter, a pretty little local house with an interior courtyard, banana trees, cool galleries and fountains. He lived there quietly in the company of his Moor, a Moor himself from head to foot. Puffing at his hookah and munching musk-flavoured condiments. Stretched on a divan opposite him, Baia with a guitar in her hands droned monotonous songs, or to amuse her master she perhaps mimed a belly-dance, holding in her hands a small mirror in which she admired her white teeth and made faces at herself.

As the lady did not understand French and Tartarin did not speak a word of Arabic, conversation languished somewhat and the talkative Tarasconais had time to repent of any intemperate loquaciousness of which he might have been guilty at Bezuquet's pharmacy or Costecalde the gunsmith's shop. This penance even had a certain charm. There was something almost voluptuous in going all day without speaking, hearing only the bubble of the hookah, the strumming of the guitar and the gentle splas.h.i.+ng of the fountain amid the mosaic tiles of his courtyard.

Smoking, the Turkish bath and "l'amour" occupied his time. They went out little. Sometimes Sidi Tart'ri, with his lady mounted on the crupper, went on mule-back to eat pomegranates in a little garden which he had bought in the neighbourhood... but never on any account did they go down to the European part of the town, which with its drunken Zouaves, its bordellos full of officers and the sound of sabres trailing on the ground beneath the arcade, seemed to him to be insupportably ugly.

Altogether our Tartarin was perfectly happy. Tartarin-Sancho in particular, very fond of Turkish pastries, declared himself entirely satisfied with his new existence. Tartarin-Quixote had perhaps now and then some regrets, when he remembered Tarascon and the promised lion skins... but they did not last for long, and to dispel these moments of sadness all that was needed was a look from Baia or a spoonful of her diabolic confections, scented and bewitching like some brew of Circe's.

In the evenings prince Gregory came, to talk a little about free Montenegro. Of indefatigable complaisance, this agreeable n.o.bleman undertook in the house the function of interpreter and, if need be, even that of steward, and all for nothing. Apart from him, Tartarin had only "Teurs" as visitors. All of those ferocious bandits which in the depths of their dark shops he once found so frightening, turned out to be harmless tradesmen, embroiderers, spice sellers, turners of pipe mouthpieces. Discrete, courteous people, modest, shrewd, and good at cards. Four or five times a week they would spend the evening with Tartarin, winning his money and eating his confitures, and on the stroke of ten leaving politely, giving thanks to the Prophet.

After they had left, Sidi Tart'ri and his faithful spouse would finish the evening on their terrace, a large white-walled terrace which formed the roof of the building and looked out over the town. All about them a thousand other terraces, tranquil in the moonlight, dropped one below the other down to the sea. Suddenly, like a burst of stars, a great clear chant rose heavenward and on the minaret of the nearby mosque a handsome Muezzin appeared, his white outline silhouetted against the deep blue of the night sky. As he invoked the praise of Allah in a splendid voice which filled the horizon, Baia laid aside her guitar and with her eyes fixed on the Muezzin seemed to be rapt in prayer. For as long as the chant lasted she remained ecstatic, like an Arabic St. Theresa. Tartarin watched her and thought that it must be a beautiful and powerful religion which could give rise to such transports of faith.

Tarascon hide your face, your Tartarin dreams of becoming apostate.

Chapter 23.