I wish that I was a painter, a really good painter, so that I could
present to you a picture of the different positions adopted by
Tartarin’s chechia during the three days of the passage from France to
Algeria.
I would show it to you first at the departure, proud and stately as it
was then, crowning that noble Tarascon head. I would show it next when,
having left the harbour, the Zouave began to lift on the swell. I would
show it fluttering and astonished, as if feeling the first premonitions
of distress.
Then, in the gulf of Lion, when the Zouave was further offshore and
the sea a little rougher, I would present it at grips with the storm,
clutching, bewildered, at the head of our hero, its long blue woollen
tassel streaming in the spume and gusting wind.
The fourth position. Six in the evening. Off the coast of Corsica. The
wretched chechia is leaning over the rail and sadly contemplating the
depths of the ocean.
Fifth and last position. Down in a narrow cabin, in a little bed which
has the appearance of a drawer in a commode, something formless and
desolate rolls about, moaning, on the pillow. It is the chechia, the
heroic chechia, now reduced to the vulgar status of a night-cap, and
jammed down to the ears of a pallid and convulsing invalid.
Ah! If the townsfolk of Tarascon could have seen the great Tartarin,
lying in his commode drawer, in the pale, dismal light which filtered
through the porthole, amongst the stale smell of cooking and wet wood,
the depressing odour of the ferry boat. If they had heard him groan
at every turn of the propeller, ask for tea every five minutes, and
complain to the steward in the weak voice of a child, would they have
regretted having forced him to leave? On my word, the poor Tuer deserved
pity. Overcome by sea-sickness, he had not the will even to loosen
his sash or rid himself of his weapons. The hunting knife with the big
handle dug into his ribs. His revolver bruised his leg, and the final
straw was the nagging of Tartarin-Sancho, who never ceased whining and
carping:--“Imbecile! Va! I warned you didn’t I?.... But you had to go to
Africa!.... Well now you’re on your way, how do you like it?”
What was every bit as cruel was that, shut in his cabin, between his
groans he could hear the other passengers in the saloon, laughing,
eating, singing, playing cards. The society in the Zouave was as
cheerful as it was diverse. There were some officers on their way to
rejoin their units, a bevy of tarts from Marseille, a rich Mahommedan
merchant, returning from Mecca, some strolling players, a Montenegran
prince, a great joker this, who did impersonations.... Not one of these
people was sea-sick and they spent the time drinking champagne with the
captain of the Zouave, a fat “Bon viveur” from Marseille, who had an
establishment there and another in Algiers, and who rejoiced in the name
of Barbassou. Tartarin hated all these people. Their gaity redoubled his
misery.
At last, in the afternoon of the third day, there was some unusual
activity on board the ship, which roused our hero from his torpor. The
bell in the bows rang out... the heavy boots of the sailors could be
heard running on the deck... “Engine ahead!... engine astern!.” Shouted
the hoarse voice of Captain Barbassou. Then “Stop engine!”
The engine stopped, there was a little tremor and then nothing. The
ferry lay rocking gently from side to side, like a balloon in the air.
This strange silence horrified Tartarin. “My God! We are sinking!” He
cried in a voice of terror, and recovering his strength as if by magic,
he rushed up onto the deck.