One fine afternoon of blue sky and warm breeze, Sidi Tart’ri, astride
his mule, was returning alone from his little garden, his legs spread
widely over hay filled bags which were further swollen by citrus and
water-melon. Lulled by the creaking of the harness and swaying to the
clip-clop of the animal the good man progressed through the delightful
countryside, his hands crossed on his stomach, three-quarters asleep
from the effect of warmth and wellbeing. Suddenly, as he was entering
the town, a loud hail woke him up. “Hé! You, you great lump! You’re
Monsieur Tartarin aren’t you?” At the name of Tartarin and the sound of
the Provencal accent Tartarin raised his head and saw, a few feet away,
the tanned features of Barbassou, the Captain of the Zouave, who was
drinking an absinthe and smoking his pipe at the door of a little café.
“Hé! Barbassou by God!” Said Tartarin, pulling up his mule.
Instead of replying Barbassou regarded him wide-eyed for a few moments,
and then he began to laugh and laugh, so that Tartarin sat stunned among
his water-melons. “What a get-up, my poor monsieur Tartarin. It’s true
then what people say, that you have become a Teur? And little Baia, does
she still sing ‘Marco la belle’ all the time?” “Marco la belle,” said
Tartarin indignantly, “I’ll have you know Captain, that the person
of whom you speak is an honest Moorish girl who doesn’t know a word of
French!” “Baia?... Not a word of French?... Where have you come from?” And
the Captain began to laugh again, more than ever. Then noticing the long
face of poor Sidi Tart’ri, he changed tack. “Well perhaps it isn’t
the same one,” He said, “I’ve probably got her mixed up with someone
else... only look here, M. Tartarin, you would be wise not to put too much
trust in Algerian Moors, or Montenegrin princes.” Tartarin stood up in
his stirrups, and made his grimace, “The prince is my friend, Captain!”
He said. “All right... all right... Don’t let’s quarrel... would you like
a drink?... no. Any message you would like me to take back?... none. Well
that’s it then. Bon voyage.... Oh!... While I think of it, I have some
good French tobacco here, if you would like a few pipes-full take some,
help yourself, it will do you good, it’s those blasted local tobaccos
that scramble your brain.”
With that the Captain returned to his absinthe and Tartarin pensively
trotted his mule down the road to his little house. Although in his
loyal heart he refused to believe any of the insinuations made by the
Captain, they had upset him, and his rough oaths and country accent had
combined to awake in him a vague feeling of remorse. When he reached
home, Baia had gone to the baths, the negress seemed to him ugly, the
house dismal, and prey to an indefinable melancholy, he went and sat by
the fountain and filled his pipe with Barbassou’s tobacco. The tobacco
had been wrapped in a fragment of paper torn from “The Semaphore” and
when he spread it out the name of his home town caught his eye.
“News from Tarascon,” He read, “The town is in a state of alarm. Tartarin
the lion killer, who went to hunt the big cats in Africa, has not
been heard of for several months.... What has happened to our heroic
compatriot? One dare hardly ask oneself, knowing as we do his ardent
nature, his courage and love of adventure.... Has he, like so many
others, been swallowed up in the desert sands, or has he perhaps fallen
victim to the murderous teeth of those feline monsters, whose skins he
promised to the municipality.... A terrible incertitude! However, some
African merchants who came to the fair at Beaucaire, claim to have met,
in the heart of the desert, a white man whose description corresponds
with his and who was heading for Timbuctoo. May God preserve our
Tartarin!”
When he read this, Tartarin blushed and trembled. All Tarascon rose
before his eyes. The club. The hat hunters. The green armchair at
Costecalde’s shop: and soaring above, like the extended wings of an
eagle, the formidable moustache of the brave Commandant Bravida. Then to
see himself squatting slothfully on his mat, while he was believed to be
engaged in slaying lions, filled him with shame. Suddenly he leaped to
his feet. “To the lions!... To the lions!” He cried, and hurrying to the
dusty corner where lay idle his bivouac tent, his medicine chest, his
preserved foods and his weapons, he dragged them into the middle of the
courtyard. Tartarin-Sancho had just perished, only Tartarin-Quixote was
left.
There was just time enough to inspect his equipment, to don his arms and
accoutrements, to put on his big boots, to write a few lines to prince
Gregory, confiding Baia to his care, to slip into an envelope some
banknotes, wet with tears, and the intrepid Tarasconais was in a
stage-coach, rolling down the road to Blidah, leaving the stupefied
negress in his house, gazing at the turban, the slippers and all the
muslim rig-out of Sidi Tart’ri, hanging discarded on the wall.