The day after this adventurous yet tragic evening, when at first light
our hero awoke and realised that the prince and his money had gone and
would not return; when he saw himself alone in this little white tomb,
betrayed, robbed and abandoned in the middle of savage Algeria with a
one-humped camel and some loose change as his total resources, for the
first time some misgivings entered his mind. He began to have doubts
about Montenegro, about friendship, fame and even lions. Overcome by
misery he shed bitter tears.
While he was sitting disconsolately at the door of the Marabout with his
head in his hands, his rifle between his knees and watched over by
the camel... behold! The undergrowth opposite was thrust aside and the
thunderstruck Tartarin saw not ten paces away a gigantic lion, which
advanced towards him uttering roars which shook the ragged offerings on
the wall of the Marabout and even the slippers of the holy man in their
recess. Only Tartarin remained unshaken. “At last!” He cried, jumping
to his feet with his rifle butt to his shoulder... Pan!... Pan!...
Pft!... Pft!... The lion had two explosive bullets in its head!
Fragments of lion erupted like fireworks into the burning African sky,
and as they fell to earth, Tartarin saw two furious negroes, who ran
towards him with raised cudgels. The two negroes of Milianah... Oh!
Misère!... It was the the tame lion, the poor blind lion of the convent
of Mahommed that the bullets of the Tarasconais had felled.
This time Tartarin had the narrowest of escapes. Drunk with fanatical
fury, the two negro mendicants would surely have had him in pieces had
not the God of the Christians sent him a Guardian Angel in the shape
of the District Police Officer from Orleansville, who arrived down the
pathway, his sabre tucked under his arm, at that very moment. The
sight of the municipal kepi had an immediate calming effect on the two
negroes. Stern and majestic the representative of the law took down the
particulars of the affair, had the remains of the lion loaded onto
the camel, and ordered the plaintiff and the accused to follow him to
Orleansville, where the whole matter was placed in the hands of the
legal authorities.
There then commenced a long and involved process. After the tribal
Algeria in which he had been wandering, Tartarin now made the
acquaintance of the no less peculiar and cock-eyed Algeria of the towns:
litigious and legalistic. He encountered a sleazy justicary who stitched
up shady deals in the back rooms of cafés. The Bohemian society of the
gentlemen of the law; dossiers which stank of absinthe, white cravats
speckled with drink and coffee stains. He was embroiled with ushers,
solicitors, and business agents, all the locusts of officialdom, thin
and ravenous, who strip the colonist down to his boots and leave him
shorn leaf by leaf like a stalk of maize.
The first essential point to be decided was whether the lion had been
killed on civil or military territory. In the first case Tartarin
would come before a civil tribunal, in the second he would be tried by
court-martial: at the word court-martial Tartarin imagined himself
lying shot at the foot of the ramparts, or crouching in the depths of
a dungeon... A major difficulty was that the delimitation of these two
areas was extremely vague, but at last, after months of consultation,
intrigue, and vigils in the sun outside the offices of the Arab Bureau,
it was established that on the one hand the lion was, when killed, on
military ground, but on the other hand that Tartarin when he fired the
fatal shot was in civilian territory. The affair was therefore a civil
matter, and Tartarin was freed on the payment of an indemnity of two
thousand five hundred francs, not including costs.
How was this to be paid? The little money left after the prince’s
defection had long since gone on legal documents and judicial absinthe.
The unfortunate lion killer was now reduced to selling off his armament
rifle by rifle. He sold the daggers, the knives and coshes. A grocer
bought the preserved food, a chemist what was left of the medicine
chest. Even the boots went, with the bivouac tent, into the hands of
a merchant of bric-a-brac. Once everything had been paid, Tartarin
was left with little but the lion-skin and the camel. The lion-skin he
packed up carefully and despatched to Tarascon, to the address of the
brave Commandant Bravida. As for the camel, he counted on it to get him
back to Algiers: not by riding it, but by selling it to raise the fare
for the stage-coach, which was at least better than camel-back. Sadly
the camel proved a difficult market, and no one offered to buy it at any
price.
Tartarin was determined to get back to Algiers, even if it meant
walking. He longed to see once more Baia’s blue corslet, his house, his
fountain and to rest on the white tiles of his his little cloister while
he awaited money to be sent from France. In these circumstances
the camel did not desert him. This strange animal had developed an
inexplicable affection for its master, and seeing him set out from
Orleansville it followed him faithfully, regulating its pace to his and
not quitting him by as much as a footstep.
At first Tartarin found it touching. This fidelity, this unshakable
devotion seemed wholly admirable; besides which the beast was no trouble
and was able to find its own food. However, after a few days Tartarin
grew tired of having perpetually at his heels this melancholy companion,
who reminded him of all his misadventures. He began to be irritated.
He took a dislike to its air of sadness to its hump and its haughty
bearing. In he end he became so exasperated with it that his only wish
was to be rid of it; but the camel would not be dismissed. Tartarin
tried to lose it, but the camel always found him. He tried running
away, but the camel could run faster. He shouted “Clear off!” and threw
stones: the camel stopped and regarded him with a mournful expression,
then after a few moments it resumed its pace and caught up with him.
Tartarin had to resign himself to its company.
When, after eight days of walking, Tartarin, tired and dusty, saw
gleaming in the distance the white terraces of Algiers, when he found
himself on the outskirts of the town, on the bustling Mustapha road,
amid the crowds who watched him go by with the camel in attendance, his
patience snapped, and taking advantage of some traffic congestion he
ducked into a field and hid in a ditch. In a few moments he saw above
his head, on the causeway, the camel striding along rapidly, its neck
anxiously extended. Greatly relieved to be rid of it, Tartarin entered
the town by a side road which ran along by the wall of his house.
On his arrival at his Moorish house, Tartarin halted in astonishment. The
day was ending, the streets deserted. Through the low arched doorway,
which the negress had forgotten to close, could be heard laughter, the
clinking of glasses, the popping of a champagne cork and the cheerful
voice of a woman singing loud and clear:
“Aimes-tu Marco la belle,
“La danse aux salons en fleurs...”
“Tron de Diou!” Said Tartarin, blenching, and he rushed into the
courtyard.
Unhappy Tartarin! What a spectacle awaited him!.... Amid bottles,
pastries, scattered cushions, tambourine, guitar, and hookah, Baia
stood, without her blue jacket or her corslet, dressed only in a silver
gauze blouse and big pink pantaloons, singing “Marco la belle” with a
naval officer’s hat tipped over one ear... while on a rug at her
feet surfeited with love and confitures, was Barbassou, the infamous
Barbassou, roaring with laughter as he listened to her.
The arrival of Tartarin, haggard, thin, covered in dust, with blazing
eyes and bristling chechia cut short this enjoyable Turco-Marseillaise
orgy. Baia uttered a little cry, and like a startled leveret she bolted
into the house, but Barbassou was not in the least put out and laughed
more than ever: “Hé!... Hé!... Monsieur Tartarin. What did I tell you? You
can hear that she knows French all right.”
Tartarin advanced, furious: “Captain!..” He began; but then, leaning
over the balcony with a rather vulgar gesture, Baia threw down a few
well-chosen words. Tartarin, deflated, sat down on a drum, his Moor
spoke in the argot of the Marseilles back-streets.
“When I warned you not to trust Algerian women,” Said Captain Barbassou
sententiously, “The same applied to your Montenegrin prince.” Tartarin
looked up, “Do you know where the prince is?” he asked.
“Oh, he is not far away. He will spend the next five years in the
fine prison at Mustapha. The clown was foolish enough to be caught
stealing... and anyway this is not the first time His Highness has been
inside, he has already done three years in gaol somewhere, and... hang
on!... I believe it was in Tarascon!
“In Tarascon!” Cried Tartarin, suddenly enlightened, “that is why I never
saw him there. All he knew of Tarascon was what he could see from a cell
window.”
“Hé!... without a doubt.... Ah! My poor M. Tartarin, you have to keep both
eyes wide open in this devilish country if you don’t want to be taken
in. Like that business of the Muezzin.”
“What business?... What Muezzin?”
“Ti!... Pardi!” The Muezzin opposite, who was courting Baia; all Algiers
knew about it. Not all the prayers he was chanting were addressed
to Allah, some were directed to the little one, and he was making
propositions under your nose. “It seems that everyone in this beastly
country is a crook”, Wailed the unhappy Tartarin. Barbassou shrugged his
shoulders, “My dear fellow, you know how it is. All these sort of places
are the same. If you take my advice you will go back to Tarascon as
quickly as possible.”
“That’s easy to say, but what am I to do for money? Don’t you know how
they robbed me out there in the desert?”
“Don’t worry about that,” laughed the Captain, “the Zouave is leaving
tomorrow and I’ll take you back if you want... does that suit you,
colleague?... All right... Good! There’s only one thing left to do, there
is still some champagne and some pastries left. Come, sit down and let
bygones be bygones.” After a little delay which his dignity required,
our hero accepted the offer. They sat down and poured out a drink.
Hearing the clink of glasses, Baia came down and finished singing Marco
la Belle, and the party went on until late in the night.