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TARTARlNOFTARASCOi
TARTARINONTHEALP
m\.
DAUDET
GEORGE HOLMES HOWISON
Ca^ri^ht, J3^^. In^ ZUtiey, Brorany & C
Goupil- & Cf Paris-
:V
• • • • Copyright, 1900,
By Little, Brown, and Company.
All rights reserved.
i-\o.
O \^:>/r> \ —
Hnibersitg ^ress:
John Wilson and Son, Cambridge, U.S.A.
TARTARIN OF TARASCON;
FIRST EPISODE.
AT TARASCON.
I.
The garden of the baobab.
My first visit to Tartarin of Tarascon remains an
unforgetable date in my life ; it is a dozen or fif-
teen years since then, but I remember it better
than yesterday. The intrepid Tartarin was then
Hving at the entrance to the town, in the third
house, left-hand side, on the road to Avignon ; a
pretty little Tarasconese villa, garden before, bal-
cony behind, very white walls, green blinds, and
on the step of the gate a brood of little Savoyards
playing at hop-scotch, or sleeping in the blessed
sun, with their heads on their shoe-blacking
boxes.
Outside, the house looked like nothing at all.
Never could I have thought myself before the
home of a hero. But enter — coquin de sort! . .
From cellar to garret the whole building had an
heroic air, even the garden.
I
849302
2 Tartarin of Tarascon.
Oh, the garden of Tartarin ! there are not two
like it in all Europe. Not one tree of the region,
not a flower of France ; nothing but exotic plants,
gum-trees, cotton-trees, bottle-gourds, cocoanuts,
mangoes, cochineal-trees, banana-trees, palm-trees,
a baobab,' gaqtijses, prickly pears from Barbary, till
one might fancy one's self in Central Africa, ten
thousand leagues from Tarascon. All these, be it
understood, were not of natural size ; the cocoanut-
trees were scarcely larger than beet-roots, and the
baobab (arbos gigantea, tree of Senegal, largest
known vegetable product) lived at ease in a
mignonette pot; but no matter for that! it was
very pretty to the eyes of Tarascon ; and the peo-
ple of the town, admitted on Sundays to the honour
of contemplating the baobab, went home full of
admiration.
Think what emotion I must have felt that first
day in crossing that wondrous garden ! . . But it
was quite another thing when I was ushered into
the study of the hero.
This study, one of the curiosities of the town,
was at the farther end of the garden, evening into
it on a level with the baobab by a glass moor.
Imagine to yourself a large hall, tapestried from
top to bottom with guns, sabres, the weapons of
all lands, carbines, rifles, blunderbusses, Corsican
knives, Catalan knives, revolving knives, dagger-
knives, Malay krishes, tomahawks, Hottentot clubs,
Mexican lassos, and I know not what all.
Shining above them, a great ferocious sun made
the steel of the blades and the muzzles glitter, as
The Garden of the Baobab, 3
if to make your flesh creep all the more. . . It
was rather reassuring, however, to see the good
air of order and cleanliness that reigned through-
out the yataghanery. All things were in place,
ranged in line, dusted, ticketed as in a pharmacy ;
here and there a little notice, in neat writing, said :
Poisoned arrows ; do not touch!
or: —
Loaded weapons ; be careful!
Without these notices I should not have dared
to enter.
In the middle of the study was a round table.
On the table a flask of rum, a Turkish tobacco-
pouch. Captain Cook's Travels, the novels of Feni-
more Cooper and Gustave Aimard, hunting nar-
ratives, bear-hunts, elephant-hunts, hunts with
falcons, etc. . . Before this table sat a man of
forty to forty-five years of age ; short, fat, squat,
ruddy, in his shirt-sleeves and flannel drawers,
with a strong short beard and flaming eyes; in
one hand he held a book, in the other he bran-
dished an enormous pipe with a metal lid, and,
while reading I know not what stupendous tale of
the hunters of pelts, he made, by advancing his
lower lip, a terrible grimace, which gave to the
visage of a small Tarasconese proprietor the same
air of innocent ferocity that reigned throughout
his dwelling.
This man was Tartarin, Tartarin of Tarascon,
the intrepid, the great, the incomparable Tartarin
of Tarascon.
Tartarin of Tarascon.
II.
General coup d^cEtl cast upon the worthy town of
Tarascon. The Hunters of caps.
At the period of which I am telling you,
Tartarin of Tarascon was not yet the Tartarin
that he is to-day, the great Tartarin of Tarasr
con, so popular throughout the south of France.
Nevertheless, even at that epoch, he was already
king of Tarascon.
Let me tell whence that royalty came to him.
You must know, in the first place, that every
man down there is a sportsman, from the highest
to the lowest. Hunting is the passion of the
Tarasconese ; and this from times mythological
when La Tarasque played the mischief in the
marshes of the town, and the Tarasconese of
those days formed battues against her. Good
reason, as you see, for their passion.
Consequently, every Sunday morning Tarascon
takes arms and issues from its walls, gun to shoul-
der, game-bag on its back, with a turmoil of dogs,
ferrets, trumpets, and horns. Superb to see. Un-
fortunately, game is lacking; absolutely lacking.
However stupid wild animals may be, you can well
believe that in the end they would mistrust that
turmoil.
The Hunters of Caps, 5
For a circuit of five leagues around Tarascon
burrows are empty, nests are deserted. Not a
blackbird, not a quail, not the least little rabbit, nor
so much as a snipe.
And yet they are very tempting, those Tarascon-
ese hillsides, all redolent of thyme and myrtle,
lavender and rosemary; and those fine muscat
grapes, bursting with sugar, in serried ranks along
the Rhone, are devilishly appetizing also. Yes !
but there is always a Tarasconese behind them;
and in the kingdom of pelts and plumes the men
of Tarascon are very ill-noted. The birds of pas-
sage have marked a great cross against the name
of that town in their time-tables, and when the
wild ducks, flying south toward the Camargue in
long triangles, perceive from afar the steeples of
the town, the leader cries out, very loud, " There 's
Tarascon ! there 's Tarascon ! " and the flock makes
a crook in its course.
In short, as to game, nothing remains in the
whole region but one old scamp of a hare, escaped
by miraculous means from the Tarasconese Septem-
ber massacres, who obstinately persists in living
there. That hare is well known to Tarascon. They
have given him a name. He is called " Rapid."
His burrow is on the estate of M. Bompard (a fact
which has, by the bye, doubled or even trebled the
value of that property), but no one yet has been
able to bag him.
At the present time there are only two or three
fanatics still rabid enough to hunt him.
The rest mourn him, and ** Rapid " has long
6 Tartarm of Tarasco7i,
since passed into the state of a local superstition,
though the Tarasconese are not at all superstitious
by nature ; in fact, they eat swallows in stews —
when there are any.
** Ah, 9a ! " you will say to me, " if game is so
scarce in Tarascon what do those Tarasconese
hunters do of a Sunday morning?"
What do they do ?
Hey ! mon Dieu! they go out into the open
country, two or three leagues from the town. There
they gather in little groups of five or six, stretch
themselves tranquilly out in the shade of a quarry,
an old wall, an olive-tree, take from their game-
bags a good bit of braised beef, raw onions, a
saucissot^ a few anchovies, and begin then and
there an interminable repast, washed down with
one of those delectable Rhone wines that make
laughter and song.
After which, being well ballasted, up they get,
whistle to the dogs, load the guns, and begin the
hunt. That is to say, each of these gentlemen
takes his cap, tosses it in the air with all his
strength, and fires at it on the wing with a 5, or a
6, or a 2 — according to agreement.
He who hits his cap the oftenest is hailed king
of the hunt, and returns in the evening triumphant
to Tarascon, amid the barking of dogs and the
blare of trumpets, his riddled cap on the muzzle of
his gun.
Useless to tell you that a great business in hunt-
ing-caps is done in that town. Some of the hat-
makers even keep torn and riddled hats for the
The Hunters of Caps, 7
clumsy ; but no one has ever been known to buy
them, except Bezuquet the apothecary. It is dis-
honourable. ^ *•* ^'-l.v'!
As a hunter of caps Tartarin of Tarascon had
not his equal. Every Sunday morning he started
forth with a new cap, every Sunday evening he
returned with a ragged one. The garrets of the
little house of the baobab were full of these glori-
ous trophies. Thus the Tarasconese, one and all,
considered him their leader, and as Tartarin knew
to its depths the sportsman's code, and had read
all treatises, all manuals of all possible hunts, from
the hunt of the cap to the hunt of the Burmese
tiger, his compatriots had made him their arbiter
and judge of venery, and took him as their umpire
in all their disputations.
Every day, from three to four, at the shop of the
gunsmith Costecalde, could be seen a stout man,
grave, a pipe between his teeth, seated in a green
leather arm-chair, in the midst of a shopful of cap-
hunters, all standing and squabbling. This was
Tartarin of Tarascon, delivering judgment. A
Nimrod lined with Solomon.
8 Tartarin of Tarascon.
III.
Nan i Nan / Nan /
Continuation of the general coup d''osil cast upon
the good town of Tarascon.
To a passion for sport the stalwart Tarasconese
race added another passion; that of romantic
song. The amount of romantic poesy consumed
in that small region is not to be beheved. All
the aged sentimentalities yellowing in the oldest
receptacles will be found at Tarascon in full youth
and glory. They are all there, all. Every family
has its own, and the whole town knows it. They
know, for example, that that of the apothecary
B6zuquet is : —
" Thou ! purest star whom I adore.''
That of the gunsmith Costecalde : —
" Wilt thou come to the land of the flat-bottomed boats ? "
That of the receiver of registrations : • —
" If I were invisible, none could see me."
(Comic song.')
And so on, throughout Tarascon. Two or three
times a week they meet at their several houses and
sing them to one another. The singular thing is
that these songs are always the same, and that, long
The Good Town of Tarascon, 9
as the worthy Tarasconese have sung them, they
have no desire for change. They bequeath them
in famiHes, from father to son, and no one meddles
with them; those songs are sacred. Never are
they even borrowed. Never would the idea come
to a Costecalde to sing the song of a Bezuquet, nor
to a Bezuquet to sing that of a Costecalde. And
yet, as you can well believe, they must know them
after hearing them sung for forty years. But no !
each keeps his own, and all are content.
In song as in caps, the first in the town was still
Tartarin. His superiority over his fellow-citizens
consisted in this : Tartarin of Tarascon had no song
of his own. He had them all.
All!
Only, it took the devil and all to make him sing
them. Retiring early from mere salon successes,
the Tarasconese hero much preferred to plunge
into his sporting books or pass his evening at the
club, to playing swain at a piano from Nimes, be-
tween two Tarasconese wax candles. Such musi-
cal parades he thought beneath him. Sometimes,
however, when there was music at Bezuquet's phar-
macy, he would drop in, as if by chance, and, after
getting himself much entreated, would consent to
sing the great duet in " Robert le Diable " with
Madame Bezuquet mbre. . . He who never heard
that has heard nothing. . . As for me, if I should
live a hundred years I should all my life see the
great Tartarin approaching the piano with solemn
step, resting his elbows upon it, making his grimace,
and — beneath the green reflection of the bottles in
lo Tartarin of Tarascon,
the window — endeavouring to give to his worthy
face the satanic and savage expression of Robert
le Diable. Scarcely had he taken position before
the whole salon quivered ; it was felt that some-
thing grand was about to occur. Then, after a
silence, Madame Bezuquet m^re^ accompanying
herself, began : —
" Robert ! thou I love,
Who hast my faith,
Thou see'st my terror {repeat')^
Mercy for thee !
Mercy for me ! "
Then in a low voice : " Now you, Tartarin ; "
and Tartarin of Tarascon, arm extended, fist
clenched, nostril quivering, said three times in a
formidable voice, which rolled like thunder through
the bowels of the piano : " Non ! . . non ! . .
non ! . ." pronounced by the worthy Southerner :
" Nan ! . . nan ! . . nan ! . ." On which Madame
Bezuquet mere repeated : —
" Mercy for thee !
Mercy for me ! "
" Nan ! . . nan ! . . nan ! . ." roared Tartarin, finer
than ever, and matters stopped there. . . It was not
long, as you see, but so well ejaculated, so well
simulated, so diabohcal, that a shudder of terror
ran through the pharmacy, and they made him
begin his : ** Nan ! . . nan ! . ." over again, four or
five times.
After which Tartarin mopped his forehead,
The Good Town of Tarascon. 1 1
smiled at the ladies, winked at the men, and, retir-
ing on his laurels, went off to the club to remark
with a careless air : *' I have just been singing the
duet in Robert le Diable at the Bezuquets'."
And the best of it was, he believed it.
12 Tartarin of Tarascon.
IV.
They///
It was to all these different talents that Tartarin
of Tarascon owed his high situation in the town.
At any rate, it is a positive thing that that devil
of a man had known how to captivate everybody.
The army was for Tartarin — in Tarascon.
The brave Commander Bravida, captain of equip-
ment, retired, said of him : " He 's a lapin [deter-
mined fellow, army term] ; " and you may well
think the commander was knowing in lapinSy hav-
ing clothed so many of them.
The magistracy was for Tartarin. Two or three
times in open court the old judge Ladeveze had
said, speaking of him : —
** There 's a man of spirit ! "
And, finally, the populace was for Tartarin.
His sturdy make, his bearing, his air, that air of a
trumpeter's horse that fears no noises, his reputa-
tion of a hero, which came from nobody knows
where, certain distributions of two-sous pieces, and
pats on the head to the little shoe-blacks sprawling
at his gate, had made him the Lord Seymour of
the region, the King of the Tarasconese markets.
On the quays, of a Sunday evening, when Tartarin
returned from the chase, his cap on the muzzle of
They/!/ 13
his gun, and well-girthed in his fustian jacket, the
porters of the Rhone saluted him, full of respect,
showing to one another with a clip of the eye the
gigantic biceps that rolled upon his arm, and say-
ing, in tones of admiration : " He 's strong, he is !
he has double musclesJ'
Double muscles !
It is only in Tarascon that you can hear things
like that.
And yet, in spite of all, with his numerous tal-
ents, double muscles, popular favour, and the
esteem, so precious, of the brave Commander
Bravida, retired captain of equipment, Tartarin
was not happy ; that life of a small town weighed
upon him, smothered him. The great man of
Tarascon was bored at Tarascon. The fact is, that
for a nature so heroic as his, for a soul so adven-
turous and ardent, which dreamed of battlesj, splen-
did hunts, sands of the desert, rambles on the
pampas, hurricanes and typhoons, to spend his
Sundays in a battue of caps and the rest of his
days in laying down the law at the gunsmith's shop
was really nothing, nothing at all ! . . Poor dear
great man ! It was enough, in course of time, to
make him die of consumption.
In vain — to enlarge his horizons and forget for
a moment the club and the market-place — in vain
did he surround himself with baobabs and other
tropical vegetations; in vain did he heap up
weapons upon weapons, Malay krishes on Malay
krishes ; in vain did he stuff -his mind with ro-
mantic reading, striving, like the immortal Don
14 Tartar in of Tarascon.
Quixote, to wrench himself by the vigour of his
dream from the claws of a pitiless reality. . . Alas !
all that he did to slake his thirst for adventure only
increased it. The sight of his weapons kept him
in a state of perpetual wrath and excitement. His
rifles, his arrows, his lassos cried to him : " Battle !
battle ! battle ! " Through the branches of his
baobab the wind of mighty travels whistled and
gave him evil counsels, and, to cap it all, Gustave
Aimard, Fenimore Cooper ! . .
Ah ! on those heavy summer afternoons, when
he was alone in the midst of his blades, how many
a time did Tartarin rise up roaring, and, casting
away his book, precipitate himself upon that wall
to snatch down a panoply !
The poor man forgot he was at home in Taras-
con, with a foulard on his head and flannel draw-
ers around his loins ; he put his reading into action,
and, exciting himself more and more by the sound
of his own voice, he cried aloud, brandishing an
axe or a tomahawk : —
" Come on ! . . They come ! . . "
They! Who, Theyf
Tartarin did not very well know himself. They !
Why, all who attack, all who combat, all who bite,
all who claw, all who scalp, all who roar. . . They !
Why, the Indian Sioux dancing their war dance
round the stake to which the white man is bound.
'T was the grisly bear of the Rocky Mountains,
licking himself with his bloody tongue. 'T was
the Bedouin of the desert, the Malay pirate, the
bandit of the Abruzzi. . . They ! in short, 't was
They!!! 15
they ! that is to say, war, travel, adventures,
glory.
But alas ! they were summoned in vain by the
intrepid Tarasconese; in vain were they defied,
they came not. . . Pecair^ i what could they have
found to do in Tarascon?
Nevertheless, they were always expected by
Tartarin ; especially in the evening when he went
to the club.
1 6 Tartarin of Tarascon.
V.
When Tartarin went to the club.
The Knight Templar preparing to make a sortie
against the besieging Infidel, the Chinese tiger
equipping himself for battle, the Comanche war-
rior entering the war-path, were as nought com-
pared with Tartarin of Tarascon arming himself
cap-a-pie to go to the club at nine in the evening
— one hour after the bugles had sounded tattoo.
'' Prepare for action ! " as the sailors say.
In his left hand Tartarin took a knuckle-duster
with iron points ; in his right hand a sword-cane ;
in his left-hand pocket was a tomahawk; in the
right-hand pocket a revolver. On his breast, be-
tween cloth and flannel, a Malay krish. But never
a poisoned arrow ; such weapons are too disloyal ! . .
Before starting, in the silence and shade of his
study, he practised for a moment; parrying, let-
ting fly at the wall, exercising his muscles. Then
he took his latch-key, and crossed the garden
gravely, not hurrying — English fashion, messieurs,
English fashion ; that is true courage. At the end
of the garden he unlocked the iron gate ; then he
opened it suddenly, violently, so that it swung
back rapidly outside, against the wall. . . If they
had been behind it, think what marmalade ! Un-
fortunately, they were not behind it.
When Tartarin went to the Club, 17
The gate open, Tartarin went out, cast a rapid
glance to right and left, turned round, double-
locked the gate behind him, and then, forward !
On the road to Avignon, not a cat Gates
closed, windows darkened. All was black. Here
and there a street-lamp blinked through the river
fog. . .
Lofty and calm, Tartarin of Tarascon advanced
into the night; making his boot-heels ring in
rhythm, and striking sparks from the pavement
with the iron tip of his cane. Boulevards, wide
streets, or alleys, he was careful to keep to the
middle of the road ; excellent measure of precau-
tion, which enables you to see an approaching
danger, and also to avoid what is apt, at night, in
the streets of Tarascon, to fall from the windows.
In seeing him thus prudent, do not think for a
moment that Tartarin was afraid. . . No ! he was
only careful.
The best proof that Tartarin was not afraid is
that, instead of going to the club by the public
promenade, he went through the town ; that is, by
the longest and darkest way, through a nest of
villanous little streets, at the end of which the
Rhone is seen to glitter ominously. The poor
man always hoped that in passing some angle of
these cut-throat alleys they would spring from the
shadow and fall upon his back. Had they done
so, they would have been well received, I '11 ans-
wer for it. . . But alas ! by the derision of fate,
never, eternally never, did Tartarin of Tarascon
have even the chance of a dangerous encounter.
2
1 8 Tartarhi of Tarascon.
Not a dog. Not so much as a drunken man.
Nothing !
Occasionally, however, a false alarm. A sound
of steps and smothered voices. " Attention ! "
said Tartarin to himself; and he stood stock-still,
planted on the ground, scrutinizing the shadows,
scenting the wind, putting his ear, Indian fashion,
to the earth. . . The steps approached. The voices
grew distinct. . . Doubt was at an end. They were
coming. They came. Tartarin, his eye flaming,
his chest heaving, was gathering himself together,
like a jaguar, prepared to bound while uttering
his war-cry . . . when, all of a sudden, from the
bosom of the darkness came virtuous Tarasconese
voices, calling to him, tranquilly: "Hey, hey!
Tartarin, good-night, Tartarin."
Maledictions ! 't was B6zuquet, with his family,
on the way home after singing his at Costecalde's.
" Good-night ! good-night ! " growled Tartarin, furi-
ous at the mistake ; then, savage, with uplifted
cane he plunged into the darkness.
Reaching the street of his club, the intrepid
Tartarin waited a moment, walking up and down
before he entered. . . At last,weary of waiting, and
certain now that they would not show themselves,
he cast a last look of defiance into the shades, and
muttered angrily: "Nothing! . . nothing! . . Ever-
lastingly nothing ! . ."
Thereupon the brave man entered the club and
played his besique with Commander Bravida.
The two Tarlartus. 19
VL
The two Tartarins,
With this mania for adventure, this need of
strong emotions, this passion for travel, for roam-
ing, this devil at grass, how the deuce was it that
Tartarin of Tarascon had never left Tarascon?
For that is a fact. Until he was forty-five years
old the intrepid Tartarin had never once slept out
of his town. He had not even made the famous
journey to Marseilles which every good Provencal
owes to himself on attaining his majority. It is
doubtful if he knew Beaucaire; and yet Beaucaire
is not very far from Tarascon, for there is only the
bridge to cross. Unfortunately, that bridge has so
often been swept away by hurricanes ; it is so long,
so frail, the Rhone is so wide just there, that — well,
well ! you understand. . . Tartarin of Tarascon pre-
ferred terra firma.
The fact is, it must now be owned to you, that
there were in our hero two very distinct natures.
*^I find two men within me," said a Father of the
Church — I do not remember which. It was true
of Tartarin, who bore within him the soul of a Don
Quixote; the same chivalric impulse, the same
heroic ideal, the same passion for the romantic
and the grandiose ; but, unfortunately, he had not
20 Tartari7i of Tarascon,
the body of the famous hidalgo ; that thin and
bony body, that pretext of a body, on which ma-
terial life could get no grip ; a body capable of
sitting up for twenty nights without unbuckling its
cuirass, and of going forty kours on a handful of
rice. . . Tartarin's body, on the contrary, was a
good fellow of a body, very fat, very heavy, very
sensual, very luxurious, very exacting, full of bour-
geois appetites and domestic requirements, tfie
short and pot-bellied body on paws of the immor-
tal Sancho Panza.
Don Quixote and Sancho Panza in the same
man ! you understand what a household that must
have made ! what struggles ! what wrenchings ! . .
Oh, the fine dialogue that a Lucian or Saint-Evre-
mond could write ! a dialogue between the two
Tartarins, Tartarin-Quixote and Tartarin-Sancho !
Tartarin-Quixote inspired by the tales of Gustave
Aimard and crying aloud : " I go ! " Tartarin-San-
cho, thinking only of his rheumatism, and saying :
*' I stay."
TaKTARIH-<JuTXOTE; all enthusiasm.
Cover thyself with glory, Tartarin.
Tartarin-Sancho, calmly.
Cover thyself with flannel, Tartarin.
Tartarin-Quixote, more and more enthusiastic.
Oh, the fine rifles ! the double-barrelled rifles !
Oh, the daggers, the lassos, the moccasins !
The two Tartarins. 21
Tartarin-Sancho, more calmly still.
Oh, those knitted waistcoats ! those good warm
knee-wraps ! those excellent caps with ear-pads !
Tartarin- Quixote, beside himself.
An.axe ! an axe ! bring me an axe !
Tartarin-Sancho, ringing for the maid.
Jeannette, my chocolate.
Whereupon Jeannette appears with excellent
chocolate, hot, foamy, perfumed, and a certain
succulent toast made of anise-seed bread, which
cause a smile on the face of Tartarin-Sancho while
they stifle the cries of Tartarin-Quixote.
That is how it happened that Tartarin of Taras-
con had never left Tarascon.
22 Tartarin of Tarascon.
VII.
Europeans at Shanghai.
Higher Commerce. Tartars.
Can it be that Tartarin of Tarascon is an impostor f
Once, however, Tartarin came near departing —
departing on a great journey.
The three brothers Garcio-Camus, Tarasconese
persons who had settled at Shanghai, offered him
the management of one of their counting-rooms
over there. That, indeed, was the very Hfe that
would have suited him. Business of importance ;
an army of clerks to govern ; relations with Rus-
sia, Persia, Turkey in Asia, — in short, the Higher
Commerce.
In the mouth of Tartarin those words, " Higher
Commerce," revealed to you heights ! . .
The house of Garcio-Camus had, moreover, this
advantage : at times it was threatened with a visit
from Tartars. Then, quick ! the doors were
closed. All the clerks seized weapons, the con-
sular flag was hoisted, and pan ! pan ! through the
windows at the Tartars.
I do not need to tell you with what enthusiasm
Tartarin-Quixote jumped at the proposition. Un-
happily, Tartarin-Sancho did not hear of it with
the same ear, and, as he was the stronger, the mat-
Europeans at Shanghai. 23
tcr could not be arranged. In the town of Taras-
con much was said about it: "Will he go?"
"Will he not go?" "I bet yes." "I bet no."
'T was an event. . .T^In the end, Tartarin did not go.
Still, it was a tale that did him much honour. To
have failed to go to Shanghai, or to have gone,
proved to be all the same for Tartarin. By dint
of talking about that journey, people ended by
beUeving he had returned from it; so that in the
evenings, at the club, all those gentlemen asked
him for information about the life in Shanghai, its
manners and morals, the climate, opium, and
Higher Commerce.
Tartarin, very well informed, gave with a good
grace the details demanded ; so that in course of
time the worthy man was not very sure himself
that he had not been to Shanghai ; in fact, after
relating for the hundredth time a Tartar raid, he
said, quite naturally : " I then armed all the clerks,
hoisted the consular flag, and pan ] pan ! through
the windows at the Tartars." Hearing that, the
club quivered. . .
"But, then," you say, "your Tartarin was a
shocking liar."
No ! a thousand times no ! Tartarin was not a
liar —
" But he must have known he did not go to
Shanghai ! "
Yes, no doubt he knew it. Only . . . yX^fth"
Only — now listen to this. It is time ta-€ome
to an understanding once for all about that reputa-
tion for lying which the men of the North have
24 Tartari7i of Tarascon.
put upon Southerners. There are no liars in the
South, neither at Marseilles, nor Nimes, nor Tou-
louse, nor Tarascon. The man of the South does
not lie, he deceives himself. He does not always
tell the truth, but he thinks he does. . . A lie in
him is not a lie, it is a species of mirage. . .
Yes, mirage. . . In order to understand me per-
fectly, go to the South, and you will see. You
will see that devil of a land where the sun trans-
figures everything and makes it grander than
nature. You will see those little hills of Provence
that are no higher than the heights of Montmartre,^
but they will seem to you gigantic. You will see
that Maison-Carree at Nimes — a Httle gem of a
doll's house — and you will think it grander than
Notre-Dame. You will see. . . Ha ! the sole liar
in the South (if there is one) is the sun. . . All
that he touches he exaggerates. . . What was
Sparta in the days of its splendour? A straggHng
village. . . What was Athens? At the most a
sub-prefecture . . . and yet in history they appear
to us enormous cities. That is what the sun has
made them.
After that, will you feel surprised that the same
sun, falling on Tarascon, should have made of
a retired captain of equipment like Bravida the
brave Commander Bravida, out of a turnip a bao-
bab, out of a man who failed to go to Shanghai a
man who had been there?
TJie Menagerie Mitairie, 25
VIII.
The Menagerie Mitaine.
A lion of the Atlas in Tarascon.
Terrible and solemn interview.
And now that we have shown Tartarin of Taras-
con as he was in private life, before fame had kissed
his brow and crowned it with the laurel of cen-
turies, now that we have pictured that heroic life
iivits modest environment, in its joys, its sorrows,
its dreams, its hopes, let us hasten to reach the
grand pages of his history, and the singular event
thj^t was fated to give wings to his incomparable
destiny.
'Twas evening, in the shop of the gunsmith
Costecalde. Tartarin of Tarascon was in the act
of explaining to certain amateurs the proper ma-
nipulation of a needle-gun, then in all its novelty.
Suddenly the door opened, and a cap-hunter pre-
cipitated himself, breathless, into the shop, crying
out : " A lion 1 . . a lion ! . /' Stupor, terror, tumult,
jostling. Tartarin fixed bayonet. Costecalde ran
to lock the door. The hunter was surrounded,
questioned, pressed ; and this was what they
learned : the Menagerie Mitaine, returning from
the fair at Beaucaire, had consented to halt for a
few days at Tarascon, and had just installed itself
26 Tartariii of Tarascon,
on the Place du Chateau, with a mass of boas,
phocas, crocodiles, and — a magnificent lion of the
Atlas.
A lion of the Atlas in Tarascon ! Never within
the memory of man had such a thing been seen
before. How proudly did our brave sportsmen of
caps turn their eyes to one another ! What gleams
upon their manly faces in the darkest corner of
that shop of Costecalde's. What graspings of the
hands were silently exchanged ! The emotion
was so great, so unexpected that no one could find
a word to say. . .
Not even Tartarin. Pale and quivering, the
needle-gun still in his hand, he stood, reflecting,
before the counter. A Hon of the Atlas, there, close
by, not two steps off ! A lion ! in other words, the
heroic and ferocious animal par excellence^ the
king of wild beasts, the game of his dreams;
the first object, as one might say, of that ideal
troop which played such splendid dramas in his
fancy.
A lion, ye gods ! . .
And a lion of the Atlas ! ! T was more than the
great Tartarin could bear. . .
A rush of blood flew suddenly to his face.
His eyes flamed. With a convulsive gesture he
flung the needle-gun upon his shoulder and turn-
ing to the brave Commander Bravida, retired cap-
tain of equipment, he said to him, in a voice of
thunder : *' Let us go, commander, and see THAT."
" Hey ! but . . . hey ! . . My gun, my needle-
gun, you are taking with you," objected timidly
The Menagerie Mitaine, 27
the prudent Costecalde. But Tartarin was already
in the street, and behind him were the cap-hunters,
proudly keeping step.
When they reached the menagerie a crowd had
already collected. Tarascon, race heroic, too
long deprived of sensations and sights, had rushed
to the barrack Mitaine and taken it by storm.
Consequently, the stout Madame Mitaine was well
content. . . Attired in Kabylese costume, arms
bare to the elbow, iron bracelets round her ankles,
a whip in one hand, a live fowl (though plucked)
in the other, that illustrious dame did the honours
of the tent to the worthy Tarasconese burghers ; and
as she, too, had double muscles^ her success was
almost as great as that of her animals.
The entrance of Tartarin, the needle-gun upon
his shoulder, cast a chill upon the scene.
All these worthy Tarasconese, walking about
most tranquilly before the cages, without weapons,
without fear, without so much as the smallest idea of
danger, felt a natural sense of terror on seeing the
great Tartarin enter that tent with his formidable
engine of war. Surely there must be something to
fear, since he, that hero ... In the twinkling of an
eye the space before the cages was left vacant. The
children screamed with fear ; the ladies looked at
the door ; Bezuquet, the apothecary, slipped out,
muttering the remark that he would fetch his
gun. . .
Little by little, however, Tartarin's attitude re-
assured the crowd. Calm, his head held high, that
intrepid man walked slowly round the enclosure,
28 Tartarin of Tarascon.
passed, without pausing, the pool of the phoca,
glanced with disdainful eye at the box filled with
bran where the boa was digesting that live, plucked
hen, and planted himself finally befojre the cage of
the king of beasts.
Terrible and solemn interview! The lion of
Tarascon and the lion of the Atlas face to face ! . .
On one side, Tartarin, erect, right leg advanced
and both arms resting on his rifle ; on the other,
the lion, a gigantic lion, stretched upon the straw,
with blinking eyes and stupid aspect, his mon-
strous muzzle and his yellow wig reposing on his
fore-paws. . . Both were calm, and gazed upon
each other.
Singular result ! whether it was that the needle-
gun gave him umbrage, or that he scented an
enemy to his race, the lion, who, up to that time, had
looked at the Tarasconese with an air of supreme
contempt while yawning in their faces, the lion was
suddenly seized with an angry emotion. First, he
snififed, growled in an undertone, parted his claws
and stretched out his paws ; then he rose, erected
his head, shook that tawny mane, opened his vast
jaws, and gave vent, eying Tartarin, to a formidable
roar.
A cry of terror answered him. All Tarascon,
mad with fright, rushed to the doors. All —
women, children, porters, hunters of caps, the
brave Commander Bravida himself.-. . Tartarin
of Tarascon alone never stirred. . . He stood
there, firm and resolute before the cage, lightning
in his eye and that terrible expression the whole
The Menagerie Mitaine, 29
town knew so well upon his face. . . After a
while the cap-hunters, reassured by his attitude
and the solidity of the bars, approached their leader
and heard him murmur, as he gazed at the lion:
"That, yes, that is game."
For that day, Tartarin of Tarascon said no
more. . .
30 Tartarhi of Tarascon,
IX.
Singular effects of mirage.
That day, Tartarln of Tarascon said no more ;
but the hapless man had already said too much. . .
The next day nothing was talked of in the town
but the coming departure of Tartarin for Algeria
to hunt the Hon. . . You are witnesses, dear
readers, that the worthy man had never said one
word about it; but, mirage — you understand. . .
In short, all Tarascon talked of this departure.
On the promenade, at the club, in Costecalde's
shop, men approached each other to say, with
haggard air : —
" And otherwise, you know the news, at least? "
'* And otherwise, of course ! . . Tartarin's depar-
ture, at least? "
At Tarascon all sentences begin with et autre-
ment (there pronounced autremaifi)y and end with
au inoins (pronounced au mouairi). On this occa-
sion above all others, the *' at leasts," and the
" otherwises," resounded through the town till the
windows rattled.
The most surprised man in all Tarascon at the
news that he was going to Africa was Tartarin
Smgular Effects of Mirage, 31
himself. But see what vanity will do ! Instead
of simply answering that he was not going at all,
and had never had any intention of going, poor
Tartarin, the first time the journey was mentioned
to him, assumed an evasive air : " Hey ! . . hey ! . .
perhaps. . . I can't say." The second time, being
rather more famiHar with the idea, he answered:
"Probably." The third time: "Certainly."
Finally, one evening at the club and at the gun-
smith's, led away by an egg-punch, the lights, and
the cheering, — drunk, in short, with the applause
that the news of his departure had evoked, — the
unhappy man declared formally that he was weary
of hunting caps and was about, before long, to set
forth in pursuit of the lions of Africa. . .
This declaration was greeted with a thundering
hurrah. On which, more egg-punch, grasping of
hands, accolades, and a torch-light serenade in
front of the little house of the baobab.
But Tartarin-Sancho was far from happy. This
idea of a journey to Africa and of hunting the
lions of Atlas gave him chills down his back ; and
while that serenade of honour was still sounding
beneath his windows Tartarin-Sancho made Tar-
tarin-Quixote a terrible scene, calling him crazy,
visionary, imprudent, a triple fool, and minutely
detailing the many catastrophes that awaited him :
shipwreck, rheumatism, fevers, dysenteries, black
death, elephantiasis, and all the rest of them. . .
In vain did Tartarin-Quixote swear he would
commit no imprudence ; he would wrap himself
up, he would carry with him whatever he needed.
32 Tartarin of Tarascon,
Tartarln-Sancho listened to nothing. Already he
saw himself torn to bits by the lions, or engulfed
in the sands of the desert like the late Cambyses ;
the other Tartarin could succeed in pacifying him
only by the reminder that this departure was not
immediate, there was no hurry, and, after all, they
were not yet gone.
It is plain, of course, that no one starts on an
expedition like that without taking certain precau-
tions. In the first place, one has to know where
one is going ; how the devil could one start Hke a
bird?. .
Therefore, before all things else, Tartarin of Tar-
ascon determined to read the narratives of the
famous African tourists, Mungo Park, Caille, Dr.
Livingstone, Henri Duveyrier.
There he found that those intrepid travellers,
before they buckled on their sandals for distant
enterprises, prepared themselves, long beforehand,
to endure forced marches, hunger and thirst, and
all sorts of privations. Tartarin determined to do
as they did, and from that day forth he fed upon
nothing but eati bouillie. What is called eati bou-
illie in Tarascon consists of slices of bread steeped
in hot water with a clove of garlic, a sprig of
thyme, and a pinch of bay-leaf. The regimen was
severe ; and you can fancy what a face poor San-
cho made at it. . .
To the training of eau bouillie Tartarin of Tar-
ascon added other wise practices. To acquire the
habit of long marches, he compelled himself to
walk round the town seven or eight times every
Singular Effects of. Mirage, 33
morning, without stopping, sometimes at a quick-
step, sometimes in gymnastic fashion, elbows to
his sides and pebbles in his mouth — according
to the customs of antiquity.
Next, to use himself to cold night-air and fogs
and dew, he went down into the garden every
evening, alone with his gun, and stayed there
on watch till ten or eleven o'clock behind the
baobab.
And lastly as long as the Menagerie Mitalne
remained in Tarascon, belated cap-hunters loiter-
ing at Costecalde's could see, as they went their
way home in the darkness, a mysterious human
being pacing up and down behind the tents.
'Twas Tartarin of Tarascon, getting used to
hear without a shudder the roaring of the lion
' through the darksome night.
34 Tartarin of Tarascon.
X.
Previous to departure.
While Tartarin was thus training himself by all
sorts of heroic means, Tarascon kept its eyes fixed
upon him; nothing else was thought of. Cap-
sport lost all credit; romantic song lay fallow.
B^zuquet's piano languished in the pharmacy
beneath its green covering, on which cantharides
now lay drying, their stomachs upturned to the
air. . . Tartarin's expedition stopped everything
short.
The success of the Tarasconese hero in the
salons was a thing to be seen. People snatched
him, quarrelled for him, borrowed him, stole him.
No greater honour for the ladies than to go to
the menagerie on Tartarin's arm and make him
explain, in front of the lion's cage, how he should
go to work to hunt those noble beasts, where he
should aim, at what distance he should stand, and,
above all, the numerous accidents that were likely
to befall him.
Tartarin gave all the explanations demanded of
him. He had read Jules Gerard, and knew the
method of hunting lions to the tips of his fingers,
as if he had practised it. Consequently, he spoke
on the subject with great eloquence.
Previous to Departure. 35
But where he was finest was at dinner in the
evening with old Judge Ladeveze or the brave
Commander Bravida (retired captain of equip-
ment), when coffee was brought, the chairs drawn
together, and they made him talk of his future
hunts. . .
Then, his elbow on the table-cloth, his nose in
his mocha, the hero related in a voice of emotion
the perils that awaited him ; he told of the long
night-watches, moonless, the pestilential marshes,
the rivers poisoned by the leaves of the bay-tree,
the snows, the scorching suns, the scorpions, the
rains of grasshoppers. Also he told of the morals
and customs of the lions of the Atlas, their manner
of fighting, their phenomenal vigour, and their
ferocity during the rutting season. . .
Then, exciting himself with his own eloquence,
he sprang from the table, bounded into the middle
of the room, imitating the cry of the lion, the
discharge of the rifle, pan ! pan ! the whistle of
the ball, pfft! pfft ! gesticulating, roaring, and
knocking over chairs.
Around the table all were pale. The men
looked at each other and shook their heads ; the
ladies shut their eyes with little screams of terror ;
the old men brandished their canes belligerently;
and the little boys in the adjoining room, put to
bed early, wakened with a start by the roaring and
the shots, demanded lights in mortal terror.
Meanwhile, however, Tartarin of Tarascon did
not depart.
36 Tartarin of Tarascon.
XI.
Sword-thrusts y gentlemen, sword-thrusts. . .
but no pin-pricks /
Had he really the intention to go? . . Delicate
question, to which Tartarin's historian is puzzled
to reply.
It is certain that the Menagerie Mitaine had left
Tarascon more than three months and still the
lion-killer did not depart. But, after all, perhaps
the simple hero, blinded by a new mirage, imag-
ined in good faith that he had been to Africa.
Perhaps, by dint of relating his future sport, he
fancied he had killed his lions as sincerely as he
believed he had hoisted the consular flag and fired
on the Tartars, pan ! pan ! at Shanghai.
Unfortunately, if Tartarin of Tarascon was the
victim of another mirage, the Tarasconese were
not ; and when, at the end of three or four months
of expectation, it became apparent that the hunter
had not packed a single trunk, they began to
murmur.
" It will be as it was about Shanghai," said
Costecalde, smiling; and the gunsmith's speech
went the rounds of the town; for no one any
longer believed in Tartarin.
Silly people, cowards, men like Bezuquet, whom
a flea could put to flight and who dared not fire
Sword-Thrusts, Gentlemen. 37
a gun without shutting their eyes, were the most
pitiless. At the club, on the esplanade, they ac-
costed poor Tartarin with a jeering air.
^^ Et autremain!' they would say, "when does
the trip come off ? "
His opinion no longer had weight at the gun-
smith's; even the cap-hunters disowned their
leader !
Epigrams took part in the affair. Judge Lade-
veze, who, in his hours of leisure, paid willing court
to the Proven^ale Muse, composed a song in the
vernacular which had vast success. It told of a
certain great hunter, called Mattre Gervais, whose
doughty gun was expected to exterminate the
very last of the lions of Africa. Unfortunately,
that gun had a singular disposition : it was always
loaded, but it 7iever went off.
Never went off! You understand the allusion. . .
In a trice, that song became popular. When
Tartarin passed the porters on the quay or the
little shoe-blacks at his own gate, they sang it in
chorus.
But at a distance, — on account of his double
muscles.
Oh, the fragility of Tarascon enthusiasm !
The great man himself feigned to see nothing,
hear nothing ; but in his heart this venomous little
underhand war distressed him much ; he felt that
Tarascon was slipping through his fingers, that
popular favour was going to others, and he suf-
fered horribly.
Ah ! that great bowl of popularity ! how good
38 Tartarhi of Tarascon,
to sit down before it, but if it upsets, what
scalding ! . .
In spite of his inward suffering, Tartarin smiled,
and continued tranquilly his same way of life, as if
nothing were happening.
Occasionally, however, this mask of gay indif-
ference, which pride had gummed upon his face,
became for a moment detached, and then, instead
of laughter, indignation was visible, and sorrow. . .
Thus it happened that one morning, when the
shoe-blacks were singing the song of the gun of
Maitre Gervais, the voices of those young rascals
ascended to the chamber of the poor great man as
he stood before his glass in the act of shaving.
(Tartarin wore his full beard, but it was a strong
one, and he was forced to keep an eye upon it)
Suddenly the window opened violently and the
hero appeared, in his shirt and night-cap, his face
in a good white lather, brandishing his razor in
one hand, his soap-ball in the other, and shouting
in his formidable voice : —
** Sword-thrusts, gentlemen, sword-thrusts, but
no pin-pricks ! "
Noble words, worthy of history ! their only fault
lay in being addressed to little scamps no taller
than their blacking-boxes, — gentlemen who were
quite incapable of even holding a sword.
The Little House of Baobab, 39
XII.
That which was said in the little house of the baobab.
In the midst of this general defection the army
stood firmly by Tartarin.
The brave Commander Bravida, late captain of
equipment, continued to show him the same re-
spect. "He's a lapiii!' he persisted in saying;
and this assertion, I imagine, was worth as much
as that of the apothecary Bezuquet. . . Not once
did the brave commander make allusion to that
African journey. Nevertheless, when public clam-
our became too strong, he resolved to speak out.
One evening, while the unfortunate Tartarin was
sitting alone in his study, thinking of melancholy
things, he beheld the commander entering the
room, grave, wearing black gloves, and buttoned
to the chin.
" Tartarin," said the former captain, in a tone of
authority, " Tartarin, you must go ! " and he stood
erect in the frame of the doorway — rigid and
grand as duty.
All that was contained in those words : " Tarta-
rin, you must go ! " Tartarin of Tarascon com-
prehended.
Very pale, he rose, looked about him with a
touching glance on the pretty room, so cozy, so
40 Tartarin of Tarascon.
full of warmth and tempered light, on his easy-
chair, so comfortable, his books, his carpet, the
large white shades to the windows, behind which
fluttered the slender branches of his little garden :
then, advancing to the brave commander, he took
his hand, and pressing it firmly said in a voice suf-
fused with tears, — stoical, nevertheless, — "I will
go, Bravida ! "
And he went, as he had said. But not immedi-
ately. He needed a little time for his outfit.
First, he ordered from Bompard two large boxes
lined with copper, on which were brass plates
bearing this inscription : —
TARTARIN OF TARASCON.
WEAPONS.
The lining of these boxes and the inscriptions
took a good deal of time. He also ordered from
Tastavin a magnificent album of travel, in which
to write his journal, his impressions; for really,
though you hunt lions, you think all the same on
the way.
Next, he sent to Marseilles for quite a cargo of
preserved aliments, pemmican with which to make
broth, a shelter-tent of a new pattern capable of
being put up and taken down in a minute, sailor-
boots, two umbrellas, a waterproof, blue spec-
tacles to prevent opthalmia. And, lastly, the
apothecary Bezuquet put him up a little portable
pharmacy, stocked with diachylon, arnica, cam-
phor, vinegar des quatre-voleurSy etc.
The Little House of Baobab, 41
Poor Tartarin ! all this that he now did was not
for himself; but he hoped by dint of precautions
and delicate attentions to appease the wrath of
Tartarin-Sancho, who, ever since the departure
had been finally resolved upon, never ceased to
be angry, night or day.
42 Tartarin of Tarascon.
XIII.
The departure.
The day arrived ; the solemn day, the great
day.
At early dawn Tarascon was afoot, blocking the
road to Avignon and the approaches to the little
house of the baobab.
People at the windows, on the roofs, on the
trees; sailors of the Rhone, porters, shoe-blacks,
burghers, spinners, silk-weavers, the club, — in
short, the whole town; also the inhabitants of
Beaucaire, who came across the bridge, the mar-
ket-gardeners of the suburbs and their carts with
great awnings, vine-dressers, perched on handsome
mules tricked out with ribbons, tassels, bells ; and
even, here and there, some pretty girls from Aries,
with sky-blue ribbons round their heads, brought
by their lovers, en croupe^ on the little gray horses
of the Camargue.
The whole crowd pressed and jostled one an-
other round Tartarin's gate — that good M. Tar-
tarin, who was going to kill lions among the Tetirs.
To the Tarasconese mind, Algiers, Africa, Greece,
Persia, Turkey, Mesopotamia form one great coun-
try, very vague, almost mythological, and it goes
by the name of les Teurs (the Turks).
The Departure, 43
In the midst of this tumultuous crowd the cap-
hunters went and came, proud of the triumph of
their chief, their passage tracing furrows of glory-
through the multitude.
Before the house of the baobab stood two great
barrows. From time to time the gate was opened,
so that certain persons walking gravely in the gar-
den could be seen. Porters brought trunks, boxes,
carpet-bags, and piled them on the barrows.
As each new package appeared, the crowd quiv-
ered. The various objects were named aloud.
" There ! that 's the shelter-tent. . . Those are
the preserved things. . . There 's the pharmacy . . .
and the weapons," — about which the cap-sports-
men gave explanations.
Suddenly, towards ten o'clock, a great stir took
place in the crowd. The gate swung violently on
its hinges.
*' 'T is he ! . . 't is he ! . . " they cried.
It was he. . .
When he appeared on the threshold two cries of
stupefaction issued from the crowd.
" It is a Teur ! . .''
*' He wears spectacles ! "
Tartarin of Tarascon had felt it his duty, as he
was going to Algiers, to assume an Algerian cos-
tume, — full trousers of white Hnen, a short tight-
fitting jacket with metal buttons, two feet of waist-
band, red, round his stomach, throat bare, forehead
shaved, and on his head a gigantic Chechia (scarlet
fez) with a blue woollen tassel, of a length ! ! . . On
each shoulder a heavy gun, a large hunting-knife
44 Tartarin of Tarascon,
in his belt, upon his stomach a cartridge-box,
upon his hip a revolver, swinging in a leathern
pocket. That was all. . .
Oh ! excuse me, I forgot the spectacles, which
came in, very apropos, to correct a little something
that was rather too savage in our hero's outfit.
*' Vive Tartarin ! . . vive Tartarin ! . . " shouted
the people. The great man smiled, but did not
bow, his guns hindered him. Besides, he knew by
this time what popular favour was worth ; perhaps,
in the depths of his soul, he may even have cursed
his terrible compatriots, who compelled him to
depart and to leave his pretty little home with its
white walls and its green blinds. . . But if this
were so, it did not appear.
Calm and proud, though a trifle pale, he ad-
vanced to the roadway, looked at his barrows, and
then, seeing that all was right, he took his way
jauntily to the station, without so much as once
glancing back to the house of the baobab. Behind
him marched the brave Commander Bravida, re-
tired captain of equipment, and Judge' Ladeveze,
then came the gunsmith Costecalde and all the
sportsmen, then the barrows, then the populace.
In front of the station the station-master awaited
him — an old African of 1830, who pressed his
hand warmly several times.
The Paris-Marseilles express had not yet ar-
rived. Tartarin and his staff entered the waiting-
room. To avoid the pressure of a crowd, the
station-master ordered the iron gates to be closed
behind them. .
The Departure, 45
Tartarin walked up and down for fifteen minutes
in the midst of his friends and the hunters. He
spoke to them of his journey, of his noble game,
and promised to send them skins. They wrote
their names upon his tablets for a skin as they did
at a ball for a country dance.
Tranquil and gentle as Socrates ere he drank
the hemlock, the intrepid hero had a word for
each, a smile for all. He spoke simply, with an
affable air; you would have thought that before
departing he wished to leave behind him a trail,
as it were, of charm, regrets, kind memories.
Hearing their chief speak thus to them, all the
cap-men shed tears; some even felt remorse,
among them Judge Ladeveze and Bezuquet, the
apothecary.
The train men wept in corners. Outside, the
populace gazed through the bars and shouted:
** Vive Tartarin ! "
At last the bell rang. A dull rumbling, a shrill
whistle, shook the roof. . . " Take your places,
messieurs, your places ! "
"Adieu, Tartarin! . . adieu, Tartarin! . . "
" Adieu, all ! " murmured the hero, and on the
cheek of the brave Commander Bravida he kissed
his dear Tarascon.
Then he sprang upon the track and jumped into
a carriage that was full of gay Parisian women,
who nearly died of fear on seeing this strange man
of carbines and revolvers in their midst.
46 Tartarin of Tarascon,
XIV.
TTie port of Marseilles. Embark !
Embark I
On the ist of December, 186-, at mid-day,
under a Provencal winter sun, weather clear, bril-
liant, splendid, the terrified Marseillais beheld the
arrival of a Teur^ oh ! such a Teur! . . Never had
they seen one like him ; yet God knows Teurs are
never lacking in Marseilles — I mean Turks.
The Teur in question (need I tell you) was
Tartarin of Tarascon, marching along the quays,
followed by his case of weapons, his apothecary's
shop, his preserved aliments, and so forth, in order
to reach the packet-boat *' Zouave," which was
destined to carry him over there.
Tartarin, his ears still ringing with Tarasconese
applause, intoxicated with the light of the sky
and the smell of the sea, Tartarin radiant, marched
along, his guns on his shoulders, his head high,
looking with all his eyes at that marvellous port
of Marseilles, which he now saw for the first time,
and which fairly dazzled him. . . The poor man
thought he dreamed. He imagined he was Sin-
bad the Sailor, wandering in one of those fantastic
towns he had read of in the " Arabian Nights."
The Port of Marseilles. 47
A tangle of masts and yards, lost to sight in
the distance and crossing one another in every
direction. Flags of all nations, Russian, Greek,
Swedish, Tunisian, American . . . Vessels moved to
the quays, their bowsprits lying along the marge
like rows of bayonets. Above them naiads, god-
desses, Holy Virgins, and other wooden carvings,
all painted, and giving their names to the various
vessels; but each defaced by the salt sea-waves,
rotten, damp, and oozing. . . Here and there, be-
tween the vessels, was a patch of sea, like a large
piece of moire silk spotted with oil. . . Beyond were
flocks of gulls, making pretty objects through the
interlacing yards on the clear blue sky, while the
cabin-boys below were calling to each other in all
known languages.
On the quay, amid rivulets coming from the
soap manufactories, green, thick, blackish, brimful
of oil and soda, were crowds of custom-house
officers, messengers, porters with their bogheys, to
which were harnessed little Corsican horses ; shops
filled with queerly made garments, and smoky
hovels where sailors cooked their food ; sellers of
pipes, sellers of monkeys and parrots; piles of
ropes, sailcloth, fantastic bric-^-brac, among which
were jumbled pell-mell ancient culverins, huge
gilded lanterns, old tackle, old toothless anchors,
old cordage, old pulleys, old speaking-trumpets,
and spyglasses of the time of Jean Bart and Du-
guay-Trouin. Hawkers of mussels and periwinkles
were crouching and bawling beside their shell-fish ;
sailors were passing with pots of tar and smoking
48 Tartarin of Tarascon,
saucepans and large baskets full of pulp, which
they took to rinse in the running water of the
fountains.
Everywhere enormous encumbering masses of
merchandise of all sorts : silks, minerals, rafts of
wood, pigs of lead, linens, sugars, cabbages, locust-
beans, sugar-canes, liquorice. The East and the
West pell-mell. Also great mounds of Dutch
cheeses, which the Genoese dye red with their
hands.
Farther along was the wheat quay, where the
stevedores were discharging their sacks on the
marge from the top of a tall scaffolding. The
wheat, a golden torrent, rolled down in yellow
vapour. Men below, in red caps, were sifting it,
as it came, through enormous sieves of asses' skin,
and loading it on carts, which were followed a^
they moved away by a regiment of women and
children with brooms and baskets to catch the
gleaning. . . Farther still was the dock for careen-
ing; where large vessels lay on their sides and
were singed with burning brush to rid them of sea-
weed ; their yards almost touching the water, the
smell of the rosin rising with the muffled noise of
the carpenters covering the hulls of the ships with
great plates of copper.
Occasionally, between the masts, came an open
space. Through it Tartarin saw the entrance to
the port, the coming and going of great ships, an
English frigate leaving for Malta, spruce, well-
cleansed, her officers in yellow kid gloves ; or else
a ^reat Marseillaise brig leaving her moorings,
The Port of Marseilles, 49
'mid cries and oaths, her captain, in a frock-coat
and a silk hat, commanding the manceuvre in the
Provencal language. Some craft were going with
the wind, all sails set ; others, away in the distance,
were coming slowly in, looking through the sun-
mist as if in mid-air.
All this while, a fearful racket of carts, the
" Oh ! hisse " of the sailors, oaths, songs, whistles
of steamboats, drums and bugles of Fort Saint-
Jean and Fort Saint-Nicolas, chimes from the
Major, the Accoules, and the Saint-Victor, and,
over all, the mistraly which caught up these noises,
these clamours, rolled them, shook them, blended
them with its own weird voice, making a wild,
heroic, savage music, a paean of departure, a paean
which created a desire to depart, to go far, to have
wings.
To the sound of this splendid blast it was that
the intrepid Tartarin of Tarascon set sail for the
land of the lions.
50 Tartarin of Tarascon,
SECOND EPISODE.
AMONG THE TEURS.
The voyage. The five positibns of the fez.
The evening of the third day. Mercy /
I WOULD, my dear readers, that I were a painter,
a great painter, to put before your eyes, at the
head of this second episode, the five positions of
the fez of Tartarin of Tarascon during its three
days' voyage on board the " Zouave " between
France and Algeria.
First, I would show it to you on the gangway
at the moment of departure, heroic, superb, a
lambent glory around that Tarasconese head.
Next, I would make you see it when the " Zouave ''
began on leaving port to caracole upon the billows ;
you would then behold it quivering, amazed, and
as if already feeling the first assaults of ill.
Then, in the gulf of Lyons, as the ship drew
farther from land and the sea grew rougher, I
would show it to you grappling with the tempest,
rising, horrified, on the skull of the hero, its stream-
ing tassel of blue wool standing on end in the fog
and the squall.
The Voyage, 5 1
Fourth position Six in the evening; in sight
of the Corsican coast. The unfortunate fez is now-
seen bending over the bulwarks, lamentably gaz-
ing into and sounding the sea. . . Finally, fifth and
last position: below in a narrow cabin, in a bed
like a bureau-drawer, something amorphous, dis-
consolate, rolls moaning on a pillow. 'T is the fez,
the heroic fez of departure, now reduced to the
commonplace condition of a knitted night-cap
pulled down over the ears of a convulsed and
ghastly head.
Ah ! if the Tarasconese could have seen their
great Tartarin as he lay in his bureau-drawer in
the wan sad light which fell through the bull's-eye,
amid that fetid odour of kitchen and damp wood,
that sickening odour of a steamboat ; if they could
have heard the rattle in his throat at every turn of
the screw, heard him cry for tea every five minutes,
and swear at the waiters in the feeble voice of an
infant, how sorry they would feel that they forced
him to go. . . On my word as an historian, that
poor Teur was pitiful. Suddenly overtaken by
nausea, the unfortunate man had neither time nor
courage to loosen his Algerine belt, or divest him-
self of his arsenal. The hunting-knife with its
heavy handle bruised his breast, the strap of the
revolver flayed his legs. To complete his agony,
the mutterings of Tartarin-Sancho, who never
ceased to moan and rail : " Imbecile that you are !
I told you so ! . . Ha ! you would go to Africa ! . .
Well, here 's Africa. . . How do you find your-
self? "
52 Tartarin of Tarascon,
Most cruel of all, in the depths of that cabin,
above his moans, the hapless man could overhear
the passengers in the great saloon, laughing, eating,
singing, and playing cards. Society was as joyous
as it was numerous on board the *' Zouave " : officers
rejoining their corps, ladies of the Alcazar of
Marseilles, strolling players, a rich Mussulman
returning from Mecca, a Montenegrin prince, very
facetious, who gave imitations of Ravel and Gil
Perez. . . Not one of these persons was seasick, and
they spent their time drinking champagne with the
captain of the *' Zouave," a stout bon vivant of
Marseilles, who had households at both ends of his
trip, and answered to the jovial name of Barbassou.
Tartarin of Tarascon was bitter against these
wretches. Their gayety redoubled his qualms. . .
At last, on the afternoon of the third day, an
extraordinary commotion, felt and heard through-
out the vessel, dragged our hero from his torpor.
A bell rang forward. The heavy boots of the
sailors were running overhead. ** Go ahead ! . .
Back ! . ." shouted the hoarse voice of Captain
Barbassou.
Then : '* Stop her ! " — sudden jar, stillness, and
nothing more. . . Nothing, except the silent sway-
ing of the steamer from right to left, like a balloon
in the air.
This singular stillness terrified Tartarin. " Mercy
upon us ! we are sinking ! " he cried, in a terrible
voice ; and, recovering his strength as if by magic,
he bounded from his lair and rushed on deck with
his arsenal.
To Arms I To Arms I 53
II.
To arms ! To arms/
They were not sinking ; they had only arrived.
The " Zouave " had entered the roadstead, a
fine roadstead, with dark, deep water, but silent,
gloomy, almost deserted. Facing them, on the
hillside, lay Algiers the White, with its little houses
of a dead whiteness pressing close together and
running down to the shore. The barges of the
washerwomen were on the Meudon slope. Above,
a broad blue satin sky, but oh ! so blue ! . .
The illustrious Tartarin, somewhat recovered
from his fright, gazed at the landscape, and lis-
tened with respect to the Montenegrin prince, who,
standing beside him, named the various quarters
of the city : the Kasbah, the Upper town, the rue
Bab-Azoun. Very well educated this Montenegrin
prince — knowing Algeria to the core and speaking
Arabic fluently. Consequently, Tartarin proposed
to himself to cultivate the prince's acquaintance. . .
All of a sudden the hero saw, along the bulwarks
against which they were leaning, a row of big
black hands clutching them from the outside. At
the same moment a negro's woolly head appeared
in front of him, and, before he had time to open
his mouth, the deck was invaded on all sides by a
54 Tartarin of Tarascon,
hundred or more pirates, black, yellow, half-naked,
hideous, terrible.
Those pirates ! Tartarin knew them well. . .
'T was they, yes, theyy the famous they he had so
often sought at night in the streets of Tarascon.
So here, at last, tJiey had decided to appear ! . .
At first, surprise glued Tartarin to the spot. But
when he saw the pirates rushing upon the baggage,
pulling off the tarpaulins that covered it, and be-
ginning to pillage the ship, the hero within him
awoke. Unsheathing his knife, " To arms ! to
arms ! " he cried to the passengers, and rushed, the
very first, upon the pirates.
'' Ques aco ? What 's the matter? what are you
about?" cried Captain Barbassou, emerging from
between decks.
" Ah ! here you are, captain. . . Quick, quick !
arm your men ! "
''Hey! what for? botm Diou!"
''Why, don't you see? . ."
"See what?"
" There . . . before you . . . pirates."
Captain Barbassou gazed at Tartarin perplexed.
At this instant a tall devil of a negro ran past them
with the hero's pharmacy on his back.
" Wretch ! stop ! stop ! " roared Tartarin, rushing
forward, his dagger held aloft.
Barbassou caught him on the jump, and held
him by that Algerine belt.
" Be quiet, iron de Ver! Those are not pirates ;
there are no pirates now-a-days. . . Those are
porters."
To Arms I To Arms! 55
** Porters? . ."
" Yes, porters ; come for the baggage, to take it
ashore. Sheathe your cutlass, give me your ticket,
and follow that negro, a worthy fellow; he'll show
you the way, and even go as far as the hotel if you
wish it."
Slightly confused, Tartarin gave up his ticket
and, following the negro, descended by the man-
ropes to a big boat that was dancing up and down
beside the ship. His property was already in it,
his trunks, boxes, weapons, and alimentary pre-
serves. As they filled the whole boat there was
no use in waiting for other passengers. The tall
negro clambered on the trunks and squatted like a
monkey, his knees in his hands. Another negro
took the oars ; both looked at Tartarin and grinned,
showing their white teeth.
Standing in the stern, and making that fearful
grimace that sent terror to the hearts of his com-
patriots, the great Tarasconese hero was feverishly
fingering the handle of his cutlass ; for in spite of
what Barbassou had said, he was only half reas-
sured as to the intentions of those ebon-skinned
porters, who were so unlike the good stevedores
of his native town.
Five minutes later the boat reached the landing
and Tartarin set foot on that little Barbary wharf
where, three centuries earlier, a Spanish galley-
slave, Miguel Cervantes by name, prepared —
beneath the lash of an Algerine overseer — a
sublime romance, destined to be called "Don
Quixote."
56 Tartarin of Tarascon.
III.
Invocation to Cervantes. Disembarkation,
Where are the Teurs f No Teurs,
Disillusion,
O Miguel Cervantes Saavedra, if what they
say is true, if in the places where great men have
lived something of themselves still Hngers and
floats in the air throughout the ages, that which
thus remains of thee upon this Barbary coast must
have quivered with joy in beholding the disembar-
kation of Tartarin of Tarascon, that wonderful type
of the Southern Frenchman, in whom are incar-
nated the heroes of thy book — Don Quixote and
Sancho Panza.
The air was warm that day. The sun was rip-
pling on the quay. Five or six custom-house
officers and certain Algerines, expectant of news
from France, were standing about; a few Moors
crouching on their hams and smoking their long
pipes ; Maltese sailors hauling in their great nets,
in which were myriads of sardines glittering between
the meshes like silver coins.
But scarcely had Tartarin set foot to land before
the quay grew lively ; its aspect changed. A band
of savages, more hideous tlian the pirates on the
vessel, sprang up from the pebbles of the beach
Invocation to Cervantes, 57
and darted on the new arrival. Tall Arabs, quite
naked under woollen coverlets, little Moors in rags,
negroes, Tunisians, Mahonese, M'zabites, hotel
waiters in white aprons, all yelling, shouting, clutch-
ing at his clothes, quarrelling for his baggage ; this
one carrying off his aliments, another his pharmacy,
and all deafening him in some outlandish jargon
with the names, unintelligible, of hotels.
Giddy from the tumult, poor Tartarin went and
came and cursed and swore, running half demented
after his various packages, and, not knowing how
to make himself understood by such barbarians,
haranguing them in French, in Provencal, and
finally in Latin, the Latin of Pourceaugnac, rosUy
the rose, bonuSy bo7ia, bonum, — in short, all he
knew. . . Wasted efforts ! No one listened to
him. . . Happily a small man, dressed in a tight
coat with a yellow collar and armed with a long
cane, intervened, like one of Homer's gods, in the
fray, and dispersed the rabble with his stick. This
was an Algerine policeman. Very politely he
invited Tartarin to go to the Hotel de I'Europe
and consigned him to one of the surrounding
waiters, who carried him off, himself and his bag-
gage, on several barrows.
At the first steps which he made in Algiers,
Tartarin of Tarascon opened wide his eyes. He
had pictured the place a city of the Orient, fairy-
like, mythological, something between Constanti-
nople and Zanzibar. . . He had tumbled into
another Tarascon ! . . Cafes, restaurants, wide
streets, four-storied houses, a little macadamized
58 Tartarin of Tarascon,
square, where the band of a Hne regiment was
playing Offenbach's polkas, gentlemen on chairs
drinking beer with pastry, ladies, a few loretteSy
and soldiers, ever soldiers, and still soldiers, but
never a Teiir ! . . None, that is, but himself.
Consequently, he found himself rather embar-
rassed in crossing the square. Everybody stared
at him. The band stopped playing, leaving Offen-
bach's polka with one foot in the air.
Both guns upon his shoulder, the revolver on
his hip, fierce and majestic as Robinson Crusoe,
Tartarin passed gravely through the groups ; but
on arriving at the hotel his strength abandoned
him. The departure from Tarascon, the port of
Marseilles, the voyage, the Montenegrin prince,
the pirates, rolled confusedly through his head in
a muddle. . . They were forced to carry him to
his chamber, disarm and disrobe him. . . They
even talked of sending for a doctor. But scarcely
was his head upon the pillow before the hero snored
so loudly and heartily that the landlord judged the
assistance of the sciences to be unnecessary, and
everybody discreetly retired.
The First Watch, 59
IV.
The first Watch.
The Government clock was striking three when
Tartarin woke up. He had slept all the evening,
all the night, all the morning, and a good part of
the afternoon; but it must be remembered that
for three days and three nights the fez had had a
hard time. . .
The first thought of the hero on opening his
eyes was this : " I am now in the land of the
lion ! " — Why not say it? — at this idea that lions
were close-by, a step off, almost at his elbow, and
that the time had come to grapple with them,
b-r-r-r ! . . a mortal chill laid hold of him and he
plunged intrepidly beneath the bedclothes.
But a moment later the gayety out-doors, the
sky so blue, the sunlight rippling through his
chamber, the open window looking to the sea,
the good little breakfast served to him in bed,
washed down with a flask of excellent Crescia
wine, restored him quickly to his former heroism.
'' To the Hon ! to the lion !" he cried ; and flinging
back the bedclothes, he dressed himself hastily.
This was his plan : to leave the town without a
word to any one, fling himself into the open desert,
await the night in ambush, and on the first lion
6o Tartarin of Tarascon.
that came by, pan ! pan ! . . Then, to return next
morning for breakfast at the Hotel de I'Europe,
receive the congratulations of the Algerines, and
charter a cart to fetch the animal.
He armed himself therefore in haste, hoisted
upon his back the shelter-tent, the stout pole of
which reached to a foot above his head, and, rigid
as a pile, went down into the street. There, un-
willing to 'ask his way lest he should awaken
inquiry as to his projects, he turned to the right,
threaded his way to the farther end of the Bab-
Azoun arcades, where crowds of Algerine Jews,
ambushed like spiders in the corners of their black
shops, watched him pass, crossed the Theatre
square, followed the faubourg, and came at last to
the dusty highroad of Mustapha.
The road was fantastically encumbered. Omni-
buses, hackney-coaches, corricolas, railway-vans,
hay-waggons drawn by bullocks, squadrons of
chasseurs d^Afrique, troops of microscopic little
donkeys, negresses peddling cakes, vehicles of
Algerine emigrants, spahis in red mantles; t*nd
all defiling in clouds of dust amid shouts, songs,
the blare of trumpets, between two rows of shabby
huts at the doors of which the tall Mahonese
women could be seen combing themselves, taverns
full of soldiers, and the shops of the butchers and
the horse-meat men. . .
"What is all their talk about this Orient?"
thought Tartarin. ** Why, there are not so many
Tetirs as there are in Marseilles."
Suddenly he saw, passing close beside him,
The First Watch, 6i
stretching forth its great legs and swelling its neck
like a turkey, a superb camel. That made his
heart beat.
Camels already ! Lions could not be far off;
and, sure enough, in about five minutes he saw,
coming towards him, shouldering their guns, a
whole troop of lion-hunters.
" Cowards ! " said our hero to himself as he
passed beside them, " cowards ! to hunt lions in
bands ! with dogs ! . ." For he never imagined
that anything but lions could be hunted in Algeria.
However, these hunters having the kindly appear-
ance of retired merchants, and this fashion of hunt-
ing lions with dogs and gamebags seeming so
patriarchal, Tartarin, a good deal puzzled, thought
proper to question one of the gentlemen.
'' Et autrement, comrade, a good hunt?"
"Not bad," repHed the other, gazing with a
scared eye at the very considerable armament of
the warrior of Tarascon.
"You killed?"
Why, yes . . . not bad . . . look there ; " and the
hunter tapped his gamebag, bulging with rabbits
and woodcock.
**What! your gamebag? . . But surely you
can't put them in a gamebag?"
" Where else do you expect me to put them? "
"But if so, then they — they must be little
ones."
" Little and big," replied the hunter ; and as he
was in a hurry to get home, he rejoined his com-
rades with great strides.
62 Tartarin of Tarascon,
The Intrepid Tartarin stood stock-still in the
middle of the highroad. . . Then, after a mo-
ment's reflection, " Pooh ! " he said to himself,
" they are only hoaxing. . . They have n't killed
anything at all." And he continued his way.
Already the houses were becoming fewer ; pas-
sengers also. Night was falling; objects grew
dim. Tartarin of Tarascon walked on for an-
other half-hour. Then he stopped. . . It was
dark night now. Night without a moon, though
studded with stars. No one was on the road. . .
Nevertheless, the hero reflected that lions were
not stage-coaches, and did not always follow the
highroad. Consequently he flung himself across
country. . . At every step ditches, brambles,
briers. No matter ! on he went. . . Then, all of
a sudden, halt ! '* There 's lion in the air about
here," thought the worthy man; and he sniffed
strongly to right and left.
Pail ! Pan / 63
V.
Pan / Pan /
*TWAS a great wild desert, all bristling with
fantastic plants, those eastern plants which look
like savage beasts. Beneath the tempered light
of stars their lengthened shadows crossed the
ground in all directions. To right lay the heavy
and confused mass of a mountain, — Atlas per-
haps ! . . To left, the invisible sea, rolling, growl-
ing . . . the very spot to tempt wild beasts. . .
One gun laid out before him, the other in his
hands, Tartarin of Tarascon knelt, one knee to
earth, and waited. . . He waited an hour, two hours
. . . Nothing ! . . Then he remembered that in the
books no great lion-hunters ever went out with-
out a little kid, which they fastened a few steps in
front of them and forced to cry by pulling its paw
with twine. Not having a kid the Tarasconese
bethought him of trying an imitation, and he
began to bleat in a tremulous voice : " Mea !
Mea ! . ."
At first very softly, because at the bottom of his
soul he was half afraid that the lion might hear
him . . . then, as no lion came, he bleated louder:
" Mea ! . . Mea ! . ." Still nothing ! . . Impatiently
he tried again, louder, and over and over again ;
64 Tartarin of Tarascon.
" Mea ! . . Mea ! . . Mea ! . ." with such force that
the kid in the end appeared to be an ox. . .
All of a sudden, a few steps in front of him,
something black and gigantic appeared. He
stopped bleating. . . The thing stooped, smelt
the earth, bounded, rolled over, sprang away,
then returned and stopped short . . . 't was the
lion, not a doubt of it ! . . His four short legs
were now quite visible, also his formidable shoul-
ders and two eyes, two great eyes shining out of
the darkness. . . Take aim ! pan ! pan ! . . 'T was
done. Then, instantly, one bound backward, with
the hunting-knife ready.
To Tartarin's shot a terrible howl responded.
*' He 's got it ! " cried the intrepid hunter, and
planting himself squarely on his two stout legs he
prepared to receive the beast. But the beast get-
ting more than it reckoned, fled at a triple gal-
lop, roaring. . . Tartarin, however, did not stir.
He awaited the female . . . just as the books say.
Unhappily the female did not come. At the
end of two or three hours of expectation Tartarin
grew weary. The ground was damp ; the night
grew cold ; the sea-breeze stung him.
** Suppose I take a nap while awaiting the
dawn?" thought he; and then, in order to avoid
rheumatism, he had recourse to the shelter-tent. . .
But the devil was in it ! that shelter-tent was con-
structed on a system so ingenious, so very in-
genious, that he could not succeed in opening it.
In vain he wrestled and sweated for an hour;
that damned tent would not open. . . I have
Pan ! Pan I 65
known umbrellas amuse themselves in torrential
rains by playing just such tricks. . . Weary of the
struggle Tartarin flung that utensil to earth and
lay upon it swearing, like the true Provencal that
he was. . .
" Ta^ ta, ray ta Tarata ! . ."
"What's that?" cried Tartarin, waking with a
start.
It was the bugles of the chasseurs d'Afrique
sounding reveillee in the barracks at Mustapha. . .
The lion-killer, stupefied, rubbed his eyes. . . He
had thought himself in the middle of the desert ! . .
Do you know where he was? In a bed of arti-
chokes, between a patch of cabbage and a patch
of beetroots.
His Sahara had vegetables. . . Close to him, on
the pretty green slope of Upper Mustapha, the
pure white Algerine villas were shining in the
glow of the rising sun; you might have thought
yourself in the environs of Marseilles, amid the
bastidcs and the bastidoiis.
The commonplace, kitchen-garden physiognomy
of the landscape about him amazed the poor man
and put him out of temper.
** These people are crazy," he said to himself,
'* to plant artichokes close to lions ... for ... I
certainly did not dream it . . . lions come here. . .
And here 's the proof. . ."
The proof — 'twas the blood-stains left by the
beast as it fled away. Following this bloody trail,
his eye on the watch, his revolver in his fist, the
valiant Tarasconese came, from artichoke to arti-
66 Tartarin of Tarascon.
choke, to a little field of oats. . . On the trampled
stalks, in a pool of blood, lay upon its flank with a
wound in its head, a . . . Guess what !
No ! a jackass ; one of those tiny little donkeys
so common in Algiers, which go by the name over
there oi bourriquots.
Arrival of the Female, 67
VI.
Arrival of the female. Terrible combat.
The Rendezvous of the '■'• Lapins^"*
The first feeling of Tartarin at the sight of his
unlucky victim was one of vexation. There is such
a difference between a lion and a jackass ! . . His
second emotion was altogether pity. The poor
donkey was so pretty, he looked so good ! The
skin of his flanks, still warm, was crinkling like a
wave. Tartarin knelt down, and with the end of
his Algerine waistband he tried to stanch the
blood of the unfortunate animal ; and the sight of
this great man succouring the little jackass was
really the most touching thing you can imagine.
At the silken contact of the waistbelt, the donkey,
which had still about a farthing's worth of life left
in him, opened a great gray eye and shook his
long ears once or twice, as if to say : " Thank you !
thank you ! . ." Then a last convulsion stirred him
from head to tail and he moved no more.
** Noiraud ! Noiraud ! " suddenly cried a voice
that was choked with anxiety. At the same
moment the bushes in a neighbouring coppice
rustled. . . Tartarin had scarcely time to rise and
put himself on guard. . . 'Twas the female !
She came, terrible and bellowing, under the
form of an old Alsatian woman in a turban, armed
68 Tartarin of Tarascon,
with a great red umbrella, and demanding back
her donkey from the echoes of Algeria. Certainly
it would have been better for Tartarin to have had
to do with a lioness in her fury than with this ma-
lignant old woman. Vainly did the poor man try
to make her understand the thing ju$t as it hap-
pened. When he told her that he had taken Noi-
raud for a lion the old woman thought he was
laughing at her, and emitting an energetic " Tar-
teijle ! " she fell upon our hero with the red um-
brella. Tartarin, a little confused, defended him-
self as best he could, warded her blows with his
carbine, puffed, sweated, and bounded around,
crying out : " But, madame !, . . but, madame. . . "
Va te promener i Madame was deaf, and proved
it.
Happily, a third person appeared upon the
battle-field. This was the husband of the old
woman, Alsatian himself, a tavern-keeper, and a
very good reckoner besides. When he saw with
whom he had to do, and that the murderer asked
no better than to pay the value of the victim, he
disarmed his spouse and they came to terms.
Tartarin paid two hundred francs; the donkey
was worth ten. That is the price current of bour-
riquots in the Arabian markets. Then they buried
poor Noiraud at the roots of a fig-tree, and the
Alsatian, in high good humour at seeing the colour
of Tarasconese money, invited the hero to break a
crust at his tavern, which was only a few steps dis-
tant, at the side of the highway.
Algerine huntsmen were in the habit of dining
Arrival of the Female, 69
there every Sunday, for the plain was brimful of
game, and for a couple of leagues around the town
there was no better place for rabbits.
"And lions?" asked Tartarin.
The Alsatian looked at him, much surprised.
" Lions? " he said.
*'Yes . . . lions . . . don't you see them some-
times?" said poor Tartarin, with rather less assur-
ance.
The tavern-keeper burst out laughing.
** Ha ! good ! no, thank you. . . Lions ! . . what
should we do with Hons?"
"Are there no Hons in Algeria?"
"Faith! I never saw any . . . And yet I have
lived over twenty years in the province ; though I
think I have heard tell . . . seems to me it was in
the newspaper. . . But that 's ever so far off, down
there, in Southern Africa. . ."
At this moment they reached the tavern. A
suburban tavern, such as we see at Vanves or
Pantin, with a withered bough above the door,
billiard-cues painted on the walls, and this inoffen-
sive sign : —
THE RENDEZ-VOUS OF LAPINS.
The Rendez-vous of Lapins ! . . O Bravida !
What recollections !
JO Tartarin of Tarascon.
VII.
f
History of an omnibus j of a Moorish dame^
and of a chaplet of jasmine flowers.
This first adventure would have been enough to
discourage many persons ; but men of Tartarin's
stamp do not allow themselves to be so easily
beaten back.
*'The lions are in the South," thought he;
*' very good ! then to the South I will go."
And as soon as he had swallowed his last mouth-
ful he rose, thanked his host, embraced the old
woman without rancour, shed a last tear to the
luckless Noiraud, and started as fast as possible
for Algiers with the firm intention of buckling his
trunks and departing that very same day for the
South.
Unfortunately, the highroad to Mustapha ap-
peared to have lengthened since the previous
evening; there was such a sun, and such dust!
the shelter-tent was so heavy ! . . Tartarin felt he
had not the courage to return to the town on foot,
so he made a sign to the first omnibus that passed
him and got into it. . .
Ah ! poor Tartarin of Tarascon ! how much
better for his name, for his fame, had he not
entered that fatal and lengthy vehicle, but continued
History of an Omnibus, 71
his pedestrian way, at the risk of falling asphyx-
iated under the weight of the atmosphere, the
shelter-tent, and those ponderous double-barrelled
rifled guns. . .
Tartarin having got in, the omnibus was full.
At the farther end was a vicar of the Church with
his nose in his breviary, and a big black beard.
Opposite sat a young Moorish merchant, smoking
thick cigarettes. Next, a Maltese sailor and four
or five Moorish ladies, masked and swathed in
white linen, of whom nothing could be seen but
their eyes. These ladies had just been performing
their devotions in the cemetery of Abd-el-Kader ;
but that visit of mourning did not seem to have
saddened them. They were heard to laugh and
chatter to one another behind their masks, all the
while sucking sugar-plums.
Tartarin perceived that they looked at him
much. One especially, the one who was seated in
front of him, planted her eyes upon his and never
withdrew them the whole way. Though the lady
was veiled, the vivacity of that great black eye,
lengthened by khol, a deHcate, delightful wrist
laden with bracelets seen from time to time amid
the veils, all — even to the sound of her voice, the
graceful, almost infantine motions of her head —
all told that behind those veils was something
young, lovely, adorable. . . The unhappy Tartarin
did not know where to hide himself The mute
caress of those beauteous eyes of Orient troubled
him, agitated him, made him feel like dying; he
was hot, he was cold. . .
72 Tartarin of Tarascon.
To complete his emotion, the lady's slipper took
part in the afifair. Over his heavy hunting-boots
he felt it gliding, that dainty slipper, gliding and
frisking like a little red mouse. . . What must he
do? Respond of course to that look, to that pres-
sure I Yes, but the consequences. . . A love-in-
trigue in Orient ! why, it is something terrifying ! . .
And the brave Tarasconese, with his romantic,
Southern imagination, saw himself faUing into the
hands of eunuchs, decapitated, or, worse still, sown
up in a leathern sack and rolling in the sea, his
head beside him. Such thoughts chilled him a
good deal. Meanwhile the little slipper continued
its play, and the two eyes opposite opened wide
upon him like black velvet flowers, as if to say :
" Gather us ! . . "
The omnibus stopped. They were now in the
Theatre square, at the entrance of the rue Bab-
Azoun. One by one, impeded by their full trou-
sers and gathering their veils around them with
native grace, the Moorish ladies descended from
the omnibus. Tartarin's opposite neighbour rose
last, and in rising her face came so near to that of
the hero that he breathed her breath, a veritable
bouquet of youth and jasmine, musk and pastry.
The Tarasconese hero could not resist. Intoxi-
cated with love and ready for all, he sprang out
after the Moorish lady. . . At the rattle of his
caparisons she turned her head, put a finger on
her mask as if to say '* hush ! " and quickly, with
the other hand, tossed him a little perfumed chap-
let of jasmine flowers. Tartarin of Tarascon
History of an Omnibus, "jt,
stooped to pick it up ; but as our hero was rather
ponderous and much weighted down with his
armour, the operation was long.
When he rose, the jasmine chaplet on his heart,
the Moorish lady had disappeared.
74 Tartarin of Tarascon.
^^ * VIII.
/t': f%
Lions of Atlas, sleep in peace!
Lions of Atlas, sleep ! Sleep tranquilly in the
depths of your lairs among the aloes and the
cactuses. . . For some days yet you will not be
massacred by Tartarin of Tarascon. At the pres-
ent moment his paraphernalia of war — chests of
weapons, pharmacy, shelter-tent and aliments —
repose unpacked in a corner of room No. 36,
Hotel de I'Europe.
Sleep, ye grand ruddy lions ! sleep without fear.
The hero seeks his Moorish lady. Ever since that
trip in the omnibus the hapless man perpetually
feels upon his foot, the gigantic foot of a trapper,
the lively friskings of a little red mouse ; and the
sea-breeze, kissing his Hps, is ever perfumed — do
what he will — with an amorous odour of anise-
seed and pastry.
He wants his Maugrabine !
But to get her is not so easy ! To find in a
city of a hundred thousand souls a person of whom
one knows nothing but her breath, her slippers,
and her eyes! None but a Tarasconese, smitten
by love, would be capable of attempting such an
enterprise.
ly ^[^(s^-^i^'>^^*^y^
Lions of Atlas, Sleep in Peace I 75
The terrible point was that all Moorish women
look alike behind those great veils of theirs ; more-
over, these ladies seldom go out, and if you want
to see them you must go to the upper town, the
Arab town, the town of the Teurs.
A regular cut-throat place that upper town.
Little narrow black alleys clambering upward on
steps between two rows of mysterious houses,
whose overhanging roofs, meeting together, form
a tunnel. Low doors, small windows, silent, sad,
and barred. And then, to right and left a mass of
booths, very dark, where savage Teurs with pirate
heads — whites of eyes and shining teeth — smoke
their long pipes and talk in low voices to one an-
other as if concerting evil deeds.
To say that our Tartarin threaded this formi-
dable city without emotion would be false. He was,
on the contrary, much agitated, and along these
gloomy alleys, where his big stomach filled all the
space, the worthy man advanced with great pre-
caution, watchful eyes, and finger on the trigger of
his revolver. Precisely as he did at Tarascon on
his way to the club. At every turn he expected
to receive upon his back an avalanche of eunuchs
and janissaries ; but the desire to see once more his
Moorish lady gave him audacity and the strength
of a giant.
For eight consecutive days the intrepid Tartarin
never left that upper town. Sometimes standing
sentinel in front of the Moorish baths, awaiting
the hour when the ladies issued in clusters, shiver-
ing and fragrant with the bath ; sometimes crouch-
76 Tartarin of Tarascon,
ing at the door of the mosques, sweating and
puffing in the effort to get off his stout boots be-
fore entering the sanctuary. . .
Often, at nightfall, when returning broken-
hearted at making no discovery in bath or mosque,
the hero, passing beside those Moorish houses,
could hear monotonous chants, the stifled tones of
a guitar, the roll of a tambourine, the silvery laugh
of women, that made his heart beat.
" She may be there ! " he said to himself.
Then, if the street was deserted, he approached
the house, raised the heavy knocker of the postern
door, and gave a timid rap. . . Instantly the songs,
the laughter ceased. Behind the wall nothing was
heard but vague little whisperings as in a sleeping
dove-cote.
" Keep firm ! " thought the hero. " Something
will happen to me ! "
That which usually happened to him was a pot-
ful of cold water on his head, or a handful of
orange-peel and Barbary figs. . . Never anything
worse. . .
Lions of Atlas, sleep in peace !
Prince Gregory of Montenegro. 77
IX.
Prince Gregory of Montenegro,
For two long weeks the unfortunate Tartarin
'\ < searched for his Moorish lady, and, in all proba-
jT/ / bility, he would be searching for her still if the
// ^ Providence of lovers had not come to his assistance
^' ■ in the shape of a nobleman of Montenegro. In
this wise : —
fy'^Saturday night during the winter the
great theatre of Algiers gives its masked ball,
neither more nor less like the Opera. It is, in
fact, the eternal and insipid masked ball of the
provinces. In the theatre itself, poor company ; a
few stray waifs from Bullier or the Casino, foolish
virgins following the army, ragged revellers,
d^bardeurs the worse for wear, and five or six
little Mahonese washerwomen on their promotion,
but still retaining from their days of virtue a flavour
of garlic and saffron sauces. . . The real coup
d'ceil is not there. It is in the foyer, transformed
for this occasion into a gambHng-room. . . A
nervous, variegated crowd jostle around those long
green tables: turcos on furlough are staking in
coppers their advanced pay, Moorish merchants
from the upper town, negroes, Maltese, settlers
from the interior coming forty leagues to risk upon
78 Tartarin of Tarasco7i,
an ace the price of a cart or a couple of oxen . . .
all quiverings pale, with clenched teeth and that
singular glance of the gambler, dim, sidelong, and
become a squint by dint of fixing the eyes so long
on the same card.
Farther on, are tribes of Algerine Jews discuss-
ing the game en famille. The men are in Eastern
costume hideously accompanied with blue stock-
ings and velvet caps. The women, puffy and pale,
stand rigidly erect in their tight gold stomachers.
Grouped around the tables the whole tribe bawl,
lay their heads together, count upon their
fingers, and stake little. Now and then, but
rarely, and after long confabulation, some old
patriarch with a Father-Eternal beard detaches
himself from the group and goes to the table to
risk the family stake. . . Then, as long as that
game lasts, a scintillation of Hebraic eyes falls
upon the table, terrible, black-magnet eyes, which
make those bits of gold on the green cloth quiver,
and end by gently drawing them in as if by a
thread. . .
Then quarrels, battles, oaths of all nations,
savage cries in every tongue, knives unsheathed,
police arriving, money lost. . .
T was into the midst of such saturnalia that our
great Tartarin wandered one evening in search of
forgetfulness and peace of mind.
The hero was walking alone through the crowd,
thinking of his Moorish flame, when suddenly, at a
gambling-table, above the clink of gold, two irri-
tated voices rose : —
Prince Gregory of Montenegro. 79
*' I tell you I 'm lacking twenty francs, —
M'sieu ! . ."
" M'sieu ! . ."
"Well, what? . . M'sieu! "
" Know to whom you speak, M'sieu ! "
" That 's what I wish to know, M'sieu ! "
" I am Prince Gregory of Montenegro,
M'sieu ! . ."
At that name Tartarin, quite excited, pushed
through the crowd and put himself in the front
rank proud and happy at finding his prince, that
polite Montenegrin prince whose acquaintance he
had begun to make on the packet-boat. . .
Unfortunately, the title of Highness, so dazzling
to our worthy Tarasconese, produced not the
slightest impression on the cavalry officer with
whom the prince was having his skirmish.
"What of that? . ." sneered the military gentle-
man. " Gregory of Montenegro " (talking to the
gallery), — "does any one know him? . . No
one ! . ."
Tartarin, very indignant, made one step forward.
" Pardon me. . . I know XhQ prehicey' he said in a
very firm voice and his finest Tarasconese accent.
The cavalry officer looked him full in the face
for a moment and then said, shrugging his
shoulders : —
"Well, well, all right. . . Share that twenty
francs between you, and we '11 say no more about
it."
With that he turned his back upon them and
was lost in the crowd.
So Tartarin of Tarascon.
The fiery Tartarin attempted to rush after him
but the prince prevented.
'* Let him alone ... it is my affair."
And taking our hero by the arm he led him
rapidly from t\\Q foyer.
As soon as they reached the open street Prince
Gregory of Montenegro took off his hat, offered
his hand to his defender, and, vaguely recalling his
name, began in a vibrant voice : —
*' Monsieur Barbarin . . ."
" Tartarin," whispered the other, timidly.
" Tartarin, Barbarin, no matter which ! . . Be-
tween us two for life, or death, henceforth ! "
And the noble Montenegrin shook his hand with
savage energy. You can imagine Tartarin's pride.
" Prei'nce ! . . Preince ! " he repeated deliriously.
A quarter of an hour later the two gentle-
^ — men were installed at the Cafe des Platanes, an
agreeable night resort with terraces overhang-
ing the sea, and there, before a strong Russian
salad washed down with Crescia, they renewed
Acquaintance.
You can imagine nothing more seductive than
this Montenegrin prince. Thin, slender, hair curl-
ing and crimped with irons, face shaved as if with
a pumice-stone, starred with mysterious orders,
his eyes shrewd, his gesture coaxing, his accent
vaguely Italian (which gave him a sham air of
Mazarin without a moustache) ; well versed, more-
over, in the Latin languages and quoting on all
occasions Tacitus, Horace, and the Commentaries.
Such was Gregory, Prince of Montenegro. \
Prince Gregory of Montenegro, 8i
Of an old hereditary race, his brothers, it ap-
peared, had banished him when ten years of age
on account of his Hberal opinions, and since then
he had roamed the world, for his education and
pleasure, as a philosophical royalty. . . Curious
coincidence ! the prince had spent three years in
Tarascon, and when Tartarin expressed surprise
at never having met him at the club or on the
Esplanade, " I went out but little," his Highness
said evasively. And Tartarin was discreetly afraid
to question him further. All great existences have
mysterious sides ! . .
But, at any rate, a very good prince this Gregory
of Montenegro. iWhile sipping the rosy wine of
Crescia, he listened patiently to Tartarin's tale of
his Moorish love , he even promised, knowing all
those ladies, to find her promptly^
They drank deep and long. They toasted " The
ladies of Algiers ! " and " Montenegro free ! "
Outside, beneath the terrace, rolled the sea, and
the waves in the darkness beat the shore with the
sound of wet sheets flapping. The air was warm,
the heavens filled with stars, the nightingales were
singing in the plane-trees.
— V^It was Tartarin who paid the bill.
82 Tartarin of Tarascon. ^ (
Tell me the name of thy father , and I will tell
thee the name of this flower.
There is no one who can land his fish so easily
as a Montenegrin prince.
On the morrow of this evening at the Cafe des
Platanes, at dawn of day, Prince Gregory appeared
in Tartarin's chamber.
" Quick ! dress yourself quickly ! . . Your Moor-
ish lady is found. . . Her name is BaTa. . . Twenty
years old, pretty as heart could wish, and already
a widow. . ."
** Widow ! . . what luck ! " joyfully exclaimed
Tartarin, who mistrusted the husbands of Orient.
** Yes, but closely watched by a brother."
" Ah ! the deuce ! . ."
*' A savage Moor who peddles pipes in the
Orleans bazaar. . ."
Silence.
*' Pooh ! " resumed the prince, " you are not the
man to be frightened at so little. Besides, we can
probably get round that pirate by buying his
pipes. . . Come, make haste, dress yourself. . .
Lucky dog ! "
Pale, agitated, his heart full of love, Tartarin
sprang from the bed, and hastily buttoning his
vast flannel drawers, —
Tell Me the Name of Thy Father, 83
"What must I do? " he said.
" Simply write to the lady and ask for a
rendezvous."
"Then she knows French?" exclaimed the
artless Tartarin, with a look of disappointment, for
he dreamed of his Orient unmixed.
" Not one word of it," replied the prince, imper-
turbably. . . " But you will dictate the letter to
me and I shall translate it."
" Oh, prince, what goodness ! "
And Tartarin began to walk up and down his
room with long strides, silent and collecting his
thoughts.
You can well suppose that letters are not written
to a Moorish lady of Algiers as they are to a
grisette of Beaucaire. Most fortunately our hero
possessed the fruits of a varied reading which
enabled him, by amalgamating the Apache rhetoric
of Gustave Aimard's Indians with Lamartine's
*' Voyage en Orient " and a few reminiscences of
the " Song of Songs," to compose the most truly
oriental letter that was ever written.. It began
with : —
" Like the ostrich on the sands of the desert — "
and it ended with : —
" Tell me the name of thy father, and I will tell thee the name
of this flower."
To this missive, the romantic Tartarin would
fain have added a bouquet of flowers emblematical,
after the fashion of the East ; but Prince Gregory
84 Tartarin of Tarascon,
thought it was better to buy pipes of the brother,
which might soften the savage temper of that
gentleman, and would certainly give pleasure to
the lady, who smoked a great deal.
" Let us go at once and buy the pipes," cried
Tartarin, full of ardour.
*' No ! . . no ! . . Let me go alone. I can buy
them cheaper. . ."
''What! will you really? . . Oh, prince . . .
prince. . ." And the worthy man, quite con-
fused, held out his purse to the obliging Monte-
negrin, urging him to spare nothing to please
the lady.
Unfortunately the affair — though well started —
did not advance as rapidly as might have been
expected. Deeply touched, it appeared, by Tar-
tarin's eloquence and already three-parts won, the
Moorish lady herself desired to receive him ; but
the brother had scruples, and in order to allay
them it was necessary to buy dozens, in fact many
gross, even cargoes of pipes. . .
^ *' What the devil can Baia do with all those
pipes?" Tartarin sometimes asked himself — but
he paid all the same and never haggled.
At last, after purchasing mountains of pipes
and shedding on his love vast floods of Oriental
poesy, a rendezvous was obtained.
I need not tell you with what a beating heart
the Tarasconese hero prepared himself; with
what care he trimmed and glossed and perfumed
that harsh beard of his ; not forgetting — for one
should foresee everything — not forgetting to slip
Tell Me the Name of Thy Father. 85
into his pocket a knuckle-duster with spikes and
two or three revolvers.
/ The prince, always obliging, came to the first
rendezvous in the quality of interpreter. The
lady lived at the top of the town. Before her
door a young Moor some thirteen or fourteen
years of age was smoking cigarettes. This was
the famous Ali, the brother in question. On
seeing the arrival of the visitors he gave two raps
on the postern door and retired discreetly.
The door was opened. A negress appeared,
who, without uttering a single word, conducted
the two gentlemen across a narrow courtyard to a
cool little chamber where the lady awaited them,
half rising on her elbow from a low bed. . . At first
sight, she seemed to Tartarin much shorter and
stouter than the lady of the omnibus. . . Was it
she, after all? . . But this suspicion only crossed
the hero's brain like a flash.
The lady was very pretty, lying thus with bare
feet ; her plump little fingers loaded with rings
were rosy and so delicate ; and beneath her corse-
let of cloth of gold, beneath the folds of her
flowery robe, it was easy to divine a charming per-
son, rather portly, enticing to the last degree, and
rounded in all its angles. . . The amber mouth-
piece of a narghile was at her lips, and the glow of
its golden smoke enveloped her.
As he entered, the hero laid one hand upon his
heart and bowed, as Moorishly as possible, rolling
his big eyes passionately. . . Bafa looked at him a
moment without saying a word ; then, letting fall
86 Tartarin of Tarascon,
the amber mouthpiece, she threw herself back-
ward and hid her head in her hands, leaving
nothing visible but her white throat, which a frantic
laugh caused to heave and dance like a bag of
pearls.
y
Sidi Tarfri ben Tarfru d>'j
Sidi Tarfri ben Tarfri.
If you should enter, of an evening, any one of
the Algerine cafes in the upper town you would
hear Moors talking, even now, with many winks
>and laughs, of a certain Sidi Tart'ri ben Tart'ri, an
amiable and rich European, who — it was a good
many years ago — lived in the upper quarters of
,the town with a little lady of the population named
Baia.
The Sidi Tart'ri in question, who has left such
gay memories around the Kasbah, is no other, as
the reader has divined, than our Tartarin. . .
But what of it? We find the like in the lives
of saints and heroes, — hours of blindness, confu-
sion, weakness. The illustrious Tarasconese was
not more exempt than others, and that is why, —
for the space of two months, — oblivious of lions
and of glory, he became intoxicated with oriental
love and slept, like Hannibal at Capua, in the soft
elysium of Algiers the White.
- The worthy man had hired in the heart of the
Arab town a pretty little native house, with an
interior courtyard, banana-trees, fountains, and
cool galleries. He lived there, far from tongues,
with his Moorish lady, himself a Moor from head
S8 Tartariii of Tarascon,
to foot, puffing all day long at his narghile and
eating sweetmeats flavoured with musk.
Stretched upon a divan before him, Baia, guitar
in hand, sang monotonous airs through her nose,
or, the better to amuse her lord and master, danced
the stomach-dance, holding in her hand a little
mirror in which she smiled at her ivory teeth and
made various grimaces.
As the lady did not know one word of French,
nor Tartarin a word of Arabic, the conversation
was apt to languish, and the garrulous Tarasconese
had time to do penance for the intemperate
language of which he was often guilty in Bezu-
quet's pharmacy and the shop of the gunsmith
Costecalde.
But such repentance was not without its charm ;
't was a species of voluptuous spleen to say nothing
day by day and listen to the gurgle of the narghile,
the tinkle of the guitar, and the gentle drip of the
fountain on the mosaics of the courtyard.
The narghile, the bath, and love filled all his
life. He went out seldom. Sometimes Sidi Tart'ri,
mounted on a mule, his lady behind him, would
go to eat pomegranates in a little garden he had
purchased in the environs. . . But never, oh, never,
would he descend into the European city. With
its drunken Zouaves, its alcazars crammed with
officers, and its everlasting jangle of sabres dragging
along the arcades, the Algiers that lay below was
to him as intolerable and ugly as a Western guard-
house.
■~~- In short, the Tarasconese was happy. Tartarin-
Sidi Tarfri ben Tart'ri, 89
Sancho, always very greedy after Turkish confec-
tionery, declared himself wholly satisfied with his
new existence. . . Tartarin-Quixote did certainly,
now and then, feel some trifling remorse when he
thought of Tarascon and all his fine promises; but
it did not last. To chase away such sad ideas
nothing was needed but a glance from Baia, and a
spoonful of those diaboHcal sweetmeats, odorif-
erous and muddling as Circe's drinks.
^> In the evenings Prince Gregory would come to
r talk of his free Montenegro. . . Unwearied in
\ kindness, this amiable noble performed in Sidi
^ Tart'ri's house the functions of interpreter, and even
those of steward ; and all for nothing ! just for the
pleasure of it. . . Excepting the prince, Tartarin
received none but Tetirs. Those pirates with
savage heads, who formerly frightened him in the
depths of their dark booths, proved to be, when
he knew them, harmless shop-keepers, embroid-
erers, sellers of spices, turners of pipe-stems, all
most worthy persons, humble, shrewd, discreet,
and strong at cards. Four or five times a week
these gentry would come and spend the evening
with Sidi Tart'ri, win his money, eat his sweet-
meats, and, on the stroke of ten, retire discreetly,
giving thanks to the Prophet.
After their departure, Sidi Tart'ri and his faithful
spouse ended the evening on their terrace, a broad
white terrace that was really the roof of the house
and commanded the whole town. All around them
hundreds of other white terraces, tranquil in the
moonlight, sloped downward, in echelon, to the
90 Tartarin of Tarascon.
shore, the tinkle of their guitars rising upward,
borne by the breeze.
Suddenly, like a bouquet of stars, a grand,
clear melody diffused itself in ether, and on the
minaret of a neighbouring mosque stood a stately
muezzin, his white form outhned on the deep, dark
blue of the night as he chanted the glory of Allah
in a marvellous voice that filled the horizon.
Instantly Baia let fall her guitar, and her great
eyes, turned to the muezzin, seemed to drink in his
prayer with rapture. As long as the chant lasted,
she stood there quivering, in ecstasy, like an East-
ern Saint Teresa. . . Tartarin, all emotion, looked
at her as she prayed, and thought to himself that it
must be a fine and strong religion that could cause
such ecstasies of faith as that.
Tarascon ! veil thy face ! thy Tartarin is think-
ing to make himself a renegade.
TJiey Write to Us from Tarascon, 91
They write to us from Tarascon,
On a beautiful afternoon of azure skies and balmy
breezes, Sidi Tart'ri, astride of his mule, was re-
turning all alone from his little garden. . . With
his legs parted by large bags of matweed big with
lemons and watermelons, his body rocking to the
sound of his own spurs and yielding itself wholly
to the swaying of the mule, the worthy man was
making his way through a lovely landscape, both
hands crossed on his stomach, and he himself
three-fourths asleep from warmth and comfort.
All of a sudden, as he entered the town, a for-
midable call awoke him.
" Hey ! who 's this ? Why, sure, 't is Monsieur
Tartarin ! "
At the name of Tartarin, at that joyous Southern
accent, the Tarasconese raised his head and saw,
within two steps of him, the brave tanned face of
Maitre Barbassou, captain of the " Zouave," who
was drinking absinthe as he smoked his pipe before
the door of a little caf6.
" Hey ! adieu, Barbassou," cried Tartarin, stop-
ping his mule.
Instead of replying, Barbassou gazed at the rider
for a moment with his eyes wide open ; then off
92 Tartariii of Tarascon,
he went into a laugh, and such a laugh ! so that
Sidi Tart'ri sat confused behind his watermelons.
" Hey ! a turban ! my poor Monsieur Tartarin ! . .
Then it is true what they say of you — that you
have made yourself a Teur ? . . And that little
Baia, does she still sing Marco la Belle ? "
" Marco la Belle ! " cried Tartarin, indignantly.
" I would have you know, captain, that the person
of whom you speak is a virtuous Moorish lady who
does not know one word of French."
" Baia ! not know one word of French? Where
do you come from? . ."
And the worthy captain began to laugh louder
than ever.
Then, seeing how the face of poor Sidi Tart'ri
was lengthening, he checked himself.
" Perhaps, after all, she is not the same," he
said. "Let's say Twas mistaken. . . Only, don't
you see, Monsieur Tartarin, you would do well to
distrust all Algerine Moorish ladies and all Mon-
tenegrin princes ! . ."
Tartarin rose in his stirrups, with his terrible
grimace.
*' The prince is my friend, captain."
" Well, well, don't get angry. . . Won't you
take an absinthe? No. Any message for home? . .
Nothing . . . Well, then ! good-bye. . . Oh !
apropos, here 's some good French tobacco, and if
you would like a few pipes of it . . . take them !
take them! they'll do you good... None of
your cursed Oriental tobacco which fuddles one's
brain."
They Write to Us from Tarascon, 93
-je/ Thereupon the captain returned to his absinthe,
and Tartarin, quite pensive, resumed his way home
at a slow trot. Although his great soul refused
to believe a word of them, Barbassou's insinua-
tions saddened him ; besides, those accents of
home, those oaths — all, all awoke within him a
vague remorse.
Entering his house he found no one. Ba'fa was
at the bath . . . the negress seemed to him ugly,
the house dismal. . . ) A prey to indefinable mel-
ancholy, he seated himself beside the fountain and
filled a pipe with Barbassou's tobacco. That
tobacco was wrapped in a fragment of the " Sema-
phore." As he unfolded it his eye lighted on the
name of his native town : —
" They write us from Tarascon : —
" 'The town is greatly stirred. Tartarin the lion-killer,
who started to hunt the great felines of Africa, has sent no
news of his doings for several months. . . What has
become of our heroic compatriot ? . . We scarcely dare
to ask, knowing as we do that ardent spirit, its audacity,
and its need of adventure. . . Has he, like others, been
engulfed in the desert? or has he fallen within the mur-
derous jaws of those monsters of Africa whose skins he
promised to the municipality? . . Terrible uncertainty !
Nevertheless, certain negro merchants, coming to the fair
at Beaucaire, assert that they met in the open desert a
European whose description corresponds to his, and who
was then on his way to Timbuctoo. . . May God pre-
serve our Tartarin ! . .' "
When he read those words the Tarasconese hero
blushed, turned pale, and shuddered. All Taras-
94 Tartarin of Tarascon,
con appeared before him: the club, the cap-
sportsmen, the green arm-chair at Costecalde's,
and — hovering, like a spread-eagle, above all else
— the solemn moustache of the brave Commander
Bravida.
Then, beholding himself as he was, basely squat-
ting on his mat when they believed him in process
of slaying wild beasts, Tartarin of Tarascon felt
ashamed of himself, and wept.
Suddenly the hero bounded up.
** To the hons ! to the lions ! " he cried.
And springing to the dusty hole where slept the
shelter-tent, the pharmacy, the aliments, the case
of weapons, he dragged them, each and all, to the
middle of the courtyard.
Tartarin-Sancho had expired. Tartarin-Quixote
alone remained.
There was only time to inspect his war material,
to arm himself, accoutre himself, pull on his great
boots, write a line to the prince|and confide to him
BaYa, only time to slip a few blue notes (moistened
with tears) into the same envelope, before our in-
trepid hero was rolling in the diligence along the
road to Blidah(leaving the stupefied negress in the
house with the narghile, the turban, the slippers, in
short, all the cast-off Mussulman apparel of Sidi
Tart'ri, lying piteously about on the trefoiled pave-
ment of the gallery.
The Exiled Diligence. 95
THIRD EPISODE.
AMONG THE LIONS.
I.
The exiled diligence.
It was an old diligence of other days, lined, in
ancient fashion, with coarse blue cloth now faded,
and those enormous bunches of rough wool which
end, after some hours' travel, in blistering your
back. . . Tartarin of Tarascon had one corner of
the rotunda ; there he installed himself as best he
could, and while awaiting the musky emanations
from the great felines of Africa, he was forced to
content himself with that good old smell of a dili-
gence, curiously compounded of a thousand smells,
— men, horses, women, leather, victuals, and damp
straw.
A little of all was in this rotunda: A Trappist
monk, Jew merchants, two cocottes rejoining their
regiment (Third Hussars J), a photographer from
Orleansville. . . But, varied and charming as the
company was, Tartarin was not inclined to talk; he
sat quite pensive, his arm through the strap, his
carbines between his legs. . , This abrupt depart-
ur^ those black eyes of Baia;^the terrible hunt he
gS Tartarin of Tarascon,
was about to undertake, all these things harassed
his brain ; not to mention the fact that this Euro-
pean diligence with its good old patriarchal air
recalled to him, vaguely, the Tarascon of his
youth, his rambles in the suburbs, the nice little
dinners on the banks of the Rhone; in short, a
crowd of memories. . .
Little by little darkness fell. The conductor
lighted his lanterns. . . The diligence bumped
and squeaked on its rusty springs; the horses
trotted, the bells tinkled. . . Now and then, from
beneath the tarpaulin of the imperial, came a ter-
rible clatter of iron — this was the war-material.
Tartarin of Tarascon, three parts dozing, looked
for awhile at the other travellers comically shaken
by jolts, and dancing before him like the shadows
of a rushlight; then his eyes grew dim, his thought
hazy, and he heard but vaguely the grinding sound
of the axles and the lumbering complaints of the
vehicle.
Suddenly, a voice, the voice of an old witch,
hoarse, cracked, broken, called the hero by name :
" Monsieur Tartarin ! Monsieur Tartarin ! "
"Who calls?"
" 'T is I, Monsieur Tartarin ; don't you know
me? . . I 'm the old diHgence that used to ply —
twenty years ago — between Nimes and Taras-
con. . . How many times I 've carried you, you
and your friends, when you went to hunt the caps
about Joncquieres or Bellegarde ! . . I did n't
recognize you at first, on account of that Teur cap
of yours and the flesh you have put on ; but as
The Exiled Diligence, 97
soon as you began to snore, faith ! I knew you
then."
" Very good ! very good ! " exclaimed Tartarin,
hastily and rather vexed.
Then, softening his tone : —
"But, -my poor old soul, what are you doing
here?"
" Ah ! my good Monsieur Tartarin, I did n't
come of my own accord, I can assure you. . . As
soon as that railway to Beaucaire was finished they
said I was good for nothing and packed me off to
Africa. . . And I 'm not the only one ! nearly all
the diligences of France have been exiled like me.
They thought us too reactionary ; so here we are,
leading the life of galley-slaves. . . That 's what
you call in France Algerine railroads."
Here the old diligence heaved a heavy sigh ;
then she resumed : —
" Ah ! Monsieur Tartarin, how I regret it, my
beautiful Tarascon ! Those were the good days
for me, the days of my youth ! T was fine to see
me start of a morning, washed and shining, with
my wheels all varnished fresh, my lanterns like
two suns, and that tarpaulin overhead always
rubbed up with oil ! Oh, yes ! 't was fine when the
postilion cracked his whip to the tune of: Laga-
digadeouy la Tarasqiie! la Tarasque! and the
conductor, his percussion-gun slung across his
shoulders, his embroidered cap on one ear, tossed
that puppy of ours, always furious, on the top of
the tarpaulin and sprang up himself, crying out:
* Off with you ! off you go ! * And then, don't you
7
98 Tartarin of Tarascon,
remember how my four horses started to the sound
of the bells, the barks, the bugles ; the windows
opened, and all Tarascon looked out with pride as
the diligence rolled off along the royal highroad.
** And what a fine road, Monsieur Tartarin !
broad, well-kept, with its finger-posts and its
heaps of stones for mending, all regularly
placed; and right and left the pretty plains of
olive-trees and vineyards. . . And those way-
side inns every ten steps, and relays every five
minutes ! . . And my travellers too, such nice
people ! mayors and rectors going to Nimes to
see their prefect or their bishop ; honest mercers
returning - from the Mazet; school-boys off for
the holidays ; peasants in their new embroidered
blouses, shaved clean that very morning; and up
there, on the imperial, you gentlemen, hunting
caps, — always good-humoured, and singing, each
of you his owUy to the stars as you came back ! . ."
"Now it is another story. . . God knows the
sort of people I have to cart ! — a lot of miscreants
from I don't know where, who fill me with ver-
min ; negroes, bedouins, straggling soldiers, ad-
venturers from all countries, settlers in rags who
taint me with their pipes, and all of them talking a
language that God the Father himself couldn't^
understand. . . And then, you see how I am
treated! Never brushed, never washed. People
complain of the cart-grease on my axles. . . In-
stead of the four good quiet horses that I used to
have, now it is those little Arab beasts with the
devil in 'em ; fighting, biting, skipping along like
Tlie Exiled Diligence. 99
goats and breaking my shafts with their heels. . .
Afe ! . . aie ! . . there ! . . now it is beginning. . .
And the roads ! Just here they are tolerable, be-
cause it is near the government ; but down there !
why, there 's no road at all. You go as you can ;
over mountains and plains, among the dwarf palms
and the mastic-trees. There 's not a single fixed re-
lay. You stop where the conductor fancies ; some-
times at one farm-house, sometimes at another.
" There are times when that rascal makes me
go two leagues out of my way that he may drink
absinthe or champoreau with a friend. . . After
which, whip up, postilion ! catch up lost time !
The sun bakes, the dust burns ! Whip up ! Bang
against something and nearly over ! Whip up !
whip up ! Over rivers in flood, wet through, take
cold, drown ! . . Whip ! whip ! whip ! . . Then at
night, all dripping, (is that good for one of my
age? and with rheumatism too?) I am forced to
sleep out in the open air, in the courtyard of a
caravansary, exposed to all winds. In the darkness
the jackals and the hyenas come and smell me, and
the rabble that fear the dew get into my compart-
ments to keep themselves warm. . . That 's the life
I lead, my good Monsieur Tartarin, and I shall have
to lead it till the day when, baked by the sun, rotted
by the damp nights, I shall break down — not being
able to do otherwise — in some angle of this vile
road, and the Arabs will boil their kouss-kouss with
the fragments of my old carcass. . ."
" Blidah ! Blidah ! " called the conductor, open-
ing the door.
lOO - Tartarin of Tarascon,
II.
Brief acquaintance with a little gentleman.
Vaguely, through windows dulled by steam,
Tartarin of Tarascon saw the pretty square of a
sub-prefecture, laid out regularly, surrounded by
arcades and planted with orange-trees, in the
centre of which were small leaden soldiers doing
the exercise in the rosy mists of dawn. The
cafes were taking down their shutters. In a cor-
ner was the market, full of vegetables. . . 'T was
charming but — the lion was not yet smelt.
** The South ! . . Farther South ! " murmured
the worthy Tartarin as he settled himself back in
his corner.
At this moment the door opened. A waft of
fresh air came in, bringing on its wings a fra-
grance of orange-blossoms and a very little gentle-
man in a nut-brown overcoat, elderly, withered,
wrinkled, starched, a face the size of my fist, a
black silk cravat five inches high, a leather bag, an
umbrella, — a perfect village notary.
On catching sight of the hero's war-material
the little gentleman, who sat in front of him, seemed
excessively surprised, and looked at Tartarin with
a persistency that grew rather embarrassing.
Acquaintance with a Gentleman. loi
The horses were taken out, others put in, and
the diHgence started. The httle gentlemi^n stiU
looked at Tartarin. . . Finally the hero was
nettled. - ' ' ■
**Does that surprise you?" he asked, looking
the little gentleman full in the face.
" No. It inconveniences me," replied the other,
tranquilly. The truth is, that what with his shelter-
tent, his revolver, his two guns, and his hunting-
knife in its case — not to speak of his natural
corpulence — Tartarin of Tarascon took a great
deal of room, . .
The answer of the little gentleman made him
angry.
" Do you happen to suppose that I am going to
hunt Hons with your umbrella?" said the great
man, proudly.
The little gentleman looked at his umbrella,
smiled softly, and said, with the same phlegm :
" Then, monsieur, you are. . ? "
** Tartarin of Tarascon, lion-slayer ! "
In pronouncing those words the intrepid hero
shook the tassel of his fez as if it were a mane.
A moment of stupor occurred in the diligence.
The monk crossed himself, the cocottes emitted
little cries of alarm, and the Orl^ansville photogra-
pher drew nearer to the lion-slayer already seeking
the signal honour of taking his photograph.
The little gentleman, however, was not discon-
certed.
" Have you killed many lions, Monsieur Tar-
tarin?" he asked very quietly.
I02 Tar tar in of Tar as con.
The hero received that query in his finest
manner.
''Have I killed many, monsieur?.. I could
wish you had as many hairs upon your head.'*
All the diligence began to laugh and to look at
the three yellow hairs of Cadet-Roussel, which were
all that bristled on the skull of the little gentleman.
The Orleansville photographer now spoke up.
" Terrible profession yours, Monsieur Tarta-
rin ! . . You must spend dreadful moments
sometimes. . . For instance that poor Monsieur
Bombonnel. . !'
" Ah ! yes, killer of panthers. . . " said Tar-
tarin, rather disdainfully.
"Did you know him?" asked the little gentle-
man.
" Hey ! pardi I . . If I know him ! . . We have
hunted a score of times together."
The little gentleman smiled. " Then you do
hunt the panther sometimes. Monsieur Tartarin?"
" Occasionally — to pass the time," said the
ruffled Tartarin.
Then he added, raising his head with an heroic
gesture that inflamed the hearts of the two
cocottes : — •
" They are nothing to lions ! "
" In fact," ventured the photographer, " a panther
is only a big cat. . ."
" Precisely," said Tartarin, not sorry to reduce
the fame of Bombonnel, especially in presence of
ladies.
Here the diligence stopped; the conductor
Acquainta^ice with a Gentleman. 103
opened the door, and addressing the little old
gentleman, said with a very respectful air : —
" Here we are, monsieur."
The little gentleman rose, got out of the diligence,
but before closing the door, he turned and said :
"Will you permit me to give you a piece of
advice, Monsieur Tartarin?"
"What is it, monsieur?"
" Listen. You look to me a worthy man, and I
would like to tell you the real truth. . . Return at
once to Tarascon, Monsieur Tartarin. . . You will
lose your time here. . . There are still a few pan-
thers left in the provinces, but fie ! that is much
too small game {or yoii, . . As for Hons, that's all
over. There is not a lion left in Algeria. . . My
friend Chassaing killed the last."
On which the little gentleman bowed, shut the
door, and went off laughing with his bag and his
umbrella.
" Conductor," demanded Tartarin, with his ter-
rible grimace, "Who is that man?"
"What! don't you know him? Why, that is
Monsieur Bombonnel."
I04 Tartarm of Tarascon.
III.
A convent of lions.
At Milianah Tartarin of Tarascon abandoned
the diligence, leaving it to continue its way to the
South.
Two days of rough jolting, two nights spent with
eyes wide open, gazing through the window in
hopes of perceiving in the fields or on the borders
of the highroad the formidable shadow of the king
of beasts, — such insomnia needed rehef. Besides,
since I must tell all, after his misadventure with
Bombonnel, Tartarin, in spite of his weapons, his
fez, and his terrible grimace, felt ill at ease before
the Orleansville photographer and the two young
ladies of the Third Hussars.
He now proceeded through the wide streets of
Milianah, full of beautiful trees and fountains, in
search of an inn to suit him; but all the while
thinking, poor man! of Bombonnel's last words. . .
Suppose they were true? Suppose there were
really no more lions in Algeria? . . What, then,
was the good of these travels, these toils? . .
Suddenly, at the turn of a street, our hero found
himself face to face . . . with what? Guess. . .
With a superb lion, waiting before the door of a
A Co7ivent of Lions, 105
Ccifj, seated royally on his hind-quarters, his tawny
raane in the sunlight.
*' Why did they tell me there were none? " cried
the Tarasconesc, jumping backward. Hearing
this exclamation, the lion lowered his head, and
taking in his jaws a wooden bowl which stood
before him on the sidewalk he held it humbly
towards Tartarin standing motionless and stupe-
fied. . . Just then a passing Arab flung a sou into
the bowl; the lion waved his tail. . . Then Tar-
tarin comprehended all. He saw, what emotion
had hitherto prevented him from seeing, namely,
the crowd of people gathered around that poor,
tame, blinded lion, and two big negroes armed
with cudgels, who were tramping the animal across
the town as Savoyards do their marmots.
The blood of the hero gave one bound.
" Wretches ! " he cried, in a voice of thunder,'" thus
to degrade these noble beasts ! " And, springing
upon the lion, he tore that filthy bowl from his
royal jaws. . . The two negroes, thinking him a
robber, rushed upon the intruder with uplifted
clubs. . . The tussle was terrible. . . The negroes
banged, the women bawled, the children laughed.
An old Jewish cobbler called out, from the depths
of his shop: "To the joustice of peace! the jous-
tice of peace ! " Even the lion, in his benighted
state, essayed a roar, and the unfortunate Tartarin,
after a desperate struggle, was rolled in the dust
'mid the sous and the sweepings.
At this juncture a man forced his way through
the crowd, scattered the negroes with a word, the
io6 Tar tar in of Tarasco7i,
women and children with a sign, picked up Tar-
tarin, brushed him, shook him, and seated him,
completely out of breath, upon a milestone.
** O preiJtce, is it you ? " cried the worthy Tartarin,
rubbing his sides.
''Yes, my vaHant friend, 'tis I. . . No sooner
^jwas^your letter received ^t,han I confided BaYa to
her brother, ^hired a post-chaise, did fifty leagues
at top speed, and here I am, just in time to save
you from the brutality of these boors. . . What
have you done, just heaven ! to get yourself into
such danger? "
"I could not help it, prHnce. . . To see that
unhappy lion with a bowl between his teeth ! hu-
miliated, vanquished, derided ! an object of ridicule
to these beggarly mussulmans ! "
'' But you are mistaken, my noble friend. This
lion is, on the contrary, an object of respect and
adoration among them. It is a sacred animal, and
forms part of a convent of lions, founded about
three hundred years ago by Mahommed-ben-Aouda,
a sort of La Trappe, stupendous and savage, full of
roars and wild-beast odours, where a strange class
of monks raise and tame lions by the hundred, and
send them from there to all parts of Northern
Africa accompanied by mendicant friars. . . The
gifts received through these friars support the con-
vent and its mosque; and if the two negroes
showed temper just now, it was only because if a
single sou of those charitable gifts is lost or stolen
by their fault the lion will instantly devour them."
While listening to this improbable, though truth-
A Convent of Lions, 107
ful, narrative, Tartarin of Tarascon hugged himself
in joy, and snuffed the air noisily.
" What gratifies me in all this," he said, by way
of conclusion, "is that, in spite of Monsieur Bom-
bonnel, there are still lions in Algeria ! . ."
" Lions in Algeria ! " cried the prince with en-
thusiasm. . . " To-morrow we will go and beat the
plain of the Cheliff, and you shall see ! you shall
see ! . ."
"What, prfince ! . . you, yourself? Do you in-
tend to hunt?"
" Parbleu ! do you suppose I would leave you to
go alone into the heart of Africa among those
savage tribes whose language and customs are un-
known to you? . . No ! no ! illustrious Tartarin, I
quit you no more. . . Wherever you are, I will
be."
"Oh! prfince, prfince. . ."
And Tartarin, radiant, pressed the valiant Greg-
ory to his heart, proudly reflecting that, like Jules
Gerard, Bombonnel, and all the other famous lion-
slayers, he, too, would have a foreign prince to
accompany his adventures.
io8 Tartarin of Tarascon,
IV.
The caravan on the march.
The next day, at the earliest hour, the intrepid
Tartarin and the no less intrepid Prince Gregory,
followed by half a dozen negro porters, issued
from Milianah and descended toward the plain of
the Ch^liff by a delightful path shady with jasmine,
palm-trees, locust-trees and wild olives, between
two hedges of native gardens where thousands of
joyous springs leaped bubbling and singing from
rock to rock. . . A scene of Libanus.
Prince Gregory, loaded with weapons like the
great Tartarin, had donned a magnificent and
singular kepi adorned with gold lace and a design
of oak leaves embroidered in silver fiHgree, which
gave his Highness a false air of a Mexican general,
or station-master on the banks of the Danube.
That devil of a kepi puzzled Tartarin exceed-
ingly, and he timidly asked an explanation.
" Indispensable head-gear for travelling in
Africa," replied the prince, with gravity; and
poHshing the visor with the sleeve of his coat, he
proceeded to instruct his guileless companion
about the important role played by the kepi in
our national relations with the Arabs, the terror
that that military symbol alone has the privilege to
inspire; so much so that the civil administration
The Caravan on the March. 109
has been obliged to cover the heads of its em-
ployes, from the labourer on the roads to the
receiver of taxes, vi^ith k^pis. In short, to govern
Algeria — 't is the prince who speaks — it is not a
strong head, nor even a head at all, that is needed ;
a k6pi suffices ; a fine gold-laced kepi, shining at
the top of a numskull, Hke Gessler's helmet.
Thus talking and philosophizing, the caravan
went its way. The porters skipped, barefooted,
from rock to rock like monkeys. The weapons
rattled in their cases. The guns glittered. The
natives as they passed bowed down, to earth before
that magic kepi. . . Above, on the ramparts of
Milianah, the head of the Arabian department
walking in the cool of the morning with his lady,
heard these unusual noises, saw the shining of the
muzzles through the branches, and, supposing it a
sudden attack, ordered the drawbridge opened,
called the garrison to arms, and put the town
incontinently into a state of siege.
A fine debut, truly, for the caravan !
Unfortunately, before the close of the day mat-
ters went wrong. Of the negroes who carried the
baggage, one was taken with atrocious coHcky
pains, after eating the diachylon of the medicine
chest. Another fell down dead drunk by the
roadside, having drunk up the camphorated
brandy. A third, he who bore the album of
travel, seduced by the gilded clasps and persuaded
that he was carrying off the treasures of Mecca,
ran away at top speed into the Zaccar. . . It was
necessary to consider matters. The caravan halted
no Tartar ill of Tarascon,
and held counsel under the flickering shade of an
old fig-tree.
" My advice is," said the prince, endeavouring,
but without success, to melt a tablet of pemmican
in a perfected species of saucepan with a triple
bottom, ** my advice is to renounce those negro
porters at once. There 's an Arab market close
by. Our best plan is to go there immediately and
buy a lot of donkeys. . ."
" No ! . . no ! . . not donkeys," interrupted the
great Tartarin, hastily, flushing red with the recol-
lection of Noiraud.
Then he added — the hypocrite : —
" How do you expect such little animals to
carry all our paraphernaHa?"
The prince smiled.
*' You are mistaken as to that, my illustrious
friend," he said. ** Lean and puny as he looks to
you, the Algerine bourriquot has solid loins. . . He
must have them to carry all he does carry . . . ask
the Arabs. Here 's how they explain our colonial
organization : At the top, they say, is the mouciy
governor, with a great stick, who raps his staff;
the staff to avenge themselves, rap the soldier, the
soldier raps the settler, the settler raps the Arab,
the Arab raps the negro, the negro raps the Jew,
the Jew raps the bourriquot ; and the poor little
donkey, having no one to rap, bears all. So you
see, he can very well bear your cases."
" All the same," persisted Tartarin of Tarascon,
" I think that for the look of our caravan donkeys
are not the thing. . . I prefer something more
The Caravan 07i the March, 1 1 1
oriental. . . For instance, if we could buy a
camel. . ."
" Just as you like," said his Highness, and they
took their way to the Arab market.
The market was only a short distance off on the
banks of the Chdliff. . . In it were some five or
six thousand Arabs in rags, swarming in the sun,
and noisily bargaining amid jars of black olives,
pots of honey, sacks of spices, heaps of cigars ;
and all around them fires, where sheep, streaming
with butter, were roasting whole, and shambles in
the open air, where naked negroes, their feet in
blood, their arms reddened with gore, were cutting
up with little knives the animals that were hanging
from a pole.
In a corner, under a tent patched with a hundred
colours, sits a Moorish clerk with a big book and
spectacles. Near by, a group of Arabs uttering
shouts of rage ; they are playing a game of roulette
stuck on a sack of wheat; a number of Kabyles
watching the game and fanning themselves. . .' Far-
ther on, much stamping, joy, and shouts of laughter
from a crowd who are watching a Jewish merchant
and his mule drowning in the river. . . And scor-
pions, dogs, buzzards, flies ! . . oh, flies ! . .
But as fate would have it, camels lacked. How-
ever, they ended by finding one which some
M'zabites were seeking to get rid of. Twas a
camel of the desert, the classic camel, bald, mel-
ancholy, with a long bedouin head, and his hump,
now grown limp from much fasting, hanging sadly
to one side.
112 Tartarin of Tarascon,
Tartarin thought him so fine that he wished to
mount the whole caravan on top of him. . . Al-
ways the Oriental craze ! . .
The beast knelt down. The baggage was
strapped on.
The prince installed himself on the animal's neck.
Tartarin, desiring more majesty, caused himself to
be hoisted to the top of the hump, between two
cases ; and there, proud and securely wedged in, he
saluted with a noble gesture the assembled market
and gave the signal of departure. . . Thunder !
if Tarascon could only have seen him then ! . .
The camel rose, stretched out his knotty legs,
and began his flight. . .
Oh, horrors ! After a few strides, behold Tartarin
turning pale, and the heroic fez resuming, one by
one, its former positions on board the " Zouave."
That devil of a camel rolled like a frigate.
'^ Pr^'ince ! prfince !'' murmured Tartarin, livid,
and clutching at the tuft on the camel's hump;
" prdifnce, let us get down. . . I feel . . ^ I feel . . .
that I am about to . . . make France a . . .
spectacle ! . ."
Va te promener ! the camel was off and nothing
could stop him. Four thousand Arabs ran behind
on naked feet, gesticulating, laughing like madmen,
and making their six hundred thousand ivory teeth
glitter in the sunshine. . .
The great man of Tarascon was forced to resign
himself. He sank down sadly on the hump. The
fez took any and all of the positions it chose and —
France was made a spectacle.
The Night-Watch. 113
V.
The night-watch in a copse of oleanders.
However picturesque may have been their new
mount, the lion-slayers, in the end, were forced to
renounce it, on account of the fez. They there-
fore continued their way, as before, on foot, and
the caravan went calmly on, by short stages, to
the South ; the Tarasconese at its head, the Mon-
tenegrin at its tail, the camel between with the
weapons, etc.
The expedition lasted nearly a month.
During that month, the indomitable Tartarin,
seeking Hons unfindable, wandered from village to
village on the vast plain of the Cheliff, across that
formidable and preposterous French Algeria, where
the perfumes of the Far East are complicated with
a strong odour of absinthe and barracks/ Abraham
and Zouzou mingled ; something fairy like and
artlessly burlesque, like a page of the Old Testa-
ment recited by Sergeant Ram^e or Corporal
Pitou. . . Curious spectacle to eyes that can
see. . . A savage and rotten population which we
are civilizing by giving them our vices . . . the
ferocious and uncontrolled authority of fantastic
pachas who blow their noses on their ribbons of
the Legion of honour, and for a yes or a no ad-
8
114 Tartari7t of Tarasco7t.
minister bastinado to their people . . . justice with-
out conscience applied by cadis in big spectacles,
regular Tartuffes of the Koran and the law, who
dream of a 15th of August and promotion beneath
the palm-trees, and sell their verdicts, as Esau his
birthright, for a dish of lentils, or of kouss-kouss
and sugar . . . licentious and drunken sheiks, former
orderlies of some General Tussuf or other, who
guzzle champagne with the Mahonese washer-
women, and junket on roast mutton, while before
their very tents their tribes are starving, and quar-
relling with the hounds for the scraps that fall
from their master's orgy.
Then, all around, plains laid waste, grass burned
up, thorn-bushes everywhere, thickets of cactus
and prickly-pear, the granary of France ! . . Gran-
ary void of grain, forsooth ! rich only in jackals
and bed-bugs. . . Abandoned settlements, terri-
fied tribes, goings they know not where, flying from
hunger, and sowing the highways with dead bod-
ies. At long intervals, a French village, with its
houses in ruins, fields uncultivated, grasshoppers
rampant, eating up even the curtains at the win-
dows, and all the colonists in the cafes drink-
ing absinthe and discussing the constitution and
schemes of reform.
This is what Tartarin might have seen had he
given himself the trouble to observe; but, con-
sumed by his leonine passion, the man of Tarascon
went straight before him, looking neither to the
right hand nor to the left, his eye obstinately fixed
on those imaginary monsters who never appeared.
The Night-Watch, 115
As the shelter-tent obstinately refused to open
and the tablets of pemmlcan to melt, the caravan
was obliged to put up, night and morning, with
the natives. Everywhere, thanks to the kepi of
Prince Gregory, our hunters were received with
open arms. They lodged with agas in strange
palaces, huge windowless farm-houses, where they
saw, pell-mell, narghiles and mahogany bureaus,
Smyrna rugs and moderator-lamps, chests of cedar-
wood filled with Turkish sequins, and clocks in the
style Louis-Philippe. . . Wherever they went splen-
did fetes, diff as, fantasias were given to Tartarin. . .
In his honour whole goums [native contingent to
the French army] made powder speak and showed
off their burnous in the sun. Then, when the
powder had spoken, the worthy aga came round
and presented his bill. . . That is what is called
Arab hospitality.
But still no lions. No more lions than there are
on the Pont Neuf . .
And yet the hero was not discouraged. Plung-
ing bravely into the South he spent whole days in
beating up the coppices, poking among the dwarf
palm-trees with the end of his carbine, and calling
**Scat! scat!" at every bush. Moreover, every
evening before he went to bed he lay in wait for
two or three hours. Vain trouble ! the lion never
showed himself
But one evening, towards six o'clock, as the
caravan was threading its way through a grove of
violet mastic-trees, where plump quail, dulled by the
heat, were fluttering here and there in the grass,
Ii6 Tartarin of Tarascon,
Tartarin of Tarascon thought he heard — but so
far-off, so vague, so broken by the breeze — that
wondrous roar he had often listened to in Taras-
con behind the menagerie Mitaine.
At first our hero thought he dreamed . . . But
an instant later, still far off though more distinct,
the roar was heard again; and this time, while
from all corners of the horizon howled the dogs of
the natives, the hump of the camel, so shaken by-
terror that the weapons and the aliments clattered,
quivered visibly.
No longer any doubt. 'T was a lion . . . Quick,
quick ! on the watch ! Not a minute to lose !
Close at hand was an old marabout (tomb of a
saint), with a white cupola and the yellow slippers
of the deceased deposited in a niche above the
door, together with a medley of fantastic ex-votoSy
flaps of burnous, gold thread, red hair, etc., hang-
ing to the walls. Tartarin of Tarascon put his
prince and his camel in that retreat, and went him-
self in quest of an ambush. Prince Gregory
wished to follow him, but the hero declined ; he
was bent on confronting the lion alone. Never-
theless, he requested his Highness not to go away,
and, as a measure of precaution, he confided to
him his wallet, a fat wallet, filled with precious
papers and bank bills, which he feared might be
scarified by the claws of the lion. That done,
the hero proceeded to seek for his post.
A hundred steps in front of the marabout a little
copse of oleanders fluttered in the twilight haze,
on the bank of a river that was almost dry. There
The Night-Watch, 117
our hero lay in wait, one knee to earth, according
to the formula, his carbine in his hands, and his
hunting-knife planted proudly before him in the
sand of the shore.
Night came on. The rosy light of nature turned
to violet, then to a sombre blue . . . Below, among
the pebbles of the river, a little pool of clear, still
water shone like a mirror. This was plainly the
drinking-place of wild animals. On the slope of
the opposite bank could be seen the path their
big paws made among the mastjcs. That myste-
rious slope caused a shudder. Add to all this the
vague, low, swarming noises of an African night,
rustling branches, velvet steps of rodent creatures,
the shrilly bark of jackals, and above, in the sky,
one hundred, two hundred yards above him, great
flocks of cranes passing with a cry like that of
strangled children, — you must admit there was
enough in all this to agitate any one.
Tartarin was agitated. Very much so, in fact.
His teeth chattered, poor man ! and on the handle
of the hunting-knife planted in the sand the muz-
zle of his carbine rattled like a pair of castanets . . .
But what do you expect? There are days when
persons are not in the mood ; besides, where
would be the merit if heroes were never afraid ? . .
Well, yes ! Tartarin was afraid, and afraid all
the time, too. Nevertheless he held good one
hour, two hours — but heroism has its limits . . .
Very near to him, in the dry bed of the river, he
suddenly heard steps, and the rolling of pebbles.
This time terror overcame him. He fired two
1 1 8 Tartarin of Tarascon,
shots at random and ran with all his legs to the
marabout^ leaving his cutlass upright in the sand as
a commemorative cross of the greatest panic that
ever assailed the soul of a slayer of hydras.
" Help, pr^ince, help ! . . the lion ! . ."
Silence.
" Preince, prefnce ! are you there ? "
The prince was not there. Against the white
wall of the marabout that excellent camel alone
projected, in the moonlight, the fantastic shadow
of his hump . . . Prince Gregory had just made
off with the wallet and the bank-bills — his High-
ness having awaited the opportunity for more than
a month . . .
Ai Last! . . 119
VI.
Atlast! .,
The day following this tragic and adventurous
evening, when our hero woke at dawn and ac-
quired full certainty that the prince and his funds
were really gone — gone without return, when he
found himself alone in that little white tomb,
betrayed, robbed, abandoned in the wilds of savage
Africa with a dromedary and a few coppers for all
resource, — then, for the first time, the Tarasconese
hero doubted. He doubted friendship, he doubted
fame, he even doubted lions ; and, hero though he
was, the great man wept.
Now, while he was pensively_seated on the steps
of the marabouty his head in his two hands, his
carbine between his legs, and the camel looking
sadly at him, suddenly the branches of the grove
before him parted, and Tartarin, stupefied, saw,
ten steps before him, a gigantic lion, advancing,
with head raised high and formidable roars that
shook the white walls of the marabout and the
tinsel that hung there, and even the slippers of the
deceased in their niche.
The hero, alone, did not tremble.
*' At last ! " he cried, bounding up, his gun to
shoulder. . . Pan ! . . pan ! pfft ! pfft ! 'T was
I20 Tartarin of Tarascon.
done. . . In the lion's head were two explosive
balls. For an instant, on the glowing background
of an African sky, rose frightful fireworks of scat-
tered brains and smoking, blood and tawny fur.
Then all subsided, and Tartarin beheld . . . two big
and furious negroes rushing at him with uplifted
cudgels. The negroes of Milianah!
Oh, misery ! 't was the tamed lion, the poor blind
beast of Mohammed's convent, which the Tarascon-
ese bullets had now laid low !
This time, by Mahomet! Tartarin had a fine
escape. Drunk with fanatic fury the negro men-
dicants would surely have torn him to pieces if the
God of Christians had not sent to his aid a liberat-
ing angel, the garde-champetre of the district of
Orleansville, who arrived, his sabre under his arm,
by a woodpath.
The sight of the municipal kdgii calmed the
wrath of the negroes instantly. Peaceful and
majestic the man with the badge drew up the
proces-verbal, loaded what remained of the lion
upon the camel, ordered complainants and delin-
quent to follow him, and took the way to Orleans-
ville, where the whole affair was placed in the
hands of the authorities.
'Twas a long and terrible investigation.
After the Algeria of the nomads, which he had
just travelled over, Tartarin of Tarascon now knew
another Algeria, no less preposterous and formi-
dable, the Algeria of the towns, litigious and petti-
foggingV He now knew the squinting judiciary
which plots in the corners of cafes, the bohemia of
At Last! . . 121
the limbs of the law, the briefs that smelt of ab-
sinthe, the white cravats discoloured with crescia;
he knew the bailiffs, the solicitors, the business
agents, all those stamped-paper grasshoppers,
hungry and lean, who devour the colonist to the
heels of his boots, and strip him, leaf by leaf, like
a stalk of wheat.
First of all it became necessary to discover
whether the lion was killed on civil territory or on
military territory. In the first case, the affair was
the concern of the tribunal of commerce ; in the
second, Tartarin would be brought before the
^council of war. At those words, " council of
war," the impressionable Tarasconese already saw
himself shot at the foot of the ramparts, or crouch-
ing in dungeon depths. . .
The terrible thing was, that the boundaries of
the two territories are so vague in Algeria. . . At
last, however, after a month of sendings to and fro,
intrigues, waitings in the sun in the courtyards of
the officials, it was established that if, on the one
hand, the lion was killed on military territory, on
the other, Tartarin, when he fired, was on civil
territory. The affair was therefore judged in the
civil courts and our hero got off with a fine of
two thousand five hundred francs indemnity, with-
out costs.
But how could he pay it? The few piastres that
escaped the prince's raid had long since gone in
legal papers and judiciary absinthes.
The unfortunate lion-slayer was therefore reduced
to selling his case of weapons piecemeal* carbine
i
122 Tartarin of Tarascoii,
by carbine. He sold the daggers, the Malay
krishes, the tomahawks. . . A i^rocer,^ bought
the alimentary preserves. An apothecary alljhgj; i
was left of the diachylon. Even the big boots
themselves^ de'paTtEa'''"an3""Tollowed the perfected
shelter-tent to the shop of a merchant of bric-ci-
brac, who raised them to the dignity of Cochin-
\ Chinese curiosities. . . The fine paid, nothing
'^ remained to Tartarin but the lion's skin and the
^romedarj^. The skin he packed up carefully and
( sent to Tarascon, directed to his good friend the
brave Commander Bravida (we shall presently see
what came of that fabulous hide). As for the
camel, he intended to use that to convey him to
/j Algiers, not by mounting it, but by selling it to
"^ pay the diligence ; which is a better way of travel-
ling than camel-back. Unfortunately, the animal
was difficult to dispose of; not a soul would offer
a single farthing^___ . ^^^..^ — — - — "^ """"
^^ lartarirTwas, however, determined to get back
to Algiers. He longed to see his Bai'a's blue
corselet, his little house, his fountains, and to
lie at rest upon the trefoiled pavement of his
cloister, while awaiting the arrival of funds from
France. /Consequently, our hero did not hesitate;
" distressed, but not discouraged, he started to make
the journey on foot, without money, and by short
marches.
In this conjuncture, the camel did not abandon
him. That weird animal was possessed by an in-
explicable fondness for his master, and, seeing him
depart from Orleansville, he set out religiously to
Al Last! . . 123
follow at a walk behind him, measuring his steps
to his master's, and not leaving him by so much
as an inch.
At first, Tartarin thought this touching; such
fidelity, such tried devotion went to his heart, all the
more because the animal was accommodating and
fed on nothing. But after a few days' march, the
hero began to be bored by having such a melan-
choly companion perpetually at his heels ; a com-
panion who recalled to him his many misadventures.
Presently, bitterness supervening, he grew angry
with the dromedary's mournful air, his hump, and
his general look of silliness. To tell the honest
truth, he came to hate him, and to think only of
how to get rid of him ; but the animal held tight. . .
Tartarin tried to lose him, the camel found him ;
he tried to run, the camel ran faster. . . He
shouted to him : *' Go away ! " and flung stones at
him. The camel stopped, gazed upon him with a
xuelancholy eye, then, a moment later, started
again and caught up with him. Tartarin was
forced to resign himself
But when, after a march of eight full days, the
Tarasconese hero, dusty, jad^d, saw from afar,
sparkling amid the verdure, the first white terraces
of Algiers, when he reached the gates of the town
on the noisy highway from Mustapha crowded with
zouaves, biskris, Mahonese, all swarming around
him and watching him defile with the dromedary,
his patience came to an end : " No 4-«o ! " he said
to himself, " it is impossible. . . I cannot enter
Algiers with such a beast ! " and, taking advantage
124 Tar tar in of Tarascon,
of a block of vehicles he made a dart into the
fields and hid in a ditch. . .
An instant later, he saw above his head on the
pavement of the highway, the d^"omedary swinging
past him with mighty strides and stretching out
his neck with an anxious air.
Then, relieved of a heavy burden, the hero
issued from his hiding-place and entered the town
by a byway, which ran along the wall of his
little garden.
CatastropJies on Catastrophes, 125
VII.
Catastrophes on catastrophes.
Arriving in front of his Moorish house, Tar-
tarin stopped short, much astonished. It was
evening, the street was deserted. Through the
low arched door, which the negress had forgotten
to shut, came laughter, the rattle of glasses, the
popping of corks, and, rising high above that
pretty racket, the voice of a woman singing,
clearly and merrily : —
Lovest thou, Marco la Belle,
To dance in the flowery salons ?
" Throne of God ! " exclaimed the Tarasconese,
turning white, and he rushed into the courtyard.
Unhappy Tartarin ! What a spectacle awaited
him ! . . Beneath the arcades of the little cloister,
amid flasks, confectionery, scattered cushions,
pipes, tambourines, guitars, stood Bai'a, without
corselet or jacket, nothing but a chemise of silver
gauze and pale rose trousers, singing Marco ta
Belle with the cap of a naval officer perched on
one ear. . . On a mat at her feet, stuffed with
love and sweetmeats, Barbassou, that infamous
Barbassou, was bursting with laughter as he listened
to her.
126 Tar tar in of Tar as con.
The apparition of Tartarin, haggard, thinner,
dusty; his eyes flashing, the fez bristhng, cut
short this amiable Turco-Marseillaise orgy. Baia
gave the little cry of a frightened hare and ran into
the house. Barbassou, not disturbing himself,
laughed louder than ever.
** Hey ! hey ! Monsieur Tartarin, what do you
say now? Does n't she speak French?"
Tartarin of Tarascon advanced, furious.
'' Captain ! "
** Digo-li qu^ vengu^, moun bon!'' cried Bai'a,
bending over the gallery of the upper floor and
making a pretty canaille gesture. The poor man,
thunderstruck, let himself drop upon a cushion.
His Moorish lady knew the Marseillaise jargon !
" Did n't I tell you to beware of the Algerine
women?" said Captain Barbassou, sententiously.
" They are just the same as that Montenegrin
prince of yours."
Tartarin raised his head.
"Do you know where the prince is now?" he
asked.
" Oh ! not far off. He is living for five years in
that fine prison at Mustapha. The scamp was
caught with his hand in the bag. . . But it is not
the first time they have had him in limbo. His
Highness has already done three years in a house
of detention somewhere . . . and, bless me ! if I
don't think it was at Tarascon."
"At Tarascon!.." cried Tartarin, suddenly
enlightened. . . "That's why he knew only one
half of the town. . ."
Catastrophes on Catastrophes. 127
" No doubt ! no doubt ! Tarascon seen from
the prison windows. , . Ah ! my poor Monsieur
Tartarin, we have to keep our eyes well open in
this damnable country; if not, we are liable to
very disagreeable things . . . such as your affair
with the muezzin. . ."
" What affair? what muezzin?"
"Hey! pardi! why, the muezzin opposite, who
made love to Bafa. . . The Akbar related the
affair the other day, and all Algiers is still laugh-
ing over it. . . 'Twas droll how that muezzin on
the top of his minaret, chanting his prayers, con-
trived, under your very nose, to make his proposals
to the little one and fix a rendezvous while invoking
the name of Allah. . ."
"Is every one a villain in this cursed land?'*
roared Tartarin.
Barbassou made the gesture of a philosopher.
" My dear fellow, you know, new countries ! . .
Never mind ! if you take my advice, you '11 go
back as fast as you can to Tarascon."
"Go .back . . . that's easy enough to say . . .
But where 's the money? . . You don't know how
they 've plucked me, down there, in the desert."
" Never mind that ! " cried the captain, laughing.
" The 'Zouave ' starts to-morrow and, if you like,
I '11 take you back to your native land. . . Will
that suit you, compatriot? All right. You have
only one thing more to do. There 's a few bottles
of champagne and half a crust still left ... sit you
down there . . . and no rancour ! . ."
After a moment's hesitation, demanded by his
128 Tar tar in of Tar as con.
dignity, Tartarin bravely chose his course. He
sat down; they touched glasses; Baia descended
on hearing the corks, and sang the last verses of
Marco la Belle, the fete lasting far into the night.
Towards three in the morning, his head light
and his foot heavy, the worthy Tartarin was return-
ing with his friend the captain when, on passing
the mosque, the recollection of the muezzin and
his tricks made him laugh, and suddenly a fine
idea of vengeance came into his head. The door
was open. He went in ; followed the long pas-
sages covered with mats, went up, up, and still up,
until he found himself in a Httle Turkish oratory,
where an open-worked iron lantern was swaying
from the roof and casting fantastic shadows on the
walls.
The muezzin was seated on a divan, with his big
turban, his white mantle, his Mostaganem pipe,
and before him a large glass of fresh absinthe,
which he sipped religiously while awaiting the hour
to call the faithful to prayer. . . Seeing Tartarin,
he let fall his pipe in terror.
" Not a word, priest," said the hero, full of his
idea. " Quick, your turban ! your mantle ! . .
The muezzin, trembling violently, gave his tur-
ban, his pelisse, anything demanded. Tartarin
put them on, and went gravely to the terrace of
the minaret.
The sea was shining in the distance. The white
roofs gleamed in the moonlight. Sounds of be-
lated guitars came softly on the breeze. . . The
Tarascon muezzin collected himself for a moment,
(
Catastrophes on Catastrophes, 129
then, raising his arm, he began his psalmody in a
high-pitched voice : —
" La Allah il Allah. . . Mahomet is an old
rogue. . . Orient, Koran, pachas, Hons, Moorish
women are not worth a damn. . . There are no
Teiirs. . . Only swindlers. . . Vive Tarascon ! "
And while, in fantastic jargon mingled with
Arabic and Provencal, the illustrious Tartarin was
thus casting to the four corners of the horizon, on
town, plain, mountain, and ocean, his jovial male-
diction, the clear, grave voices of the other muez-
zins answered him from minaret to minaret, and
the faithful in rapt devotion beat their breasts.
130 Tartarin of Tarascon,
VIII.
Tarascon I Tarascon 1
Midday. The "Zouave" has her steam up,
ready to start. Overhead, on the balcony of the
Cafe Valentin, military officers level their telescopes
and come, one by one, according to rank, the
colonel at their head, to watch the departure of the
happy little boat about to go to France. This is
the great amusement of headquarters. . . Below,
the roadstead sparkles. The breeches of certain
old Turkish cannon buried along the quay flame
in the sun. The passengers are hurrying. Bisk-
;is^and Mahonese pile the baggage on the boats.
Tartarin of Tarascon has no baggage ; and here
he comes, down the rue de la Marine, through the
little market full of bananas and watermelon, ac-
companied by his friend, Captain Barbassou. The
unfortunate hero has left upon the Moorish shores
his weapons and his illusions ; he is now preparing
himself to sail back to Tarascon, his hands in his
pockets. . . But scarcely had he jumped into the
captain's gig, before a breathless animal rushed
headlong from the market-place, and precipitated
itself towards him at a gallop. 'Twas the camel,
the faithful camel, which for twenty-four consecu-
tive hovrs had been seeking its master in Algiers.
Tarascon I Tarascon f 131
Tartarin, on seeing him, changed colour, and
^£tgjl£d not to know him. But the camel was in
earnest. He wriggled at the edge of the quay.
He called to his friend ; he looked at him tenderly.
" Take me ! take me ! " his sad eyes seemed to
say ; " take me in that boat, far, far away from
this pasteboard painted Araby, this ridiculous
Orient, full of locomotives and diligences, where
I — poor misplaced dromedary — know not what
will become of me. You are the last Turk, / am
the last camel. . . Let us part no more, O my
Tartarin ! . ."
" Is that camel yours?" asked the captain.
" Not at all ! " responded Tartarin, who shud-
dered at the idea of re-entering Tarascon with that
ridiculous attendant; and, impudently disowning
the companion of his misfortunes he spurned the
soil of Algiers with his foot, and gave the boat an
impetus that sent it from the shore. . . The camel
smelt of the water, stretched his long neck till his
joints all cracked, and springing headlong behind
the boat he swam in company toward ^ the
" Zouave," his big hump floating like a gourd, and
his great neck rising high out of water like the
prow of a txireme.
Boat and camel arrived together under the
steamer's quarter.
*' I feel badly for that poor dromedary," said
Captain Barbassou, quite touched. '' I think I '11
take him aboard, and make a present of him, when
I reach Marseilles, to the Zoological Garden."
Accordingly the cameb now weighty with sea-
132 \ Tartarin of Tarascon.
water, was hoisted on board by a great force of
ropes and pulleys, and the ** Zouave " set sail.
During the two days the voyage lasted, Tartarin
remained alone in his cabin ; not that the sea was
rough, nor that the fez had much to suffer, but
that devil of a camel persisted in making ridiculous
demonstrations whenever his master appeared on
deck. . . You never saw a camel advertise his
master like that one ! . .
Hour by hour, through the porthole of the cabin
(from which he occasionally looked out) Tartarin
watched the paling of the Algerine blue sky; till,
at last, one morning, through a silvery mist he
heard, with joy, the clanging of the steeples of
Marseilles. The voyage was over . . . the '* Zou-
ave " anchored.
r Our man, who had no baggage, landed, without
saying a word, crossed Marseilles in haste, afraid
of being followed by the camel, and only breathed
freely when he found himself ensconced in a third-
class railway-carriage, and moving at a good pace
toward Tarascon. . . Deceptive security ! Hardly
had they gone two leagues from Marseilles, when
the heads of all the passengers were at the windows.
They shouted, they wondered. Tartarin in turn
looked out, and . . . what did he perceive? . . The
camel, sir, the inevitable camel, loping along the
rails behind the train and keeping up with it.
Tartarin, in consternation, sank back into his
corner, and closed his eyes.
After this disastrous expedition, he counted on
returning to his house incognito. But the pres-
Tarascon! Tarasconf 133
ence of this i«cumbering quadruped rendered the
thing impossible. What a re-entrance he was
about to make, good God ! Not a sou ; not a
lion, nothing. . . A camel ! . .
" Tarascon ! . . Tarascon ! . ."
He had to get out. . .
Oh, stupefaction ! scarcely had the hero's fez
appeared at the carriage door than a great cry:
*' Vive Tartarin ! " made every pane of glass in the
roof of the station tremble. " Vive Tartarin ! . .
Long live the lion-killer ! " Trumpets flourished,
the choirs of the Orphic societies burst forth. . .
Tartarin felt like dying ; he thought it was a hoax.
But no ! all Tarascon was there, hats in the air,
and sympathetic. The brave Commander Bravida,
the gunsmith Costecalde, the judge, the apothecary,
and the noble army of sportsmen (of caps) pressed
around their leader and bore him in triumph down
the stairway.
Singular effects of rnirage ! the skin of the blind
lion, sent to Bravida, was the cause of this ovation.
That modest pelt, placed on exhibition at the club,
had turned the heads of the Tarascon people, and
behind them the whole South. The Semaphore
spoke of it. A drama was constructed. It was
not one lion that Tartarin had killed, it was ten
lions, twenty lions, a marmalade of lions ! So
Tartarin, disembarking at Marseilles, was already
illustrious unawares, and an enthusiastic telegram
had preceded him by two hours to his native town.
But that which put a climax to the popular joy
was the sight of a strange, fantastic animal, cov-
134 Tartari7i of Tarascon.
ered with dust and sweat, which appeared behind
the hero and descended, clopetty-clop, the stair-
way of the station. Tarascon fancied for a moment
that La Tarasque had returned.
Tartarin reassured his compatriots.
" That is my camel," he said.
And — being under the influence of the Taras-
conese sun, that splendid sun, which makes them
lie so ingenuously — he added, caressing the hump
of his dromedary : —
'' 'T is a noble beast ! . . He saw me kill all my
lions."
Whereupon, he took, familiarly, the arm of the
brave commander, flushed with happiness, and,
followed by his camel, surrounded by his fellow-
sportsmen, acclaimed by all the inhabitants, he
proceeded tranquilly to the house of the baobab,
and as he walked along he began the recital of his
mighty hunts.
" Imagine to yourselves that on a certain evening,
in the midst of the great Sahara . . ."
>VA*|
TARTARIN ON THE ALPS,
TARTARIN ON THE ALPS.
Apparition on the Rigi-Kulm. Who is it f What was
said around a table of six hundred covers. Rice and
Prunes. An improvised ball. The Unknown signs his
name on the hotel register. P. C. A.
On the loth of August, 1880, at that fabled hour
of the setting sun so vaunted by the guide-books
Joanne and Baedeker, an hermetic yellow fog,
complicated with a flurry of snow in white spirals,
enveloped the summit of the Rigi {Regiiia mon-
tium) and its gigantic hotel, extraordinary to behold
on the arid waste of those heights, — that Rigi-
Kulm, glassed-in like a conservatory, massive as a
citadel, where alight for a night and a day a flock
of tourists, worshippers of the sun.
While awaiting the second dinner-gong, the
transient inmates of the vast and gorgeous cara-
vansary, half frozen in their chambers above, or
gasping on the divans of the reading-rooms in the
damp heat of lighted furnaces, were gazing, in
default of the promised splendours, at the whirling
white atoms and the lighting of the great lamps
138 Tartarin 07i the Alps,
on the portico, the double glasses of which were
creaking in the wind.
To climb so high, to come from all four corners
of the earth to see that. . . Oh, Baedeker ! . .
Suddenly, something emerged from the fog
and advanced toward the hotel with a rattling
of metal, an exaggeration of motions, caused by-
strange accessories.
At a distance of twenty feet through the fog the
torpid tourists, their noses against the panes, the
misses with curious little heads trimmed like those
of boys, took this apparition for a cow, and then for
a tinker bearing his utensils.
Ten feet nearer the apparition changed again,
showing a crossbow on the shoulder, and the visored
cap of an archer of the middle ages, with the visor
lowered, an object even more unlikely to meet
with on these heights than a strayed cow or an
ambulating tinker.
On the portico the archer was no longer any-
thing but a fat, squat, broad-backed man, who
stopped to get breath and to shake the snow from
his leggings, made like his cap of yellow cloth, and
from his knitted comforter, which allowed scarcely
more of his face to be seen than a few tufts of
grizzling beard and a pair of enormous green
spectacles made as convex as the glass of a stereo-
scope. An alpenstock, knapsack, coil of rope
worn in saltire, crampons and iron hooks hanging
to the belt of an English blouse with broad
pleats, completed the accoutrement of this perfect
Alpinist.
Apparition on the Rigi-Kulm. 139
On the desolate summits of Mont Blanc or the
Finsteraarhorn this clambering apparel would have
seemed very natural, but on the Rigi-Kulm ten feet
from a railway track ! —
The Alpinist, it is true, came from the side
opposite to the station, and the state of his leggings
testified to a long march through snow and mud.
For a moment he gazed at the hotel and
its surrounding buildings, seemingly stupefied at
finding, two thousand and more yards above the
sea, a building of such importance, glazed galler-
ies, colonnades, seven storeys of windows, and a
broad portico stretching away between two rows
of globe-lamps which gave to this mountain-
summit the aspect of the Place de TOpera of a
winter's evening.
But, surprised as he may have been, the people
in the hotel were more surprised still, and when he
entered the immense antechamber an inquisitive
hustling took place in the doorways of all the
salons : gentlemen armed with billiard-cues, others
with open newspapers, ladies still holding their
book or their work pressed forward, while in the
background, on the landing of the staircase, heads
leaned over the baluster and between the chains of
the lift.
The man said aloud, in a powerful deep bass
voice, the chest voice of the South, resounding
like cymbals : —
" Coqum de hon sort ! what an atmosphere ! "
Then he stopped short, to take off his cap and
his spectacles.
140 Tartarin on the Alps,
He was suffocating.
The dazzle of the lights, the heat of the gas and
furnace, in contrast with the cold darkness without,
and this sumptuous display, these lofty ceilings,
these porters bedizened with Regina Montium in
letters of gold on their naval caps, the white
cravats of the waiters and the battalion of Swiss
girls in their native costumes coming forward at
sound of the gong, all these things bewildered
him for a second — but only one.
He felt himself looked at and instantly recovered
his self-possession, like a comedian facing a full
house.
" Monsieur desires . . ? "
This was the manager of the hotel, making the
inquiry with the tips of his teeth, a very dashing
manager, striped jacket, silken whiskers, the head
of a lady's dressmaker.
The Alpinist, not disturbed, asked for a room,
" A good little room, ati. mouain!' perfectly at ease
with that majestic manager, as if with a former
schoolmate.
But he came near being angry when a Bernese
servant-girl, advancing, candle in hand, and stiff
in her gilt stomacher and puffed muslin sleeves,
inquired if Monsieur would be pleased to take the
lift. The proposal to commit a crime would not
have made him more indignant.
'* A lift ! he ! . . for him ! . ." And his cry, his
gesture, set all his metals rattling.
Quickly appeased, however, he said to the
maiden, in an amiable tone : " Pedibusse ctintjam'
Apparition on the Rigi-Kulm. 141
bissCy my pretty little cat. . ." And he went up
behind her, his broad back filling the stairwa^,
parting the persons he met on his way, while
throughout the hotel the clamorous questions ran :
**Who is he? What's this?" muttered in the
divers languages of all four quarters of the globe.
Then the second dinner-gong sounded, and nobody
thought any longer of this extraordinary personage.
A sight to behold, that dining-room of the
Rigi-Kulm.
Six hundred covers around an immense horse-
shoe table, where tall, shallow dishes of rice and
of prunes, alternating in long files with green
plants, reflected in their dark or transparent sauces
the flame of the candles in the chandeliers and the
gilding of the panelled ceiling.
As in all Swiss tables d'hote y rice and prunes
divided the dinner into two rival factions, and
merely by the looks of hatred or of hankering cast
upon those dishes it was easy to tell to which party
the guests belonged. The Rices were known by
their anaemic pallor, the Prunes by their congested
skins.
That evening the latter were the most numerous,
counting among them several important person-
alities, European celebrities, such as the great his-
torian Astier-R6hu, of the French Academy, Baron
von Stolz, an old Austro-Hungarian diplomat,
Lord Chipendale (?), a member of the Jockey-
Club and his niece (h'm, h'm!),the illustrious
doctor-professor Schwanthaler, from the University
142 Tar tar in on the Alps,
of Bonn, a Peruvian general with eight young
daughters.
To these the Rices could only oppose as a
picket-guard a Belgian senator and his family,
Mme. Schwanthaler, the professor's wife, and an
Italian tenor, returning from Russia, who displayed
his cuffs, with buttons as big as saucers, upon the
tablecloth.
It was these opposing currents which no doubt
caused the stiffness and embarrassment of the
company. How else explain the silence of six
hundred half-frozen, scowling, distrustful persons,
and the sovereign contempt they appeared to
affect for one another? A superficial observer
might perhaps have attributed this stiffness to
stupid Anglo-Saxon haughtiness which, nowa-
days, gives the tone in all countries to the travel-
ling world.
No ! no ! Beings with human faces are not born
to hate one another thus at first sight, to despise
each other with their very noses, Hps, and eyes for
lack of a previous introduction. There must be
another cause.
Rice and Prunes, I tell you. There you have
the explanation of the gloomy silence weighing
upon this dinner at the Rigi-Kulm, which, consid-
ering the number and international variety of the
guests, ought to have been lively, tumultuous, such
as we imagine the repasts at the foot of the Tower
of Babel to have been.
The Alpinist entered the room, a little over-
come by this refectory of monks, apparently doing
Apparition on the Rigi-Kulm, 143
penance beneath the glare of chandeliers; he
coughed noisily without any one taking notice of
him, and seated himself in his place of last-comer
at the end of the room. Divested of his accou-
trements, he was now a tourist like any other, but
of aspect more amiable, bald, barrel-bellied, his
beard pointed and bunchy, his nose majestic, his
eyebrows thick and ferocious, overhanging the
glance of a downright good fellow.
Rice or Prunes? No one knew as yet.
Hardly was he installed before he became un-
easy, and leaving his place with an alarming
bound: ''Ouf! what a draught!" he said aloud,
as he sprang to an empty chair with its back laid
over on the table.
He was stopped by the Swiss maid on duty —
from the canton of Uri, that one — silver chains
and white muslin chemisette.
" Monsieur, this place is engaged. . ."
Then a young lady, seated next to the chair, of
whom the Alpinist could see only her blond hair
rising from the whiteness of virgin snows, said,
without turning round, and with a foreign accent:
" That place is free ; my brother is ill, and will
not be down."
*'I11? . ." said the Alpinist, seating himself, with
an anxious, almost affectionate manner. . . "111?
Not dangerously, au moinsy
He said au moiiain^ and the word recurred in all
his remarks, with other vocable parasites, such as
///, ^///, //, zo2i^ v^y vat, et autrementy diff^rentmenty
etc., still further emphasized by a Southern accent.
144 Tartarm on the Alps,
displeasing, apparently, to the young lady, for she
answered with a glacial glance of a black blue, the
blue of an abyss.
His neighbour on the right had nothing encour-
aging about him either ; this was the Italian tenor,
a gay bird with a low forehead, oily pupils, and
the moustache of a matador, which he twirled with
nervous fingers at being thus separated from his
pretty neighb/our. But the good Alpinist had a
habit of talking as he ate ; it was necessary for his
health.
'' Ve ! the pretty buttons . . ." he said to him-
self, aloud, eying the cuffs of his neighbour.
" Notes of music, inlaid in jasper — why, the effect
is charmain ! . !'
His metallic voice rang on the silence, but found
no echo.
" Surely monsieur is a singer, quiV
'' Non capiscOy' growled the Italian into his
moustache.
For a moment the man resigned himself to de-
vour without uttering a word, but the morsels
choked him. At last, as his opposite neighbour,
the Austro-Hungarian diplomat, endeavoured to
reach the mustard-pot with the tips of his shaky
old fingers, covered with mittens, he passed it to
him obligingly. ** Happy to serve you. Monsieur
le baron," for he had heard some one call him so.
Unfortunately, poor M. de Stoltz, in spite of his
shrewd and knowing air contracted in diplomatic
juggling, had now lost both words and ideas, and
was travelling among the mountains for the special
Apparitio7i on the Rigi-Kulm, 145
purpose of recovering them. He opened his eyes
wide upon that unknown face, and shut them again
without a word. It would have taken ten old
diplomats of his present intellectual force to have
constructed in common a formula of thanks.
At this fresh failure the Alpinist made a terrible
grimace, and the abrupt manner in which he seized
the bottle standing near him might have made one
fear he was about to cleave the already cracked
head of the diplomatist. Not so ! It was only to
offer wine to his pretty neighbour, who did not
hear him, being absorbed by a semi-whispered con-
versation in a soft and lively foreign warble with
two young men seated next to her. She bent to
them, and grew animated. Little frizzles of hair
were seen shining in the light against a dainty,
transparent, rosy ear. . . Polish, Russian, Nor-
wegian?. . from the North certainly ; and a pretty
song of those distant lands coming to his lips, the
man of the South began tranquilly to hum : —
O coumtesso gento,
Estelo dou Nord,
Que la neu argento,
Qu' Amour friso en or.^
The whole table turned round; they thought
him mad. He coloured, subsided into his plate,
and did not issue again except to repulse vehe-
1 O pretty countess,
Light of the North,
Which the snow silvers.
And Love curls in gold. {Fridhnc Mistral^
10
146 Tartarin on the Alps,
mently one of the sacred compote-dishes that was
handed to him.
** Prunes ! again ! . . Never in my life ! "
This was too much.
A grating of chairs was heard. The acade-
mician, Lord Chipendale (?), the Bonn professor,
and other notabiHties rose, and left the room as if
protesting.
The Rices followed almost immediately, on see-
ing the second compote-dish rejected as violently
as the first.
Neither Rice nor Prunes ! . . then what 1 . .
All withdrew ; and it was truly glacial, that silent
defile of scornful noses and mouths with their
corners disdainfully turned down at the luckless
man, who was left alone in the vast gorgeous
dining-room, engaged in sopping his bread in his
wine after the fashion of his country, crushed
beneath the weight of universal disdain.
My friends, let us never despise any one. Con-^
tempt is the resource of parvenus, prigs, ugly folk,
and fools ; it is the mask behind which nonentity
shelters itself, and sometimes blackguardism ; it
dispenses with mind, judgment, and good-will. All
humpbacked persons are contemptuous ; all
crooked noses wrinkle with disdain when they see
a straight one.
He knew that, this worthy Alpinist. Having
passed, by several years, his " fortieth," that land-
ing on the fourth storey where man discovers and
picks up the magic key which opens life to its
Apparitio7i on tJie Rigi-Kulnt. 147
recesses, and reveals its monotonous and deceptive
labyrinth ; conscious, moreover, of his value, of the
importance of his mission, and of the great name he
bore, he cared nothing for the opinion of such
persons as these. He knew that he need only-
name himself and cry out " 'T is I. . . " to change to
grovelling respect those haughty Hps; but he
found his incognito amusing.
He suffered only at not being able to talk, to
make a noise, unbosom himself, press hands, lean
familiarly on shoulders, and call men by their
Christian names. That is what oppressed him on
the Rigi-Kulm.
Oh ! above all, not being able to speak.
*' I shall have dyspepsia as sure as fate," said the
poor devil, wandering about the hotel and not
knowing what to do with himself.
He entered a cafe, vast and deserted as a church
on a week day, called the waiter, " My good
friend," and ordered " a mocha without sugar, qu^^
And as the waiter did not ask, " Why no sugar? "
the Alpinist added quickly, '* ' T is a habit I acquired
in Africa, at the period of my great hunts."
He was about to recount them, but the waiter
had fled on his phantom slippers to Lord Chip-
endale, stranded, full length, upon a sofa and
crying, in mournful tones : " Tchempegne ! . .
tchempegne ! . . " The cork flew with its silly
noise, and nothing more was heard save the gusts of
wind in the monumental chimney and the hissing
click of the snow against the panes.
Very dismal too was the reading-room ; all the
148 Tartarin on the Alps.
journals in hand, hundreds of heads bent down
around the long green tables beneath the reflectors.
From time to time a yawn, a cough, the rustle of a
turned leaf; and soaring high above the calm of
this hall of study, erect and motionless, their backs
to the stove, both solemn and both smelling
equally musty, were the two pontiffs of official
history, Astier-Rehu and Schwanthaler, whom a
singular fatality had brought face to face on the
summit of the Rigi, after thirty years of insults and
of rending each other to shreds in explanatory
notes referring to ** Schwanthaler, jackass," " vir
ijieptissimiis, Astier-Rehu ."
You can imagine the reception which the kindly
Alpinist received on drawing up a chair for a bit
of instructive conversation in that chimney corner.
From the height of these two caryatides there fell
upon him suddenly one of those currents of air of
which he was so afraid. He rose, paced the hall,
as much to warm himself as to recover self-cpnfi-'
dence, and opened the bookcase. A few English
novels lay scattered about in company with sev-
eral heavy Bibles and tattered volumes of the
Alpine Club. He took up one of the latter, and
carried it off to read in bed, but was forced to
leave it at the door, the rules not allowing the
transference of the library to the chambers.
Then, still continuing to wander about, he
opened the door of the billiard-room, where the
Italian tenor, playing alone, was producing effects
of torso and cuffs for the edification of their pretty
neighbour, seated on a divan, between the two
Apparition on the Rigi-Kulm, 149
young men, to whom she was reading a letter.
On the entrance of the Alpinist she stopped, and
one of the young men rose, the taller, a sort of
moujik, a dog-man, with hairy paws, and long,
straight, shining black hair joining an unkempt
beard. He made two steps in the direction of the
new-comer, looked at him provocatively, and so
fiercely that the worthy Alpinist, without demand-
ing an explanation, made a prudent and judicious
half-turn to the right.
" Diff&emmenty they are not affable, these North-
erners," he said aloud; and he shut the door
noisily, to prove to that savage that he was not
afraid of him.
The salon remained as a last refuge ; he went
there. . . Coquin de sort ! ... The morgue, my
good friends, the morgue of the Saint-Bernard
where the monks expose the frozen bodies found
beneath the snows in the various attitudes in which
congealing death has stiffened them, can alone
describe that salon of the Rigi-Kulm.
All those numbed, mute women, in groups upon
the circular sofas, or isolated and fallen into chairs
here and there ; all those misses, motionless be-
neath the lamps on the round tables, still holding
in their hands the book or the work they were em-
ployed on when the cold congealed them. Among
them were the daughters of the general, eight
little Peruvians with saffron skins, their features
convulsed, the vivid ribbons on their gowns con-
trasting with the dead-leaf tones of English fash-
ions ; poor little sunny-climes, easy to imagine as
ISO Tar tar in on the Alps.
laughing and frolicking beneath their cocoa-trees,
and now more distressing to behold than the rest
in their glacial, mute condition. In the back-
ground, before the piano, was the death-mask of
the old diplomat, his mittened hands resting inert
upon the keyboard, the yellowing tones of which
were reflected on his face.
Betrayed by his strength and his memory, lost
in a polka of his own composition, beginning it
again and again, unable to remember its conclu-
sion, the unfortunate Stoltz had gone to sleep
while playing, and with him all the ladies on the
Rigi, nodding, as they slumbered, romantic curls,
or those peculiar lace caps, in shape like the crust
of a vol-au-vent, that English dames affect, and
which seem to be part of the cant of travelling.
The entrance of the Alpinist did not awaken
them, and he himself had dropped upon a divan,
overcome by such icy discouragement,Twhen the
sound of vigorous, joyous chords burst from the
vestibule ; where three " musicos," harp, flute, and
violin, ambulating minstrels with pitiful faces, and
long overcoats flapping their legs, who infest the
Swiss hostelries, had just arrived with their instru-
ments.
At the very first notes our man sprang up as if
galvanized.
" Zou ! bravo ! . . forward, music ! "
And off he went, opening the great doors, feting
the musicians, soaking them with champagne,
drunk himself without drinking a drop, solely with
the music which brought him back to life. He
Apparition on tlie Rigi-Kulm, 151
mimicked the piston, he mimicked the harp, he
snapped his fingers over his head, and rolled his
eyes and danced his steps, to the utter stupefaction
of the tourists running in from all sides at the
racket. Then suddenly, as the exhilarated musicos
struck up a Strauss waltz with the fury of true
tzigan^s, the Alpinist, perceiving in the doorway
the wife of Professor Schwanthaler, a rotund little
Viennese with mischievous eyes, still youthful in
spite of her powdered gray hair, he sprang to her,
caught her by the waist, and whirled her into the
room, crying out to the others : " Come on ! come^
on ! let us waltz ! "
The impetus was given, the hotel thawed and
twirled, carried off its centre. People danced in
the vestibule, in the salon, round the long green
table of the reading-room. 'T was that devil of a
man who set fire to ice. He, however, danced no
more, being out of breath at the end of a couple of
turns; but he guided his ball, urged the musicians,
coupled the dancers, cast into the arms of the
Bonn professor an elderly Englishwoman, and into
those of the austere Astier-Rehu the friskiest of
the Peruvian damsels. Resistance was impossible.
From that terrible Alpinist issued I know not what
mysterious aura which lightened and buoyed up
every one. And zou ! zoii ! zou ! No more con-
tempt and disdain. Neither Rice nor Prunes,
only waltzers. Presently the madness spread ;
it reached the upper storeys, and up through the
well of the staircase could be seen to the sixth-
floor landing the heavy and high-coloured skirts of
152 Tartarm on the Alps,
the Swiss maids on duty, twirling with the stiffness
of automatons before a musical chalet.
Ah ! the wind may blow without and shake the
lamp-posts, make the telegraph wires groan, and
whirl the snow in spirals across that desolate
summit. Within all are warm, all are comforted,
and remain so for that one night.
** Differemment, I must go to bed, myself,"
thought the worthy Alpinist, a prudent man,
coming from a country where every one packs and
unpacks himself rapidly. Laughing in his grizzled
beard, he slipped away, covertly escaping Madame
Schwanthaler, who was seeking to hook him again
ever since that initial waltz.
He took his key and his bedroom candle ; then,
on the first landing, he paused a moment to enjoy
his work and to look at the mass of congealed
ones whom he had forced to thaw and amuse
themselves.
A Swiss maid approached him all breathless
from the waltz, and said, presenting a pen and
the hotel register: —
** Might I venture to ask mossie to be so good as
to sign his name? "
He hesitated a moment. Should he, or should
he not preserve his incognito?
After all, what matter ! Supposing that the
news of his presence on the Rigi should reach
down there, no one would know what he had come
to do in Switzerland. And besides, it would be
so droll to see, to-morrow morning, the stupor of
those " Inglichemans " when they should learn the
Apparition on the Rigi-Ktclm, 153
truth. . . For that Swiss girl, of course, would not
hold her tongue. . . What surprise, what excite-
ment throughout the hotel ! . .
" Was it really he? . . he? . . himself? . ."
These reflections, rapid and vibrant, passed
through his head like the notes of a violin in an
orchestra. He took the pen, and with careless hand
he signed, beneath Schwanthaler, Astier-Rehu, and
other notabilities, the name that eclipsed them
all, his name ; then he went to his room, without
so much as glancing round to see the effect, of
which he was sure.
Behind him the Swiss niaid looked at the name :
TARTARIN OF TARASCON,
beneath which was added :
P. C. A.
She read it, that Bernese girl, and was not the
least dazzled. She did not know what P. C A.
signified, nor had she ever heard of ** Dardarin."
Barbarian, Vat!
154 Tar tar in 07i the Alps,
II.
Tarascon^ five minutes' stop ! The Club of the Alpines.
Explanation of P. C. A. Rabbits of warren and cabbage
rabbits. This is my last will and testament. The Strop
de cadavre. First ascension. Tartarin takes out his
spectacles.
When that name ** Tarascon " sounds trumpet-
like along the track of the Paris-Lyons-Mediter-
ranean, in the limpid, vibrant blue of a Provencal
sky, inquisitive heads are visijDle at all the doors
of the express train, and from carriage to carriage
the travellers say to each other: "Ah! here is
Tarascon ! . . Now, for a look at Tarascon."
What they can see of it is, nevertheless, nothing
more than a very ordinary, quiet, clean little town
with towers, roofs, and a bridge across the Rhone.
But the Tarasconese sun and its marvellous effects of
mirage, so fruitful in surprises, inventions, delirious
absurdities, this joyous little populace, not much
larger than a chick-pea, which reflects and sums
up in itself the instincts of the whole French
South, lively, restless, gabbling, exaggerated, com-
ical, impressionable — that is what the people
on the express-train look out for as they pass, and
it is that which has made the popularity of the
place.
Tarascon, Five Minutes Stop! 155
In memorable pages, which modesty prevents
him from mentioning more explicitly, the histor-
iographer of Tarascon essayed, once upon a time,
to depict the happy days of the little town, leading
its club life, singing its romantic songs (each his
own) and, for want of real game, organizing curious
cap-hunts. Then, war having come and the dark
times, Tarascon became known by its heroic
defence, its torpedoed esplanade, the club and the
Cafe de la Comedie, both made impregnable; all
the inhabitants enrolled in guerilla companies,
their breasts braided with death's head and cross-
bones, all beards grown, and such a display
of battle-axes, boarding cutlasses, and American
revolvers that the unfortunate inhabitants ended
by frightening themselves and no longer daring to
approach one another in the streets.
Many years have passed since the war, many a
worthless almanac has been put in the fire, but
Tarascon has never forgotten ; and, renouncing the
futile amusements of other days, it thinks of noth-
ing now but how to make blood and muscle for
the service of future revenge. Societies for pistol-
shooting and gymnastics, costumed and equipped,
all having band and banners; armouries, boxing-
gloves,' single-sticks, list-shoes; foot races and
flat-hand fights between persons in the best society;
these things have taken the place of the former
cap-hunts and the platonic cynegetical discussions
in the shop of the gunsmith Costecalde.
And finally the club, the old club itself, abjur-
ing bouillotte and bezique, is now transformed
156 Tartarin on the Alps,
into a '' Club Alpln " under the patronage of the
famous Alpine Club of London, which has borne
even to India the fame of its climbers. With this
difference, that the Tarasconese, instead of expat-
riating themselves on foreign summits, are content
with those they have in hand, or rather underfoot,
at the gates of their town.
"The Alps of Tarascon?" you ask. No; but
the Alpines, that chain of mountainettes, redolent
of thyme and lavender, not very dangerous, nor
yet very high (five to six hundred feet above
sea-level), which make an horizon of blue waves
along the Provengal roads and are decorated by
the local imagination with the fabulous and char-
acteristic names of: Moimt ^Terrible; The End of
the World ; The Peak of the Giants, etc.
' T is a pleasure to see, of a Sunday morning,
the gaitered Tarasconese, pickaxe in hand, knap-
sack and tent on their backs, starting off, bugles
in advance, for ascensions, of which the Forum, the
local journal, gives full account with a descriptive
luxury and wealth of epithets — abysses, gulfs,
terrifying gorges — as if the said ascension were
among the Himalayas. You can well believe that
from this exercise the aborigines have acquired
fresh strength and the " double muscles " hereto-
fore reserved to the only Tartarin, the good, the
brave, the heroic Tartarin.
If Tarascon epitomizes the South, Tartarin epit-
omizes Tarascon. He is not only the first citizen
of the town, he is its soul, its genius, he has all its
finest whimseys. We know his former exploits,
Tarascon, Five Mlmctes Stop I 157
his triumphs as a singer (oh ! that duet of" Robert
le Diable " in B^zuquet's pharmacy !), and the
amazing odyssey of his lion-hunts, from which he
returned with that splendid camel, the last in
Algeria, since deceased, laden with honours and
preserved in skeleton at the town museum among
other Tarasconese curiosities.
Tartarin himself has not degenerated; teeth
still good and eyes good, in spite of his fifties;
still that amazing imagination which brings nearer
and enlarges all objects with the power of a tele-
scope. He remains the same man as he of whom
the brave Commander Bravida used to say:
*' He 's a lapin. . . "
Or, rather, two lapins ! For in Tartarin, as in
all the Tarasconese, there is a warren race and a
cabbage race, very clearly accentuated : the roving
rabbit of the warren, adventurous, headlong; and
the cabbage-rabbit, homekeeping, coddling, ner-
vously afraid of fatigue, of draughts, and of any and
all accidents that may lead to death.
We know that this prudence did not prevent him
from showing himself brave and even heroic on
occasion; but it is permissible to ask what he was
doing on the Rigi {Regina Montiiini) at his age,
when he had so dearly bought the right to rest
and comfort.
To that inquiry the infamous Costecalde can
alone reply.
Costecalde, gunsmith by trade, represents a
type that is rather rare in Tarascon. Envy, base,
malignant envy, is visible in the wicked curve of
158 Tar tar in on the Alps,
his thin Hps, and a species of yellow bile, proceed-
ing from his liver in puffs, suffuses his broad,
clean-shaven, regular face, with its surface dented
as if by a hammer, like an ancient coin of Tiberius
or Caracalla. Envy with him is a disease, which
he makes no attempt to hide, and, with the fine
Tarasconese temperament that overlays everything,
he sometimes says in speaking of his infirmity:
" You don't know how that hurts me. . . "
Naturally the curse of Costecalde is Tartarin.
So much fame for a single man ! He every-
where ! always he ! And slowly, subterraneously,
like a worm within the gilded wood of an idol,
he saps from below for the last twenty years that
triumphant renown, and gnaws it, and hollows
it. When, in the evening, at the club, Tartarin
relates his encounters with lions and his wander-
ings in the great Sahara, Costecalde sits by with
mute little laughs, and incredulous shakes of the
head.
** But the skins, au mouaiuj Costecalde . . . those
lions' skins he sent us, which are there, in the
salon of the club? . ."
" T^ f pardi. . . Do you suppose there are no
furriers in Algeria? . . "
" But the marks of the balls, all round, in the
heads?"
" Et aiitremain, did n't we ourselves in the days
of the cap-hunts see ragged caps torn with bullets
at the hatters' for sale to clumsy shots ? "
No doubt the long established fame of Tartarin as
a slayer of wild beasts resisted these attacks ; but
Tarascon, Five Minutes Stop! 159
the Alpinist in himself was open to criticism, and
Costecalde did not deprive himself of the oppor-
tunity, being furious that a man should be elected
as president of the " Club of the Alpines " whom
age had visibly overweighted and whose liking, ac-
quired in Algeria, for Turkish slippers and flowing
garments predisposed to laziness.
In fact, Tartarin seldom took part in the ascen-
sions; he was satisfied to accompany them with
votive wishes, and to read in full session, with
rolling eyes, and intonations that turned the ladies
pale, the tragic narratives of the expeditions.
Costecalde, on the contrary, wiry, vigorous
** Cock-leg," as they called him, was always the
foremost climber; he had done the Alpines, one
by one, planting on their summits inaccessible the
banner of the Club, La Tarasque, starred in silver.
Nevertheless, he was only vice-president, V. P. C.
A. But he manipulated the place so well that
evidently, at the coming elections, Tartarin would
be made to skip.
Warned by his faithfuls — B^zuquet the apothe-
cary, Excourbanies, the brave Commander Bravida
— the hero was at first possessed by black disgust,
by that indignant rancour which ingratitude and
injustice arouse in the noblest soul. He wanted
to quit everything, to expatriate himself, to cross
the bridge and go and live in Beaucaire, among
the Volsci ; after that, he grew calmer.
To quit his little house, his garden, his beloved
habits, to renounce his chair as president of the
Club of the Alpines, founded by himself, to resign
i6o Tartarin on the Alps,
that majestic P. C. A. which adorned and distin-
guished his cards, his letter-paper, and even the
Hning of his hat! Not possible, ve I Suddenly
there came into his head an electrifying idea. . .
In a word, the exploits of Costecalde were
limited to excursions among the Alpines. Why
should not Tartarin, during the three months that
still intervened before the elections, why should he
not attempt some grandiose adventure? plant,
for instance, the standard of the Club on the
highest peak of Europe, the Jungfrau or the Mont
Blanc?
What triumph on his return ! what a slap in the
face to Costecalde when the Forum should publish
an account of the ascension ! Who would dare to
dispute his presidency after that?
Immediately he set to work; sent secretly to
Paris for quantities of works on Alpine adventure :
Whymper's " Scrambles," Tyndall's " Glaciers,"
the '* Mont-Blanc " of Stephen d'Arve, reports of
the Alpine Club, English and Swiss ; cramming his
head with a mass of mountaineering terms — chim-
neys, couloirs, moulins, neves, seracs, moraines,
rotures — without knowing very well what they
meant.
At night, his dreams were fearful with inter-
minable slides and sudden falls into bottomless
crevasses. Avalanches rolled him down, icy
aretes caught his body on the descent; and long
after his waking and the chocolate he always took
in bed, the agony and the oppression of that
nightmare clung to him. But all this did not
Tarascmi, Five Minutes Stop! i6i
hinder him, once afoot, from devoting his whole
morning to the most laborious training exercises.
Around Tarascon is a promenade planted with
trees which, in the local dictionary, is called the
"Tour de Ville." Every Sunday afternoon, the
Tarasconese, who, in spite of their imagination,
are a people of routine, make the tour of their
town, and always in the same direction. Tartarin
now exercised himself by making it eight times, ten
times, of a morning, and often reversed the way.
He walked, his hands behind his back, with short
mountain-steps, both slow and sure, till the shop-
keepers, alarmed by this infraction of local habits,
were lost in suppositions of all possible kinds.
At home, in his exotic garden, he practised the
art of leaping crevasses, by jumping over the basin
in which a few gold-fish were swimming about
among the water-weeds. On two occasions he
fell in, and was forced to change his clothes. Such
mishaps inspired him only the more, and, being
subject to vertigo, he practised walking on the
narrow masonry round the edge of the water, to
the terror of his old servant-woman, who under-
stood nothing of these performances.
During this time, he ordered, in Avignon^ from
an excellent locksmith, crampons of the Whymper
pattern, and a Kennedy ice-axe ; also he procured
himself a reed-wick lamp, two impermeable cover-
lets, and two hundred feet of rope of his own
invention, woven with iron wire.
The arrival of these different articles from Avi-
gnon, the mysterious goings and comings which
II
1 62 Tartarin on the Alps,
their construction required, puzzled the Taras-
conese much, and it was generally said about
town : ** The president is preparing a stroke."
But what? Something grand, you may be sure,
for, in the beautiful words of the brave and senten-
tious Commander Bravida, retired captain of equip-
ment, who never spoke except in apothegms:
** Eagles hunt no flies."
With his closest intimates Tartarin remained
impenetrable. Only, at the sessions of the Club,
they noticed the quivering of his voice and the
lightning flash of his eyes whenever he addressed
Costecalde — the indirect cause of this new expe-
dition, the dangers and fatigues of which became
more pronounced to his mind the nearer he
approached it. The unfortunate man did not
attempt to disguise them ; in fact he took so black
a view of the matter that he thought it indispen-
sable to set his afl'airs in order, to write those last
wishes, the expression of which is so trying to the
Tarasconese, lovers of life, that most of them die
intestate.
On a radiant morning in June, beneath a cloud-
less arched and splendid sky, the door of his
study open upon the neat little garden with its
gravelled paths, where the exotic plants stretched
forth their motionless lilac shadows, where the
fountain tinkled its silvery note 'mid the merry
shouts of the Savoyards, playing at marbles before
the gate, behold Tartarin ! in Turkish slippers,
wide flannel under-garments, easy in body, his pipe
at hand, reading aloud as he wrote the words : —
Tarascon, Five Mhtutes Stop! 163'
" This is my last will and testament."
Ha ! one may have one's heart in the right
place and solidly hooked there, but these are cruel
moments. Nevertheless, neither his hand nor his
voice trembled while he distributed among his
fellow-citizens all the ethnographical riches piled
in his little home, carefully dusted and preserved
in immaculate order.
"To the Club of the Alpines, my baobab {arbos^
giganted), to stand on the chimney-piece of the hall
of sessions ; "
To Bravida, his carbines, revolvers, hunting
knives, Malay krishes, tomahawks, and other
murderous weapons ;
To Excourbanies, all his pipes, calumets, nar-
ghiles, and pipelets for smoking kif and opium;
To Costecalde — yes, Costecalde himself had
his legacy — the famous poisoned arrows (Do not
touch).
Perhaps beneath this gift was the secret hope
that the traitor would touch and die ; but nothing
of the kind was exhaled by the will, which closed
with the following words, of a divine meekness :
" I beg my dear Alpinists not to forget their
president. . . I wish them to forgive my enemy
as I have forgiven him, although it is he who has
caused my death. . ."
Here Tartarin was forced to stop, blinded by
a flood of tears. For a minute he beheld himself
crushed, lying in fragments at the foot of a high
mountain, his shapeless remains gathered up in a
barrow, and brought back to Tarascon. Oh, the
1 64 Tartarin on the Alps,
power of that Provencal imagination ! he was
present at his own funeral ; he heard the lugubri-
ous chants, and the talk above his grave : *' Poor
Tartarin, pechhe ! " and, mingling with the crowd
of his faithful friends, he wept for himself.
But immediately after, the sight of the sun
streaming into his study and glittering on the
weapons and pipes in their usual order, the song
of that thread of a fountain in the middle of the
garden recalled him to the actual state of things.
Differemmenty why die? Why go, even? Who
obliged him? What foolish vanity! Risk his Hfe
for a presidential chair and three letters ! . .
T was a passing weakness, and it lasted no
longer than any other. At the end of five minutes
the will was finished, signed, the flourish added,
sealed with an enormous black seal, and the great
man had concluded his last preparations for
departure.
Once more had the warren Tartarin triumphed
over the cabbage Tartarin. It could be said of tlie
Tarasconese hero, as was said of Turenne : *' His
body was not always willing to go into battle, but
his will led him there in spite of himself."
The evening of that same day, as the last stroke
of ten was sounding from the tower of the town-
hall, the streets being already deserted, a man,
after brusquely slamming a door, glided along
through the darkened town, where nothing lighted
the fronts of the houses, save the hanging-lamps
of the streets and the pink and green bottles of
Tarascon, Five Minutes' Stop! 165
the pharmacy Bezuquet, which projected their
reflections on the pavement, together with a sil-
houette of the apothecary himself resting his
elbows on his desk and sound asleep on the
Codex ; — a little nap, which he took every even-
ing from nine to ten, to make himself, so he said,
the fresher at night for those who might need his
services. That, between ourselves, was a mere
tarasconade, for no one ever waked him at night,
in fact he himself had cut the bell-wire, in order
that he might sleep more tranquilly.
Suddenly Tartarin entered, loaded with rugs,
carpet-bag in hand, and so pale, so discomposed,
that the apothecary, with that fiery local imagi-
nation from which the pharmacy was no preserva-
tive, jumped to the conclusion of some alarming
misadventure and was terrified. "■ Unhappy man ! "
he cried, "what is it?., you are poisoned?..
Quick ! quick ! some ipeca. . . "
And he sprang forward, bustling among his
bottles. To stop him, Tartarin was forced to
catch him round the waist. " Listen to me,
qu^ diable! " and his voice grated with the vexation
of an actor whose entrance has been made to
miss fire. As soon as the apothecary was rendered
motionless behind the counter by an iron wrist,
Tartarin said in a low voice : —
" Are we alone, Bezuquet ? "
'^ B^ ! yes," ejaculated the other, looking about
in vague alarm ..." Pascalon has gone to bed. "
[ Pascalon was his pupil.] " Mamma too ; why
do you ask ? "
1 66 Tartarm on the Alps,
" Shut the shutters," commanded Tartarin, with-
out replying; " we might be seen from without."
Bdzuquet obeyed, trembling. An old bachelor,
living with his mother, whom he never quitted,
he had all the gentleness and timidity of a girl,
contrasting oddly with his swarthy skin, his hairy
lips, his great hooked nose above a spreading
moustache; in short, the head of an Algerine
pirate before the conquest. These antitheses are
frequent in Tarascon, where heads have too
much character, Roman or Saracen, heads with
the expression of models for a school of design, but
quite out of place in bourgeois trades among the
manners and customs of a little town.
For instance, Excourbanies, who has all the
air of a conquistador, companion of Pizarro, rolls
flaming eyes in selling haberdashery to induce
the purchase of two sous' worth of thread. And
Bezuquet, labelling liquorice and siriipus gtimmiy
resembles an old sea-rover of the Barbary coast.
When the shutters were put up and secured
by iron bolts and transversal bars, " Listen, Fer-
dinand ..." said Tartarin, who was fond of
calling people by their Christian names. And
thereupon he unbosomed himself, emptied his
heart full of bitterness at the ingratitude of his
compatriots, related the manoeuvres of " Cock-
leg," the trick about to be played upon him at
the coming elections, and the manner in which he
expected to parry the blow.
Before all else, the matter must be kept very
secret ; it must not be revealed until the moment
Tarascon, Five Minutes' Stop! 167
when success was assured, unless some unforeseen
accident, one of those frightful catastrophes —
" Hey, B^zuquet ! don't whistle in that way when
I talk to you."
This was one of the apothecary's ridiculous
habits. Not talkative by nature (a negative
quality seldom met with in Tarascon, and which
won him this confidence of the president), his
thick lips, always in the form of an O, had a
habit of perpetually whistling that gave him an
appearance of laughing in the nose of the world,
even on the gravest occasions.
So that, while the hero made allusion to his
possible death, saying, as he laid upon the counter
a large sealed envelope, ** This is my last will
and testament, Bdzuquet; it is you whom I have
chosen as testamentary executor. . ." " Hui . . .
hui . . . hui ..." whistled the apothecary, carried
away by his mania, while at heart he was deeply
moved and fully conscious of the grandeur of
his role.
Then, the hour of departure being at hand, he
desired to drink to the enterprise, " something good,
qu^f a glass of the elixir of Garus, hey?*' After
several closets had been opened and searched, he re-
membered that mamma had the keys of the Garus.
To get them it would be necessary to awaken her
and fell who was there. The elixir was therefore
changed to a glass of the sirop de CalabrCy a
summer drink, inoffensive and modest, which B^zu-
quet invented, advertising it in the Forum as fol-
lows : Sirop de Calabre^ ten sous a bottle ^ incltiding
1 68 Tartari7t on the Alps.
the glass {verre). '' Sirop de Cadavre, including
the worms (^vers)," said that infernal Costecalde,
who spat upon all success. But, after all, that
horrid play upon words only served to swell the
sale, and the Tarasconese to this day delight in
their sirop de cadavre.
Libations made and a few last words exchanged,
they embraced, Bezuquet whistling as usual in
his moustache, adown which rolled great tears.
"Adieu, all mouain'' . . . said Tartarin in a
rough tone, feeling that he was about to weep
himself, and as the shutter of the door had been
lowered the hero was compelled to creep out of
the pharmacy on his hands and knees.
This was one of the trials of the journey now
about to begin.
Three days later he landed in Vitznau at the
foot of the Rigi. As the mountain for his debut,
the Rigi had attracted him by its low altitude
(5900 feet, about ten times that of Mount Terrible,
the highest of the Alpines) and also on account of
the splendid panorama to be seen from the sum-
mit— the Bernese Alps marshalled in line, all
white and rosy, around the lakes, awaiting the mo-
ment when the great ascensionist should cast his
ice-axe upon one of them.
Certain of being recognized on the way and
perhaps followed — 't was a foible of his to believe
that throughout all France his fame was as great
and popular as it was at Tarascon — he had made
a great detour before entering Switzerland and
did not don his accoutrements until after he had
Tarascoii, Five Minutes Stop I 169
crossed the frontier. Luckily for him ; for never
could his armament have been contained in one
French railway-carriage.
But, however convenient the Swiss compart-
ments might be, the Alpinist, hampered with uten-
sils to which he was not, as yet, accustomed, crushed
toe-nails with his crampons, harpooned travellers
who came in his way with the point of his alpen-
stock, and wherever he went, in the stations, the
steamers, and the hotel salons, he excited as much
amazement as he did maledictions, avoidance, and
angry looks, which he could not explain to him-
self though his affectionate and communicative
nature suffered from them. To complete his dis-
comfort, the sky was always gray, with flocks of
clouds and a driving rain.
It rained at Bale, on the little white houses,
washed and rewashed by the hands of a maid and
the waters of heaven. It rained at Lucerne, on
the quay where the trunks and boxes appeared to
be saved, as it were, from shipwreck, and when he
arrived at the station of Vitznau, on the shore of
the lake of the Four-Cantons, the same deluge was
descending on the verdant slopes of the Rigi, strad-
dled by inky clouds and striped with torrents that
leaped from rock to rock in cascades of misty
sleet, bringing down as they came the loose stones
and the pine-needles. Never had Tartarin seen so
much water.
He entered an inn and ordered a caf^ au tail
with honey and butter, the only really good things
he had as yet tasted during his journey. Then,
170 Tartarhi on the Alps,
reinvigorated, and his beard sticky with honey,
cleaned on a corner of his napkin, he prepared to
attempt his first ascension.
" Et autremain,' he asked, as he shifted his
knapsack, " how long does it take to ascend the
Rigi?"
" One hour, one hour and a quarter, monsieur;
but make haste about it ; the train is just starting.'*
" A train upon the Rigi ! . . you are joking ! . . "
Through the leaded panes of the tavern window
he was shown the train that was really starting.
Two great covered carriages, windowless, pushed
by a locomotive with a short, corpulent chimney,
in shape like a saucepan, a monstrous insect,
clinging to the mountain and clambering, breath-
less up its vertiginous slopes.
The two Tartarins, cabbage and warren, both,
at the same instant, revolted at the thought of
going up in that hideous mechanism. One of
them thought it ridiculous to climb the Alps in a
lift; as for the other, those aerial bridges on which
the track was laid, with the prospect of a fall of
4000 feet at the slightest derailment, inspired him
with all sorts of lamentable reflections, justified by
the little cemetery of Vitznau, the white tombs of
which lay huddled together at the foot of the slope,
like linen spread out to bleach in the yard of a
wash-house. Evidently the cemetery is there by
way of precaution, so that, in case of accident,
the travellers may drop on the very spot.
" I ' 11 go afoot, " the valiant Tarasconese said to
himself; " 't will exercise me . . . zou! "
Tarascon^ Five Mmutes Stop! 171
And he started, wholly preoccupied with man-
CEuvring his alpenstock in presence of the staff of
the hotel, collected about the door and shouting
directions to him about the path, to which he did
not listen. He first followed an ascending road,
paved with large irregular, pointed stones like a
lane at the South, and bordered with wooden gut-
ters to carry off the rains.
To right and left were great orchards, fields of
rank, lush grass crossed by the same wooden con-
duits for irrigation through hollowed trunks of
trees. All this made a constant rippling from top
to bottom of the mountain, and every time that
the ice-axe of the Alpinist became hooked as he
walked along in the lower branches of an oak or a
walnut-tree, his cap crackled as if beneath the
nozzle of a watering-pot.
" Diou ! what a lot of water ! " sighed the man
of the South. But it was much worse when the
pebbly path abruptly ceased and he was forced
to puddle along in the torrent or jump from rock
to rock to save his gaiters. Then a shower
joined in, penetrating, steady, and seeming to get
colder the higher he went. When he stopped to
recover breath he could hear nothing else than
a vast noise of waters in which he seemed to be
sunk, and he saw, as he turned round, the clouds
descending into the lake in delicate long filaments
of spun glass through which the chalets of Vitznau
shone like freshly varnished toys.
Men and children passed him with lowered heads
and backs bent beneath hods of white-wood, con-
172 Tartarin on the Alps,
taining provisions for some villa or pension^ the
balconies of which could be distinguished on the
slopes. " Rigi-Kulm?" asked Tartarin, to be sure
he was heading in the right direction. But his
extraordinary equipment, especially that knitted
muffler which masked his face, cast terror along
the way, and all whom he addre^ssed only opened
their eyes wide and hastened their steps without
replying.
Soon these encounters became rare. The last
human being whom he saw was an old woman
washing her linen in the hollowed trunk of a tree
under the shelter of an enormous red umbrella,
planted in the ground.
''Rigi-Kulm?" asked the Alpinist.
The old woman raised an idiotic, cadaverous
face, with a goitre swaying upon her throat as
large as the rustic bell of a Swiss cow. Then,
after gazing at him for a long time, she was seized
with inextinguishable laughter, which stretched her
mouth from ear to ear, wrinkled up the corners of
her little eyes, and every time she opened them the
sight of Tartarin, planted before her with his ice-
axe on his shoulder, redoubled her joy.
** Tj'on de Vair!'' growled the Tarasconese,
" lucky for her that she 's a woman. . . " Snorting
with anger, he continued his way and lost it in a
pine-wood, where his boots slipped on the oozing
moss.
Beyond this point the landscape changed. No
more paths, or trees, or pastures. Gloomy, de-
nuded slopes, great boulders of rock which he scaled
Tarascon, Five Minutes Stop! 173
on his knees for fear of falling; sloughs full of
yellow mud, which he crossed slowly, feeling before
him with his alpenstock and lifting his feet like a
knife-grinder. At every moment he looked at the
compass hanging to his broad watch-ribbon; but
whether it were the altitude or the variations of the
temperature, the needle seemed untrue. And how
could he find his bearings in a thick yellow fog that
hindered him from seeing ten steps about him —
steps that were now, within a moment, covered with
an icy glaze that made the ascent more difficult.
Suddenly he stopped; the ground whitened
vaguely before him. . . Look out for your eyes ! . .
He had come to the region of snows. . .
Immediately he pulled out his spectacles, took
them from their case, and settled them securely on
his nose. The moment was a solemn one. Slightly
agitated, yet proud all the same, it seemed to Tar-
tarin that in one bound he had risen 3000 feet
toward the summits and his greatest dangers.
He now advanced with more precaution, dream-
ing of crevasses and fissures such as the books tell
of, and cursing in the depths of his heart those
people at the inn who advised him to mount straight
and take no guide. After all, perhaps he had
mistaken the mountain ! More than six hours had
he tramped, and the Rigi required only three. The
wind blew, a chilling wind that whirled the snow in
that crepuscular fog.
Night was about to overtake him. Where find a
hut? or even a projecting rock to shelter him? All
of a sudden, he saw before his nose on the arid,
174 Tartarin 07t the Alps,
naked plain a species of wooden chalet, bearing,
on a long placard in gigantic type, these letters,
which he deciphered with difficulty: PHO. . .
TO . . . GRA . . . PHIE DU RI . . . GI KULM.
At the same instant the vast hotel with its three
hundred windows loomed up before him between
the great lamp-posts, the globes of which were
now being lighted in the fog.
Aji Alarm on the RigL 175
III.
An alarm on the Rigi. '•^ Keep cool ! Keep cool/" The
Alpine horn. What Tartarin saw^ on awaking, in his look-
ing-glass. Perplexity. A guide is ordered by telephone.
" QuES aco? . . Qui vive? " cried Tartarin, ears
alert and eyes straining hard into the darkness.
Feet were running through the hotel, doors were
slamming, breathless voices were crying: "Make
haste ! make haste ! . . " while without was ringing
what seemed to be a trumpet-call, as flashes of flame
illumined both panes and curtains.
Fire ! . .
At a bound he was out of bed, shod, clothed, and
running headlong down the staircase, where the gas
still burned and a rustling swarm of misses were
descending, with hair put up in haste, and they
themselves swathed in shawls and red woollen
jackets, or anything else that came to hand as they
jumped out of bed.
Tartarin, to fortify himself and also to reassure
the young ladies, cried out, as he rushed on, hust-
ling everybody : " Keep cool ! Keep cool !" in the
voice of a gull, pallid, distraught, one of those voices
that we hear in dreams sending chills down the back
of the bravest man. Now, can you understand
those young misses^ who laughed as they looked at
176 Tartarin on the Alps,
him and seemed to think it very funny? Girls
have no notion of danger, at that age ! . .
Happily, the old diplomatist came along behind
them, very cursorily clothed in a top-coat below
which appeared his white drawers with trailing ends
of tape-string.
Here was a man, at last ! . .
Tartarin ran to him waving his arms: "Ah!
Monsieur le baron, what a disaster ! . . Do you
know about it? . . Where is it?.. How did it
take? . ."
"Who? What?" stuttered the terrified baron,
not understanding.
" Why, the fire. . . "
"What fire? . . "
The poor man's countenance was so inexpress-
ibly vacant and stupid that Tartarin abandoned
him and rushed away abruptly to " organize
help. . . "
" Help ! " repeated the baron, and after him four
or five waiters, sound asleep on their feet in the
antechamber, looked at one another completely
bewildered and echoed, '* Help ! . . "
At the first step that Tartarin made out-of-doors
he saw his error. Not the slightest conflagration !
Only savage cold, and pitchy darkness, scarcely
lighted by the resinous torches that were being
carried hither and thither, casting on the snow
long, blood-coloured traces.
On the steps of the portico, a performer on the
Alpine horn was bellowing his modulated moan,
that monotonous ranz des vaches on three notes,
An Alarm 07t the Rigi, 177
with which the Rigi-Kulm is wont to waken the
worshippers of the sun and announce to them the
rising of their star.
It is said that it shows itself, sometimes, on rising,
at the extreme top of the mountain behind the hotel.
To get his bearings, Tartarin had only to follow the
long peal of the misses' laughter which now went
past him. But he walked more slowly, still full of
sleep and his legs heavy with his six hours' climb.
" Is that you, Manilof? . ." said a clear voice
from the darkness, the voice of a woman. " Help
me. . . I have lost my shoe."
He recognized at once the foreign warble of his
pretty little neighbour at the dinner-table, whose
delicate silhouette he now saw in the first pale
gleam of the coming sun.
" It is not Manilof, mademoiselle, but if I can be
useful to you. . ."
She gave a little cry of surprise and alarm as she
made a recoiling gesture that Tartarin did not per-
ceive, having already stooped to feel about the
short and crackling grass around them.
" TV, pardi ! here it is ! " he cried joyfully. He
shook the dainty shoe which the snow had pow-
dered, and putting a knee to earth, most gallantly
in the snow and the dampness, he asked, for all
reward, the honour of replacing it on Cinderella's
foot.
She, more repellent than in the tale, replied with
a very curt " no ; " and endeavoured, by hopping on
one foot, to reinstate her silk stocking in its little
bronze shoe ; but in that she could never have suc-
12
178 Tartarin on the Alps,
ceeded without the help of the hero, who was
greatly moved by feeling for an instant that deli-
cate hand upon his shoulder.
'*You have good eyes," she said, by way of
thanks as they now walked side by side, and feel-
ing their way.
" The habit of watching for game, mademoiselle."
" Ah ! you are a sportsman? "
She said it with an incredulous, satirical accent.
Tartarin had only to name himself in order to
convince her, but, like the bearers of all illustri-
ous names, he preferred discretion, coquetry. So,
wishing to graduate the surprise, he answered : —
" I am a sportsman, effectivemain''
She continued in the same tone of irony: —
** And what game do you prefer to hunt? "
" The great carnivora, wild beasts . . ." uttered
Tartarin, thinking to dazzle her.
"Do you find many on the Rigi?"
Always gallant, and ready in reply, Tartarin was
about to say that on the Rigi he had so far met
none but gazelles, when his answer was suddenly
cut short by the appearance of two shadows, who
called out: —
" Sonia ! . . Sonia ! . ."
" I 'm coming," she said, and turning to Tartarin,
whose eyes, now accustomed to the darkness, could
distinguish her pale and pretty face beneath her
mantle, she added, this time seriously : —
" You have undertaken a dangerous enterprise,
my good man . . . take care you do not leave your
bones here."
An Alarm on the RigL 179
So saying, she instantly disappeared in the dark-
ness with her companions.
Later, the threatening intonation that empha-
sized those words was fated to trouble the imagi-
nation of the Southerner; but now, he was simply
vexed at the term " good man," cast upon his
elderly embonpoint, and also at the abrupt depart-
ure of the young girl just at the moment when he
was about to name himself, and enjoy her stupe-
faction.
He made a few steps in the direction the group
had taken, hearing a confused murmur, with
coughs and sneezes, of the clustering tourists wait-
ing impatiently for the rising of the sun, the most
vigorous among them having climbed to a little
belvedere, the steps of which, wadded with snow,
could be whitely distinguished in the vanishing
darkness.
A gleam was beginning to light the Orient, sa-
luted by a fresh blast from the Alpine horn, and
that **Ah!!" of relief, always heard in theatres
when the third bell raises the curtain.
Slight as a ray through a shutter, this gleam,
nevertheless, enlarged the horizon, but, at the same
moment a fog, opaque and yellow, rose from the
valley, a steam that grew more thick, more pene-
trating as the day advanced. 'T was a veil between
the scene and the spectators.
All hope was now renounced of the gigantic
effects predicted in the guide-books. On the other
hand, the heteroclite array of the dancers of the
night before, torn from their slumbers, appeared
i8o Tartarhi on the Alps,
in fantastic and ridiculous outline like the shades
of a magic lantern; shawls, rugs, and even bed-
quilts wrapped around them. Under varied head-
gear, nightcaps of silk or cotton, broad-brimmed
female hats, turbans, fur caps with ear-pads, were
haggard faces, swollen faces, heads of shipwrecked
beings cast upon a desert island in mid-ocean,
watching for a sail in the offing with staring eyes.
But nothing — everlastingly nothing!
Nevertheless, certain among them strove, in a
gush of good-will, to distinguish the surrounding
summits, and, on the top of the belvedere could
be heard the clucking of the Peruvian family,
pressing around a big devil, wrapped to his feet in
a checked ulster, who was pointing out imperturb-
ably, the invisible panorama of the Bernese Alps,
naming in a loud voice the peaks that were lost in
the fog.
" You see on the left the Finsteraarhorn, thirteen
thousand seven hundred and ninety-five feet high
. . . the Schreckhorn, the Wetterhorn, the Monk,
the Jungfrau, the elegant proportions of which I
especially point out to these young ladies. . ."
" B^ ! ve ! there 's one who does n't lack cheek ! "
thought Tartarin; then, on reflection, he added:
" I know that voice, au mouain!^
He recognized the accent, that accent of the
South, distinguishable from afar like garlic; but,
quite preoccupied in finding again his fair Un-
known, he did not pause, and continued to inspect
the groups — without result. She must have re-
entered the hotel, as they all did now, weary with
An Alarm on the Rigu i8i
standing about, shivering, to no purpose, so that
presently no one remained on the cold and deso-
late plateau of that gray dawn but Tartarin and the
Alpine horn-player, who continued to blow a mel-
ancholy note through his huge instrument, like a
dog baying the moon.
He was a short old man, with a long beard,
wearing a Tyrolese hat adorned with green woollen
tassels that hung down upon his back and, in let-
ters of gold, the words (common to all the hats
and caps in the service of the hotel) Regina Mon-
tium. Tartarin went up to give him a pourboire,
as he had seen all the other tourists do. " Let us
go to bed again, my old friend," he said, tapping
him on the shoulder with Tarasconese familiarity.
** A fine humbug, qn^ ! the sunrise on the Rigi."
The old man continued to blow into his horn,
concluding his ritornelle in three notes with a mute
laugh that wrinkled the corners of his eyes and
shook the green glands of his head-gear.
Tartarin, in spite of all, did not regret his night.
That meeting with the pretty blonde repaid him
for his loss of sleep, for, though nigh upon fifty,
he still had a warm heart, a romantic imagination,
a glowing hearthstone of life. Returning to bed,
and shutting his eyes to make himself go to sleep,
he fancied he felt in his hand that dainty little
shoe, and heard again the gentle call of the fair
young girl : ** Is it you, Manilof ? "
Sonia . . . what a pretty name ! . . She was cer-
tainly Russian ; and those young men were trav-
eUing with her ; friends of her brother, no doubt.
1 82 Tartarhi on the Alps,
Then all grew hazy; the pretty face in its golden
curls joined the other floating visions, — Rigi
slopes, cascades like plumes of feathers, — and
soon the heroic breathing of the great man, sono-
rous and rhythmical, filled the little room and the
greater part of the long corridor. . .
The next morning, before descending at the first
gong for breakfast, Tartarin was about to make
sure that his beard was well brushed, and that he
himself did not look too badly in his Alpine cos-
tume, when, all of a sudden, he quivered. Before
him, open, and gummed to his looking-glass by
two wafers, was an anonymous letter, containing
the following threats : —
*' Devil of a Frenchman^ your queer old clothes do
not conceal you. You are forgiven once more for
this attempt ; but if you cross our path again^
beware I "
Bewildered, he read this two or three times over
without understanding it. Of whom, of what must
he beware? How came that letter there? Evi-
dently during his sleep ; for he did not see it on
returning from his auroral promenade. He rang
for the maid on duty ; a fat, white face, all pitted
with the small-pox, a perfect gruyere cheese, from
which nothing intelligible could be drawn, except
that she was of '' bon famille," and never entered
the rooms of the gentlemen unless they were
there.
" A queer thing, au mouain!' thought Tartarin,
turning and returning the letter, and much im-
A 71 Alarm on the Rigi. 183
pressed by it. For a moment the name of Coste-
calde crossed his mind, — Costecalde, informed of
his projects of ascension, and endeavouring to pre-
vent them by manoeuvres and threats. On reflec-
tion, this appeared to him unlikely, and he ended
by persuading himself that the letter was a joke
. . . perhaps those little misses who had laughed
at him so heartily . . . they are so free, those
English and American young girls !
The second breakfast gong sounded. He put
the letter in his pocket : " After all, we '11 soon
see . . ." and the formidable grimace with which
he accompanied that reflection showed the heroism
of his soul.
Fresh surprise when he sat down to table. In-
stead of his pretty neighbour, ** whom Love had
curled with gold," he perceived the vulture throat
of an old Englishwoman, whose long lappets swept
the cloth. It was rumoured about him that the
young lady and her companions had left the hotel
by one of the early morning trains.
" *Cr^ nom! I 'm fooled . . ." exclaimed aloud
the Italian tenor, who, the evening before, had so
rudely signified to Tartarin that he could not speak
French. He must have learned it in a single
night ! The tenor rose, threw down his napkin,
and hurried away, leaving the Southerner com-
pletely nonplussed.
Of all the guests of the night before, none
now remained but himself. That is always so
on the Rigi-Kulm ; no one stays there more than
tv/enty-four hours. In other respects the scene
184 Tartarin on the Alps,
was invariably the same; the compote-dishes in
files divided the factions. But on this particular
morning the Rices triumphed by a great majority,
reinforced by certain illustrious personages, and
the Prunes did not, as they say, have it all their
own way.
Tartarin, without taking sides with one or the
other, went up to his room before the dessert,
buckled his bag, and asked for his bill. He had
had enough of Regina Montium and its dreary
table d'hote of deaf mutes.
Abruptly recalled to his Alpine madness by the
touch of his ice-axe, his crampons, and the rope
in which he rewound himself, he burned to attack
a real mountain, a summit deprived of a lift and a
photographer. He hesitated between the Finster-
aarhorn, as being the highest, and the Jungfrau,
whose pretty name of virginal whiteness made him
think more than once of the little Russian.
Ruminating on these alternatives while they
made out his bill, he amused himself in the vast,
lugubrious, silent hall of the hotel by looking at
the coloured photographs hanging to the walls,
representing glaciers, snowy slopes, famous and
perilous mountain passes : here, were ascensionists
in file, like ants on a quest, creeping along an icy
arete sharply defined and blue ; farther on was a
deep crevasse, with glaucous sides, over which was
thrown a ladder, and a lady crossing it on her
knees, with an abb6 after her raising his cassock.
The Alpinist of Tarascon, both hands on his
ice-axe, had never, as yet, had an idea of such
An Alarm 07i the Rigt. 185
difficulties; he would have to meet them, pas
mouain I . .
Suddenly he paled fearfully.
In a black frame, an engraving from the famous
drawing of Gustave Dore, reproducing the catas-
trophe on the Matterhorn, met his eye. Four
human bodies on the flat of their backs or stom-
achs were coming headlong down the almost per-
pendicular slope of a n^v^y with extended arms and
clutching hands, seeking the broken rope which
held this string of lives, and only served to drag
them down to death in the gulf where the mass
was to fall pell-mell, with ropes, axes, veils, and all
the gay outfit of Alpine ascension, grown suddenly
tragic.
" Awful ! " cried Tartarin, speaking aloud in his
horror.
A very civil mattre d'hotel heard the exclama-
tion, and thought best to reassure him. Accidents
of that nature, he said, were becoming very rare:
the essential thing was to commit no imprudence
and, above all, to procure good guides.
Tartarin asked if he could be told of one there,
" with confidence. . ." Not that he himself had any
fear, but it was always best to have a sure man.
The waiter reflected, with an important air,
twirling his moustache. "With confidence?..
Ah! if monsieur had only spoken sooner; we
had a man here this morning who was just the
thing . . . the courier of that Peruvian family. . ."
" He understands the mountain? " said Tartarin,
with a knowing air.
1 86 Tartarin on the Alps.
" Oh, yes, monsieur, all the mountains, in
Switzerland, Savoie, Tyrol, India, in fact, the whole
world ; he has done them all, he knows them all,
he can tell you all about them, and that 's some-
thing ! . . I think he might easily be induced. . .
With a man like that a child could go anywhere
without danger."
" Where is he ? How could I find him? "
"At the Kaltbad, monsieur, preparing the
rooms for his party. . . I could telephone to him."
A telephone ! on the Rigi !
That was the climax. But Tartarin could no
longer be amazed.
Five minutes later the man returned bringing an
answer.
The courier of the Peruvian party had just
started for the Tellsplatte, where he would certainly
pass the night.
The Tellsplatte is a memorial chapel, to which
pilgrimages are made in honour of WiUiam Tell.
Some persons go there to see the mural pictures
which a famous painter of Bale has lately executed
in the chapel. . .
As it only took by boat an hour or an hour and
a half to reach the place, Tartarin did not hesitate.
It would make him lose a day, but he owed it to
himself to render that homage to William Tell, for
whom he had always felt a peculiar predilection.
And, besides, what a chance if he could there pick
up this marvellous guide and induce him to do the
Jungfrau with him.
Forward, zoii !
An Alarm on the RigL 187
He paid his bill, in which the setting and the ris-
ing sun were reckoned as extras, also the candles
and the attendance. Then, still preceded by the
rattle of his metals, which sowed surprise and
terror on his way, he went to the railway station,
because to descend the Rigi as he had ascended
it, on foot, would have been lost time, and, really,
it was doing too much honour to that very arti-
ficial mountain.
1 88 Tartariji on the Alps,
IV.
On the boat. It rains. The Tarasconese hero salutes the
Ashes. The truth about William Tell. Disillusion. Tar-
tarin of Tarascon never existed. " Te ! Bompard.^''
He had left the snows of the Rigi-Kulm ; down
below, on the lake, he returned to rain, fine, close,
misty, a vapour of water through which the moun-
tains stumped themselves in, graduating in the dis-
tance to the form of clouds.
The " Fohn " whistled, raising white caps on the
lake where the gulls, flying low, seemed borne
upon the waves ; one might have thought one's self
on the open ocean.
Tartarin recalled to mind his departure from the
port of Marseilles, fifteen years earlier, when he
started to hunt the lion — that spotless sky, daz-
zling with silvery light, that sea so blue, blue
as the water of dye-works, blown back by the
mistral in sparkling white saline crystals, the
bugles of the forts and the bells of all the steeples
echoing joy, rapture, sun — the fairy world of a
first journey.
What a contrast to this black dripping wharf,
almost deserted, on which were seen, through the
mist as through a sheet of oiled paper, a few pas-
sengers wrapped in ulsters and formless India-
On the Boat. 189
rubber garments, and the helmsman standing
motionless, muffled in his hooded cloak, his man-
ner grave and sibylline, behind this notice printed
in three languages : —
" Forbidden to speak to the man at the wheel."
Very useless caution, for nobody spoke on board
the " Winkelried," neither on deck, nor in the
first and second saloons crowded with lugubrious-
looking passengers, sleeping, reading, yawning,
pell-mell, with their smaller packages scattered on
the seats — the sort of scene we imagine that a
batch of exiles on the morning after a coup-d'Etat
might present.
From time to time the hoarse bellow of the
steam-pipe announced the arrival of the boat at a
stopping-place. A noise of steps, and of baggage
dragged about the deck. The shore, looming
through the fog, came nearer and showed its slopes
of a sombre green, its villas shivering amid inun-
dated groves, files of poplars flanking the muddy
roads along which sumptuous hotels were formed
in line with their names in letters of gold upon
their facades. Hotel Meyer, Miiller, du Lac, etc.,
where heads, bored with existence, made them-
selves visible behind the streaming window-panes.
The wharf was reached, the passengers disem-
barked and went upward, all equally muddy,
soaked, and silent. 'Twas a coming and going
of umbrellas and omnibuses, quickly vanishing.
Then a great beating of the wheels, churning up the
water with their paddles, and the shore retreated,
becoming once more a misty landscape with its
190 Tartarin on the Alps.
pe7isions Meyer, Miiller, du Lac, etc., the windows
of which, opened for an instant, gave fluttering
handkerchiefs to view from every floor, and out-
stretched arms that seemed to say : " Mercy !
pity ! take us, take us ... if you only knew ! . . "
At times the " Winkelried " crossed on its way
some other steamer with its name in black letters
on its white paddle-box : *' Germania." . . '* Guil-
laume Tell ". . . The same lugubrious deck, the
same refracting caoutchoucs, the same most la-
mentable pleasure trip as that of the other phan-
tom vessel going its different way, and the same
heart-broken glances exchanged from deck to
deck.
And to say that those people travelled for
enjoyment ! and that all those boarders in the
Hotels du Lac, Meyer, and Miiller were captives
for pleasure !
Here, as on the Rigi-Kulm, the thing that above
all sufl"ocated Tartarin, agonized him, froze him,
even more than the cold rain and the murky sky,
was the utter impossibility of talking. True, he
had again met faces that he knew — the member of
the Jockey Club with his niece (h'm ! h'm ! . .),
the academician Astier-Rehu, and the Bonn Pro-
fessor Schwanthaler, those two implacable enemies
condemned to live side by side for a month man-
acled to the itinerary of a Cook's Circular, and
others. But none of these illustrious Prunes would
recognize the Tarasconese Alpinist, although his
mountain muffler, his metal utensils, his ropes in
saltire, distinguished him from others, and marked
On tJic Boat, 191
him ill a manner that was quite pecuHar. They
all seemed ashamed of the night before, and the
inexplicable impulse communicated to them by
the fiery ardour of that fat man.
Mme. Schwanthaler, alone, approached her part-
ner, with the rosy, laughing face of a plump little
fairy, and taking her skirt in her two fingers as if
to suggest a minuet. " Ballir. . . dantsir. . . very
choli. . ." remarked the good lady. Was this a
memory that she evoked, or a temptation that she
offered? At any rate, as she did not let go of him,
Tartarin, to escape her pertinacity, went up on
deck, preferring to be soaked to the skin rather
than be made ridiculous.
And it rained ! . . and the sky was dirty ! . . To
complete his gloom, a whole squad of the Salva-
tion Army, who had come aboard at Beckenried,
a dozen stout girls with stolid faces, in navy-blue
gowns and Greenaway bonnets, were grouped
under three enormous scarlet umbrellas, and were
singing verses, accompanied on the accordion by
a man, a sort of David-la-Gamme, tall and fleshless
with crazy eyes. These sharp, flat, discordant
voices, like the cry of gulls, rolled dragging,
drawling through the rain and the black smoke of
the engine which the wind beat down upon the
deck. Never had Tartarin heard anything so
lamentable.
At Brunnen the squad landed, leaving the pockets
of the other travellers swollen with pious little
tracts; and almost immediately after the songs
and the accordion of these poor larvae ceased,
192 Tartarin on the Alps,
the sky began to clear and patches of blue were
seen.
They now entered the lake of Uri, closed in and
darkened by lofty, untrodden mountains, and the
tourists pointed out to each other, on the right at
the foot of the Seelisberg, the field of Griitli, where
Melchtal, Fiirst, and Stauffacher made oath to
deliver their country.
Tartarin, with much emotion, took off his cap,
paying no attention to environing amazement, and
waved it in the air three times, to do honour to
the ashes of those heroes. A few of the passengers
mistook his purpose, and politely returned his
bow.
The engine at last gave a hoarse roar, its echo
repercussioning from cliff to cliff of the narrow
space. The notice hung out on deck before each
new landing-place (as they do at public balls to
vary the country dances) announced the Tells-
platte.
They arrived.
The chapel is situated just five minutes' walk
from the landing, at the edge of the lake, on the
very rock to which William Tell sprang, during
the tempest, from Gessler's boat. It was to Tar-
tarin a most delightful emotion to tread, as he
followed the travellers of the Circular Cook along
the lakeside, that historic soil, to recall and live
again the principal episodes of the great drama
which he knew as he did his own life.
From his earliest years, William Tell had been
his type. When, in the Bezuquet pharmacy, they
On the Boat, 193
played the game of preference, each person writing
secretly on folded slips the poet, the tree, the
odour, the hero, the woman he preferred, one of
the papers invariably ran thus : —
" Tree preferred ? . . . . the baobab.
Odour? .... gunpowder.
Writer? .... Fenimore Cooper.
What I would prefer to be William Tell."
And every voice in the pharmacy cried out:
'^That's Tartarin!"
Imagine, therefore, how happy he was and how
his heart was beating as he stood before that
memorial chapel raised to a hero by the gratitude
of a whole people. It seemed to him that William
Tell in person, still dripping with the waters of the
lake, his crossbow and his arrows in hand, was
about to open the door to him.
" No entrance. . . I am at work. . . This is
not the day. . ." cried a loud voice from within,
made louder by the sonority of the vaulted roof.
" Monsieur Astier-Rehu, of the French Acad-
emy. . ."
** Herr Doctor Professor Schwanthaler. . ."
" Tartarin of Tarascon. . ."
In the arch above the portal, perched upon a
scaffolding, appeared a half-length of the painter
in working-blouse, palette in hand.
"■ yiy famulus will come down and open to you,
messieurs," he said with respectful intonations.
" I was sure of it, pardi ! " thought Tartarin ; ** I
had only to name myself."
13
194 Tartarin on the Alps,
However, he had the good taste to stand aside
modestly, and only entered after all the others.
The painter, superb fellow, with the gilded,
ruddy head of an artist of the Renaissance, re-
ceived his visitors on the wooden steps which
led to the temporary staging put up for the
purpose of painting the roof. The frescos, re-
presenting the principal episodes in the life of
William Tell, were finished, all but one, namely:
the scene of the apple in the market-place of
Altorf. On this he was now at work, and his
young famulus, as he called him, feet and legs
bare under a toga of the middle ages, and his
hair archangelically arranged, was posing as the
son of William Tell.
All these archaic personages, red, green, yellow,
blue, made taller than nature in narrow streets and
under the posterns of the period, intended, of
course, to be seen at a distance, impressed the
spectators rather sadly. However, they were there
to admire, and they admired. Besides, none of
them knew anything.
*' I consider that a fine characterization," said
the pontifical Astier-Rehu, carpet-bag in hand.
And Schwanthaler, a camp-stool under his arm,
not willing to be behindhand, quoted two verses
of Schiller, most of it remaining in his flowing
beard. Then the ladies exclaimed, and for a
time nothing was heard but: —
" Schon ! . . schon. . ."
" Yes . . . lovely. . ."
" Exquisite ! delicious ! . ."
On the Boat. 195
One might have thought one's self at a confec-
tioner's.
Abruptly a voice broke forth, rending with the
ring of a trumpet that composed silence.
" Badly shouldered, I tell you. . . That cross-
bow is not in place. . ."
Imagine the stupor of the painter in presence of
this exorbitant Alpinist, who, alpenstock in hand
and ice-axe on his shoulder, risking the annihila-
tion of somebody at each of his many evolutions,
was demonstrating to him by A + B that the
motions of his William Tell were not correct.
" I know what I am talking about, au mouain. , .
I beg you to believe it. . .'*
"Who are you?"
" Who am I ! " exclaimed the Alpinist, now
thoroughly vexed. . . So it was not to him that
the door was opened ; and drawing himself up he
said : ** Go ask my name of the panthers of the
Zaccar, of the lions of Atlas . . . they will answer
you, perhaps."
The company recoiled ; there was general alarm.
** But," asked the painter, " in what way is my
action wrong?"
" Look at me, t// "
Falling into position with a thud of his heels
that made the planks beneath them smoke, Tar-
tarin, shouldering his ice-axe like a crossbow, stood
rigid.
" Superb ! He 's right. . . Don't stir. . ."
Then to the /a7nulus: ** Quick! a block, char-
coal ! . ."
196 Tartarin on the Alps,
The fact is, the Tarasconese hero was something
worth painting, — squat, round-shouldered, head
bent forward, the muffler round his chin like a
strap, and his flaming little eye taking aim at the
terrified famulus.
Imagination, O magic power ! . . He thought
himself on the marketplace of Altorf, in front of
his own child, he, who had never had any; an
arrow in his bow, another in his belt to pierce the
heart of the tyrant. His conviction became so
strong that it conveyed itself to others.
*" T is William Tell himself! . ." said the painter,
crouched on a stool and driving his sketch with a
feverish hand. " Ah ! monsieur, why did I not
know you earlier? What a model you would have
been for me ! . ."
" Really ! then you see some resemblance? " said
Tartarin, much flattered, but keeping his pose.
Yes, it was just so that the artist imagined his
hero.
"The head, too?"
" Oh ! the head, that 's no matter . . ." and the
painter stepped back to look at his sketch. " Yes,
a virile mask, energetic, just what I wanted —
inasmuch as nobody knows anything about William
Tell, who probably never existed."
Tartarin dropped the cross-bow from stupefac-
tion.
" Outre! ^ . . Never existed ! . . What is that
you are saying?"
1 " Outre " and " boufre " are Tarasconese oaths of mys-
terious etymology.
On the Boat. 197
" Ask these gentlemen. . ."
Astier-R6hu, solemn, his three chins in his
white cravat, said : " That is a Danish legend."
** Icelandic. . . " affirmed Schwanthaler, no less
majestic.
" Saxo Grammaticus relates that a valiant archer
named Tobe or Paltanoke . . ."
" Es ist in der Vilkinasaga geschrieben . . ."
Both together : —
was condemned by the
King of Denmark Harold
of the Blue Teeth . . ."
dass der Islandische Ko-
nig Needing . . ."
With staring eyes and arms extended, neither
looking at nor comprehending each other, they
both talked at once, as if on a rostrum, in the
doctoral, despotic tones of professors certain of
never being refuted; until, getting angry, they
only shouted names : ** Justinger of Berne ! . .
Jean of Winterthur ! . ."
Little by little, the discussion became general,
excited, and furious among the visitors. Umbrellas,
camp-stools, and vaHses were brandished; the
unhappy artist, trembling for the safety of his
scaffolding, went from one to another imploring
peace. When the tempest had abated, he returned
to his sketch and looked for his mysterious
model, for him whose name the panthers of the
Zaccar and the lions of Atlas could alone pro-
nounce; but he was nowhere to be seen; the
Alpinist had disappeared.
198 Tartarhi 07z the Alps,
At that moment he was clambering with furious
strides up a little path among beeches and birches
that led to the Hotel Tellsplatte, where the courier
of the Peruvian family was to pass the night ; and
under the shock of his deception he was talking
to himself in a loud voice and ramming his
alpenstock furiously into the sodden ground : —
Never existed! William Tell! William Tell a
myth ! And it was a painter charged with the
duty of decorating the Tellsplatte who said that
calmly. He hated him as if for a sacrilege ; he
hated those learned men, and this denying, demol-
ishing impious age, which respects nothing, neither
fame nor grandeur — coqum de sort!
And so, two hundred, three hundred years hence,
when Tartarin was spoken of there would always
be Astier-Rehus and Professor Schwanthalers to
deny that he ever existed — a Provencal myth I a
Barbary legend ! . . He stopped, choking with
indignation and his rapid climb, and seated himself
on a rustic bench.
From there he could see the lake between the
branches, and the white walls of the chapel like a
new mausoleum. A roaring of steam and the
bustle of getting to the wharf announced the arri-
val of fresh visitors. They collected on the
bank, guide-books in hand, and then advanced
with thoughtful gestures and extended arms, evi-
dently relating the *Megend." Suddenly, by an
abrupt revulsion of ideas, the comicality of the
whole thing struck him.
He pictured to himself all historical Switzerland
On the Boat. 199
living upon this imaginary hero; raising statues
and chapels in his honour on the Httle squares of
the little towns, and placing monuments in the
museums of the great ones; organizing patri-
otic fetes, to which everybody rushed, banners
displayed, from all the cantons, with banquets,
toasts, speeches, hurrahs, songs, and tears swelling
all breasts, and this for a great patriot, whom
everybody knew had never existed.
Talk of Tarascon indeed ! There 's a tarasconade
for you, the like of which was never invented down
there !
His good-humour quite restored, Tartarin in a
few sturdy strides struck the highroad to Fluelen,
at the side of which the Hotel Tellsplatte spreads
out its long facade. While awaiting the dinner-
bell the guests were walking about in front of a
cascade over rock-work on the gullied road, where
landaus were drawn up, their poles on the ground
among puddles of water in which was reflected a
copper-coloured sun.
Tartarin inquired for his man. They told him
he was dining. " Then take me to him, zou! "
and this was said with such authority that in spite
of the respectful repugnance shown to disturbing
so important a personage, a maid-servant con-
ducted the Alpinist through the whole hotel,
where his advent created some amazement, to the
invaluable courier who was dining alone in a little
room that looked upon the court-yard.
" Monsieur," said Tartarin as he entered, his ice-
axe on his shoulder, ** excuse me if. . . **
200 Tartarin on the Alps.
He stopped stupefied, and the courier, tall, lank,
his napkin at his chin, in the savoury steam of a
plateful of hot soup, let fall his spoon.
" Ve ! Monsieur Tartarin. . . "
'' Te ! Bompard."
It was Bompard, former manager of the Club, a
good fellow, but afflicted with a fabulous imagi-
nation which rendered him incapable of telling a
word of truth, and had caused him to be nicknamed
in Tarascon '* The Impostor."
Called an impostor in Tarascon ! you can judge
what he must have been. And this was the
incomparable guide, the climber of the Alps, the
Himalayas, the Mountains of the Moon.
** Oh ! now, then, I understand," ejaculated
Tartarin, rather nonplussed; but, even so, joyful to
see a face from home and to hear once more that
dear, delicious accent of the Cours.
" Dijferemmenty Monsieur Tartarin, you '11 dine
with me, que f "
Tartarin hastened to accept, delighted at the
pleasure of sitting down at a private table oppo-
site to a friend, without the very smallest litigious
compote-dish between them, to be able to hobnob,
to talk as he ate, and to eat good things, carefully
cooked and fresh; for couriers are admirably
treated by innkeepers, and served apart with all
the best wines and the extra dainties.
Many were the at^- mouainSy pas mouainSy and
differ em ments.
** Then, my dear fellow, it was really you I heard
last night, up there, on the platform? . . "
On the Boat, 201
" Hey ! parfaitemain. . . I was making those
young ladies admire. . . Fine, is n't it, sunrise on
the Alps?"
" Superb ! " cried Tartarin, at first without convic-
tion and merely to avoid contradicting him, but
caught the next minute; and after that it was
really bewildering to hear those two Tarasconese
enthusiasts lauding the splendours they had found
on the Rigi. It was Joanne capping Baedeker.
Then, as the meal went on, the conversation
became more intimate, full of confidences and
effusive protestations, which brought real tears to
their Provencal eyes, lively, brilliant eyes, but
keeping always in their facile emotion a little
corner of jest and satire. In that alone did the
two friends resemble each other; for in person
one was as lean, tanned, weatherbeaten, seamed
with the wrinkles special to the grimaces of his
profession, as the other was short, stocky, sleek-
skinned, and sound-blooded.
He had seen all, that poor Bompard, since his
exodus from the Club. That insatiable imagi-
nation of his which prevented him from ever stay-
ing in one place had kept him wandering under so
many suns, and through such diverse fortunes.
He related his adventures, and counted up the fine
occasions to enrich himself which had snapped,
there ! in his fingers — such as his last invention
for saving the war-budget the cost of boots and
shoes. . . Do you know how? . . Oh, moun Diou !
it is very simple ... by shoeing the feet of the
soldiers."
202 Tartarin 07t the Alps,
*' Outre ! " cried Tartarin, horrified.
Bompard continued very calmly, with his natural
air of cold madness : —
" A great idea, was n't it ? Eh ! ^// at the
ministry they did not even answer me. . . Ah!
my poor Monsieur Tartarin, I have had my bad
moments, I have eaten the bread of poverty before
I entered the service of the Company. . , "
" Company ! what Company ? "
Bompard lowered his voice discreetly.
*' Hush ! presently, not here. . . " Then return-
ing to his natural tones, " Et autremahty you
people at Tarascon, what are you all doing? You
have n't yet told me what brings you to our
mountains ..."
It was now for Tartarin to pour himself out.
Without anger, but with that melancholy of de-
clining years, that ennui which attacks as they
grow elderly great artists, beautiful women, and all
conquerors of peoples and hearts, he told of the
defection of his compatriots, the plot laid against
him to deprive him of the presidency, the decision
he had come to to do some act of heroism, a great
ascension, the Tarasconese banner borne higher
than it had ever before been planted ; in short, to
prove to the Alpinists of Tarascon that he was still
worthy . . . still worthy of . . . Emotion overcame
him, he was forced to keep silence . . . Then
he added : —
" You know me, Gonzague ..." and nothing can
ever render the effusion, the caressing charm with
which he uttered that troubadouresque Christian
On the Boat 203
name of the courier. It was like one way of
pressing his hands, of coming nearer to his
heart ... ** You know me, qu^ ! You know if I
balked when the question came up of marching
upon the lion ; and during the war, when we
organized together the defences of the Club ..."
Bompard nodded his head with terrible empha-
sis ; he thought he was there still.
" Well, my good fellow, what the lions, what the
Krupp cannon could never do, the Alps have
accomplished ... I am afraid."
" Don't say that, Tartarin ! "
"Why not?" said the hero, with great gentle-
ness. . . " I say it, because it is so. . . "
And tranquilly, without posing, he acknowledged
the impression made upon him by Dore's drawing
of that catastrophe on the Matterhorn, which was
ever before his eyes. He feared those perils, and
being told of an extraordinary guide, capable of
avoiding them, he resolved to seek him out and
confide in him.
Then, in a tone more natural, he added: "You
have never been a guide, have you, Gonzague? "
"//■/.' yes," replied Bompard, smiling. . . " Only,
I never did all that I related."
" That *s understood," assented Tartarin.
And the other added in a whisper : —
** Let us go out on the road ; we can talk more
freely there."
It was getting dark ; a warm damp breeze was
rolling up black clouds upon the sky, where the
setting sun had left behind it a vague gray mist
204 Tar tar in on the Alps.
They went along the shore in the direction of FIu-
elen, crossing the mute shadows of hungry tourists
returning to the hotel; shadows themselves, and
not speaking until they reached a tunnel through
which the road is cut, opening at intervals to
little terraces overhanging the lake.
" Let us stop here," pealed forth the hollow
voice of Bompard, which resounded under the
vaulted roof like a cannon-shot. There, seated on
the parapet, they contemplated that admirable
view of the lake, the downward rush of the fir-
trees and beeches pressing blackly together in
the foreground, and farther on, the higher moun-
tains with waving summits, and farther still, others
of a bluish-gray confusion as of clouds, in the
midst of which lay, though scarcely visible, the
long white trail of a glacier, winding through
the hollows and suddenly illumined with irised
fire, yellow, red, and green. They were exhibit-
ing the mountain with Bengal lights !
From Fluelen the rockets rose, scattering their
multicoloured stars ; Venetian lanterns went and
came in boats that remained invisible while bearing
bands of music and pleasure-seekers.
A fairylike decoration seen through the frame,
cold and architectural, of the granite walls of the
tunnel.
" What a queer country, pas mouam^ this
Switzerland ..." cried Tartarin.
Bompard burst out laughing.
** Ah ! vai, Switzerland ! . . In the first place,
there is no Switzerland."
Confidences i7i a Tunnel, 205
Confidences in a tunnel.
" Switzerland, in our day, ve! Monsieur Tar-
tarin, is nothing more than a vast Kursaal, open
from June to September, a panoramic casino,
where people come from all four quarters of the
globe to amuse themselves, and which is manipula-
ted and managed by a Company richissime by
hundreds of thousands of millions, which has
its offices in London and Geneva. It costs money,
you may be sure, to lease and brush up and trick
out all this territory, lakes, forests, mountains,
cascades, and to keep a whole people of employes,
supernumeraries, and what not, and set up miracu-
lous hotels on the highest summits, with gas,
telegraphs, telephones ! . . "
" That, at least, is true," said Tartarin, thinking
aloud, and remembering the Rigi.
" True ! . . But you have seen nothing yet. . .
Go on through the country and you '11 not find
one corner that is n't engineered and machine-
worked like the under stage of the Opera, —
cascades lighted a giorno, turnstiles at the entrance
to the glaciers, and loads of railways, hydraulic
and funicular, for ascensions. To be sure, the
2o6 Tartarin on the Alps,
Company, in view of its clients the English and
American climbers, keeps up on the noted
mountains, Jungfrau, Monk, Finsteraarhorn, an
appearance of danger and desolation, though
in reality there is no more risk there than else-
where . . ."
" But the crevasses, my good fellow, those
horrible crevasses . . . Suppose one falls into
them?"
** You fall on snow. Monsieur Tartarin, and you
don't hurt yourself, and there is always at the
bottom a porter, a hunter, at any rate some one,
who picks you up, shakes and brushes you, and
asks graciously : * Has monsieur any baggage? ' "
" What stuff are you telling me now, Gonzague ? "
Bompard redoubled in gravity.
" The keeping up of those crevasses is one
of the heaviest expenses of the Company."
Silence fell for a moment under the tunnel,
the surroundings of which were quieting down.
No more varied fireworks, Bengal lights, or boats
on the water ; but the moon had risen and made
another conventional landscape, bluish, liquides-
cent, with masses of impenetrable shadow. . .
Tartarin hesitated to believe his companion on
his word. Nevertheless, he reflected on the
extraordinary things he had seen in four days —
the sun on the Rigi, the farce of William Tell —
and Bompard's inventions seemed to him all
the more probable because in every Tarasconese
the braggart is leashed with a gull.
** Differ emment, my good friend, how do you
Conjidences in a Tunnel. 207
explain certain awful catastrophes . . . that of the
Matterhorn, for instance ? . ."
" It is sixteen years since that happened ; the
Company was not then constituted, Monsieur
Tartarin."
" But last year, the accident on the Wetterhorn,
two guides buried with their travellers ! . . "
" Must, sometimes, //, pardi! . . you under-
stand . . . whets the Alpinists . . . The English
won't come to mountains now where heads are
not broke . . . The Wetterhorn had been running
down for some time, but after that little item in
the papers the receipts went up at once."
**Then the two guides? . . "
"They are just as safe as the travellers; only
they are kept out of sight, supported in foreign
parts, for six months ... A puff like that costs
dear, but the Company is rich enough to afford it."
" Listen to me, Gonzague. . . "
Tartarin had risen, one hand on Bompard's
shoulder.
** You would not wish to have any misfortune
happen to me, qii^f . . Well, then ! speak to me
frankly . . . you know my capacities as an Alpinist ;
they are moderate."
" Very moderate, that 's true."
" Do you think, nevertheless, that I could, with-
out too much danger, undertake the ascension of
the Jungfrau? "
" I '11 answer for it, my head in the fire. Mon-
sieur Tartarin. . . You have only to trust to your
guide, z'/.^ "
2o8 Tar tar in on the Alps,
"And if I turn giddy?"
" Shut your eyes."
"And if I slip?"
" Let yourself go . . . just as they do on the
stage . . . sort of trap-doors . . . there 's no risk. . , "
" Ah ! if I could have you there to tell me all
that, to keep repeating it to me . . . Look here, my
good fellow, make an effort, and come with me."
Bompard desired nothing better, pecaire ! but
he had those Peruvians on his hands for the rest
of the season ; and, replying to his old friend, who
expressed surprise at seeing him accept the func-
tions of a courier, a subaltern, —
" I could n't help myself. Monsieur Tartarin,"
he said. " It is in our engagement. The Com-
pany has the right to employ us as it pleases."
On which he began to count upon his fingers
his varied avatars during the last three years . . .
guide in the Oberland, performer on the Alpine
horn, chamois-hunter, veteran soldier of Charles
X., Protestant pastor on the heights . . .
" Qnh aco?" demanded Tartarin, astonished.
^* B^ / yes," replied the other, composedly.
" When you travel in German Switzerland you will
see pastors preaching on giddy heights, standing
on rocks or rustic pulpits of the trunks of trees.
A few shepherds and cheese-makers, their leather
caps in their hands, and women with their heads
dressed up in the costume of the canton group
themselves about in picturesque attitudes; the
scenery is pretty, the pastures green, or the har-
vest just over, cascades to the road, and flocks,
Confide7ices in a Tunnel, 209
with their bells ringing every note on the moun-
tain. All that, ve I that 's decorative, suggestive.
Only, none but the employes of the Company,
guides, pastors, couriers, hotel-keepers are in the
secret, and it is their interest not to let it get wind,
for fear of startling the clients."
The Alpinist was dumfounded, silent — in him
the acme of stupefaction. In his heart, whatever
doubt he may have had as to Bompard's veracity,
he felt himself comforted and calmed as to Alpine
ascensions, and presently the conversation grew
joyous. The two friends talked of Tarascon, of
their good, hearty laughs in the olden time when
both were younger.
"Apropos of galejade [jokes]," said Tartarin,
suddenly, " they played me a fine one on the Rigi-
Kulm. . . Just imagine that this morning ..."
and he told of the letter gummed to his glass,
reciting it with emphasis : " * Devil of a French-
man' ... A hoax, of course, que f
*' May be . . . who knows? . ." said Bompard,
seeming to take the matter more seriously. He
asked if Tartarin during his stay on the Rigi had
relations with any one, and whether he had n't said
a word too much.
** Ha ! vai ! a word too much ! as if one even
opened one's mouth among those EngHsh and
Germans, mute as carp under pretence of good
manners ! "
On reflection, however, he did remember having
clinched a matter, and sharply too ! with a species
of Cossack, a certain Mi . . . Milanof.
14
2IO Tartarin on the Alps.
** Manilof," corrected Bompard.
" Do you know him? . . Between you and me,
I think that Manilof had a spite against me about
a httle Russian girl. . . "
" Yes, Sonia. . . " murmured Bompard.
'* Do you know her too? Ah! my friend, a
pearl ! a pretty little gray partridge ! "
" Sonia Wassilief. . . It was she who killed
with one shot of her revolver in the open that
General Felianine, the president of the Council of
War which condemned her brother to perpetual
exile."
Sonia an assassin? that child, that little blond
fairy ! . . Tartarin could not believe it. But
Bompard gave precise particulars and details of
the affair — which, indeed, is very well known.
Sonia had lived for the last two years in Zurich,
where her brother Boris, having escaped from
Siberia, joined her, his lungs gone; and during the
summers she took him for better air to the moun-
tains. Bompard had often met them, attended by
friends who were all exiles, conspirators. The
Wassiliefs, very intelligent, very energetic, and
still possessed of some fortune, were at the head
of the Nihilist party, with Bolibine, the man who
murdered the prefect of police, and this very
Manilof, who blew up the Winter Palace last year.
''Boiifre!'' exclaimed Tartarin, "one meets with
queer neighbours on the Rigi."
But here's another thing. Bompard took it into
his head that Tartarin's letter came from these
young people; it was just like their Nihilist pro-
Confidences m a Ttinnel. 2 1 1
ceedings. The czar, every morning, found warn-
ings in his study, under his napkin. . .
" But," said Tartarin, turning pale, " why such
threats? What have I done to them?"
Bompard thought they must have taken him for
a spy.
*♦ A spy ! I !
" Be / yes." In all the Nihilist centres, at Zurich,
Lausanne, Geneva, Russia maintained at great
cost, a numerous body of spies ; in fact, for some
time past she had had in her service the former
chief of the French Imperial police, with a dozen
Corsicans, who followed and watched all Russian
exiles, and took countless disguises in order to
detect them. The costume of the Alpinist, his
spectacles, his accent, were quite enough to con-
found him in their minds with those agents.
" Coqiiin de sort! now I think of it," said Tar-
tarin, ** they had at their heels the whole time a
rascally Italian tenor . . . undoubtedly a spy. . .
Diff&emment, what must I do?"
" Above all things, never put yourself in the way
of those people again ; now that they^ave warned
you they will do you harm. . . "
*' Ha ! va'il harm ! . . The first one that comes
near me I shall cleave his head with my ice-axe."
And in the gloom of the tunnel the eyes of the
Tarasconese hero glared. But Bompard, less con-
fident than he, knew well that the hatred of Nihilists
is terrible ; it attacks from below, it undermines,
and plots. It is all very well to be a lapin like the
president, but you had better beware of that inn
212 Tartarin on the Alps.
bed you sleep in, and the chair you sit upon, and
the rail of the steamboat, which will give way sud-
denly and drop you to death. And think of the
cooking-dishes prepared, the glass rubbed over
with invisible poison !
" Beware of the kirsch in your flask, and the
frothing milk that cow-man in sabots brings you.
They stop at nothing, I tell you."
** If so, what's to be done! I'm doomed!"
groaned Tartarin ; then, grasping the hand of his
companion : —
" Advise me, Gonzague."
After a moment's reflection, Bompard traced
out to him a programme. To leave the next day,
early, cross the lake and the Briinig pass, and sleep
at Interlaken. The next day, to Grindelwald and
the Little Scheideck. And the day after, the
JUNGFRAU ! After that, home to Tarascon, with-
out losing an hour, or looking back.
" I '11 start to-morrow, Gonzague . . ." declared
the hero, in a virile voice, with a look of terror at
the mysterious horizon, now dim in the darkness,
and at the lake which seemed to him to harbour
all treachery beneath the glassy calm of its pale
reflections.
The Brunig Pass. 213
VI.
The Brunig pass. Tartarin falls into the hands of
Nihilists. Disappearance of an Italian tenor and a rope
made at Avignon. Fresh exploits of the cap-sportsman.
Pan I pan /
*' Get in ! get in ! "
" But how the devil, qu^ I am I to get in ? the
places are full . . . they won't make room for me."
This was said at the extreme end of the lake of
the Four Cantons, on that shore at Alpnach, damp
and soggy as a delta, where the post-carriages wait
in line to convey tourists leaving the boat to cross
the Brunig.
A fine rain like needle-points had been falHng
since morning ; and the worthy Tartarin, hampered
by his armament, hustled by the porters and the
custom-house officials, ran from carriage to car-
riage, sonorous and lumbering as that orchestra-
man one sees at fairs, whose every movement sets
a-going triangles, big drums, Chinese bells, and
cymbals. At all the doors the same cry of terror,
the same crabbed " Full ! " growled in all dialects,
the same swelling-out of bodies and garments
to take as much room as possible and prevent
the entrance of so dangerous and resounding a
companion.
214 Tartarin on the Alps,
The unfortunate Alpinist puffed, sweated, and
replied with " Coquin de bon sort!'' and despair-
ing gestures to the impatient clamour of the con-
voy : *' En route ! . . All right ! . . Andiamo !
. . Vorwarts ! . ." The horses pawed, the drivers
h wore. Finally, the manager of the post-route, a
t.ill, ruddy fellow in a tunic and flat cap, interfered
himself, and opening forcibly the door of a landau,
the top of which was half up, he pushed in Tar-
tarin, hoisting him like a bundle, and then stood,
majestically, with outstretched hand for his trink-
geld.
Humiliated, furious with the people in the car-
riage who were forced to accept him manu 'inilitariy
Tartarin affected not to look at them, rammed his
porte-monnaie back into his pocket, wedged his
ice-axe on one side of him with ill-humoured mo-
tions and an air of determined brutality, as if he
were a passenger by the Dover steamer landing at
Calais.
*' Good-morning, monsieur," said a gentle voice
he had heard already.
He raised his eyes, and sat horrified, terrified
before the pretty, round and rosy face of Sonia,
seated directly in front of him, beneath the hood of
the landau, which also sheltered a tall young man,
wrapped in shawls and rugs, of whom nothing
could be seen but a forehead of livid paleness and
a few thin meshes of hair, golden like the rim of
his near-sighted spectacles. A third person, whom
Tartarin knew but too well, accompanied them, —
Manilof, the incendiary of the Winter Palace.
The Briinig Pass. 215
Sonia, Manilof, what a mouse-trap !
This was the moment when they meant to ac-
complish their threat, on that Briinig pass, so
craggy, so surrounded with abysses. And the
hero, by one of those flashes of horror which re-
veal the depths of danger, beheld himself stretched
on the rocks of a ravine, or swinging from the
topmost branches of an oak. Fly ! yes, but where,
how? The vehicles had started in file at the sound
of a trumpet, a crowd of little ragamuffins were
clambering at the doors with bunches of edelweiss.
Tartarin, maddened, had a mind to begin the attack
by cleaving the head of the Cossack beside him
with his alpenstock ; then, on reflection, he felt it
was more prudent to refrain. Evidently, these
people would not attempt their scheme till farther
on, in regions uninhabited, and before that, there
might come means of getting out. Besides, their
intentions no longer seemed to him quite so malev-
olent. Sonia smiled gently upon him from her
pretty turquoise eyes, the pale young man looked
pleasantly at him, and Manilof, visibly milder,
moved obligingly aside and helped him to put his
bag between them. Had they discovered their
mistake by reading on the register of the Rigi-
Kulm the illustrious name of Tartarin? . . He
wished to make sure, and, familiarly, good-
humouredly, he began: —
" Enchanted with this meeting, beautiful young
lady . . . only, permit me to introduce myself . . .
you are ignorant with whom you have to do, v^ f
whereas, I am perfectly aware who you are."
2i6 Tartarin on the Alps.
" Hush ! " said the little Sonia, still smiling, but
pointing with her gloved finger to the seat beside
the driver, where sat the tenor with his sleeve-
buttons, and another young Russian, sheltering
themselves under the same umbrella, and laughing
and talking in Italian.
Between the poHce and the Nihilists, Tartarin
did not hesitate.
** Do you know that man, au mouain ? " he said
in a low voice, putting his head quite close to
Sonia's fresh cheeks, and seeing himself in her
clear eyes, which suddenly turned hard and savage
as she answered '' yes," with a snap of their lids.
The hero shuddered, but as one shudders at the
theatre, with that delightful creeping of the epi-
dermis which takes you when the action becomes
Corsican, and you settle yourself in your seat to
see and to listen more attentively. Personally out
of the affair, delivered from the mortal terrors
which had haunted him all night and prevented
him from swallowing his usual Swiss coffee, honey,
and butter, he breathed with free lungs, thought
life good, and this little Russian irresistibly pleas-
ing in her travelling hat, her jersey close to the
throat, tight to the arms, and moulding her slender
figure of perfect elegance. And such a child !
Child in the candour of her laugh, in the down
upon her cheeks, in the pretty grace with whicli
she spread her shawl upon the knees of her poor
brother, "Are you comfortable? . ." "You are
not cold?" How could any one suppose that
little hand, so delicate beneath its chamois glove,
The Brmtig Pass. 217
had had the physical force and the moral courage
to kill a man?
Nor did the others of the party seem ferocious :
all had the same ingenuous laugh, rather con-
strained and sad on the drawn lips of the poor
invalid, and noisy in Manilof, who, very young
behind his bushy beard, gave way to explosions
of mirth like a schoolboy in his holidays, bursts of
a gayety that was really exuberant.
The third companion, whom they called Boli-
bine, and who talked on the box with the tenor,
amused himself much and was constantly turning
back to translate to his friends the Italian's adven-
tures, his successes at the Petersburg Opera, his
bonnes fortunes, the sleeve-buttons the ladies had
subscribed to present to him on his departure, ex-
traordinary buttons, with three notes of music en-
graved thereon, la do r/ (I'ador^), which pro-
fessional pun, repeated in the landau, caused such
delight, the tenor himself swelling up with pride
and twirling his moustache with so silly and con-
quering a look at Sonia, that Tartarin began to
ask himself whether, after all, they were not mere
tourists, and he a genuine tenor.
Meantime the carriages, going at a good pace,
rolled over bridges, skirted little lakes and flowery
meads, and fine vineyards running with water and
deserted ; for it was Sunday, and all the peasants
whom they met wore their gala costumes, the
women with long braids of hair hanging down their
backs and silver chainlets. They began at last to
mount the road in zigzags among forests of oak
2i8 Tartarin on the Alps.
and beech ; little by little the marvellous horizon
displayed itself on the left; at each turn of the
zigzag, rivers, valleys with their spires pointing
upward came into view, and far away in the dis-
tance, the hoary head of the Finsteraarhorn, whiten-
ing beneath an invisible sun.
Soon the road became gloomy, the aspect sav-
age. On one side, heavy shadows, a chaos of
trees, twisted and gnarled on a steep slope, down
which foamed a torrent noisily ; to right, an enor-
mous rock overhanging the road and bristling
with branches that sprouted from its fissures.
They laughed no more in the landau ; but they
all admired, raising their heads and trying to see
the summit of this tunnel of granite.
'' The forests of Atlas ! . . I seem to see them
again ..." said Tartarin, gravely, and then, as the
remark passed unnoticed, he added : " Without
the lion's roar, however."
" You have heard it, monsieur?" asked Sonia.
Heard the lion, he ! . . Then, with an indul-
gent smile : " I am Tartarin of Tarascon, made-
moiselle. . ."
And just see what such barbarians are ! He might
have said,*' My name is Dupont; " it would have
been exactly the same thing to them. They were
ignorant of the name of Tartarin !
Nevertheless, he was not angry, and he answered
the young lady, who wished to know if the lion's
roar had frightened him : " No, mademoiselle. . .
My camel trembled between my legs, but I looked
to my priming as tranquilly as before a herd of
The Brunig Pass, 219
cows. . . At a distance their cry is much the same,
like this, ///"
To give Sonia an exact impression of the thing,
he bellowed in his most sonorous voice a formidable
'* Meuh . . ." which swelled, spread, echoed and re-
echoed against the rock. The horses reared; in
all the carriages the travellers sprang up alarmed,
looking round for the accident, the cause of such an
uproar; but recognizing the Alpinist, whose head
and overwhelming accoutrements could be seen in
the uncovered half of the landau, they asked them-
selves once more : " Who is that animal? "
He, very calm, continued to give details : when
to attack the beast, where to strike him, how to
despatch him, and about the diamond sight he
affixed to his carbines to enable him to aim cor-
rectly in the darkness. The young girl listened to
him, leaning forward with a little panting of the
nostrils, in deep attention.
" They say that Bombonnel still hunts ; do you
know him?" asked the brother.
" Yes," replied Tartarin, without enthusiasm. . .
" He is not a clumsy fellow, but we have better
than he."
A word to the wise ! Then in a melancholy tone,
*' Pas moitain, they give us strong emotions, these
hunts of the great carnivora. When we have them
no longer life seems empty ; we do not know how
to fill it."
Here Manilof, who understood French without
speaking it, and seemed to be listening to Tartarin
very intently, his peasant forehead slashed with
2 20 Tartarin on the Alps,
the wrinkle of a great scar, said a few words,
laughing, to his friends.
" Manilof says we are all of the same brother-
hood," explained Soniato Tartarin. . . " We hunt,
like you, the great wild beasts."
** T^ ! yes, pardi . . . wolves, white bears. . ."
'* Yes, wolves, white bears, and other noxious
animals. . ."
And the laughing began again, noisy, intermi-
nable, but in a sharp, ferocious key this time,
laughs that showed their teeth and reminded Tar-
tarin in what sad and singular company he was,
travelling.
Suddenly the carriages stopped. The road be-
came steeper and made at this spot a long circuit
to reach the top of the Briinig pass, which could
also be reached on foot in twenty minutes less
time through a noble forest of birches. In spite
of the rain in the morning, making the earth sod-
den and slippery, the tourists nearly all left the
carriages and started, single file, along the narrow
path called a schlittage.
From Tartarin's landau, the last in line, all the
men got out; but Sonia, thinking the path too
muddy, settled herself back in the carriage, and as
the Alpinist was getting out with the rest, a little
delayed by his equipments, she said to him in a
low voice : " Stay ! keep me company. . . " in
such a coaxing way! The poor man, quite over-
come, began immediately to forge a romance, as
delightful as it was improbable, which made his
old heart beat and throb.
The Briinig Pass. 221
He was quickly undeceived when he saw the
young girl leaning anxiously forward to watch
Bolibine and the Italian, who were talking eagerly
together at the opening of the path, Manilof and
Boris having already gone forward. The so-called
tenor hesitated. An instinct seemed to warn him
not to risk himself alone in company with those
three men. He decided at last to go on, and
Sonia looked at him as he mounted the path, all the
while stroking her cheek with a bouquet of purple
cyclamen, those mountain violets, the leaf of which
is lined with the same fresh colour as the flowers.
The landau proceeded slowly. The driver got
down tp walk in front with other comrades, and
the convoy of more than fifteen empty vehicles,
drawn nearer together by the steepness of the road,
rolled silently along. Tartarin, greatly agitated,
and foreboding something sinister, dared not look
at his companion, so much did he fear that a word
or a look might compel him to be an actor in the
drama he felt impending. But Sonia was paying
no attention to him ; her eyes were rather fixed,
and she did not cease caressing the down of her
skin mechanically with the flowers.
" So," she said at length, " so you know who we
are, I and my friends. . . Well, what do you think
of us ? What do Frenchmen think of us ? "
The hero turned pale, then red. He was desir-
ous of not offending by rash or imprudent words
such vindictive beings ; on the other hand, how
consort with murderers? He got out of it by a
metaphor : —
222 Tartarin on the Alps,
** Differ emmenty mademoiselle, you were telling
me just now that we belonged to the same brother-
hood, hunters of hydras and monsters, despots and
carnivora. . . It is therefore to a companion of St.
Hubert that I now make answer. . . My sentiment
is that, even against wild beasts we should use
loyal weapons. . . Our Jules Gerard, a famous
lion-slayer, employed explosive balls. I myself
have never given in to that, I do not use them. . .
When I hunted the lion or the panther I planted
myself before the beast, face to face, with a good
double-barrelled carbine, and pan ! pan ! a ball in,
each eye."
" In each eye ! . . " repeated Sonia.
** Never did I miss my aim."
He affirmed it and he beheved it.
The young girl looked at him with nai've admira-
tion, thinking aloud : —
" That must certainly be the surest way."
A sudden rending of the branches and the
underbrush, and the thicket parted above them, so
quickly and in so feline a way that Tartarin, his
head now full of hunting adventures, might have
thought himself still on the watch in the Zaccar.
But Manilof sprang from the slope, noiselessly, and
close to the carriage. His small, cunning eyes
were shining in a face that was flayed by the
briers ; his beard and his long lank hair were
streaming with water from the branches. Breath-
less, holding with his coarse, hairy hands to the
doorway, he spoke in Russian to Sonia, who turned
instantly to Tartarin and said in a curt voice : —
TJie Brunig Pass. 223
** Your rope. . . quick. . ."
" My. . . my rope? . ." stammered the hero.
" Quick, quick. . . you shall have it again in half
an hour."
Offering no other explanation, she helped him
with her little gloved hands to divest himself of his
famous rope made in Avignon. Manilof took the
coil, grunting with joy ; in two bounds he sprang,
with the elasticity of a wild-cat, into the thicket
and disappeared.
''What has happened? What are they going
to do? . . He looked ferocious. . . " murmured Tar-
tarin, not daring to utter his whole thought.
Ferocious, Manilof ! Ah! how plain it was he
did not know him. No human being was ever
better, gentler, more compassionate ; and to show
Tartarin a trait of that exceptionally kind nature,
Sonia, with her clear, blue glance, told him how
her friend, having executed a dangerous mandate
of the Revolutionary Committee and jumped into
the sledge which awaited him for escape, had
threatened the driver to get out, cost what it might,
if he persisted in whipping the horse whose fleet-
ness alone could save him.
Tartarin thought the act worthy of antiquity.
Then, having reflected on all the human lives sacri-
ficed by that same Manilof, as conscienceless as an
earthquake or a volcano in eruption, who yet would
not let others hurt an animal in his presence, he
questioned the young girl with an ingenuous air : —
" Were there many killed by the explosion at
the Winter Palace?"
224 Tart arm 07i tJu Alps,
"Too many," replied Sonia, sadly; "and the
only one that ought to have died escaped."
She remained silent, as if displeased, looking so
pretty, her head lowered, with her long auburn
eyelashes sweeping her pale rose cheeks. Tartarin,
angry with himself for having pained her, was
caught once more by that charm of youth and
freshness which the strange little creature shed
around her.
" So, monsieur, the war that we are making
seems to you unjust, inhuman?" She said it quite
close to him in a caress, as it were, of her breath,
and her eye ; the hero felt himself weakening. . .
** You do not see that all means are good and
legitimate to deliver a people who groan and suffo-
cate? . ."
" No doubt, no doubt. . ."
The young girl, growing more insistent as Tar-
tarin weakened, went on : —
" You spoke just now of a void to be filled ; does
it not seem to you more noble, more interesting to
risk your life for a great cause than to risk it in
slaying lions or scaling glaciers?"
" The fact is," said Tartarin, intoxicated, losing
his head and mad with an irresistible desire to take
and kiss that ardent, persuasive little hand which
she laid upon his arm, as she had done once before,
up there, on the Rigi when he put on her shoe.
Finally, unable to resist, and seizing the little
gloved hand between both his own, —
" Listen, Sonia," he said, in a good hearty voice,
paternal and familiar. . . " Listen, Sonia. . ,"
The Brilntg Pass, 225
A sudden stop of the landau interrupted him.
They had reached the summit of the Briinig ; trav-
ellers and drivers were getting into their carriages
to catch up lost time and reach, at a gallop, the
next village where the convoy was to breakfast and
relay. The three Russians took their places, but
that of the Italian tenor remained unoccupied.
" That gentleman got into one of the first car-
riages," said Boris to the driver, who asked about
him ; then, addressing Tartarin, whose uneasiness
was visible : —
"We must ask him for your rope; he chose to
keep it with him."
Thereupon, fresh laughter in the landau, and
the resumption for poor Tartarin of horrid per-
plexity, not knowing what to think or believe in
presence of the good-humour and ingenuous coun-
tenances of the suspected assassins. Sonia, while
wrapping up her invalid in cloaks and plaids, for
the air on the summit was all the keener from the
rapidity with which the carriages were now driven,
related in Russian her conversation with Tartarin,
uttering his pan ! pan ! with a pretty intonation
which her companions repeated after her, two of
them admiring the hero, while Manilof shook his
head incredulously.
The relay !
This was on the market-place of a large village,
at an old tavern with a worm-eaten wooden balcony,
and a sign hanging to a rusty iron bracket. The
file of vehicles stopped, and while the horses were
being unharnessed the hungry tourists jumped
IS
226 Tartarin on the Alps.
hurriedly down and rushed into a room on the
lower floor, painted green and smelling of mildew,
where the table was laid for twenty guests. Sixty
had arrived, and for five minutes nothing could be
heard but a frightful tumult, cries, and a vehement
altercation between the Rices and the Prunes
around the compote-dishes, to the great alarm of
the tavern-keeper, who lost his head (as if daily,
at the same hour, the same post-carriages did not
pass) and bustled about his servants, also seized
with chronic bewilderment — excellent method of
serving only half the dishes called for by the carter
and of giving change in a way that made the white
sous of Switzerland count for fifty centimes.
" Suppose we dine in the carriage," said Sonia,
annoyed by such confusion ; and as no one had
time to pay attention to them the young men
themselves did the waiting. Manilof returned
with a cold leg of mutton, Bolibine with a long
loaf of bread and sausages ; but the best forager
was Tartarin. Certainly the opportunity to get
away from his companions in the bustle of relay-
ing was a fine one ; he might at least have as-
sured himself that the Italian had reappeared; but
he never once thought of it, being solely pre-
occupied with Sonia's breakfast, and in showing
Manilof and the others how a Tarasconese can
manage matters.
When he stepped down the portico of the hotel,
gravely, with fixed eyes, bearing in his robust
hands a large tray laden with plates, napkins, as-
sorted food, and Swiss champagne in its gilt-
The Brunig Pass. 227
necked bottles, Sonia clapped her hands, and
congratulated him.
** How did you manage it?" she said.
" I don't know . . . somehow, t^ / , . We are all
like that in Tarascon."
Oh ! those happy minutes ! That pleasant
breakfast opposite to Sonia, almost on his knees,
the village market-place, like the scene of an
operetta, with clumps of green trees, beneath
which sparkled the gold ornaments and the muslin
sleeves of the Swiss girls, walking about, two and
two, like dolls !
How good the bread tasted ! what savoury
sausages ! The heavens themselves took part in
the scene, and were soft, veiled, clement; it
rained, of course, but so gently, the drops so rare,
though just enough to temper the Swiss cham-
pagne, always dangerous to Southern heads.
Under the veranda of the hotel, a Tyrolian quar-
tette, two giants and two female dwarfs in resplend-
ent and heavy rags, looking as if they had escaped
from the failure of a theatre at a fair, were mingling
their throat notes : " aou . . . aou . . ." with the
clinking of plates and glasses. They were ugly,
stupid, motionless, straining the cords of their
skinny necks. Tartarin thought them delightful,
and gave them a handful of sous, to the great
amazement of the villagers who surrounded the
unhorsed landau.
" Vife la Vranze ! " quavered a voice in the
crowd, from which issued a tall old man, clothed
in a singular blue coat with silver buttons, the
228 Tartarin on the Alps,
skirts of which swept the ground ; on his head was
a gigantic shako, in form hke a bucket of sauer-
kraut, and so weighted by its enormous phime
that the old man was forced to balance himself
with his arms as he walked, like an acrobat.
" Old soldier. . . Charles X. . ."
Tartarin, fresh from Bompard's revelations,
began to laugh, and said in a low voice with a
wink of his eye : —
"Up to that, old fellow. . ." But even so, he
gave him a white sou and poured him out a
bumper, which the old man accepted, laughing,
and winking himself, though without knowing why.
Then, dislodging from a corner of his mouth an
enormous china pipe, he raised his glass and
drank '* to the company," which confirmed Tar-
tarin in his opinion that here was a colleague of
Bompard.
No matter ! one toast deserved another. So,
standing up in the carriage, his glass held high,
his voice strong, Tartarin brought tears to his eyes
by drinking, first: To France, my country ! . . next
to hospitable Switzerland, which he was happy to
honour publicly and thank for the generous wel-
come she affords to the vanquished, to the exiled
of all lands. Then, lowering his voice and incHn-
ing his glass to the companions of his journey, he
wished them a quick return to their country, res-
toration to their family, safe friends, honourable
careers, and an end to all dissensions ; for, he said,
it is impossible to spend one's life in eating each
other up.
The Briinig Pass, 229
During the utterance of this toast Sonia's brother
smiled, cold and sarcastic behind his blue spec-
tacles ; Manilof, his neck pushed forth, his swollen
eyebrows emphasizing his wrinkle, seemed to be
asking himself if that " big barrel " would soon be
done with his gabble, while Bolibine, perched on
the box, was twisting his comical yellow face,
wrinkled as a Barbary ape, till he looked like one
of those villanous little monkeys squatting on the
shoulders of the Alpinist.
The young girl alone listened to him very
seriously, striving to comprehend such a singular
type of man. Did he think all that he said? Had
he done all that he related? Was he a madman, a
comedian, or simply a gabbler, as Manilof in his
quality of man of action insisted, giving to the
word a most contemptuous signification.
The answer was given at once. His toast ended,
Tartarin had just sat down when a sudden shot, a
second, then a third, fired close to the tavern,
brought him again to his feet, ears straining and
nostrils scenting powder.
"Who fired? . . where is it? . . what is hap-
pening? . ."
In his inventive noddle a whole drama was
already defiling ; attack on the convoy by armed
bands; opportunity given him to defend the
honour and life of that charming young lady. But
no ! the discharges only came from the Stand,
where the youths of the village practise at a mark
every Sunday. As the horses were not yet har-
nessed, Tartarin, as if carelessly, proposed to go and
230 Tartarin on the Alps,
look at them. He had his idea, and Sonia had
hers in accepting the proposal. Guided by the old
soldier of Charles X. wobbling under his shako,
they crossed the market-place, opening the ranks
of the crowd, who followed them with curiosity.
Beneath its thatched roof and its square uprights
of pine wood the Stand resembled one of our own
pistol-galleries at a fair, with this difference, that
the amateurs brought their own weapons, breech-
loading muskets of the oldest pattern, which they
managed, however, with some adroitness. Tar-
tarin, his arms crossed, observed the shots,
criticised them aloud, gave his advice, but did not
fire himself. The Russians watched him, making
signs to each other.
" Pan ! . . pan ! . . " sneered Bolibine, making
the gesture of taking aim and mimicking Tartarin's
accent. Tartarin turned round very red, and swell-
ing with anger.
** Parfaitemain, young man. . . Pan ! . . pan ! . .
and as often as you like."
The time to load an old double-barrelled car-
bine which must have served several generations
of chamois hunters, and — pan! . . pan ! . . *Tis
done. Both balls are in the bull's-eye. Hurrahs
of admiration burst forth on all sides. Sonia
triumphed. Bolibine laughed no more.
''But that is nothing, that!" said Tartarin;
" you shall see. . ."
The Stand did not suffice him; he looked about
for another target, and the crowd recoiled alarmed
from this strange Alpinist, thick-set, savage-look-
The Brunig Pass 231
ing and carbine in hand, when they heard him
propose to the old guard of Charles X. to break
his pipe between his teeth at fifty paces. The old
fellow howled in terror and plunged into the crowd,
his trembling plume remaining visible above their
serried heads. None the less, Tartarin felt that he
must put it somewhere, that ball. " TV/ pardi ! as
we did at Tarascon ! . ." And the former cap-
hunter pitched his headgear high into the air with all
the strength of his double muscles, shot it on the fly,
and pierced it. " Bravo ! " cried Sonia, sticking
into the small hole made by the ball the bouquet
of cyclamen with which she had stroked her cheek.
With that charming trophy in his cap Tartarin
returned to the landau. The trumpet sounded, the
convoy started, the horses went rapidly down to
Brienz along that marvellous corniche road, blasted
in the side of the rock, separated from an abyss of
over a thousand feet by single stones a couple of
yards apart. But Tartarin was no longer conscious
of danger; no longer did he look at the scenery —
that Meyringen valley, seen through a light veil of
mist, with its river in straight lines, the lake, the
villages massing themselves in the distance, and
that whole horizon of mountains, of glaciers, blend-
ing at times with the clouds, displaced by the turns
of the road, lost apparently, and then returning,
like the shifting scenes of a stage.
Softened by tender thoughts, the hero admired
the sweet child before him, reflecting that glory is
only a semi-happiness, that 'tis sad to grow old all
alone in your greatness, like Moses, and that this
232 Tartarin on the Alps,
fragile flower of the North transplanted into the
little garden at Tarascon would brighten its monot-
ony, and be sweeter to see and breathe than that
everlasting baobab, arbos gigUTitea, diminutively
confined in the mignonette pot. With her child-
like eyes, and her broad brow, thoughtful and
self-willed, Sonia looked at him, and she, too,
dreamed — but who knows what the young girls
dream of?
The Nights at Tarascon, 233
VII.
The nights at Tarascon. Where is he? Anxiety. The
grasshoppers on the promenade call for Tartarin. Martyr-
dotn of a great Tarasconese saint. The Club of the A Ipines.
What was happening at the pharmacy. '•'• Help J help!
Bhuquet!''
"A LETTER, Monsieur Bezuquet! . . Comes
from Switzerland, ve! . . Switzerland ! " cried the
postman joyously, from the other end of the little
square, waving something in the air, and hurrying
along in the coming darkness.
The apothecary, who took the air, as they say,
of an evening before his door in his shirt-sleeves,
gave a jump, seized the letter with feverish hands
and carried it into his lair among the varied odours
of elixirs and dried herbs, but did not open it till
the postman had departed, refreshed by a glass of
that delicious sirop de cadavre in recompense for
what he brought.
Fifteen days had B6zuquet expected it, this
letter from Switzerland, fifteen days of agonized
watching ! And here it was. Merely from look-
ing at the cramped and resolute little writing on the
envelope, the postmark " Interlaken " and the
broad purple stamp of the " Hotel Jungfrau, kept
by Meyer," the tears filled his eyes, and the heavy
234 Tar tar in on the Alps,
moustache of the Barbary corsair through which
whispered softly the idle whistle of a kindly soul,
quivered.
'' Confidential. Destroy when read,''
Those words, written large at the head of the
page, in the telegraphic style of the pharma-
copoeia ("external use; shake before using")
troubled him to the point of making him read
aloud, as one does in a bad dream:
" Fcarfnl things are happejzing to me. . ."
In the salon beside the pharmacy where she was
taking her little nap after supper, Mme. Bezuquet,
mkre, might hear him, or the pupil whose pestle
was pounding its regular blows in the big marble
mortar of the laboratory. Bezuquet continued his
reading in a low voice, beginning it over again two
or three times, very pale, his hair literally standing
on end. Then, with a rapid look about him, era
era. . . and the letter in a thousand scraps went into
the waste-paper basket; but there it might be
found, and pieced together, and as he was stoop-
ing to gather up the fragments a quavering voice
called to him :
'* Ve ! Ferdinand, are you there? "
"Yes, mamma," replied the unlucky corsair,
curdling with fear, the whole of his long body on
its hands and knees beneath the desk.
" What are you doing, my treasure? "
" I am. . . h'm, I am making Mile. Tournatoire's
eye-salve."
Mamma went to sleep again, the pupil's pestle,
suspended for a moment, began once more its slow
The Nights at Tarascon. 235
clock movement, while Bezuquet walked up and
down before his door in the deserted little square,
turning pink or green according as he passed
before one or other of his bottles. From time
to time he threw up his arms, uttering disjointed
words : " Unhappy man ! . . lost. . . fatal love. . .
how can we extricate him? " and, in spite of his
trouble of mind, accompanying with a lively whistle
the bugle "taps" of a dragoon regiment echoing
among the plane-trees of the Tour de Ville.
" H^ ! good night, Bezuquet," said a shadow
hurrying along in the ash-coloured twilight.
" Where are you going, Pegoulade? "
" To the Club, pardi ! . . Night session. . . they
are going to discuss Tartarin and the presidency. . .
You ought to come."
" T^! yes, I '11 come ..." said the apothecary
vehemently, a providential idea darting through his
mind. He went in, put on his frock-coat, felt in
its pocket to assure himself that his latchkey was
there, and also the American tomahawk, without
which no Tarasconese whatsoever would risk him-
self in the streets after " taps. " Then he called :
" Pascalon ! . . Pascalon ! . ." but not too loudly, for
fear of waking the old lady.
Almost a child, though bald, wearing all his hair
in his curly blond beard, Pascalon the pupil had the
ardent soul of a partizan, a dome-like forehead, the
eyes of crazy goat, and on his chubby cheeks the
delicate tints of a shiny crusty Beaucaire roll. On
all the grand Alpine excursions it was to him that
the Club entrusted its banner, and his childish
236 Tar tar in 07t the Alps,
soul had vowed to the P. C. A. a fanatical wor-
ship, the burning, silent adoration of a taper con-
suming itself before an altar in the Easter season.
*' Pascalon," said the apothecary in a low voice,
and so close to him that the bristle of his moustache
pricked his ear. " I have news of Tartarin. . . It is
heart-breaking. . ."
Seeing him turn pale, he added :
" Courage, child ! all can be repaired. . . Dif-
feremment I confide to you the pharmacy. . . If any
one asks you for arsenic, don't give it ; opium, don't
give that either, nor rhubarb. . . don't give any-
thing. If I am not in by ten o'clock, lock the door
and go to bed."
With intrepid step, he plunged into the dark-
ness, not once looking back, which allowed Pasca-
lon to spring at the waste-paper basket, turn it over
and over with feverish eager hands and finally tip
out its contents on the leather of the desk to see if
no scrap remained of the mysterious letter brought
by the postman.
To those who know Tarasconese excitability, it
is easy to imagine the frantic condition of the little
town after Tartarin's abrupt disappearance. Et
autrement^ pas moins, differemment ^ they lost their
heads, all the more because it was the middle of
August and their brains boiled in the sun till their
skulls were fit to crack. From morning till night
they talked of nothing else; that one name
" Tartarin " alone was heard on the pinched lips of
the elderly ladies in hoods, in the rosy mouths of
grisettes, their hair tied up with velvet ribbons:
The Nights at Tar as con, 237
" Tartarin, Tartarin. . ." Even among the plane-
trees on the Promenade, heavy with white dust, dis-
tracted grasshoppers, vibrating in the sunlight,
seemed to strangle with those two sonorous syl-
lables : " Tar . . tar . . tar . . tar . . tar . . ."
As no one knew anything, naturally every one
was well-informed and gave explanations of the
departure of the president. Extravagant versions
appeared. According to some, he had entered
La Trappe ; he had eloped with the Dugazon ;
others declared he had gone to the Isles to found
a colony to be called Port-Tarascon, or else to
roam Central Africa in search of Livingstone.
'' Ah ! vai! Livingstone ! . . Why he has been
dead these two years."
But Tarasconese imagination defies all hints of
time and space. And the curious thing is that
these ideas of La Trappe, colonization, distant
travel, were Tartarin's own ideas, dreams of that
sleeper awake, communicated in past days to his
intimate friends, who now, not knowing what to
think, and vexed in their hearts at not being duly
informed, affected toward the public the greatest
reserve and behaved to one another with a sly
air of private understanding. Excourbanies sus-
pected Bravida of being in the secret; Bravida,
on his side, thought : " Bezuquet knows the truth ;
he looks about him like a dog with a bone."
True it was that the apothecary suffered a
thousand deaths from this hair-shirt of a secret,
which cut him, skinned him, turned him pale and
red in the same minute and caused him to squint
238 Tar tar in on the Alps,
continually. Remember that he belonged to
Tarascon, unfortunate man, and say if, in all
martyrology, you can find so terrible a torture as
this — the torture of Saint Bezuquet, who knew
a secret and could not tell it.
This is why, on that particular evening, in spite
of the terrifying news he had just received, his step
had something, I hardly know what, freer, more
buoyant, as he went to the session of the Club.
Enfin! . . He was now to speak, to unbosom
himself, to tell that which weighed so heavily
lipon him ; and in his haste to unload his breast
he cast a few half words as he went along to the
loiterers on the Promenade. The day had been
so hot, that in spite of the unusual hour {a quarter
to eight on the clock of the town hall !) and the terri-
fying darkness, quite a crowd of reckless persons,
bourgeois families getting the good of the air while
that of their houses evaporated, bands of five or
six sewing-women, rambling along in an undulat-
ing line of chatter and laughter, were abroad.
In every group they were talking of Tartarin.
" Et aiitrement, Monsieur Bezuquet, still no
letter?" they asked of the apothecary, stopping
him on his way.
*' Yes, yes, my friends, yes, there is . . . Read
the Forum to-morrow morning. . . "
He hastened his steps, but they followed him,
fastened on him, and along the Promenade rose
a murmuring sound, the bleating of a flock, which
gathered beneath the windows of the Club, left
wide open in great squares of light.
The Nights at Tarascon, 239
The sessions were held in the bouiUotte room,
where the long table covered with green cloth
served as a desk. At the centre, the presidential
arm-chair, with P. C. A. embroidered on the back
of it; at one end, humbly, the armless chair of the
secretary. Behind, the banner of the Club, draped
above a long glazed map in relief, on which the
Alpines stood up with their respective names
and altitudes. Alpenstocks of honour, inlaid
with ivory, stacked like billiard cues, ornamented
the corners, and a glass-case displayed curiosities,
crystals, silex, petrifactions, two porcupines and
a salamander, collected on the mountains.
In Tartarin's absence, Costecalde, rejuvenated
and radiant, occupied the presidential arm-chair ;
the armless chair was for Excourbanies, who
fulfilled the functions of secretary; but that devil
of a man, frizzled, hairy, bearded, was incessantly
in need of noise, motion, activity which hindered
his sedentary employments. At the smallest
pretext, he threw out his arms and legs, uttered
fearful howls and " Ha ! ha ! has ! " of ferocious,
exuberant joy which always ended with a war-cry
in the Tarasconese patois : " Fen d^ brut ... let
us make a noise "... He was called " the gong "
on account of his metallic voice, which cracked the
ears of his friends with its ceaseless explosions.
Here and there, on a horsehair divan that ran
round the room were the members of the com-
mittee.
In the first row, sat the former captain of
equipment, Bravida, whom all Tarascon called the
240 Tart arm 07i the Alps.
Commander ; a very small man, clean as a new
penny, who redeemed his childish figure by
making himself as moustached and savage a
head as Vercingetorix.
Next came the long, hollow, sickly face of
Pegoulade, the collector, last survivor of the wreck
of the " Medusa." Within the memory of man,
Tarascon has never been without a last survivor
of the wreck of the *' Medusa." At one time
they even numbered three, who treated one
another mutually as impostors, and never con-
sented to meet in the same room. Of these
three the only true one was Pegoulade. Setting
sail with his parents on the *' Medusa," he met
with the fatal disaster when six months old, —
which did not prevent him from relating the event,
de visUy in its smallest details, famine, boats, raft,
and how he had taken the captain, who was sel-
fishly saving himself, by the throat : *' To your
duty, wretch ! . . " At six months old, outre! . . .
Wearisome, to tell the truth, with that eternal tale
which everybody was sick of for the last fifty
years ; but he took it as a pretext to assume a
melancholy air, detached from life : " After what
I have seen ! " he would say — very unjustly,
because it was to that he owed his post as
collector and kept it under all administrations.
Near him sat the brothers Rognonas, twins and
sexagenarians, who never parted, but always quar-
relled and said the most monstrous things to each
other; their two old heads, defaced, corroded,
irregular, and ever looking in opposite directions
The Nights at Tar as con, 241
out of antipathy, were so alike that they might
have figured in a collection of coins with lANVS
BIFRONS on the exergue.
Here and there, were Judge Bedaride, Barjavel
the lawyer, the notary Cambalalette, and the ter-
rible Doctor Tournatoire, of whom Bravida re-
marked that he could draw blood from a radish.
In consequence of the great heat, increased by
the gas, these gentlemen held the session in their
shirt-sleeves, which detracted much from the
solemnity of the occasion. It is true that the
meeting was a very small one ; and the infamous
Costecalde was anxious to profit by that circum-
stance to fix the earliest possible date for the
elections without awaiting Tartarin's return. Con-
fident in this manoeuvre, he was enjoying his tri-
umph in advance, and when, after the reading of the
minutes by Excourbanies, he rose to insinuate his
scheme, an infernal smile curled up the corners of
his thin lips.
" Distrust the man who smiles before he speaks,"
murmured the Commander.
Costecalde, not flinching, and winking with one
eye at the faithful Tournatoire, began in a spiteful
voice: —
" Gentlemen, the extraordinary conduct of our
president, the uncertainty in which he leaves
us. . ."
" False ! . . The president has written. . ."
Bezuquet, quivering, planted himself squarely
before the table ; but conscious that his attitude
was anti-parliamentary, he changed his tone, and,
16
242 Tartarin 07i the Alps.
raising one hand according to usage, he asked for
the floor, to make an urgent communication.
"Speak! Speak!"
Costecalde, very yellow, his throat tightened,
gave him the floor by a motion of his head. Then,
and not till then, Bezuquet spoke :
"Tartarin is at the foot of the Jungfrau ... he
is about to make the ascent ... he desires to take
with him our banner. . ."
Silence; broken by the heavy breathing of
chests ; then a loud hurrah, bravos, stamping of
the feet, above which rose the gong of Excourbanies
uttering his war-cry " Ha ! ha 1 ha ! fefi de brut! "
to which the anxious crowd without responded.
Costecalde, getting more and more yellow, tinkled
the presidential bell desperately. Bezuquet at last
was allowed to continue, mopping his forehead and
puffing as if he had just mounted five pairs of
stairs.
Differemmenty the banner that their president
requested in order to plant it on virgin heights,
should it be wrapped up, packed up, and sent by
express like an ordinary trunk? . .
" Never I . . Ah I ah 1 ah 1 . ." roared Excour-
banies.
Would it not be better to appoint a delegation — •
draw lots for three members of the committee? . .
He was not allowed to finish. The time to say
zou! and Bezuquet's proposition was voted by
acclamation, and the names of three delegates drawn
in the following order: i, Bravida; 2, Pegoulade;
3, the apothecary.
The Nights at Tarascon. 243
No. 2, protested. The long journey frightened
him, so feeble and ill as he was, p^chkre! ever
since that terrible event of the ** Medusa."
** I '11 go for you, Pegoulade," roared Excour-
banies, telegraphing with all his limbs. As for
Bezuquet, he could not leave the pharmacy, the
safety of the town depended on him. One impru-
dence of the pupil, and all Tarascon might be
poisoned, decimated :
" Outre ! " cried the whole committee, agreeing
as one man.
Certainly the apothecary could not go himself,
but he could send Pascalon ; Pascalon could
take charge of the banner. That was his busi-
ness. Thereupon, fresh exclamations, further ex-
plosions of the gong, and on the Promenade
such a popular tempest that Excourbanies was
forced to show himself and address the crowd
above its roarings, which his matchless voice soon
mastered.
** My friends, Tartarin is found. He is about to
cover himself with glory."
Without adding more than ** Vive Tartarin ! "
and his war-cry, given with all the force of his
lungs, he stood for a moment enjoying the tre-
mendous clamour of the crowd below, rolling and
hustling confusedly in clouds of dust, while from
the branches of the trees the grasshoppers added
their queer little rattle as if it were broad day.
Hearing all this, Costecalde, who had gone to a
window with the rest, returned, staggering, to his
arm-chair.
244 Tar tar in on the Alps,
" Ve ! Costecalde," said some one. ''What's the
matter with him ? . . Look how yellow he is ! "
They sprang to him; already the terrible
Tournatoire had whipped out his lancet: but the
gunsmith, writhing in distress, made a horrible
grimace, and said ingenuously:
" Nothing . . . nothing ... let me alone ... I
know what it is ... it is envy."
Poor Costecalde, he seemed to suffer much.
While these things were happening, at the other
end of the Tour de Ville, in the pharmacy, Be-
zuquet's pupil, seated before his masters desk, was
patiently patching and gumming together the
fragments of Tartarin's letter overlooked by the
apothecary at the bottom of the basket. But
numerous bits were lacking in the reconstruction,
for here is the singular and sinister enigma spread
out before him, not unlike a map of Central Africa,
with voids and spaces of terra incognita, which the
artless standard-bearer explored in a state of terri-
fied imagination :
mad with love
reed-wick lam preserves of Chicago,
cannot tear myself Nihilist
to death condition abom in exchange
for her You know me, Ferdi
know my liberal ideas,
but from there to tzaricide
rrible consequences
Siberia hung adore her
Ah I press thy loyal hand
Tar Tar
Memorable Dialogue, 245
VIII.
Memorable dialogue between the Jungfrau and Tartarin.
A 7iihilist salon. The duel with hunting-knives. Fright-
ful nightmare. ^'- Is it I you are seeking^ messieurs f"*
Strange reception given by the hotel-keeper Meyer to the
Tarasconese delegation.
Like all the other choice hotels at Interlaken,
the Hotel Jungfrau, kept by Meyer, is situated
on the Hoheweg, a wide promenade between double
rows of chestnut-trees that vaguely reminded Tar-
tarin of the beloved Tour de Ville of his native
town, minus the sun, the grasshoppers, and the
dust; for during his week's sojourn at Interlaken
the rain had never ceased to fall.
He occupied a very fine chamber with a bal-
cony on the first floor, and trimmed his beard
in the morning before a little hand-glass hanging
to the window, an old habit of his when travelling.
The first object that daily struck his eyes beyond
the fields of grass and corn, the nursery gardens,
and an amphitheatre of solemn verdure in rising
stages, was the Jungfrau, lifting from the clouds
her summit, like a horn, white and pure with un-
broken snow, to which was daily clinging a furtive
ray of the still invisible rising sun. Then between
the white and rosy Alp and the Alpinist a little
246 Tartarin on the Alps,
dialogue took place regularly, which was not with-
out its grandeur.
"Tartarin, are you coming?" asked the Jung-
frau sternly.
" Here, here. . ." replied the hero, his thumb
under his nose and finishing his beard as fast as
possible. Then he would hastily take down his
ascensionist outfit and, swearing at himself, put it
on.
" Coquin de sort ! there 's no name for it. . ."
But a soft voice rose, demure and clear among
the myrtles in the border beneath his window.
" Good-morning," said Sonia, as he appeared
upon the balcony, '* the landau is ready. . . Come,
make haste, lazy man. . ."
"■ I 'm coming, I 'm coming. . ."
In a trice he had changed his thick flannel shirt
for linen of the finest quality, his mountain knick-
erbockers for a suit of serpent-green that turned
the heads of all the women in Tarascon at the
Sunday concerts.
The horses of the landau were pawing before
the door ; Sonia was already installed beside Boris,
paler, more emaciated day by day in spite of the
beneficent climate of Interlaken. But, regularly,
at the moment of starting, Tartarin was fated to
see two forms arise from a bench on the prom-
enade and approach him with the heavy rolling
step of mountain bears; these were Rodolphe
Kaufmann and Christian Inebnit, two famous
Grindelwald guides, engaged by Tartarin for the
ascension of the Jungfrau, who came every morn-
Memorable Dialogue, 247
ing to ascertain if their monsieur were ready to
start.
The apparition of these two men, in their iron-
clamped shoes and fustian jackets worn threadbare
on the back and shoulder by knapsacks and ropes,
their naive and serious faces, and the four words
of French which they managed to splutter as they
twisted their broad-brimmed hats, were a positive
torture to Tartarin. In vain he said to them:
" Don't trouble yourselves to come ; I '11 send for
you. . ."
Every day he found them in the same place and
got rid of them by a large coin proportioned to
the enormity of his remorse. Enchanted with this
method of " doing the Jungfrau," the moun-
taineers pocketed their trinkgeld gravely, and took,
with resigned step, the path to their native village,
leaving Tartarin confused and despairing at his
own weakness. Then the broad open air, the
flowering plains reflected in the limpid pupils of
Soma's eyes, the touch of her little foot against
his boot in the carriage. . . The devil take that
Jungfrau ! The hero thought only of his love,
or rather of the mission he had given himself to
bring back into the right path that poor little
Sonia, so unconsciously criminal, cast by sisterly
devotion outside of the law, and outside of human
nature.
This was the motive that kept him at Interlaken,
in the same hotel as the Wassiliefs. At his age,
with his air of a good papa, he certainly could not
dream of making that poor child love him, but he
248 Tartarht on the Alps.
saw her so sweet, so brave, so generous to all the
unfortunates of her party, so devoted to that
brother whom the mines of Siberia had sent back
to her, his body eaten with ulcers, poisoned with
verdigris, and he himself condemned to death by
phthisis more surely than by any court. There
was enough in all that to touch a man !
Tartarin proposed to take them to Tarascon
and settle them in a villa full of sun at the
gates of the town, that good little town where
it never rains and where life is spent in fetes and
song. And with that he grew excited, rattled a
tambourine air on the crown of his hat, and
trolled out the gay native chorus of the faran-
dole dance :
Lagadigadeoii
La Tarasque, la Tarasque,
Lagadigadeou
La Tarasque de Casteoij.
But while a satirical smile pinched still closer
the lips of the sick man, Sonia shook her head.
Neither fetes nor sun for her so long as the
Russians groaned beneath the yoke of the tyrant.
As soon as her brother was well — her despairing
eyes said another thing — nothing could prevent
her from returning up there to suffer and die
in the sacred cause.
"But, coqnin de bon sort!'" cried Tartarin, ''if
you blow up one tyrant there '11 come another. . .
You will have it all to do over again. . . And
the years will go by, ve ! the days for happiness
Memorable Dialogue, 249
and love. ." His way of saying love — amour —
a la Tarasconese, with three r's in it and his eyes
starting out of his head, amused the young girl:
then, serious once more, she declared she would
never love any man but the one who delivered her
country. Yes, that man, were he as ugly as
Bolibine, more rustic and common than Manilof,
she was ready to give herself wholly to him, to
live at his side, a free gift, as long as her youth
lasted and the man wished for her.
" Free gift ! " the term used by Nihilists to
express those illegal unions they contract among
themselves by reciprocal consent. And of such
primitive marriage Sonia spoke tranquilly with
her virgin air before the Tarasconese, who, worthy
bourgeois, peaceful elector, was now ready to
spend his days beside that adorable girl in the
said state of " free gift " if she had not added
those murderous and abominable conditions.
While they were conversing of these extremely
delicate matters, the fields, the lakes, the forests,
the mountains lay spread before them, and always
at each new turn, through the cool mist of that
perpetual shower which accompanied our hero
on all his excursions, the Jungfrau raised her
white crest, as if to poison by remorse those de-
licious hours. They returned to breakfast at
a vast table d'hote where the Rices and Prunes
continued their silent hostilities, to which Tartarin
was wholly indifferent, seated by Sonia, watching
that Boris had no open window at his back,
assiduous, paternal, exhibiting all his seductions
250 Tar tar in on the Alps.
as man of the world and his domestic qualities
as an excellent cabbage-rabbit.
After this, he took tea with the Russians in
their little salon opening on a tiny garden at
the end of the terrace. Another exquisite hour
for Tartarin of intimate chat in a low voice
while Boris slept on a sofa. The hot water bubbled
in the samovar; a perfume of moist flowers
slipped through the half-opened door with the
blue reflection of the solanums that were clustering
about it. A little more sun, more warmth, and
here was his dream realized, his pretty Russian
installed beside him, taking care of the garden
of the baobab.
Suddenly Sonia gave a jump.
" Two o'clock ! . . And the letters? "
" I 'm going for them," said the good Tartarin,
and, merely from the tones of his voice and the
resolute, theatrical gesture with which he but-
toned his coat and seized his cane, any one would
have guessed the gravity of the action, apparently
so simple, of going to the post-office to fetch the
Wassilief letters.
Closely watched by the local authorities and
the Russian police, all Nihilists, but especially
their leaders, are compelled to take certain pre-
cautions, such as having their letters and papers
addressed poste restante to simple initials.
Since their installation at Interlaken, Boris
being scarcely able to drag himself about, Tartarin,
to spare Sonia the annoyance of waiting in line
before the post-oflice wicket exposed to inquisi-
Memorable Dialogue, 251
tive eyes, had taken upon himself the risks and
perils of this daily nuisance. The post-office
is not more than ten minutes* walk from the
hotel, in a wide and noisy street at the end of a
promenade lined with cafes, breweries, shops for
the tourists displaying alpenstocks, gaiters, straps,
opera-glasses, smoked glasses, flasks, travelling-
bags, all of which articles seemed placed there
expressly to shame the renegade Alpinist. Tour-
ists were defiling in caravans, with horses, guides,
mules, veils green and blue, and a tintinnabulation
of canteens as the animals ambled, the ice-picks
marking each step on the cobble-stones. But this
festive scene, hourly renewed, left Tartarin indiffer-
ent. He never even felt the fresh north wind
with a touch of snow coming in gusts from the
mountains, so intent was he on baffling the spies
whom he supposed to be upon his traces.
The foremost soldier of a vanguard, the sharp-
shooter skirting the walls of an enemy's town,
never advanced with more mistrust than the Taras-
conese hero while crossing the short distance
between the hotel and the post-office. At the
slightest heel-tap sounding behind his own, he
stopped, looked attentively at the photographs in
the windows, or fingered an English or German
book lying on a stall, to oblige the police spy to
pass him. Or else he turned suddenly round, to
stare with ferocious eyes at a stout servant-girl going
to market, or some harmless tourist, a table d'hdte
Prune, who, taking him for a madman, turned off,
alarmed, from the sidewalk to avoid him.
252 Tartarin 07i the Alps,
When he reached the office, where the wickets
open, rather oddly, into the street itself, Tartarin
passed and repassed, to observe the surrounding
physiognomies before he himself approached:
then, suddenly darting forward, he inserted his
whole head and shoulders into the opening, mut-
tered a few indistinct syllables (which they always
made him repeat, to his great despair), and, pos-
sessor at last of the mysterious trust, he returned
to the hotel by a great detour on the kitchen side,
his hand in his pocket clutching the package of
letters and papers, prepared to tear up and swal-
low everything at the first alarm.
Manilof and Bolibine were usually awaiting his
return with the Wassiliefs. They did not lodge in
the hotel, out of prudence and economy. Bolibine
had found work in a printing-office, and Manilof,
a very clever cabinetmaker, was employed by a
builder. Tartarin did not like them : one annoyed
him by his grimaces and his jeering airs ; the
other kept looking at him savagely. Besides,
they took too much space in Sonia's heart.
" He is a hero ! " she said of Bolibine; and she
told how for three years he had printed all alone,
in the very heart of St. Petersburg, a revolutionary
paper. Three years without ever leaving his
upper room, or showing himself at a window, sleep-
ing at night in a great cupboard built in the wall,
where the woman who lodged him locked him up
till morning with his clandestine press.
And then, that life of Manilof, spent for six
months in the subterranean passages beneath the
Memorable Dialogue, 253
Winter Palace, watching his opportunity, sleeping
at night on his provision of dynamite, which re-
sulted in giving him frightful headaches, and
nervous troubles; all this, aggravated by perpetual
anxiety, sudden irruptions of the police, vaguely
informed that something was plotting, and coming,
suddenly and unexpectedly, to surprise the work-
men employed at the Palace. On one of the rare
occasions when Manilof came out of the mine, he
met on the Place de TAmiraut^ a delegate of the
Revolutionary Committee, who asked him in a low
voice, as he walked along;
"Is it finished?"
" No, not yet . . ." said the other, scarcely mov-
ing his lips. At last, on an evening in February,
to the same question in the same words he
answered, with the greatest calmness:
" It is finished. . ."
And almost immediately a horrible uproar
confirmed his words, all the lights of the palace
went out suddenly, the place was plunged into
complete obscurity, rent by cries of agony and
terror, the blowing of bugles, the galloping of
soldiers, and firemen tearing along with their trucks.
Here Sonia interrupted her tale :
" Is it not horrible, so many human lives sacri-
ficed, such efforts, such courage, such wasted
intelligence? . . No, no, it is a bad means, these
butcheries in the mass. . . He who should be
killed always escapes. . . The true way, the most
humane, would be to seek the czar himself as you
seek the lion, fully determined, fully armed, post
254 Tartarin on the Alps,
yourself at a window or the door of a carriage . . ,
and, when he passes "
'-'- Be ! yes, certainemain . . ."responded Tartarin
embarrassed, and pretending not to seize her mean-
ing; then, suddenly, he would launch into a philo-
sophical, humanitarian discussion with one of the
numerous assistants. For Bolibine and Manilof
were not the only visitors to the Wassiliefs Every
day new faces appeared of young people, men or
women, with the cut of poor students ; elated
teachers, blond and rosy, with the self-willed
forehead and the childlike ferocity of Sonia ; out-
lawed exiles, some of them already condemned to
death, which lessened in no way their youthful
expansiveness.
They laughed, they talked openly, and as most
of them spoke French, Tartarin was soon at his
ease. They called him ** uncle," conscious of
something childlike and artless about him that
they liked. Perhaps he was over-ready with his
hunting tales ; turning up his sleeve to his biceps in
order to show the scar of a blow from a panther's
claws, or making his hearers feel beneath his beard
the holes left there by the fangs of a lion ; perhaps
also he became too rapidly familiar with these
persons, catching them round the waist, leaning on
their shoulders, calHng them by their Christian
names after five minutes' intercourse :
" Listen, Dmitri. . . " " You know me, Fedor
Ivanovich. . ." They knew him only since yester-
day, in any case ; but they liked him all the same
for his jovial frankness, his amiable, trustful air,
Memorable Dialogue, 255
and his readiness to please. They read their let-
ters before him, planned their plots, and told their
passwords to foil the police : a whole atmosphere
of conspiracy which amused the imagination of the
Tarasconese hero immensely : so that, however
opposed by nature to acts of violence, he could
not help, at times, discussing their homicidal plans,
approving, criticising, and giving advice dictated
by the experience of a great leader who has trod
the path of war, trained to the handling of all
weapons, and to hand-to-hand conflicts with wild
beasts.
One day, when they told in his presence of the
murder of a policeman, stabbed by a Nihilist at
the theatre, Tartarin showed them how badly the
blow had been struck, and gave them a lesson in
knifing.
** Like this, v^ ! from the top down. Then
there 's no risk of wounding yourself. . ."
And, excited by his own imitation :
*' Let 's suppose, U ! that I hold your despot
between four eyes in a boar-hunt. He is over
there, where you are, Fedor, and I'm here, near
this round table, each of us with our hunting-
knife. . . Come on, monseigneur, we '11 have it
out now. . ."
Planting himself in the middle of the salon,
gathering his sturdy legs under him for a spring,
and snorting like a woodcbopper, he mimicked a
real fight, ending by his cry of triumph as he
plunged the weapon to the hilt, from the top down,
coquin de sort I into the bowels of his adversary.
256 Tartari7i on the Alps,
" That 's how it ought to be done, my Httle
fellows ! "
But what subsequent remorse ! what anguish
when, escaping from the magnetism of Sonia's blue
eyes, he found himself alone, in his nightcap, alone
with his reflections and his nightly glass of eau
sucr^e !
Differ emment^ what was he meddling with?
The czar was not his czar, decidedly, and all
these matters didn 't concern him in the least. . .
And don't you see that some of these days he
would be captured, extradited and delivered over:
to Muscovite justice. . . Boufre ! they don't
joke, those Cossacks. . . And in the obscurity of
his hotel chamber, with that horrible imagina-
tive faculty which the horizontal position increases,
there developed before him — like one of those
unfolding pictures given to him in childhood —
the various and terrible punishments to which
he should be subjected: Tartarin in the verdigris
mines, like Boris, working in water to his belly,
his body ulcerated, poisoned. He escapes, he
hides amid forests laden with snow, pursued by
Tartars and bloodhounds trained to hunt men.
Exhausted with cold and hunger, he is retaken and
finally hung between two thieves, embraced by a
pope with greasy hair smelling of brandy and seal-
oil; while away down there, at Tarascon in the
sunshine, the band playing of a fine Sunday,
the crowd, the ungrateful crowd, are installing a
radiant Costecalde in the chair of the P. C A.
It was during the agony of one of these dreadful
Memorable Dialogue, 257
dreams that he uttered his cry of distress, " Help,
help, Bezuquet! " and sent to the apothecary that
confidential letter, all moist with the sweat of his
nightmare. But Sonia's pretty "Good morning"
beneath his window sufficed to cast him back into
the weaknesses of indecision.
One evening, returning from the Kursaal to the
hotel with the Wassiliefs and Bolibine, after two
hours of intoxicating music, the unfortunate man
forgot all prudence, and the ** Sonia, I love you,"
which he had so long restrained, was uttered as he
pressed the arm that rested on his own. She was
not agitated. Perfectly pale, she gazed at him
under the gas of the portico on which they had
paused : " Then deserve me. . ." she said, with a
pretty enigmatical smile, a smile that gleamed upon
her delicate white teeth. Tartarin was about to
reply, to bind himself by an oath to some criminal
madness when the porter of the hotel came up to
him:
" There are persons waiting for you, upstairs. . .
some gentlemen. . . They want you."
'' Want me ! . . Outre ! . . What for? " And
No. I of his folding series appeared before him :
Tartarin captured, extradited. . . Of course he was
frightened, but his attitude was heroic. Quickly
detaching himself from Sonia : " Fly, save your-
self! " he said to her in a smothered voice. Then
he mounted the stairs as if to the scaffold, his head
high, his eyes proud, but so disturbed in mind that
he was forced to cling to the baluster.
As he entered the corridor, he saw persons
17
258 Tartarin on the Alps,
grouped at the farther end of it before his door,
looking through the keyhole, rapping, and calling
out: "Hey! Tartarin. . ."
He made two steps forward, and said, with
parched lips : ** Is it I whom you are seeking,
messieurs ? "
" Te ! pardi, yes, my president! . ."
And a little old man, alert and wiry, dressed in
gray, and apparently bringing on his coat> his hat,
his gaiters and his long and pendent moustache all
the dust of his native town, fell upon the neck of
the hero and rubbed against his smooth fat cheeks
the withered leathery skin of the retired captain of
equipment.
*' Bravida ! . . not possible ! . . Excourbanies
too ! . . and who is that over there? . ."
A bleating answered : *' Dear ma-a-aster ! . ."
and the pupil advanced, banging against the wall a
sort of long fishing-rod with a packet at one end
wrapped in gray paper, and oilcloth tied round it
with string.
*' Hey ! ve ! why it 's Pascalon. . . Embrace me,
little one. . . What's that you are carrying? . . Put
it down. . ."
** The paper. . . take off the paper ! . ." whispered
Bravida. The youth undid the roll with a rapid
hand and the Tarasconese banner was displayed to
the eyes of the amazed Tartarin.
The delegates took off their hats.
"President" — the voice of Bravida trembled
solemnly — " you asked for the banner and we have
brought it, te ! "
Memorable Dialogue. 259
The president opened a pair of eyes as round as
apples: '' I ! I asked for it?"
"What! you did not ask for it? Bezuquet said
so."
** Yes, yes, certainemain, , ." said Tartarin, sud-
denly enlightened by the mention of Bezuquet.
He understood all and guessed the rest, and,
tenderly moved by the ingenious lie of the apoth-
ecary to recall him to a sense of duty and honour,
he choked, and stammered in his short beard :
" Ah ! my children, how kind you are ! What good
you have done me ! "
" Vive le prhidain ! " yelped Pascalon, bran-
dishing the oriflamme. Excourbanies' gong re-
sponded, rolling its war-cry (" Ha ! ha ! ha ! fen d^
brut. . .") to the very cellars of the hotel. Doors
opened, inquisitive heads protruded on every floor
and then disappeared, alarmed, before that standard
and the dark and hairy men who were roaring
singular words and tossing their arms in the air.
Never had the peaceable Hotel Jungfrau been
subjected to such a racket.
" Come into my room," said Tartarin, rather
disconcerted. He was feeling about in the dark-
ness to find matches when an authoritative rap on
the door made it open of itself to admit the con-
sequential, yellow, and puffy face of the innkeeper
Meyer. He was about to enter, but stopped short
before the darkness of the room, and said with
closed teeth:
" Try to keep quiet ... or I '11 have you taken
up by the police. . ."
26o Tartarm on the Alps.
A grunt as of wild bulls issued from the shadow
at that brutal term " taken up." The hotel-keeper
recoiled one step, but added : *' It is known who
you are ; they have their eye upon you ; for my
part, I don't want any more such persons in my
house ! . ."
" Monsieur Meyer," said Tartarin, gently, polite-
ly, but very firmly. . . " Send me my bill. . .
These gentlemen and myself start to-morrow
morning for the Jungfrau."
O native soil ! O little country within a great
one ! by only hearing the Tarasconese accent,
quivering still with the air of that beloved land
beneath the azure folds of its banner, behold Tar-
tarin, delivered from love and its snares and restored
to his friends, his mission, his glory.
And now, zou I
At the ''Faithful Chamois^ 261
IX.
At the ^^ Faithful Chafnois.^^
The next day it was charming, that trip on foot
from Interlaken to Grindelwald, where they were,
in passing, to take guides for the Little Scheideck;
charming, that triumphal march of the P. C. A.,
restored to his trappings and mountain habihments,
leaning on one side on the lean little shoulder of
Commander Bravida, and on the other, the robust
arm of Excourbanies, proud, both of them, to be
nearest to him, to support their dear president, to
carry his ice-axe, his knapsack, his alpenstock,
while sometimes before, sometimes behind or on
their flanks the fanatical Pascalon gambolled like
a puppy, his banner duly rolled up into a package
to avoid the tumultuous scenes of the night before.
The gayety of his companions, the sense of duty
accomplished, the Jungfrau all white upon the
sky, over there, like a vapour — nothing short of
all this could have made the hero forget what he
left behind him, for ever and ever it may be, and
without farewell. However, at the last houses of
Interlaken his eyelids swelled and, still walking on,
he poured out his feelings in turn into the bosom
of Excourbanies: "Listen, Spiridion," or that of
Bravida : " You know me, Placide. . ." For, by
262 Tar tar in on the Alps,
an irony on nature, that indomitable warrior was
called Placide, and that rough buffalo, with all his
instincts material, Spiridion.
Unhappily, the Tarasconese race, more gallant
than sentimental, never takes its love-affairs very
seriously. " Whoso loses a woman and ten sous,
is to be pitied about the money. . ." replied the
sententious Placide to Tartarin's tale, and Spiridion
thought exactly like him. As for the innocent
Pascalon, he was horribly afraid of women, and
reddened to the ears when the name of the Little
Scheideck was uttered before him, thinking some
lady of flimsy morals was referred to. The poor
lover was therefore reduced to keep his confi-
dences to himself, and console himself alone —
which, after all, is the surest way.
But what grief could have resisted the attractions
of the way through that narrow, deep and sombre
valley, where they walked on the banks of a wind-
ing river all white with foam, rumbling with an
echo like thunder among the pine-woods which
skirted both its shores.
The Tarasconese delegation, their heads in the
air, advanced with a sort of religious awe and ad-
miration, like the comrades of Sinbad the Sailor
when they stood before the mangoes, the cotton-
trees, and all the giant flora of the Indian coasts.
Knowing nothing but their own little bald and
stony mountains they had never imagined there
could be so many trees together or such tall ones.
" That is nothing, as yet. . . wait till you see the
Jungfrau," said the P. C. A., who enjoyed their
At the ''Faithful Chamois^ 263
amazement and felt himself magnified in their
eyes.
At the same time, as if to brighten the scene
and humanize its solemn note, cavalcades went by
them, great landaus going at full speed, with veils
floating from the doorways where curious heads
leaned out to look at the delegation pressing round
its president. From point to point along the road-
side were booths spread with knick-knacks of
carved wood, while young girls, stiff in their laced
bodices, their striped skirts and broad-brimmed
straw hats, were offering bunches of strawberries
and edelweiss. Occasionally, an Alpine horn sent
among the mountains its melancholy ritornello,
swelling, echoing from gorge to gorge, and slowly
diminishing, like a cloud that dissolves into
vapour.
" 'T is fine, 't is like an organ," murmured Pasca-
lon, his eyes moist, in ecstasy, like the stained-glass
saint of a church window. Excourbanies roared,
undiscouraged, and the echoes repeated, till sight
and sound were lost, his Tarasconese intonations :
" Ha ! ha ! ha ! fen d^ brut! "
But people grow weary after marching for two
hours through the same sort of decorative scene,
however well it may be organized, green on blue,
glaciers in the distance, and all things sonorous as
a musical clock. The dash of the torrents, the
singers in triplets, the sellers of carved objects,
the little flower-giils, soon became intolerable to
our friends, — above all, the dampness, the steam
rising in this species of tunnel, the soaked soil
264 Tartarin on the Alps,
full of water-plants, where never had the sun
penetrated.
'' It is enough to give one a pleurisy," said
Bravida, turning up the collar of his coat. Then
weariness set in, hunger, ill-humour. They could
find no inn ; and presently Excourbanies and
Bravida, having stuffed themselves with straw-
berries, began to suffer cruelly. Pascalon himself,
that angel, bearing not only the banner, but the
ice-axe, the knapsack, the alpenstock, of which the
others had rid themselves basely upon him, even
Pascalon had lost his gayety and ceased his lively
gambolling.
At a turn of the road, after they had just crossed
the Lutschine by one of those covered bridges that
are found in regions of deep snow, a loud blast on
a horn greeted them.
** Ah ! vai, enough ! . . enough ! " howled the
exasperated delegation.
The man, a giant, ensconced by the roadside, let
go an enormous trumpet of pine wood reaching to
the ground and ending there in a percussion-box,
which gave to this prehistoric instrument the so-
norousness of a piece of artillery.
" Ask him if he knows of an inn," said the pres-
ident to Excourbanies, who, with enormous cheek
and a small pocket dictionary undertook, now that
they were in German Switzerland, to serve the
delegation as interpreter. But before he could pull
out his dictionary the man replied in very good
French :
"An inn, messieurs? Why certainly. . . The
At the ''Faithful Chamois^ 265
' Faithful Chamois' is close by; allow me to show'
you the place."
On the way, he told them he had lived in Paris
for several years, as commissionnaire at the corner
of the rue Vivienne.
"Another employ^ of the Company, /^r<^/^/// "
thought Tartarin, leaving his friends to be sur-
prised. However, Bompard's comrade was very
useful, for, in spite of its French sign, Le Chamois
Fidcle, the people of the " Faithful Chamois "
could speak nothing but a horrible German patois.
Presently, the Tarasconese delegation, seated
around an enormous potato omelet, recovered
both the health and the good-humour as essential
to Southerners as the sun of their skies. They
drank deep, they ate solidly. After many toasts
to the president and his coming ascension, Tarta-
rin, who had puzzled over the tavern-sign ever
since his arrival, inquired of the horn-player, who
was breaking a crust in a corner of the room :
"So you have chamois here, it seems? . . I
thought there were none left in Switzerland."
The man winked :
" There are not many, but enough to let you see
them now and then."
"Shoot them, is what he wants, v^ f' said Pas-
calon, full of enthusiasm ; " never did the president
miss a shot."
Tartarin regretted that he had not brought his
carbine.
" Wait a minute, and I '11 speak to the landlord."
It so happened that the landlord was an old
266 Tartarin on the Alps,
chamois hunter; he offered his gun, his powder,
his buck-shot, and even himself as guide to a haunt
he knew.
"■ Forward, zou ! " cried Tartarin, granting to
his happy Alpinists the opportunity to show off
the prowess of their chief It was only a slight
delay, after all; the Jungfrau lost nothing by
waiting.
Leaving the inn at the back, they had only to
walk through an orchard, no bigger than the gar-
den of a station-master, before they found them-
selves on a mountain, gashed with great crevasses,
among the fir-trees and underbrush.
The innkeeper took the advance, and the Taras-
conese presently saw him far up the height, waving
his arms and throwing stones, no doubt to rouse
the chamois. They rejoined him with much pain
and difficulty over that rocky slope, hard especially
to persons who had just been eating and were as
little used to climbing as these good Alpinists of
Tarascon. The air was heavy, moreover, with a
tempest breath that was slowly rolling the clouds
along the summits above their heads.
** Boufre ! " groaned Bravida.
Excourbanies growled : '' Outre ! "
** What shall I be made to say ! " added the
gentle, bleating Pascalon.
But the guide having, by a violent gesture, or-
dered them to hold their tongues, and not to stir,
Tartarin remarked, " Never speak under arms,"
with a sternness that rebuked every one, although
the president alone had a weapon. They stood
At the ''Faithful Chamois^ 267
stock still, holding their breaths. Suddenly, Pas-
calon cried out:
" F// the chamois, v^ f . ."
About three hundred feet above them, the up-
right horns, the light buff coat and the four feet
gathered together of the pretty creature stood de-
fined like a carved image at the edge of the rock,
looking at them fearlessly. Tartarin brought his
piece to his shoulder methodically, as his habit
was, and was just about to fire when the chamois
disappeared.
" It is your fault," said the Commander to
Pascalon ..." you whistled . . . and that fright-
ened him."
"I whistled! . . I?"
" Then it was Spiridion. . ."
" Ah, vai ! never in my life."
Nevertheless, they had all heard a whistle, stri-
dent, prolonged. The president settled the ques-
tion by relating how the chamois, at the approach
of enemies, gives a sharp danger signal through
the nostrils. That devil of a Tartarin knew
everything about this kind of hunt, as about
all others !
At the call of their guide they started again ;
but the acclivity became steeper and steeper, the
rocks more ragged, with bogs between them to
right and left. Tartarin kept the lead, turning
constantly to help the delegates, holding out his
hand or his carbine: "Your hand, your hand,
if you don't mind," cried honest Bravida, who was
very much afraid of loaded weapons.
268 Tartarm on the Alps,
Another sign of the guide, another stop of the
delegation, their noses in the air.
" I felt a drop ! " murmured the Commander,
very uneasy. At the same instant the thunder
growled, but louder than the thunder roared the
voice of Excourbanies : " Fire, Tartarin ! " and
the chamois bounded past them, crossing the
ravine like a golden flash, too quickly for Tartarin
to take aim, but not so fast that they did not
hear that whistle of his nostrils.
'' I '11 have him yet, coquin de sort! " cried the
president, but the delegates protested. Excour-
banies, becoming suddenly very sour, demanded
if he had sworn to exterminate them.
" Dear ma-a-aster," bleated Pascalon, timidly,
*' I have heard say that chamois if you corner
them in abysses turn at bay against the hunter
and are very dangerous."
" Then don't let us corner him ! " said Bravida
hastily.
Tartarin called them milksops. But while they
were arguing, suddenly, abruptly, they all disap-
peared from one another's gaze in a warm thick
vapour that smelt of sulphur, through which they
sought each other, calling:
''Hey! Tartarin."
" Are you there, Placide? "
" Ma-a-as-ter ! "
*' Keep cool ! Keep cool ! "
A regular panic. Then a gust of wind broke
through the mist and whirled it away like a torn
veil clinging to the briers, through which a zigzag
A I the ''Faithful Chamois T 269
flash of lightning fell at their feet with a frightful
clap of thunder. " My cap ! " cried Spiridion, as
the tempest bared his head, its hairs erect and
crackling with electric sparks. They were in
the very heart of the storm, the forge itself of
Vulcan. Bravida was the first to fly, at full speed,
the rest of the delegation flew behind him, when
a cry from the president, who thought of every-
thing, stopped them :
" Thunder ! . . beware of the thunder ! . . "
At any rate, outside of the very real danger of
which he warned them, there was no possibility
of running, on those steep and gullied slopes, now
transformed into torrents, into cascades, by the
pouring rain. The return was awful, by slow
steps under that crazy clifl", amid the sharp, short
flashes of lightning followed by explosions, slip-
ping, falling, and forced at times to halt. Pascalon
crossed himself and invoked aloud, as at Tarascon :
" Sainte Marthe and Sainte Helene, Sainte Marie-
Madeleine," while Excourbani^s swore : " Coquin
de sort! " and Bravida, the rearguard, looked back
in trepidation :
'* What the devil is that behind us ? . . It is
galloping ... it is whistling . . . there, it has
stopped . . ."
The idea of a furious chamois flinging itself upon
its hunters was in the mind of the old warrior. In
a low voice, in order not to alarm the others, he
communicated his fears to Tartarin, who bravely
took his place as the rearguard and marched along,
soaked to the skin, his head high, with that mute
270 Tartarin on the Alps.
determination which is given by the imminence of
danger. But when he reached the inn and saw his
dear Alpinists under shelter, drying their wet things,
which smoked around a huge porcelain stove in
a first floor chamber, to which rose an odour of
grog already ordered, the president shivered and
said, looking very pale: "I believe I have taken
cold."
" Taken cold ! " No question now of starting
again ; the delegation asked only for rest. Quick,
a bed was warmed, they hurried the hot wine grog,
and after his second glass the president felt
throughout his comfort-loving body a warmth, a
tingling that augured well. Two pillows at his
back, a " plumeau " on his feet, his muffler round
his head, he experienced a delightful sense of
well-being in Hstening to the roaring of the storm,
inhaling that good pine odour of the rustic little
room with its wooden walls and leaden panes, and
in looking at his dear Alpinists, gathered, glass in
hand, around his bed in the anomalous character
given to their Gallic, Roman or Saracenic types by
the counterpanes, curtains, and carpets in which
they were bundled while their own clothes steamed
before the stove. Forgetful of himself, he
questioned each of them in a sympathetic voice :
**Are you well, Placide? . . Spiridion, you
seemed to be suff'ering just now? . ."
No, Spiridion suff'ered no longer, all that had
passed away on seeing the president so ill.
Bravida, who adapted moral truths to the proverbs
of his nation, added cynically: "Neighbour's ill
At the ^'Faithful Chamois T 271
comforts, and even cures." Then they talked of
their hunt, exciting one another with the recollec-
tion of certain dangerous episodes, such as the
moment when the animal turned upon them
furiously; and without complicity of lying, in fact,
most ingenuously, they fabricated the fable they
afterwards related on their return to Tarascon.
Suddenly, Pascalon, who had been sent in search
of another supply of grog, reappeared in terror,
one arm out of the blue-flowered curtain that he
gathered about him with the chaste gesture of a
Polyeucte. He was more than a second before he
could articulate, in a whisper, breathlessly: ''The
chamois ! . ."
" Well, what of the chamois? . ."
" He 's down there, in the kitchen . . . warming
himself. . ."
" Ah ! vat. . r
" You are joking. . ."
** Suppose you go and see, Placide."
Bravida hesitated. Excourbanies descended on
the tips of his toes, but returned almost immedi-
ately, his face convulsed. . . More and more
astounding ! . . the chamois was drinking grog.
They certainly owed it to him, poor beast, after
the wild run he had been made to take on the
mountain, dispatched and recalled by his master,
who, as a usual thing, put him through his evolu-
tions in the house, to show to tourists how easily a
chamois could be trained.
" It is overwhelming ! " said Bravida, making no
further effort at comprehension ; as for Tartarin, he
272 Tartarin on the Alps,
dragged the muffler over his eyes like a nightcap
to hide from the delegates the soft hilarity that
overcame him at encountering wherever he went
the dodges and the performers of Bompard's
Switzerland.
Tlie Ascension of the Ju7igfrau, 273
X.
The ascension of the Ju7igfrau. VS ! the oxen. The
Kennedy crampons will not work. Nor the reed-lamp
either. Apparition of masked tnen at the chalet of the
Alpi?te Club. The president i7i a crevasse. On the
summit. Tartarin becomes a god.
Great influx, that morning, to the Hotel Belle-
vue on the Little Scheideck. In spite of the rain
and the squalls, tables had been laid outside in the
shelter of the veranda, amid a great display of
alpenstocks, flasks, telescopes, cuckoo clocks in
carved wood, so that tourists could, while break-
fasting, contemplate at a depth of six thousand
feet before them the wonderful valley of Grindel-
wald on the left, that of Lauterbrunnen on the
right, and opposite, within gunshot as it seemed,
the immaculate, grandiose slopes of the Jungfrau,
its fiMs, glaciers, all that reverberating whiteness
which illumines the air about it, making glasses
more transparent, and linen whiter.
But now, for a time, general attention was at-
tracted to a noisy, bearded caravan, which had just
arrived on horse, mule, and donkey-back, also in a
chaise a porteiirs, who had prepared themselves to
climb the mountain by a copious breakfast, and
were now in a state of hilarity, the racket of which
18
274 Tartarin on the Alps.
contrasted with the bored and solemn airs of
the very distinguished Rices and Prunes collected
on the Scheideck, such as: Lord Chipendale,
the Belgian senator and his family, the Austro-
Hungarian diplomat, and several others. It would
certainly have been supposed that the whole party
of these bearded men sitting together at table
were about to attempt the ascension, for one and
all were busy with preparations for departure, ris-
ing, rushing about to give directions to the guides,
inspecting the provisions, and calling to each
other from end to end of the terrace in stentorian
tones.
" Hey ! Placide, ve I the cooking-pan, see if it
is in the knapsack ! . . Don't forget the reed-
lamp, au inouain!'
Not until the actual departure took place was it
seen that, of all the caravan, only one was to make
the ascension: but which one?
"Children, are we ready?" said the good Tar-
tarin in a joyous, triumphant voice, in which not a
shade of anxiety trembled at the possible dangers
of the trip — his last doubt as to the Company's
manipulation of Switzerland being dissipated that
very morning before the two glaciers of Grindel-
wald each protected by a wicket and a turnstile,
with this inscription '' Entrance to the glacier : one
franc fifty."
He could, therefore, enjoy without anxiety this
departure in apotheosis, the joy of feeling himself
looked at, envied, admired by those bold little
misses in boys' caps who laughed at him so prettily
The Ascension of the Jtmgfrau, 275
on the Rigi-Kulm, and were now enthusiastically
comparing his short person with the enormous
mountain he was about to climb. One drew his
portrait in her album, another sought the honour
of touching his alpenstock. " Tchemppegne ! . .
Tchemppegne ! . ." called out of a sudden a tall,
funereal Englishman with a brick-coloured skin,
coming up to him, bottle and glass in hand.
Then, after obliging the hero to drink with him :
" Lord Chipendale, sir . . . And you? "
" Tartarin of Tarascon."
" Oh ! yes . . . Tartarine . . . Capital name for
a horse," said the lord, who must have been one of
those great turfmen across the Channel.
The Austro-Hungarian diplomat also came to
press the Alpinist's hand between his mittens,
remembering vaguely to have seen him some-
where. ** Enchanted ! . . enchanted ! . . " he enun-
ciated several times, and then, not knowing how
to get out of it, he added : *' My compliments to
madame ..." his social formula for cutting short
presentations.
But the guides were impatient ; they must reach
before nightfall the hut of the Alpine Club, where
they were to sleep for the first stage, and there was
not a minute to lose. Tartarin felt it, saluted all
with a circular gesture, smiled at the malicious
misses, and then, in a voice of thunder, commanded :
" Pascalon, the banner ! "
It waved to the breeze ; the Southerners took off
their hats, for they love theatricals at Tarascon ;
and at the cry, a score of times repeated : " Long
276 Tartarin on the Alps.
live the president ! . . Long live Tartarin ! . . Ah !
ah ! . . fe7i de brut ! . . " the column moved off, the
two guides in front carrying the knapsack, the pro-
visions, and a supply of wood ; then came Pascalon
bearing the oriflamme, and lastly the P. C. A. with
the delegates who proposed to accompany him as
far as the glacier of the Guggi.
Thus deployed in procession, bearing its flap-
ping flag along the sodden way beneath those bar-
ren or snowy crests, the cortege vaguely recalled
the funeral marches of an All Souls' day in the
country.
Suddenly the Commander cried out, alarmed :
" F// those oxen ! "
Some cattle were now seen browsing the short
grass in the hollows of the ground. The former
captain of equipment had a nervous and quite
insurmountable terror of those animals, and as he
could not be left alone the delegation was forced
to stop. Pascalon transmitted the standard to the
guides. Then, with a last embrace, hasty injunc-
tions, and one eye on the cows :
" Adieu, adieu, qu^ I "
" No imprudence, au mouain ..." they parted.
As for proposing to the president to go up with
him, no one even thought of it; 'twas so high,
boufre ! And the nearer they came to it the higher
it grew, the abysses were more abysmal, the peaks
bristled up in a white chaos, which looked to be
insurmountable. It was better to look at the
ascension from the Scheideck.
In all his life, naturally, the president of the Club
The Ascension of the Jungfrau, 277
of the Alpines had never set foot on a glacier.
There is nothing of that sort on the mountainettes
of Tarascon, little hills as balmy and dry as a
packet of lavender; and yet the approaches to
the Guggi gave him the impression of having
already seen them, and wakened recollections of
hunts in Provence at the end of the Camargue,
near to the sea. The same turf always getting
shorter and parched, as if seared by fire. Here
and there were puddles of water, infiltrations of
the ground betrayed by puny reeds, then came the
moraine, like a sandy dune full of broken shells
and cinders, and, far at the end, the glacier, with
its blue-green waves crested with white and
rounded in form, a silent, congealed ground-swell.
The wind which came athwart it, whistling and
strong, had the same biting, salubrious freshness
as his own sea-breeze.
" No, thank you. . . I have my crampons ..."
said Tartarin to the guide, who offered him woollen
socks to draw on over his boots ; " Kennedy
crampons . . . perfected . . . very convenient ..."
He shouted, as if to a deaf person, in order to make
himself understood by Christian Inebnit, who knew
no more French than his comrade Kaufmann ; and
then the P. C. A. sat down upon the moraine
and strapped on a species of sandal with three
enormous and very strong iron spikes. He had
practised them a hundred times, these Kennedy
crampons, manoeuvring them in the garden of the
baobab ; nevertheless, the present effect was un-
expected. Beneath the weight of the hero the
278 Tartarin on the Alps,
spikes were driven into the ice with such force
that all efforts to withdraw them were vain. Be-
hold him, therefore, nailed to the glacier, sweat-
ing, swearing, making with arms and alpenstock
most desperate gymnastics and reduced finally to
shouting for his guides, who had gone forward,
convinced that they had to do with an experienced
Alpinist.
Under the impossibility of uprooting him, they
undid the straps, and, the crampons, abandoned in
the ice, being replaced by a pair of knitted socks,
the president continued his way, not without much
difficulty and fatigue. Unskilful in holding his
stick, his legs stumbled over it, then its iron point
skated and dragged him along if he leaned upon
it too heavily. He tried the ice-axe — still harder
to manoeuvre, the swell of the glacier increasing
by degrees, and pressing up, one above another,
its motionless waves with all the appearance of a
furious and petrified tempest.
Apparent immobility only, for hollow crackings,
subterranean gurgles, enormous masses of ice dis-
placing themselves slowly, as if moved by the
machinery of a stage, indicated the inward life of
this frozen mass and its treacherous elements. To
the eyes of our Alpinist, wherever he cast his axe
crevasses were opening, bottomless pits, where
masses of ice in fragments rolled indefinitely. The
hero fell repeatedly ; once to his middle in one of
those greenish guUies, where his broad shoulders
alone kept him from going to the bottom.
On seeing him so clumsy, and yet so tranquil,
The Ascension of the Jungfrau, 279
so sure of himself, laughing, singing, gesticulating,
as he did while breakfasting, the guides imagined
that Swiss champagne had made an impression
upon him. What else could they suppose of the
president of an Alpine Club, a renowned ascen-
sionist, of whom his friends spoke only with
" Ahs ! " and exultant gestures. After taking him
each by the arm with the respectful firmness of
policemen putting into a carriage an overcome
heir to a title, they endeavoured, by the help of
monosyllables and gestures, to rouse his mind to a
sense of the dangers of the route, the necessity of
reaching the hut before nightfall, with threats of
crevasses, cold, avalanches. Finally, with the point
of their ice-picks they showed him the enormous
accumulation of ice, of n^v^ not yet transformed
into glacier rising before them to the zenith in
blinding repetition.
But the worthy Tartarin laughed at all that:
"Ha! va'i ! crev^asses ! . . Ha! va'i ! those ava-
lanches ! . . " and he burst out laughing, winked
his eye, and prodded their sides with his elbows to
let them know they could not fool him, for he was
in the secret of the comedy.
The guides at last ended by making merry with
the Tarasconese songs, and when they rested a
moment on a soHd block to let their monsieur get
his breath, they yodelled in the Swiss way, though
not too loudly, for fear of avalanches, nor very
long, for time was getting on. They knew the
coming of night by the sharper cold, but especially
by the singular change in hue of these snows and
28o Tartarin on the Alps,
ice-packs, heaped-up, overhanging, which always
keep, even under misty skies, a rainbow tinge of
colour until the daylight fades, rising higher and
higher to the vanishing summits, where the snows
take on the livid, spectral tints of the lunar uni-
verse. Pallor, petrifaction, silence, death itself.
And the good Tartarin, so warm, so living, was
beginning to lose his hvehness when the distant
cry of a bird, the note of a " snow partridge "
brought back before his eyes a baked landscape, a
copper-coloured setting sun, and a band of Taras-
conese sportsmen, mopping their faces, seated on
their empty game-bags, in the slender shade of an
olive-tree. The recollection was a comfort to him.
At the same moment Kaufmann pointed to
something that looked Hke a faggot of wood on
the snow. 'Twas the hut. It seemed as if they
could get to it in a few strides, but, in point of fact,
it took a good half-hour's walking. One of the
guides went on ahead to light the fire. Darkness
had now come on ; the north wind rattled on the
cadaverous way, and Tartarin, no longer paying
attention to anything, supported by the stout arm
of the mountaineer, stumbled and bounded along
without a dry thread on him in spite of the falling
temperature. All of a sudden a flame shot up
before him, together with an appetizing smell of
onion soup.
They were there.
Nothing can be more rudimentary than these
halting-places established on the mountains by the
Alpine Club of Switzerland. A single room, in
The Ascension of the Jungfrau. 281
which an inclined plane of hard wood serves as a
bed and takes up nearly all the space, leaving but
httle for the stove and the long table, screwed to
the floor like the benches that are round it. The
table was already laid ; three bowls, pewter spoons,
the reed-lamp to heat the coffee, two cans of Chi-
cago preserved meats already opened. Tartarin
thought the dinner delicious although the fumes of
the onion soup infected the atmosphere, and the
famous spirit-lamp, which ought to have made its
pint of coffee in three minutes, refused to perform
its functions.
At the dessert he sang ; that was his only means
of conversing with his guides. He sang them the
airs of his native land : La Tarasquey and Les Filles
(VAvig7ion. To which the guides responded with
local songs in German patois: Mi Vater isch en
Appenzeller . . . aou . . . aou. . . Worthy fellows
with hard, weather-beaten features as if cut from
the rock, beards in the hollows that looked like
moss and those clear eyes, used to great spaces,
like the eyes of sailors. The same sensation of
the sea and the open, which he had felt just now
on approaching Guggi, Tartarin again felt here, in
presence of these mariners of the glacier in this
close cabin, low and smoky, the regular forecastle
of a ship ; in the dripping of the snow from the
roof as it melted with the warmth ; in the great
gusts of wind, shaking everything, cracking the
boards, fluttering the flame of the lamp, and
falling abruptly into vast, unnatural silence, Hke
the end of the world.
282 Tartarin on the Alps,
They had just finished dinner when heavy steps
upon the ringing path and voices were heard
approaching. Violent blows with the butt end of
some weapon shook the door. Tartarin, greatly
excited, looked at his guides ... A nocturnal
attack on these heights ! . . The blows redoubled.
"Who goes there?" cried the hero, jumping for
his ice-axe ; but already the hut was invaded by
two gigantic Yankees, in white linen masks, their
clothing soaked with snow and sweat, and behind
them guides, porters, a whole caravan, on its return
from ascending the Jungfrau.
" You are welcome, milords," said Tartarin, with
a liberal, dispensing gesture, of which the milords
showed not the slightest need in making themselves
free of everything. In a trice the table was sur-
rounded, the dishes removed, the bowls and spoons
rinsed in hot water for the use of the new arrivals
(according to established custom in Alpine huts) ;
the boots of the milords smoked before the stove,
while they themselves, bare-footed, their feet
wrapped in straw, were sprawling at their ease
before a fresh onion soup.
Father and son, these two Americans ; two red-
haired giants, with heads of pioneers, hard and self-
reliant. One of them, the elder, had two dilated
eyes, almost white, in a bloated, sun-burned, fis-
sured face, and presently, by the hesitating way in
which he groped for his bowl and spoon, and the
care with which his son looked after him, Tartarin
became aware that this was the famous blind
Alpinist of whom he had been told, not believing
The Asce7tsiou of the Jungfrau, 28
J
the tale, at the Hotel Bellevue; a celebrated
climber in his youth, who now, in spite of his sixty
years and his infirmity, was going over with his
son the scenes of his former exploits. He had
already done the Wetterhorn and the Jungfrau,
and was intending to attack the Matterhorn and the
Mont Blanc, declaring that the air upon summits,
that glacial breath with its taste of snow, caused
him inexpressible joy, and a perfect recall of his
lost vigour.
" Diff^remment!' asked Tartarin of one of the
porters, for the Yankees were not communicative,
and answered only by a " yes " or a " no " to all
his advances " differemment, inasmuch as he can't
see, how does he manage at the dangerous places? "
" Oh ! he has got the mountaineer's foot ;
besides, his son watches over him, and places his
heels. . . And it is a fact that he has never had an
accident."
"• All the more because accidents in Switzerland
are never very terrible, qii^f " With a compre-
hending smile to the puzzled porter, Tartarin, more
and more convinced that the " whole thing was
blague^' stretched himself out on the plank rolled
in his blanket, the muffler up to his eyes, and went
to sleep, in spite of the light, the noise, the smoke
of the pipes and the smell of the onion soup. . .
" Mossi6 ! . . Mossi^ ! . ."
One of his guides was shaking him for departure,
while the other poured boiling coffee into the
bowls. A few oaths and the groans of sleepers
284 Tartarin 07t the Alps,
whom Tartarin crushed on his way to the table,
and then to the door. Abruptly he found himself
outside, stung by the cold, dazzled by the fairy-like
reflections of the moon upon that white expanse,
those motionless congealed cascades, where the
shadow of the peaks, the aiguilles, the seracs, were
sharply defined in the densest black. No longer
the sparkling chaos of the afternoon, nor the livid
rising upward of the gray tints of evening, but a
strange irregular city of darksome alleys, mysteri-
ous passages, doubtful corners between marble
monuments and crumbling ruins — a dead city,
with broad desert spaces.
Two o'clock ! By walking well they could be
at the top by mid-day. " ZouV said the P. C. A.,
very lively, and dashing forward, as if to the assault.
But his guides stopped him. They must be roped
for the dangerous passages.
" Ah ! vai, roped ! . . Very good, if that amuses
'OU.
Christian Inebnit took the lead, leaving twelve
feet of rope between himself and Tartarin, who
was separated by the same length from the second
guide who carried the provisions and the banner.
The hero kept his footing better than he did the
day before ; and confidence in the Company must
indeed have been strong, for he did not take seri-
ously the difficulties of the path — if we can call
a path the terrible ridge of ice along which they
now advanced with precaution, a ridge but a few
feet wide and so slippery that Christian was forced
to cut steps with his Ice-axe.
The Ascension of the Jungfrau, 285
The line of the ridge sparkled between two
depths of abysses on either side. But if you
think that Tartarin was frightened, not at all !
Scarcely did he feel the little quiver of the cuticle
of a freemason novice when subjected to his
opening test. He placed his feet most precisely
in the holes which the first guide cut for them,
doing all that he saw the guide do, as tranquil as
he was in the garden of the baobab when he prac-
tised around the margin of the pond, to the terror
of the goldfish. At one place the ridge became
so narrow that he was forced to sit astride of it,
and while they went slowly forward, helping them-
selves with their hands, a loud detonation echoed
up, on their right, from beneath them. ** Ava-
lanche ! " said Inebnit, keeping motionless till the
repercussion of the echoes, numerous, grandiose,
filling the sky, died away at last in a long roll of
thunder in the far distance, where the final detona-
tion was lost. After which, silence once more
covered all as with a winding-sheet.
The ridge passed, they went up a n^v^ the
slope of which was rather gentle but its length
interminable. They had been climbing nearly an
hour when a slender pink line began to define the
summits far, far above their heads. It was the
dawn, thus announcing itself. Like a true South-
erner, enemy to shade, Tartarin trolled out his
liveHest song :
Grand sotileu de la Provenqo
Gai compaire dou mistrau —
286 Tar tar in on the Alps,
A violent shake of the rope from before and
behind stopped him short in the middle of his
couplet. '* Hush , . . Hush . . ." said Inebnit, point-
ing with his ice-axe to the threatening line of
gigantic seracs on their tottering foundations
which the slightest jar might send thundering
down the steep. But Tartarin knew what that
meant ; he was not the man to ply with any such
tales, and he went on singing in a resounding
voice :
Tu qu ^escoiilh la Duranqo
Commo unflot <// vin de Crati.
The guides, seeing that they could not silence
their crazy singer, made a great detour to get
away from the s^racSy and presently were stopped
by an enormous crevasse, the glaucous green sides
of which were lighted, far down their depths, by
the first furtive rays of the dawn. What is called
in Switzerland " a snow bridge " spanned it ; but
so slight was it, so fragile, that they had scarcely
advanced a step before it crumbled away in a
cloud of white dust, dragging down the leading
guide and Tartarin, hanging to the rope which
Rodolphe Kaufmann, the rear guide, was alone left
to hold, clinging with all the strength of his moun-
tain vigour to his pick-axe, driven deeply into the
ice. But although he was able to hold the two
men suspended in the gulf he had not enough
force to draw them up and he remained, crouch-
ing on the snow, his teeth clenched, his muscles
The Ascension of the Jungfrau. 287
straining, and too far from the crevasse to see what
was happening.
Stunned at first by the fall, and blinded by snow,
Tartarin waved his arms and legs at random, like a
puppet out of order ; then, drawing himself up by
means of the rope, he hung suspended over the
abyss, his nose against its icy side, which his
breath polished, in the attitude of a plumber in
the act of soldering a waste-pipe. He saw the sky
above him growing paler and the stars disappear-
ing ; below he could fathom the gulf and its opaque
shadows, from which rose a chilling breath.
Nevertheless, his first bewilderment over, he
recovered his self-possession and his fine good-
humour.
" Hey ! up there ! phe Kaufmann, don't leave us
to mildew here, qn^ I there 's a draught all round,
and besides, this cursed rope is cutting our loins."
Kaufmann was unable to answer; to have
unclenched his teeth would have lessened his
strength. But Inebnit shouted from below:
" Mossid . . . Mossie . , . ice-axe . . ." for his own
had been lost in the fall; and, the heavy imple-
ment being now passed from the hands of Tartarin
to those of the guide (with difficulty, owing to the
space that separated the two hanged ones), the
mountaineer used it to make notches in the ice-wall
before him, into which he could fasten both hands
and feet.
The weight of the rope being thus lessened by at
least one-half, Rodolphe Kaufmann, with carefully
calculated vigour and infinite precautions, began to
288 Tartarin on the Alps,
draw up the president, whose Tarasconese cap ap-
peared at last at the edge of the crevasse. Inebnit
followed him in turn and the two mountaineers
met again with that effusion of brief words which,
in persons of limited elocution, follows great dan-
gers. Both were trembling with their effort, and
Tartarin passed them his flask of kirsch to steady
their legs. He himself was nimble and calm, and
while he shook himself free of snow he hummed
his song under the nose of his wondering guides,
beating time with his foot to the measure :
" Brav . . . drav . . . Franzose . . ." said Kauf-
mann, tapping him on the shoulder; to which
Tartarin answered with his fine laugh :
" You rogue ! I knew very well there was no
danger . . ."
Never within the memory of guides was there
seen such an Alpinist.
They started again, climbing perpendicularly a
sort of gigantic wall of ice some thousand feet
high, in which they were forced to cut steps as
they went along, which took much time. The man
of Tarascon began to feel his strength give way
under the brilliant sun which flooded the whiteness
of the landscape and was all the more fatiguing to
his eyes because he had dropped his green spec-
tacles into the crevasse. Presently, a dreadful
sense of weakness seized him, that mountain sick-
ness which produces the same effects as sea-sick-
ness. Exhausted, his head empty, his legs flaccid,
he stumbled and lost his feet, so that the guides
were forced to grasp him, one on each side, sup-
The Ascension of the Jung/raM, 289
porting and hoisting him to the top of that wall of
ice. Scarcely three hundred feet now separated
them from the summit of the Jungfrau; but al-
though the snow was hard and bore them, and the
path much easier, this last stage took an almost
interminable time, the fatigue and the suffocation
of the P. C. A. increasing all the while.
Suddenly the mountaineers loosed their hold
upon him, and waving their caps began to yodel in
a transport of joy. They were there ! This spot
in immaculate space, this white crest, somewhat
rounded, was the goal, and for that good Tartarin
the end of the somnambulic torpor in which he had
wandered for an hour or more.
" Scheideck ! Scheideck ! " shouted the guides,
showing him far, far below, on a verdant plateau
emerging from the mists of the valley, the H6tel
Bellevue about the size of a thimble.
Thence to where they stood lay a wondrous
panorama, an ascent of fields of gilded snow,
oranged by the sun, or else of a deep, cold blue, a
piling up of mounds of ice, fantastically structured
into towers, flhhes, aigtiilleSy aretes, and gigantic
heaps, under which one could well believe that the
lost megatherium or mastodon lay sleeping. All
the tints of the rainbow played there and met in
the bed of vast glaciers rolling down their immov-
able cascades, crossed by other little frozen tor-
rents, the surfaces of which the sun's warmth
liquefied, making them smoother and more glitter-
ing. But, at the great height at which they stood,
all this sparkling brilliance calmed itself; a light
19
290 Tartarin on the Alps,
floated, cold, ecliptic, which made Tartarin shudder
even more than the sense of silence and solitude in
that white desert with its mysterious recesses.
A little smoke, with hollow detonations, rose
from the hotel. They were seen, a cannon was
fired in their honour, and the thought that they
were being looked at, that his Alpinists were there,
and the misses, the illustrious Prunes and Rices, all
with their opera-glasses levelled up to him, recalled
Tartarin to a sense of the grandeur of his mission.
He tore thee, O Tarasconese banner ! from the
hands of the guide, waved thee twice or thrice, and
then, plunging the handle of his ice-axe deep into
the snow, he seated himself upon the iron of the
pick, banner in hand, superb, facing the public.
And there — unknown to himself — by one of
those spectral reflections frequent upon summits,
taken between the sun and the mists that rose
behind him, a gigantic Tartarin was outlined on the
sky, broader, dumpier, his beard bristling beyond
the muffler, like one of those Scandinavian gods
enthroned, as the legend has it, among the clouds.
En Route for Tarascon, 291
XI.
En route for Tarascon. The Lake of Geneva. Tariarin
proposes a visit to the dungeon of Bonnivard. Short dia-
logue amid the roses. The whole band under lock and key.
The imfortunate Bonnivard, Where the rope made at
Avignon was found.
As a result of the ascension, Tartarin's nose
peeled, pimpled, and his cheeks cracked. He kept
to his room in the Hotel Bellevue for five days —
five days of salves and compresses, the sticky unsa-
vouriness and ennui of which he endeavoured to
elude by playing cards with the delegates or dictat-
ing to them a long, circumstantial account of his
expedition, to be read in session, before the Club
of the Alpines and published in the Forum.
Then, as the general lumbago had disappeared
and nothing remained upon the noble countenance
of the P. C. A. but a few bhsters, sloughs and chil-
blains on a fine complexion of Etruscan pottery,
the delegation and its president set out for Taras-
con, via Geneva.
Let me omit the episodes of that journey, the
alarm cast by the Southern band into narrow rail-
way carriages, steamers, tables dWiote, by its songs,
its shouts, its overflowing hilarity, its banner, and
its alpenstocks; for since the ascension of the
292 Tartarin on the Alps,
P. C. A. they had all supplied themselves with
those mountain sticks, on which the names of cele-
brated cHmbs were inscribed, burnt in, together
with popular verses.
Montreux !
Here the delegates, at the suggestion of their
master, decided to halt for two or three days in
order to visit the famous shores of Lake Leman,
Chillon especially, and its legendary dungeon,
where the great patriot Bonnivard languished, and
which Byron and Delacroix have immortalized.
At heart, Tartarin cared little for Bonnivard, his
adventure with William Tell having enlightened him
about Swiss legends ; but in passing through Inter-
laken he had heard that Sonia had gone to
Montreux with her brother, whose health was
much worse, and this invention of an historical
pilgrimage was only a pretext to meet the young
girl again, and, who knows? persuade her perhaps
to follow him to Tarascon.
Let it be fully understood, however, that his
companions believed, with the best faith in the
world, that they were on their way to render hom-
age to a great Genevese citizen whose history the
P. C. A. had related to them ; in fact, with their
native taste for theatrical manifestations they were
desirous, as soon as they landed at Montreux, of
forming in hne, banner displayed and marching at
once to Chillon with repeated cries of '' Vive Bon-
nivard ! " The president was forced to calm them :
" Breakfast first," he said, '' and after that we '11 see
about it." So they filled the omnibus of some
En Route for Tarascon 293
Pension Miiller or other, situated, with many of its
kind, close to the landing.
** F// that gendarme, how he looks at us," said
Pascalon, the last to get in, with the banner, always
very troublesome to install. *' True," said Bravida,
uneasily ; *' what does he want of us, that gendarme ?
Why does he examine us like that? "
" He recognizes me, pardi ! " said the worthy
Tartarin modestly ; and he smiled upon the soldier
of the Vaudois police, whose long blue hooded
coat followed perseveringly behind the omnibus as
it threaded its way among the poplars on the
shore.
It was market-day at Montreux. Rows of little
booths were open to the winds of the lake, display-
ing fruit, vegetables, laces very cheap, and that
white jewellery, looking like manufactured snow or
pearls of ice, with which the Swiss women orna-
ment their costumes. With all this were mingled
the bustle of the little port, the jostling of a whole
flotilla of gayly painted pleasure-boats, the trans-
shipment of casks and sacks from large brigantines
with lateen sails, the hoarse cries, the bells of the
steamers, the stir among the caf^s, the breweries,
the traffic of the florists and the second-hand
dealers who lined the quay. If a ray of sun had
fallen upon the scene, one might have thought
one's self on the marina of a Mediterranean resort
between Mentone and Bordighera. But sun was
lacking, and the Tarasconese gazed at the pretty
landscape through a watery vapour that rose from
the azure lake, climbed the steep path and the
294 Tartarin on the Alps,
pebbly little streets, and joined, above the houses,
other clouds, black and gray that were clinging
about the sombre verdure of the mountain, big
with rain.
*' Coquin de sort! I 'm not a lacustrian," said
Spiridion Excourbanies, wiping the glass of the
window to look at the perspective of glaciers and
white vapours that closed the horizon in front of
him. . .
** Nor I, either," sighed Pascalon, *' this fog, this
stagnant water . . . makes me want to cry."
Bravida complained also, in dread of his sciatic
gout.
Tartarin reproved them sternly. Was it nothing
to be able to relate, on their return, that they had
seen the dungeon of Bonnivard, inscribed their
names on its historic walls beside the signatures of
Rousseau, Byron, Victor Hugo, George Sand,
Eugene Sue? Suddenly, in the middle of his
tirade, the president interrupted himself and
changed colour. . . He had just caught sight of a
little round hat on a coil of blond hair. Without
stopping the omnibus, the pace of which had
slackened in going up hill, he sprang out, caUing
back to the stupefied Alpinists : " Go on to the
hotel. . ."
" Sonia ! . . Sonia ! . ."
He feared that he might not be able to catch
her, she walked so rapidly, the delicate silhouette
of her shadow falling on the macadam of the road.
She turned at his call and waited for him. " Ah !
is it you ? " she said ; and as soon as they had
En Route for Tarascon. 295
shaken hands she walked on. He fell into step
beside her, much out of breath, and began to
excuse himself for having left her so abruptly . . .
arrival of friends . . . necessity of making the ascen-
sion (of which his face was still bearing traces) . . .
She listened without a word, hastening her pace,
her eyes strained and fixed. Looking at her pro-
file, she seemed to him paler, her features no longer
soft with childlike innocence, but hard, a some-
thing resolute on them which till now had existed
only in her voice and her imperious will ; and yet
her youthful grace was there, and the gold of her
waving hair.
" And Boris, how is he?" asked Tartarin, rather
discomfited by her silence and coldness, which
began to affect him.
"Boris? . ." she quivered: " Ah! true, you do
not know. . . Well then ! come, come. . ."
They followed a country lane leading past vine-
yards sloping to the lake, and villas with gardens,
and elegant terraces laden with clematis, blooming
with roses, petunias, and myrtles in pots. Now
and then they met some foreigner with haggard
cheeks and melancholy glance, walking slowly and
feebly, like the many whom one meets at Mentone
and Monaco ; only, away down yonder the sun-
shine laps round all, absorbs all, while beneath this
lowering cloudy sky suffering is more apparent,
though the flowers seem fresher.
" Enter," said Sonia, pushing open the railed
iron door of a white marble facade on which were
Russian words in gilded letters.
296 Tartarin on the Alps,
At first Tartarin did not understand where he
was. A little garden was before him with gravelled
paths very carefully kept, and quantities of dimb-
ing roses hanging among the green of the trees,
and bearing great clusters of white and yellow
blooms, which filled the narrow space with their
fragrance and glow. Among these garlands, this
lovely efflorescence, a few stones were standing or
lying with dates and names ; the newest of which
bore the words, carved on its surface :
" Boris Wassilief. 22 years."
He had been there a few days, dying almost
as soon as they arrived at Montreux ; and in this
cemetery of foreigners the exile had found a sort
of country among other Russians and Poles and
Swedes, buried beneath the roses, consumptives
of cold climates sent to this Northern Nice, be-
cause the Southern sun would be for them too
violent, the transition too abrupt.
They stood for a moment motionless and mute
before the whiteness of that new stone lying on the
blackness of the fresh-turned earth ; the young
girl, with her head bent down, inhaling the breath
of the roses, and calming, as she stood, her red-
dened eyes.
*' Poor little girl ! '* said Tartarin with emotion,
taking in his strong rough hands the tips of Sonia's
fingers. " And you? what will you do now? "
She looked him full in the face with dry and
shining eyes in which the tears no longer trembled.
*' I ? I leave within an hour."
En Route for Tarascon, 297
"You are going? . ."
" Bolibine is already in St. Petersburg. . . Mani-
lof is waiting for me to cross the frontier. . . I
return to the work. We shall be heard from."
Then, in a low voice, she added with a half-smile,
planting her blue glance full into that of Tartarin,
which avoided it : " He who loves me follows me."
Ah ! vaiy follow her ! The little fanatic fright-
ened him. Besides, this funereal scene had cooled
his love. Still, he ought not to appear to back
down like a scoundrel. So, with his hand on his
heart and the gesture of an Abencerrage, the hero
began : " You know me, Sonia. . ."
She did not need to hear more.
*' Gabbler ! " she said, shrugging her shoulders.
And she walked away, erect and proud, beneath
the roses, without once turning round. . . Gab-
bler ! . . not one word more, but the intonation
was so contemptuous that the worthy Tartarin
blushed beneath his beard, and looked about to
see if they had been quite alone in the garden so
that no one had overheard her.
Among our Tarasconese, fortunately, impres-
sions do not last long. Five minutes later Tartarin
was going up the terraces of Montreux with a lively
step in quest of the Pension Miiller and his Alpin-
ists, who must certainly be waiting breakfast for
him ; and his whole person breathed a relief, a joy
at getting rid finally of that dangerous acquaint-
ance. As he walked along he emphasized with
many energetic nods the eloquent explanations
298 Tar tar in on the Alps.^
which Sonia would not wait to hear, but which he
gave to himself mentally : Be! . . yes, despotism
certainly. . . He did n't deny that . . . but from
that to action, boufre ! . . And then, to make it
his profession to shoot despots ! . . Why, if all
oppressed peoples applied to him — just as the
Arabs did to Bombonnel whenever a panther
roamed round their village — he couldn't suffice
for them all, never !
At this moment a hired carriage coming down
the hill at full speed cut short his monologue. He
had scarcely time to jump upon the sidewalk with
a ** Take care, you brute ! " when his cry of anger
was changed to one of stupefaction : " Qiies aco! . .
Bo2i.diou ! . . Not possible ! . ."
I give you a thousand guesses to say what he
saw in that old landau. . .
The delegation ! the full delegation, Bravida,
Pascalon, Excourbanies, piled upon the back seat,
pale, horror-stricken, ghastly, and two gendarmes
in front of them, muskets in hand ! The sight of all
those profiles, motionless and mute, visible through
the narrow frame of the carriage window, was like
a nightmare. Nailed to the ground, as formerly
on the ice by his Kennedy crampons, Tartarin was
gazing at that fantastic vehicle flying along at a
gallop, followed at full speed by a flock of school-
boys, their atlases swinging on their backs, when
a voice shouted in his ears : " And here 's the
fourth ! . ." At the same time clutched, garotted,
bound, he, too, was hoisted into a tocati with gen-
darmes, among them an officer armed with a gi-
En Route for Tarascon, 299
gantic cavalry sabre, which he held straight up
from between his knees, the point of it touching
the roof of the vehicle.
Tartarin wanted to speak, to explain. Evidently
there must be some mistake. . . He told his name,
his nation, demanded his consul, and named a seller
of Swiss honey, Ichener, whom he had met at
the fair at Beaucaire. Then, on the persistent
silence of his captors, he bethought him that this
might be another bit of machinery in Bompard's
fairyland; so, addressing the officer, he said with
sly air : " For fun, qn^l . . ha ! vdi, you rogue, I
know very well it is all a joke."
''Not another word, or I '11 gag you," said the
officer, rolling terrible eyes as if he meant to spit
him on his sabre.
The other kept quiet, and stirred no more, but
gazed through the door at the lake, the tall moun-
tains of a humid green, the hotels and pensions
with variegated roofs and gilded signs visible for
miles, and on the slopes, as at the Rigi, a coming
and going of market and provision baskets, and
(like the Rigi again) a comical little railway, a
dangerous mechanical plaything crawling up the
height to Glion, and — to complete the resemblance
to Regina Montiimi — a pouring, beating rain, an
exchange of water and mist from the sky to Leman
and Leman to the sky, the clouds descending till
they touched the waves.
The vehicle crossed a drawbridge between a
cluster of little shops of " chamoiseries," pen-
knives, corkscrews, pocket-combs, etc., and stopped
300 Tartarin on the Alps,
in the courtyard of an old castle overgrown with
weeds, flanked by two round pepper-pot towers
with black balconies guarded by parapets and sup-
ported by beams. Where was he? Tartarin learned
where when he heard the officer of gendarmerie
discussing the matter with the concierge of the
castle, a fat man in a Greek cap who was jangling
a bunch of rusty keys.
" Solitary confinement . . . but I have n't a place
for him. The others have taken all . . . unless we
put him in Bonnivard's dungeon."
" Yes, put him in Bonnivard's dungeon ; that *s
good enough for him," ordered the captain; and
it was done as he said.
This Castle of Chillon, about which the P. C. A.
had never for two days ceased to discourse to his
dear Alpinists, and in which, by the irony of fate, he
found himself suddenly incarcerated without know-
ing why, is one of the most frequented historical
monuments in Switzerland. After having served
as a summer residence to the Dukes of Savoie,
then as a state-prison, afterwards as an arsenal for
arms and munitions, it is to-day the mere pretext
for an excursion, like the Rigi and the Tellsplatte.
It still contains, however, a post of gendarmerie and
a '' violon," that is, a cell for drunkards and the
naughty boys of the neighbourhood ; but they are
so rare in the peaceable Canton of Vaud that the
" violon " is always empty and the concierge uses
it as a receptacle to store his wood for winter.
Therefore the arrival of all these prisoners had put
him out of temper, especially at the thought that
E71 Route for Tarascon, 301
he could no longer take visitors to see the famous
dungeon, which at this season of the year is the
chief profit of the place.
Furious, he showed the way to Tartarin, who
followed him without the courage to make the
slightest resistance. A few crumbling steps, a
damp corridor smelling hke a cellar, a door thick
as a wall with enormous hinges, and there they
were, in a vast subterranean vault, with earthen
floor and heavy Roman pillars in which were still
the iron rings to which prisoners of state had
been chained. A dim light fell, tremulous with
the shimmer of the lake, through narrow slits in
the wall, which scarcely showed more than a scrap
of the sky.
" Here you are at home," said the jailer. ** Be
careful you don't go to the farther end: the pit
is there. . ."
Tartarin recoiled, horrified : —
'• The pit ! Boiidiou ! "
**What do you expect, my lad? I am ordered
to put you in Bonnivard's dungeon. . . I have
put you in Bonnivard's dungeon. . . Now, if you
have the means, you can be furnished with certain
comforts, for instance, a mattress and coverlet for
the night."
" Something to eat, in the first place," said
Tartarin, from whom, very luckily, they had not
taken his purse.
The concierge returned with a fresh roll, beer,
and a sausage, greedily devoured by the new
prisoner of Chillon, fasting since the night before
302 Tar tar in on the Alps,
and hollow with fatigue and emotion. While he
ate on his stone bench in the gleam of his vent-
hole window, the jailer examined him with a good-
natured eye.
'' Faith," said he, *' I don't know what you
have done, nor why they should treat you so
severely. . ."
" Nor I either, coquin de sort ! I know nothing
about it," said Tartarin, with his mouth full.
" Well, it is very certain that you don't look
like a bad man, and, surely, you would n't hinder
a poor father of a family from earning his living,
would you ? . . Now, see here ! . . I have got,
up above there, a whole party of people who have
come to see Bonnivard's dungeon. . . If you would
promise me to keep quiet, and not try to run
away . . ."
The worthy Tartarin bound himself by an oath ;
and five minutes later he beheld his dungeon
invaded by his old acquaintances on the Rigi-
Kulm and the Tellsplatte, that jackass Schwan-
thaler, the ineptissimus Astier-Rehu, the member
of the Jockey-Club with his niece (h'm ! h'm ! . .)
and all the travellers on Cook's Circular. Ashamed,
dreading to be recognized, the unfortunate man
concealed himself behind pillars, getting farther
and farther away as the troop of tourists advanced,
preceded by the concierge and his homily, delivered
in a doleful voice : " Here is where the unfortunate
Bonnivard, etc. . ."
They advanced slowly, retarded by discussions
between the two savants^ quarrelling as usual and
En Route for Tarascon. 303
ready to jump at each other's throats; the one
waving his campstool, the other his travelHng-bag
in fantastic attitudes, which the twihght from the
window-shts lengthened upon the vaulted roof.
By dint of retreating, Tartarin presently found
himself close to the hole of the pit, a black pit
open to the level of the soil, emitting the breath
of ages, malarious and glacial. Frightened, he
stopped short, and curled himself into a corner,
his cap over his eyes. But the damp saltpetre
of the walls affected him, and suddenly a stento-
rian sneeze, which made the tourists recoil, gave
notice of his presence.
*' Tiens, there 's Bonnivard ! . ." cried the bold
little Parisian woman in a Directory hat whom the
gentleman from the Jockey-Club called his niece.
The Tarasconese hero did not allow himself to
be disconcerted.
" They are really very curious, these pits," he
said, in the most natural tone in the world, as if he
was visiting the dungeon, like them, for pleasure ;
and so saying, he mingled with the other travellers,
who smiled at recognizing the Alpinist of the Rigi-
Kulm, the merry instigator of the famous ball.
"//"/.^ mossi^ . . . ballir . . . dantsir ! . ."
The comical silhouette of the little fairy Schwan-
thaler rose up before him ready to seize him for
a country dance. A fine mood he was in now for
dancing ! But not knowing how to rid himself of
that determined little scrap of a woman, he offered
his arm and gallantly showed her his dungeon,
the ring to which the captive was chained, the
304 Tartarin on the Alps,
trace of his steps on the stone round that pillar ;
and never, hearing him converse with such ease,
did the good lady even dream that he too was a
prisoner of state, a victim of the injustice and the
wickedness of men. Terrible, however, was the
departure, when the unfortunate Bonnivard, having
conducted his partner to the door, took leave of
her with the smile of a man of the world : " No,
thank you, v^ ! . . I stay a few moments longer."
Thereupon he bowed, and the jailer, who had his
eye upon him, locked and bolted the door, to the
stupefaction of everybody.
What a degradation ! He perspired with anguish,
unhappy man, while listening to the exclamations
of the tourists as they walked away. Fortunately,
the anguish was not renewed. No more tourists
arrived that day on account of the bad weather.
A terrible wind blew through the rotten boards,
moans came up from the pit as from victims ill-
buried, and the wash of the lake, swollen with rain,
beat against the walls to the level of the window-
slits and spattered its water upon the captive. At
intervals the bell of a passing steamer, the clack
of its paddle-wheels cut short the reflections of
poor Tartarin, as evening, gray and gloomy, fell
into the dungeon and seemed to enlarge it.
How explain this arrest, this imprisonment in
the ill-omened place? Costecalde, perhaps . . .
electioneering manoeuvre at the last hour? , . Or,
could it be that the Russian police, warned of his
very imprudent language, his liaison with Sonia,
had asked for his extradition? But if so, why
En Route for Tarascon, 305
arrest the delegates ? . . What blame could attach
to those poor unfortunates, whose terror and despair
he imagined, although they were not, Hke him, in
Bonnivard's dungeon, beneath those granite arches,
where, since night had fallen, roamed monstrous
rats, cockroaches, silent spiders with hairy, crooked
legs.
But see what it is to possess a good conscience !
In spite of rats, cold, spiders, and beetles, the great
Tartarin found in the horror of that state-prison,
haunted by the shades of martyrs, the same solid
and sonorous sleep, mouth open, fists closed,
which came to him, between the abysses and
heaven, in the hut of the Alpine Club. He fan-
cied he was dreaming when he heard his jailer
say in the morning: —
" Get up ; the prefect of the district is here. . .
He has come to examine you. . ." Adding, with
a certain respect, " To bring the prefect out in this
way . . . why, you must be a famous scoundrel."
Scoundrel ! no — but you may look like one,
after spending the night in a damp and dusty
dungeon without having a chance to make a
toilet, however limited. And when, in the former
stable of the castle transformed into a guardroom
with muskets in racks along the walls, — when, I say,
Tartarin, after a reassuring glance at his Alpinists
seated between two gendarmes, appeared before
the prefect of the district, he felt his disreputable
appearance in presence of that correct and solemn
magistrate with the carefully trimmed beard, who
said to him sternly : —
20
3o6 Tartarin on the Alps,
"You call yourself Manilof, do you not? . .
Russian subject . . . incendiary at St. Petersburg,
refugee and murderer in Switzerland."
" Never in my life. . . It is all a mistake, an
error. . ."
** Silence, or I '11 gag you . . ." interrupted the
captain.
The immaculate prefect continued : " To put an
end to your denials. . . Do you know this rope? "
His rope ! coquin de sort ! His rope, woven with
iron, made at Avignon. He lowered his head, to
the stupefaction of the delegates, and said : ** I
know it."
" With this rope a man has been hung in the
Canton of Unterwald. . ."
Tartarin, with a shudder, swore that he had
nothing to do with it.
" We shall see ! "
The Italian tenor was now introduced, — in other
words, the police spy whom the Nihilists had hung
to the branch of an oak-tree on the Briinig, but
whose life was miraculously saved by wood-
choppers.
The spy looked at Tartarin. " That is not the
man," he said ; then at the delegates, " Nor they,
either. . . A mistake has been made."
The prefect, furious, turned to Tartarin. " Then,
what are you doing here ? " he asked.
" That is what I ask myself, ve ! . ." replied the
president, with the aplomb of innocence.
After a short explanation the Alpinists of Taras-
con, restored to liberty, departed from the Castle of
Ejz Route for Tarascon. 307
Chillon, where none have ever felt its oppressive
and romantic melancholy more than they. They
stopped at the Pension Miiller to get their luggage
and banner, and to pay for the breakfast of the
day before which they had not had time to eat;
then they started for Geneva by the train. It
rained. Through the streaming windows they read
the names of stations of aristocratic villeggiatura :
Clarens, Vevey, Lausanne ; red chalets, little gar-
dens of rare shrubs passed them under a misty
veil, the branches of the trees, the turrets on the
roofs, the galleries of the hotels all dripping.
Installed in one corner of a long railway carriage,
on two seats facing each other, the Alpinists had a
downcast and discomfited appearance. Bravida,
very sour, complained of aches, and repeatedly
asked Tartarin with savage irony : " Eh b^ ! you 've
seen it now, that dungeon of Bonnivard's that you
were so set on seeing ... I think you have seen
it, qti^f" Excourbanies, voiceless for the first
time in his life, gazed piteously at the lake which
escorted them the whole way : " Water ! more
water, Bondiou ! . . after this, I '11 never in my life
take another bath."
Stupefied by a terror which still lasts, Pascalon,
the banner between his legs, sat back in his seat,
looking to right and left like a hare fearful of being
caught again. . . And Tartarin ? . . Oh ! he, ever
dignified and calm, he was diverting himself by
reading the Southern newspapers, a package of
which had been sent to the Pension Miiller, all
of them having reproduced from the Forum the
3o8 Tartarin 07i the Alps,
account of his ascension, the same he had himself
dictated, but enlarged, magnified, and embellished
with ineffable laudations. Suddenly the hero gave
a cry, a formidable cry, which resounded to the end
of the carriage. All the travellers sat up excitedly,
expecting an accident. It was simply an item
in the Forum, which Tartarin now read to his
Alpinists : —
" Listen to this : ' Rumour has it that V. P. C. A.
Costecalde, though scarcely recovered from the
jaundice which kept him in bed for some days,
is about to start for the ascension of Mont Blanc ;
to climb higher than Tartarin ! . .' Oh ! the vil-
lain. . . He wants to ruin the effect of my Jung-
frau. . . Well, well ! wait a bit ; I '11 blow you out
of water, you and your mountain. . . Chamounix
is only a few hours from Geneva ; I '11 do Mont
Blanc before him ! Will you come, my children?"
Bravida protested. Outre I he had had enough
of adventures.
" Enough and more than enough . . ." howled
Excourbanies, in his almost extinct voice.
" And you, Pascalon ? " asked Tartarin, gently.
The pupil dared not raise his eyes : —
^' Ma-a-aster. . ." He, too, abandoned him !
*' Very good," said the hero, solemnly and angrily.
" I will go alone ; all the honour will be mine. . .
Zou! give me back the banner. . ."
Hotel Baltet at Ckamonix. 309
XII.
HStel Baltet at Chamonix. " I smell garlic f " The use
of rope in Alpine climbing. '-^ Shake hands. *^ A pupil of
Schopenhauer. At the hut on the Grands-Mulets . " Tar-
tarin^ I must speak to you.''''
Nine o'clock was ringing from the belfry at
Chamonix of a cold night shivering with the
north wind and rain; the black streets, the dark-
ened houses (except, here and there, the facades
and courtyards of hotels where the gas was still
burning) made the surroundings still more gloomy
under the vague reflection of the snow of the
mountains, white as a planet on the night of the
sky.
At the H6tel Baltet, one of the best and most
frequented inns of this Alpine village, the numerous
travellers and boarders had disappeared one by
one, weary with the excursions of the day, until no
one was left in the grand salon but one English
traveller playing silently at backgammon with his
wife, his innumerable daughters, in brown-hoUand
aprons with bibs, engaged in copying notices of an
approaching evangelical service, and a young
Swede sitting before the fireplace, in which was a
good fire of blazing logs. The latter was pale, hol-
low-cheeked, and gazed at the flame with a gloomy
3IO Tartarin on the Alps.
air as he drank his grog of kirsch and seltzer.
From time to time some belated traveller crossed
the salon, with soaked gaiters and streaming mack-
intosh, looked at the great barometer hanging to
the wall, tapped it, consulted the mercury as to the
weather of the following day, and went off to bed in
consternation. Not a word; no other manifesta-
tions of life than the crackling of the fire, the pat-
tering on the panes, and the angry roll of the Arve
under the arches of its wooden bridge, a few yards
distant from the hotel.
Suddenly the door of the salon opened, a porter
in a silver-laced coat came in, carrying valises and
rugs, with four shivering Alpinists behind him, daz-
zled by the sudden change from icy darkness into
warmth and light.
*' Boudiou ! what weather ! . . "
" Something to eat, zou ! "
" Warm the beds, que! "
They all talked at once from the depths of their
mufflers and ear-pads, and it was hard to know
which to obey, when a short stout man, whom the
others called '' presidain^' enforced silence by
shouting more loudly than they.
" In the first place, give me the visitors' book,"
"he ordered. Turning it over with a numbed hand,
he read aloud the names of all who had been at the
hotel for the last week : '^ ' Doctor Schwanthaler and
madame. * Again ! . . ' Astier-Rehu of the French
Academy. . . ' " He deciphered thus two or three
pages, turning pale when he thought he saw the
name he was in search of. Then, at the end, fling-
Hotel Baltet at Ckamonix, 311
ing the book on the table with a laugh of triumph,
the. squat man made a boyish gambol quite ex-
traordinary in one of his bulky shape : " He is not
here, ve ! he has n't come. . . And yet he must
have stopped here if he had. . . Done for ! Costc-
caldc. . . lagadigadeou ! . . quick ! to our suppers,
children ! . . " And the worthy Tartarin, having
bowed to the ladies, marched to the dining-room,
followed by the famished and tumultuous dele-
gation.
Ah, yes ! the delegation, all of them, even Bravida
himself. . . Is it possible? come now! . . But —
just think what would be said of them down there
in Tarascon, if they returned without Tartarin?
They each felt this. And, at the moment of sep-
aration in the station at Geneva, the buffet
witnessed a pathetic scene of tears, embraces, heart-
rending adieus to the banner ; as the result of
which adieus the whole company piled itself into
the landau which Tartarin had chartered to take
him to Chamonix. A glorious route, which they
did with their eyes shut, wrapped in their rugs
and filling the carriage with sonorous snores, un-
mindful of the wonderful landscape, which, from
Sallanches, was unrolling before them in a mist of
blue rain : ravines, forests, foaming waterfalls, with
the crest of Mont Blanc above the clouds, visible
or vanishing, according to the lay of the land in the
valley they were crossing. Tired of that sort of
natural beauty, our Tarasconese friends thought
only of making up for the wretched night they had
spent behind the bolts of Chillon. And even now,
312 Tartarin 07t the Alps,
at the farther end of the long, deserted dining-room
of the Hotel Baltet, when served with the warmed-
over soup and entrees of the table d'hote^ they ate
voraciously, without saying a word, eager only to
get to bed. All of a sudden, Excourbanies, who
was swallowing his food like a somnambulist, came
out of his plate, and sniffing the air about him, re-
marked : ** I smell garlic ! . . "
" True, I smell it," said Bravida. And the whole
party, revived by this reminder of home, these
fumes of the national dishes, which Tartarin, at
least, had not inhaled for so long, turned round in
their chairs with gluttonous anxiety. The odour
came from the other end of the dining-room, from
a little room where some one was supping apart, a
personage of importance, no doubt, for the white
cap of the head cook was constantly appearing at
the wicket that opened into the kitchen as he
passed to the girl in waiting certain little covered
dishes which she conveyed to the inner apartment.
*' Some one from the South, that's certain," mur-
mured the gentle Pascalon ; and the president,
becoming ghastly at the idea of Costecalde, said
commandingly : —
" Go and see, Spiridion . . . and bring us word
who it is. . . "
A loud roar of laughter came from that little
apartment as soon as the brave " gong " entered
it, at the order of his chief; and he presently re-
turned, leading by the hand a tall devil with a big
nose, a mischievous eye, and a napkin under his
chin, like the gastronomic horse.
Hotel Ballet at Chamonix. 313
" F// Bompard. . . "
" jy/ the Impostor. . . "
** H^ ! Gonzague. . . How are you?"
" Differemment y messieurs : your most obedi-
ent ..." said the courier, shaking hands with all, and
sitting down at the table of the Tarasconese to share
with them a dish of mushrooms with garlic prepared
by mhe Baltet, who, together with her husband had
a horror of the cooking for the table d'hote.
Was it the national concoction, or the joy of
meeting a compatriot, that delightful Bompard
with his inexhaustible imagination? Certain it is
that weariness and the desire to sleep took wings,
champagne was uncorked, and, with moustachios
all messy with froth, they laughed and shouted
and gesticulated, clasping one another round the
body effusively happy.
"I'll not leave you now, v^ !'' said Bompard.
" My Peruvians have gone. . . I am free. . ."
"Free! . . Then to-morrow you and I will
ascend Mont Blanc."
"Ah! you do Mont Blanc to-morrow?" said
Bompard, without enthusiasm.
" Yes, I knock out Costecalde. . . When he gets
here, uit ! . . No Mont Blanc for him. . . You '11
go, qu^, Gonzague ? "
" I '11 go ... I '11 go . . . that is, if the weather
permits. . . The fact is, that the mountain is not
always suitable at this season."
" Ah ! vai ! not suitable indeed ! . ." exclaimed
Tartarin, crinkling up his eyes by a meaning laugh
which Bompard seemed not to understand.
314 Tartarin on the Alps,
" Let us go into the salon for our coffee. . .
We'll consult /^r^ Baltet. He knows all about it,
he 's an old guide who has made the ascension
twenty-seven times."
All the delegates cried out: ''Twenty-seven
times ! Boiifre ! "
" Bompard always exaggerates," said the P. C. A.
severely, but not without a touch of envy.
In the salon they found the daughters of the
minister still bending over their notices, while the
father and mother were asleep at their backgam-
mon, and the tall Swede was stirring his seltzer
grog with the same disheartened gesture. But the
invasion of the Tarasconese Alpinists, warmed by
champagne, caused, as may well be supposed, some
distraction of mind to the young conventiclers.
Never had those charming young persons seen
coffee taken with such rolHngs of the eyes and pan-
tomimic action.
'* Sugar, Tartarin?"
" Of course not, commander. . . You know very
well. . . Since Africa ! . ."
"True; excuse me. . . Te ! here comes M.
Baltet."
" Sit down there, qii^, Monsieur Baltet."
" Vive Monsieur Baltet ! . . Ha ! ha ! fen d^
brutr
Surrounded, captured by all these men whom he
had never seen before in his life, pere Baltet smiled
with a tranquil air. A robust Savoyard, tall and
broad, with a round back and slow walk, a heavy
face, close-shaven, enHvened by two shrewd eyes,
Hotel Baltet at Chamonix. 315
that were still young, contrasting oddly with his
baldness, caused by chills at dawn upon the moun-
tain.
" These gentlemen wish to ascend Mont Blanc? "
he said, gauging the Tarasconese Alpinists with a
glance, both humble and sarcastic. Tartarin was
about to reply, but Bompard forestalled him : —
" Is n't the season too far advanced ? "
** Why, no," replied the former guide. *' Here 's
a Swedish gentleman who goes up to-morrow, and
I am expecting at the end of this week two Ameri-
can gentlemen to make the ascent; and one of
them is blind."
"" I know. I met them on the Guggi."
"Ah ! monsieur has been upon the Guggi?"
" Yes, a week ago, in doing the Jungfrau."
Here a quiver among the evangelical conventi-
clers ; all pens stopped, and heads were raised in
the direction of Tartarin, who, to the eyes of these
English maidens, resolute climbers, expert in all
sports, acquired considerable authority. He had
gone up the Jungfrau !
" A fine thing ! " said phe Baltet, considering the
P. C. A. with some astonishment; while Pascalon,
intimidated by the ladies and blushing and stutter-
ing, murmured softly : —
" Ma-a-aster, tell them the ... the .. . thing . . .
crevasse."
The president smiled. '' Child ! . ." he said :
but, all the same, he began the tale of his fall ; first
with a careless, indifferent air, and then with
startled motions, jigglings at the end of the rope
3i6 Tar tar in on the Alps.
over the abyss, hands outstretched and appealing.
The young ladies quivered, and devoured him with
those cold English eyes, those eyes that open
round.
In the silence that followed, rose the voice of
Bompard : —
" On Chimborazo we never roped one another to
cross crevasses."
The delegates looked at one another. As a
tarasconade that remark surpassed them all.
*' Oh, that Bompard, pas mouain . . ." murmured
Pascalon, with ingenuous admiration.
But pere Baltet, taking Chimborazo seriously,
protested against the practice of not roping. Ac-
cording to him, no ascension over ice was possible
without a rope, a good rope of Manila hemp ; then,
if one sHpped, the others could hold him.
'* Unless the rope breaks, Monsieur Baltet,"
said Tartarin, remembering the catastrophe on the
Matterhorn.
But the landlord, weighing his words, replied :
*' The rope did not break on the Matterhorn . . .
the rear guide cut it with a blow of his axe. . .".
As Tartarin expressed indignation, —
*' Beg pardon, monsieur, but the guide had a
right to do it. . . He saw the impossibility of hold-
ing back those who had fallen, and he detached
himself from them to save his life, that of his son,
and of the traveller they were accompanying. . .
Without his action seven persons would have lost
their lives instead of four."
Then a discussion began. Tartarin thought that
Hotel Baltet at Chamonix,
3^7
in letting yourself be roped in file you were bound
in honour to live and die together; and growing
excited, especially in presence of ladies, he backed
his opinion by facts and by persons present : " To-
morrow, t^f to-morrow, in roping myself to Bom-
pard, it is not a simple precaution that I shall take,
it is an oath before God and man to be one with
my companion and to die sooner than return with-
out him, coquin de sort ! "
" I accept the oath for myself, as for you, Tar-
tarin. . ." cried Bompard from the other side of
the round table.
Exciting moment !
The minister, electrified, rose, came to the hero
and inflicted upon him a pump-handle exercise of
the hand that was truly English. His wife did like-
wise, then all the young ladies continued the shake
hands with enough vigour to have brought water
to the fifth floor of the house. The delegates,
I ought to mention, were less enthusiastic.
" Eh, be! as for me," said Bravida, *' I am of M.
Baltet's opinion. In matters of this kind, each man
should look to his own skin, pardi ! and / under-
stand that cut of the axe perfectly."
" You amaze me, Placide," said Tartarin, se-
verely; adding in a low voice: "Behave your-
self! England is watching us."
The old captain, who certainly had kept a root
of bitterness in his heart ever since the excursion
to Chillon, made a gesture that signified : " I don't
care that for England. . ." and might perhaps have
drawn upon himself a sharp rebuke from the presi-
3i8 Tartarin on the Alps,
dent, irritated at so much cynicism, but at this
moment the young man with the heart-broken
look, filled to the full with grog and melancholy,
brought his extremely bad French into the con-
versation. He thought, he said, that the guide
was right to cut the rope : to deliver from exist-
ence those four unfortunate men, still young, con-
demned to live for many years longer; to send
them, by a mere gesture, to peace, to nothingness,
— what a noble and generous action !
Tartarin exclaimed against it : —
" Pooh ! young man, at your age, to talk of life
with such aversion, such anger. . . What has life
done to you? "
"Nothing; it bores me." He had studied phi-
losophy at Christiania, and since then, won to the
ideas of Schopenhauer and Hartmann, he had
found existence dreary, inept, chaotic. On the
verge of suicide he shut his books, at the entreaty
of his parents, and started to travel, striking
everywhere against the same distress, the gloomy
wretchedness of this Hfe. Tartarin and his friends,
he said, seemed to him the only beings content to
live that he had ever met with.
The worthy P. C. A. began to laugh. " It is
all race, young man. Everybody feels Hke that
in Tarascon. That 's the land of the good God.
From morning till night we laugh and sing, and
the rest of the time we dance the farandole . . .
like this ...///" So saying, he cut a double
shuffle with the grace and hghtness of a big cock-
chafer trying its wings.
Hotel Ballet at Chamonix, 319
But the delegates had not the steel nerves nor
the indefatigable spirit of their chief. Excour-
banies growled out: ** He '11 keep us here till mid-
night." But Bravida jumped up, furious. " Let
us go to bed, vi ! I can't stand my sciatica. . ."
Tartarin consented, remembering the ascension on
the morrow ; and the Tarasconese, candlesticks in
hand, went up the broad staircase of granite that
led to the chambers, while Baltet went to see
about provisions and hire the mules and guides.
" T^ ! it is snowing. . ."
Those were the first words of the worthy Tar-
tarin when he woke in the morning and saw his
windows covered with frost and his bedroom
inundated with white reflections. But when he
hooked his little mirror as usual to the window-
fastening, he understood his mistake, and saw that
Mont Blanc, sparkling before him in the splendid
sunshine, was the cause of that light. He opened
his window to the breeze of the glacier, keen and
refreshing, bringing with it the sound of the cattle-
bells as the herds followed the long, lowing sound
of the shepherd's horn. Something fortifying,
pastoral, filled the atmosphere such as he had
never before breathed in Switzerland.
Below, an assemblage of guides and porters
awaited him. The Swede was already mounted
upon his mule, and among the spectators, who
formed a circle, was the minister's family, all
those active young ladies, their hair in early
morning style, who had come for another " shake
320 Tartarin on the Alps,
hands " with the hero who had haunted their
dreams.
** Splendid weather! make haste! . ." cried the
landlord, whose skull was gleaming in the sunshine
like a pebble. But though Tartarin himself might
hasten, it was not so easy a matter to rouse from
sleep his dear Alpinists, who intended to accompany
him as far as the Pierre-Pointue, where the mule-
path ends. Neither prayers nor arguments could
persuade the Commander to get out of bed. With
his cotton nightcap over his ears and his face to
the wall, he contented himself with replying to
Tartarin's objurgations by a cynical Tarasconese
proverb : " Whoso has the credit of getting up
early may sleep until midday. . ." As for Bom-
pard, he kept repeating, the whole time, '' Ah, vai^
Mont Blanc . . . what a humbug. . ." Nor did
they rise until the P. C. A. had issued a formal
order.
At last, however, the caravan started, and
passed through the Httle streets in very imposing
array: Pascalon on the leading mule, banner un-
furled ; and last in file, grave as a mandarin amid
the guides and porters on either side his mule,
came the worthy Tartarin, more stupendously
Alpinist than ever, wearing a pair of new spec-
tacles with smoked and convex glasses, and his
famous rope made at Avignon, recovered — we
know at what cost.
Very much looked at, almost as much as the
banner, he was jubilant under his dignified mask,
enjoyed luc picturesqueness of these Savoyard
Hotel Ballet at Chamontx. 321
village streets, so different from the too neat, too
varnished Swiss village, looking like a new toy;
he enjoyed the contrast of these hovels scarcely
rising above the ground, where the stable fills
the largest space, with the grand and sumptuous
hotels five storeys high, the glittering signs of
which were as much out of keeping with the
hovels as the gold-laced cap of the porter and
the pumps and black coats of the waiters with
the Savoyard head-gear, the fustian jackets, the
felt hats of the charcoal-burners with their broad
wings.
On the square were landaus with the horses
taken out, manure-carts side by side with travel-
ling-carriages, and a troop of pigs idling in the sun
before the post-office, from which issued an Eng-
lishman in a white linen cap, with a package of
letters and a copy of The Times, which he read
as he walked along, before he opened his corre-
spondence. The cavalcade of the Tarasconese
passed all this, accompanied by the scuffling of
mules, the war-cry of Excourbanies (to whom the
sun had restored the use of his gong), the pastoral
chimes on the neighbouring slopes, and the dash
of the river, gushing from the glacier in a torrent
all white and sparkling, as if it bore upon its breast
both sun and snow.
On leaving the village Bompard rode his mule
beside that of the president, and said to the latter,
rolling his eyes in a most extraordinary manner :
*' Tartarin, I must speak to you. . ."
'' Presently. . ." said the P. C. A., then engaged
21
322 Tartarin on the Alps,
in a philosophical discussion with the young Swede,
whose black pessimism he was endeavouring to
correct by the marvellous spectacle around them,
those pastures with great zones of light and shade,
those forests of sombre green crested with the
whiteness of the dazzling n^vh.
After two attempts to speak to the president,
Bompard was forced to give it up. The Arve
having been crossed by a little bridge, the caravan
now entered one of those narrow, zigzag roads
among the firs where the mules, one by one, follow
with their fantastic sabots all the sinuosities of the
ravines, and our tourists had their attention fully
occupied in keeping their equihbrium by the help
of many an " Outre! . . Boufre I . . gently, gen-
tly ! . ." with which they guided their beasts.
At the chalet of the Pierre-Pointue, where Pas-
calon and Excourbanies were to wait the return
of the excursionists, Tartarin, much occupied in
ordering breakfast and in looking aftef porters and
guides, still paid no attention to Bompard's whis-
perings. But — singular fact, which was not re-
marked until later — in spite of the fine weather,
the good wine, and that purified atmosphere of ten
thousand feet above sea-level, the breakfast was
melancholy. While they heard the guides laugh-
ing and making merry apart, the table of the Taras-
conese was silent except for the rattle of glasses
and the clatter of the heavy plates and covers on
the white wood. Was it the presence of that
morose Swede, or the visible uneasiness of Bom-
pard, or some presentiment? At any rate, the
Hotel Ballet at Chamonix. 323
party set forth, sad as a battalion without its band,
towards the glacier of the Bossons, where the true
ascent begins.
On setting foot upon the ice, Tartarin could not
help smiling at the recollection of the Guggi and
his perfected crampons. What a difference between
the neophyte he then was and the first-class Alpin-
ist he felt he had become ! Steady on his heavy
boots, which the porter of the hotel had ironed
that very morning with four stout nails, expert in
wielding his ice-axe, he scarcely needed the hand
of a guide, and then less to support him than to
show him the way. The smoked glasses moder-
ated the reflections of the glacier, which a recent
avalanche had powdered with fresh snow, and
through which little spaces of a glaucous green
showed themselves here and there, slippery and
treacherous. Very calm, confident through expe-
rience that there was not the slightest danger, Tar-
tarin walked along the verge of the crevasses with
their smooth, iridescent sides stretching downward
indefinitely, and made his way among the s^racSy
solely intent on keeping up with the Swedish
student, an intrepid walker, whose long gaiters with
their silver buckles marched, thin and lank, beside
his alpenstock, which looked like a third leg.
Their philosophical discussion continuing, in spite
of the difficulties of the way, a good stout voice,
familiar and panting, could be heard in the frozen
space, sonorous as the swell of a river : *' You
know me. Otto. . ."
Bompard all this time was undergoing misadven-
324 Tar tar in on the Alps,
tures. Firmly convinced, up to that very morn-
ing, that Tartarin would never go to the length of
his vaunting, and would no more ascend Mont
Blanc than he had the Jungfrau, the luckless cou-
rier had dressed himself as usual, without nailing
his boots, or even utilizing his famous invention for
shoeing the feet of soldiers, and without so much
as his alpenstock, the mountaineers of the Chimbo-
razo never using them. Armed only w^ith a little
switch, quite in keeping with the blue ribbon of his
hat and his ulster, this approach to the glacier
terrified him, for, in spite of his tales, it is, of
course, well understood that the Impostor had
never in his life made an ascension. He was some-
what reassured, however, on seeing from the top of
the moraine with what facility Tartarin made his
way on the ice ; and he resolved to follow him as
far as the hut on the Grands-Mulets, where it was
intended to pass the night. He did not get there
without difficulty. His first step laid him flat on
his back; at the second he fell forward on his
hands and knees : " No, thank you, I did it on pur-
pose," he said to the guides who endeavoured to
pick him up. " American fashion, v^l . . as they
do on the Chimborazo." That position seeming to
be convenient, he kept it, creeping on four paws,
his hat pushed back, and his ulster sweeping the
ice like the pelt of a gray bear; very calm, withal,
and relating to those about him that in the Cordil-
leras of the Andes he had scaled a mountain thirty
thousand feet high. He did not say how much time
it took him, but it must have been long, judging by
Hotel Baltet at Chammiix, 325
this stage to the Grands-Mulets, where he arrived
an hour after Tartarin, a disgusting mass of muddy
snow, with frozen hands in his knitted gloves.
In comparison with the hut on the Guggi, that
which the commune of Chamonix has built on the
Grands-Mulets is really comfortable. When Bom-
pard entered the kitchen, where a grand wood-fire
was blazing, he found Tartarin and the Swedish
student drying their boots, while the hut-keeper, a
shrivelled old fellow with long white hair that fell
in meshes, exhibited the treasures of his little
museum.
Of evil augury, this museum is a reminder of all
the catastrophes known to have taken place on the
Mont Blanc for the forty years that the old man
had kept the inn, and as he took them from their
show-case, he related the lamentable origin of each
of them. . . This piece of cloth and those waist-
coat buttons were the memorial of a Russian
savant, hurled by a hurricane upon the Brenva
glacier. . . These jaw teeth were all that remained
of one of the guides of a famous caravan of eleven
travellers and porters who disappeared forever in
a tourniente of snow. . . In the fading light and the
pale reflection of the nivh against the window, the
production of these mortuary relics, these monoto-
nous recitals, had something very poignant about
them, and all the more because the old man soft-
ened his quavering voice at pathetic items, and
even shed tears on displaying a scrap of green veil
worn by an English lady rolled down by an ava-
lanche in 1827.
326 Tar tar in on the Alps.
In vain Tartarin reassured himself by dates,
convinced that in those early days the Company
had not yet organized the ascensions without
danger ; this Savoyard vocero oppressed his heart,
and he went to the doorway for a moment to
breathe.
Night had fallen, engulfing the depths. The
Bossons stood out, livid, and very close ; while the
Mont Blanc reared its summit, still rosy, still
caressed by the departed sun. The Southerner
was recovering his serenity from this smile of
nature when the shadow of Bompard rose behind
him.
" Is that you, Gonzague. . . As you see, I am
getting the good of the air. . . He annoyed me,
that old fellow, with his stories."
" Tartarin," said Bompard, squeezing the arm
of the P. C. A. till he nearly ground it, *' I hope
that this is enough, and that you are going to put
an end to this ridiculous expedition."
The great man opened wide a pair of astonished
eyes.
" What stuff are you talking to me now? "
Whereupon Bompard made a terrible picture of
the thousand deaths that awaited him; crevasses,
avalanches, hurricanes, whirlwinds . . .
Tartarin interrupted him : —
"Ah! vat, you rogue; and the Company?
Isn't Mont Blanc managed Hke the rest?"
*' Managed?., the Company?.." said Bom-
pard, bewildered, remembering nothing whatever
of his tarasconade, which Tartarin now repeated
Hotel Baltet at Chamonix. 327
to him word for word — Switzerland a vast Asso-
ciation, lease of the mountains, machinery of the
crevasses ; on which the former courier burst out
laughing.
"What! you really beheved me? . . Why,
that was a gaUjade^ a fib. . . Among us Taras-
conese you ought surely to know what talking
means. . ."
" Then," asked Tartarin, with much emotion,
" the Jungfrau was not prepared f "
" Of course not."
" And if the rope had broken? . ."
" Ah ! my poor friend. . ."
The hero closed his eyes, pale with retrospective
terror, and for one moment he hesitated. . . This
landscape of polar cataclysm, cold, gloomy, yawn-
ing with gulfs . . . those laments of the old hut-
man still weeping in his ears. . . Otitre ! what will
they make me do ? . . Then, suddenly, he thought
of the folk at Tarascon, of the banner to be un-
furled " up there," and he said to himself that with
good guides and a trusty companion like Bom-
pard . . . He ' had done the Jungfrau . . . why
should n't he do Mont Blanc?
Laying his large hand on the shoulder of his
friend, he began in a virile voice : —
" Listen to me, Gonzague. . ."
328 Tartarin on the Alps.
XIII.
The catastrophe.
On a dark, dark night, moonless, starless, skyless,
on the trembling whiteness of a vast ledge of snow,
slowly a long rope unrolled itself, to which wer^
attached in file certain timorous and very small
shades, preceded, at the distance of a hundred feet,
by a lantern casting a red light along the way.
Blows of an ice-axe ringing on the hard snow, the
roll of the ice blocks thus detached, alone broke
the silence of the n^ve^ on which the steps of the
caravan made no sound. From minute to minute,
a cry, a smothered groan, the fall of a body on the
ice, and then immediately a strong voice sounding
from the end of the rope : *' Go gently, Gonzague,
and don't fall." For poor Bompard had made up
his mind to follow his friend Tartarin to the sum-
mit of Mont Blanc. Since two in the morning —
it was now four by the president's repeater — the
hapless courier had groped along, a galley slave
on the chain, dragged, pushed, vacillating, balk-
ing, compelled to restrain the varied exclamations
extorted from him by his mishaps, for an avalanche
was on the watch, and the slightest concussion, a
mere vibration of the crystalline air, might send
The Catastrophe, 329
down its masses of snow and ice. To suffer in
silence ! what torture to a native of Tarascon !
But the caravan halted. Tartarin asked why. A
discussion in low voice was heard; animated
whisperings : " It is your companion who won't
come on," said the Swedish student. The order
of march was broken ; the human chaplet returned
upon itself, and they found themselves all at the
edge of a vast crevasse, called by the mountaineers
a roture. Preceding ones they had crossed by
means of a ladder, over which they crawled on
their hands and knees; here the crevasse was
much wider and the ice-cliff rose on the other
side to a height of eighty or a hundred feet. It
was necessary to descend to the bottom of the
gully, which grew smaller as it went down, by
means of steps cut in the ice, and to reascend in
the same way on the other side. But Bompard
obstinately refused to do so.
Leaning over the abyss, which the shadows
represented as bottomless, he watched through the
damp vapour the movements of the little lantern
by which the guides below were preparing the
way. Tartarin, none too easy himself, warmed his
own courage by exhorting his friend : " Come
now, Gonzague, zou! " and then in a lower voice
coaxed him to honour, invoked the banner, Taras
con, the Club. . .
" Ah ! vaty the Club indeed ! . . I don't belong
to it," replied the other, cynically.
Then Tartarin explained to him where to set his
feet, and assured him that nothing w?.s easier.
330 Tartarin on the Alps,
" For you, perhaps, but not for me. . ."
"■ But you said you had a habit of it. . .'*
*' B^ ! yes ! habit, of course . . . which habit? I
have so many . . . habit of smoking, sleeping . . ."
" And lying, especially," interrupted the presi-
dent.
"Exaggerating — come now!" said Bompard,
not the least in the world annoyed.
However, after much hesitation, the threat of
leaving him there all alone decided him to go
slowly, deliberately, down that terrible miller's
ladder. . . The going up was more difficult, for
the other face was nearly perpendicular, smooth
as marble, and higher than King Rene's tower at
Tarascon. From below, the winking light of the
guides going up, looked like a glow-worm on
the march. He was forced to follow, however, for
the snow beneath his feet was not solid, and gur-
gling sounds of circulating water heard round a
fissure told of more than could be seen at the
foot of that wall of ice, of depths that were send-
ing upward the chilling breath of subterranean
abysses.
" Go gently, Gonzague, for fear of falling. . ."
That phrase, which Tartarin uttered with tender
intonations, almost supplicating, borrowed a solemn
signification from the respective positions of the
ascensionists, clinging with feet and hands one
above the other to the wall, bound by the rope and
the similarity of their movements, so that the fall
or the awkwardness of one put all in danger. And
what danger ! coquin de sort ! It sufficed to hear
The Catastrophe. 331
fragments of the ice-wall bounding and dashing
downward with the echo of their fall to imagine
the open jaws of the monster watching there below
to snap you up at the least false step.
But what is this ? . . Lo, the tall Swede, next
above Tartarin, has stopped and touches with his
iron heels the cap of the P. C. A. In vain the
guides called : " Forward ! . ." And the presi-
dent: "Go on, young man! . ." He did not stir.
Stretched at full length, clinging to the ice with
careless hand, the Swede leaned down, the glim-
mering dawn touching his scanty beard and giving
light to the singular expression of his dilated eyes,
while he made a sign to Tartarin : —
"What a fall, hey? if one let go. . ."
" Outre! I should say so . . . you would drag us
all down. . . Go on ! "
The other remained motionless.
" A fine chance to be done with life, to return
into chaos through the bowels of the earth, and
roll from fissure to fissure like that bit of ice which
I kick with my foot. . ." And he leaned over
frightfully to watch the fragment bounding down-
ward and echoing endlessly in the blackness.
" Take care ! . ." cried Tartarin, livid with
terror. Then, desperately clinging to the oozing
wall, he resumed, with hot ardour, his argument of
the night before in favour of existence. " There 's
good in it. . . What the deuce ! . . At your age,
a fine young fellow like you. . . Don't you believe
in love, qii^ ! "
No, the Swede did not believe in it. Ideal love
33 2 Tartarin on the Alps.
is a poet's lie ; the other, only a need he had never
felt. . .
'* Be ! yes ! b^ ! yes ! . . It is true poets He, they
always say more than there is ; but for all that, she
is nice, the femellan — that's what they call
women in our parts. Besides, there 's children,
pretty little darlings that look like us."
" Children ! a source of grief Ever since she
had them my mother has done nothing but weep."
" Listen, Otto, you know me, my good friend. . ."
And with all the valorous ardour of his soul
Tartarin exhausted himself to revive and rub to
life at that distance this victim of Schopenhauer and
of Hartmann, two rascals he 'd like to catch at the
corner of a wood, coquin de sort! and make them
pay for all the harm they had done to youth. . .
Represent to yourselves during this discussion
the high wall of freezing, glaucous, streaming ice
touched by a pallid ray of light, and that string of
human beings glued to it in echelon, with ill-
omened rumblings rising from the yawning depth,
together with the curses of the guides and their
threats to detach and abandon the travellers. Tar-
tarin, seeing that no argument could convince the
madman or clear off his vertigo of death, suggested
to him the idea of throwing himself from the
highest peak of the Mont Blanc. . . That indeed !
tliat would be worth doing, up there ! A fine end
among the elements. . . But here, at the bottom
of a cave. . . Ah ! va'i, what a blunder ! . . And
he put such tone into his words, brusque and yet
persuasive, such conviction, that the Swede allowed
The Caiastroplie, 333
himself to be conquered, and there they were, at
last, one by one, at the top of that terrible rotiire.
They were now unropcd, and a halt was called
for a bite and sup. It was daylight; a cold wan
light among a circle of peaks and shafts, over-
topped by the Mont Blanc, still thousands of feet
above them. The guides were apart, gesticulating
and consulting, with many shakings of the head.
Seated on the white ground, heavy and huddled
up, their round backs in their brown jackets, they
looked like marmots getting ready to hibernate.
Bompard and Tartarin, uneasy, shocked, left the
young Swede to eat alone, and came up to the
guides just as their leader was saying with a grave
air: —
" He is smoking his pipe ; there 's no denying it."
"Who is smoking his pipe?" asked Tartarin.
" Mont Blanc, monsieur; look there. . ."
And the guide pointed to the extreme top of
the highest peak, where, like a plume, a white
vapour floated toward Italy.
" Et aiitremaiity my good friend, when the Mont
Blanc smokes his pipe, what does that mean ? "
** It means, monsieur, that there is a terrible
wind on the summit, and a snow-storm which will
be down upon us before long. And I tell you,
that's dangerous."
** Let us go back," said Bompard, turning green ;
and Tartarin added : —
** Yes, yes, certainly ; no false vanity, of course."
But here the Swedish student interfered. He
had paid his money to be taken to the top of
334 Tar tar m on the Alps,
Mont Blanc, and nothing should prevent his get-
ting there. He would go alone, if no one would
accompany him. *' Cowards ! cowards ! " he added,
turning to the guides ; and he uttered the insult in
the same ghostly voice with which he had roused
himself just before to suicide.
" You shall see if we are cowards. . . Fasten to
the rope and forward ! " cried the head guide.
This time, it was Bompard who protested energeti-
cally. He had had enough, and he wanted to be
taken back. Tartarin supported him vigorously.
" You see very well that that young man Js
insane. . ." he said, pointing to the Swede, who
had already started with great strides through the
heavy snow-flakes which the wind was beginning
to whirl on all sides. But nothing could stop the
men who had just been called cowards. The mar-
mots were now wide-awake and heroic. Tartarin
could not even obtain a conductor to take him
back with Bompard to the Grands-Mulets. Besides,
the way was very easy ; three hours' march, count-
ing a detour of twenty minutes to get round that
roture^ if they were afraid to go through it alone.
** Outre ! yes, we are afraid of it . . ." said
Bompard, without the slightest shame ; and the two
parties separated.
Bompard and the P. C. A. were now alone. They
advanced with caution on the snowy desert, fas-
tened to a rope: Tartarin first, feeling his way
gravely with his ice-axe ; filled with a sense of
responsibility and finding relief in it.
'' Courage ! keep cool ! . . We shall get out of
The Catastrophe, 335
It all right," he called to Bompard repeatedly. It
is thus that an officer in battle, seeking to drive
away his own fear, brandishes his sword and shouts
to his men : " Forward ! s. n. de D. / . . all balls
don't kill."
At last, here they were at the end of that
horrible crevasse. From there to the hut there
were no great obstacles; but the wind blew, and
blinded them with snowy whirlwinds. Further
advance was impossible for fear of losing their way.
*' Let us stop here for a moment," said Tartarin.
A gigantic s&ac of ice offered them a hollow at its
base. Into it they crept, spreading down the
india-rubber rug of the president and opening a
flask of rum, the sole article of provision left them
by the guides. A little warmth and comfort fol-
lowed thereon, while the blows of the ice-axes,
getting fainter and fainter up the height, told them
of the progress of the expedition. They echoed
in the heart of the P. C. A. like a pang of regret for
not having done the Mont Blanc to the summit.
" Who '11 know it? " returned Bompard, cynically.
" The porters kept the banner, and Chamonix
will believe it is you."
''You are right," cried Tartarin, in a tone of
conviction; "the honour of Tarascon is safe. . ."
But the elements grew furious, the north-wind
a hurricane, the snow flew in volumes. Both were
silent, haunted by sinister ideas ; they remembered
those ill-omened relics in the glass case of the old
inn-keeper, his laments, the legend of that Ameri-
can tourist found petrified with cold and hunger,
2,2,^ Tartari7i on the Alps,
holding in his stiffened hand a note-book, in which
his agonies were written down even to the last
convulsion, which made the pencil slip and the
signature uneven.
" Have you a note-book, Gonzague?"
And the other, comprehending without further
explanation : —
" Ha ! vaty a note-book ! . . If you think I am
going to let myself die like that American ! . .
Quick, let 's get on ! come out of this."
" Impossible. . . At the first step we should be
blown like straws and pitched into some abyss."
*' Well then, we had better shout ; the Grands-
Mulets is not far off. . ." And Bompard, on his
knees, in the attitude of a cow at pasture, lowing,
roared out, *' Help ! help ! help ! . ."
" To arms ! " shouted Tartarin, in his most sonor-
ous chest voice, which the grotto repercussioned
in thunder.
Bompard seized his arm : *' Horrors ! the si-
rac !. ." Positively the whole block was trem-
bling ; another shout and that mass of accumulated
icicles would be down upon their heads. They
stopped, rigid, motionless, wrapped in a horrid
silence, presently broken by a distant rolling sound,
coming nearer, increasing, spreading to the horizon,
and dying at last far down, from gulf to gulf.
" Poor souls ! " murmured Tartarin, thinking of
the Swede and his guides caught, no doubt, and
swept away by the avalanche.
Bompard shook his head : "We are scarcely better
off than they," he said.
The Catastroplu. 2)Z7
And truly, their situation was alarming ; but they
did not dare to stir from their icy grotto, nor to
risk even their heads outside in the squall.
To complete the oppression of their hearts, from
the depths of the valley rose the howling of a
dog, baying at death. Suddenly Tartarin, with
swollen eyes, his Hps quivering, grasped the hands
of his companion, and looking at him gently,
said : —
"Forgive me, Gonzague, yes, yes, forgive me.
I was rough to you just now ; I treated you as a
liar. . ."
" Ah ! va'i. What harm did that do me ? "
** I had less right than any man to do so, for I
have lied a great deal myself, and at this supreme
moment I feel the need to open my heart, to free
my bosom, to publicly confess my imposture. . ."
" Imposture, you? "
" Listen to me, my friend. . . In the first place,
I never killed a lion."
" I am not surprised at that," said Bompard,
composedly. " But why do you worry yourself for
such a trifle? . . It is our sun that does it ... we
are born to lies. . . F// look at me. . . Did I ever
tell the truth since I came into the world? As
soon as I open my mouth my South gets up into
my head like a fit. The people I talk about I never
knew ; the countries, I Ve never set foot in them ;
and all that makes such a tissue of inventions that
I can't unravel it myself any longer."
" That 's imagination, p^chkre ! " sighed Tartarin ;
" we are liars of imagination."
338 Tartarin on the Alps,
" And such lies never do any harm to any one ;
whereas a malicious, envious man, like Coste-
calde . . ."
*' Don't ever speak to me of that wretch," inter-
rupted the P. C. A. ; then, seized with a sudden
attack of wrath, he shouted : " Coqinn de bon sort !
it is, all the same, rather vexing. . ." He stopped,
at a terrified gesture from Bompard, " Ah ! yes,
true . . . the sirac; " and, forced to lower his tone
and mutter his rage, poor Tartarin continued his
imprecations in a whisper, with a comical and
amazing dislocation of the mouth, — '' yes, vexing
to die in the flower of one's age through the fault
of a scoundrel who at this very moment is taking
his coffee on the Promenade ! . ."
But while he thus fulminated, a clear spot began
to show itself, little by little, in the sky. It snowed
no more, it blew no more; and blue dashes tore
away the gray of the sky. Quick, quick, en route ;
and once more fastened to the same rope, Tartarin,
who took the lead as before, turned round, put a
finger on his lips, and said : —
" You know, Gonzague, that all we have just
been saying is between ourselves."
" Te ! pardi. . ."
Full of ardour, they started, plunging to their
knees in the fresh snow, which had buried in its
immaculate cotton-wool all the traces of the cara-
van ; consequently Tartarin was forced to consult
his compass every five minutes. But that Taras-
conese compass, accustomed to warm climates, had
been numb with cold ever since its arrival in
The Catastrophe, 339
Switzerland. The needle whirled to all four quar-
ters, agitated, hesitating; therefore they deter-
mined to march straight before them, expecting
to see the black rocks of the Grands-Mulets rise
suddenly from the uniform silent whiteness of the
slope, the peaks, the turrets, and aiguilles that sur-
rounded, dazzled, and also terrified them, for who
knew what dangerous crevasses it concealed be-
neath their feet?
" Keep cool, Gonzague, keep cool ! "
"That's just what I can't do," responded Bom-
pard, in a lamentable voice. And he moaned:
^^ Auy my foot! . . aie, my leg! . . we are lost;
never shall we get there. . ."
They had walked for over two hours when, about
the middle of a field of snow very difficult to climb,
Bompard called out, quite terrified : —
" Tartarin, we are going up I "
" Eh ! parbleu ! I know that well enough," re-
turned the P. C. A., almost losing his serenity.
" But according to my ideas, we ought to be
going down."
"^/.^ yes! but how can I help it? Let's go
on to the top, at any rate; it may go down on
the other side.'*
It went down certainly — and terribly, by a suc-
cession of n^v^s and glaciers, and quite at the end
of this dazzling scene of dangerous whiteness a
little hut was seen upon a rock at a depth which
seemed to them unattainable. It was a haven that
they must reach before nightfall, inasmuch as they
had evidently lost the way to the Grands-Mulets,
340 Tartarhi 07i the Alps,
but at what cost ! what efforts ! what dangers, per-
haps !
" Above all, don't let go of me, Gonzague,
qu^! .:'
" Nor you either, Tartarin."
They exchanged these requests without seeing
each other, being separated by a ridge behind
which Tartarin disappeared, being in advance and
beginning to descend, while the other was going
up, slowly and in terror. They spoke no more,
concentrating all their forces, fearful of a false step,
a slip. Suddenly, when Bompard was within three
feet of the crest, he heard a dreadful cry from
his companion, and at the same instant, the rope
tightened with a violent, irregular jerk. . . He
tried to resist, to hold fast himself and save his
friend from the abyss. But the rope was old,
no doubt, for it parted, suddenly, under his
efforts.
'' OiLtrer'
'' Boufre ! "
The two cries crossed each other, awful, heart-
rending, echoing through the silence and solitude,
then a frightful stillness, the stillness of death that
nothing more could trouble in that waste of eternal
snows.
Towards evening a man who vaguely resembled
Bompard, a spectre with its hair on end, muddy,
soaked, arrived at the inn of the Grands-Mulets,
where they rubbed him, warmed him, and put him
to bed, before he could utter other words than
The Catastrophe, 341
these — choked with tears, and his hands raised to
heaven : " Tartarin . . . lost ! . . broken rope. . . "
At last, however, they were able to make out the
great misfortune which had happened.
While the old hut-man was lamenting and add-
ing another chapter to the horrors of the mountain,
hoping for fresh ossuary relics for his charnel
glass-case, the Swedish youth and his guides, who
had returned from their expedition, set off in
search of the hapless Tartarin with ropes, ladders,
in short a whole life-saving outfit, alas ! unavail-
ing. . . Bompard, rendered half idiotic, could give
no precise indications as to the drama, nor as to
the spot where it happened. They found nothing
except, on the Dome du Gouter, one piece of rope
which was caught in a cleft of the ice. But that
piece of rope, very singular thing ! was cut at both
ends, as with some sharp instrument ; the Cham-
b6ry newspapers gave a facsimile of it, which
proved the fact.
Finally, after eight days of the most conscientious
search, and when the conviction became irresistible
that the poor president would never be found, that
he was lost beyond recall, the despairing delegates
started for Tarascon, taking with them the unhappy
Bompard, whose shaken brain was a visible result
of the terrible shock.
" Do not talk to me about it," he replied when
questioned as to the accident, '* never speak to me
about it again ! "
Undoubtedly the White Mountain could reckon
one victim the more — and what a victim !
342 Tartarin on the Alps,
XIV.
Epilogue.
A REGION more impressionable than Tarascon
was never seen under the sun of any land. At
times, of a fine festal Sunday, all the town out,
tambourines a-going, the Promenade swarming, tu-
multuous, enamelled with red and green petticoats,
Arlesian neckerchiefs, and, on big multi-coloured
posters, the announcement of wrestHng-matches for
men and lads, races of Camargue bulls, etc., it is all-
sufficient for some wag to call out: " Mad dog! "
or "• Cattle loose ! " and everybody runs, jostles,
men and women fright themselves out of their wits,
doors are locked and bolted, shutters clang as with
a storm, and behold Tarascon, deserted, mute, not
a cat, not a sound, even the grasshoppers them-
selves lying low and attentive.
This was its aspect on a certain morning, which,
however, was neither a fete-day nor a Sunday;
the shops closed, houses dead, squares and alleys
seemingly enlarged by silence and solitude. Vasta
silentio, says Tacitus, describing Rome at the
funeral of Germanicus; and that citation of his
mourning Rome applies all the better to Tarascon,
because a funeral service for the soul of Tartarin
was being said at this moment in the cathedral.
Epilogue, 343
where the population en masse wept for its hero,
its god, its invincible leader with double muscles,
left lying among the glaciers of Mont Blanc.
Now, while the death-knell dropped its heavy
notes along the silent streets. Mile. Tournatoire,
the doctor's sister, whose ailments kept her always
at home, was sitting in her big armchair close to
the window, looking out into the street and listening
to the bells. The house of the Tournatoires was on
the road to Avignon, very nearly opposite to that
of Tartarin ; and the sight of that illustrious home to
which its master would return no more, that gar-
den gate forever closed, all, even the boxes of the
little shoe-blacks drawn up in line near the en-
trance, swelled the heart of the poor spinster, con-
sumed for more than thirty years with a secret
passion for the Tarasconese hero. Oh, mystery of
the heart of an old maid ! It was her joy to watch
him pass at his regular hours and to ask herself:
"Where is he going? . ." to observe the permu-
tations of his toilet, whether he was clothed as an
Alpinist or dressed in his suit of serpent-green.
And now ! she would see him no more ! even the
consolation of praying for his soul with all the
other ladies of the town was denied her.
Suddenly the long white horse head of Mile.
Tournatoire coloured faintly; her faded eyes with
a pink rim dilated in a remarkable manner, while
her thin hand with its prominent veins made the
sign of the cross . . He ! it was he, slipping along
by the wall on the other side of the paved road. . .
At first she thought it an hallucinating appari-
344 Tartarin on the Alps,
tion. . . No, Tartarin himself, in flesh and blood,
only paler, pitiable, ragged, was creeping along that
wall like a beggar or a thief. But in order to ex-
plain his furtive presence in Tarascon, it is neces-
sary to return to the Mont Blanc and the Dome du
Gouter at the precise instant when, the two friends
being each on either side of the ridge, Bompard
felt the rope that bound them violently jerked as if
by the fall of a body.
In reality, the rope was only caught in a cleft of
the ice; but Tartarin, feeling the same jerk, be-
lieved, he too, that his companion was rolling
down and dragging him with him. Then, at that
supreme moment — good heavens ! how shall I
tell it? — in that agony of fear, both, at the same
instant, forgetting their solemn vow at the Hotel
Baltet, with the same impulse, the same instinctive
action, cut the rope, — Bompard with his knife, Tar-
tarin with his axe ; then, horrified at their crime,
convinced, each of them, that he had sacrificed his
friend, they fled in opposite directions.
When the spectre of Bompard appeared at the
Grands-Mulets, that of Tartarin was arriving at the
tavern of the Avesailles. How, by what miracle?
after what slips, what falls? Mont Blanc alone
could tell. The poor P. C. A. remained for two
days in a state of complete apathy, unable to utter
a single sound. As soon as he was fit to move
they took him down to Courmayeur, the Italian
Chamonix. At the hotel where he stopped to
recover his strength, there was talk of nothing but
the frightful catastrophe on Mont Blanc, a perfect
Epilogue. 345
pendant to that on the Matterhorn : another Alpin-
ist engulfed by the breaking of the rope.
In his conviction that this meant Bompard,
Tartarin, torn by remorse, dared not rejoin the
delegation, or return to his own town. He saw, in
advance, on every lip, in every eye, the question :
" Cain, what hast thou done with thy brother? . ."
Nevertheless, the lack of money, deficiency of
linen, the frosts of September which were begin-
ning to thin the hostelries, obliged him to set out
for home. After all, no one had seen him commit
the crime. . . Nothing hindered him from invent-
ing some tale, no matter what . . . and so (the
amusements of the journey lending their aid), he
began to feel better. But when, on approaching
Tarascon, he saw, iridescent beneath the azure
heavens, the fine sky-line of the Alpines, all, all
grasped him once more ; shame, remorse, the fear
of justice, and, to avoid the notoriety of arriving
at the station, he left the train at the preceding
stopping-place.
Ah ! that beautiful Tarasconese highroad, all
white and creaking with dust, without other shade
than the telegraph poles and their wires, erected
along the triumphal way he had so often trod at
the head of his Alpinists and the sportsmen of
caps. Would they now have known him, he, the
valiant, the jauntily attired, in his ragged and filthy
clothes, with that furtive eye of a tramp looking
out for gendarmes? The atmosphere was burning,
though the season was late, and the watermelon
which he bought of a marketman seemed to him
34^ Tartarin on the Alps,
delicious as he ate it in the scanty shade of the
barrow, while the peasant exhaled his wrath
against the housekeepers of Tarascon, all of them
absent from market that morning " on account of a
black mass being sung for a man of the town who
was lost in a hole, over there in the Swiss moun-
tains . . . Te ! how the bells rang. . . You can hear
'em from here. . ."
No longer any doubt. For Bompard were those
lugubrious chimes of death, which a warm breeze
wafted through the country solitudes.
What an accompaniment of the return of the
great Tartarin to his native town !
For one moment, one, when the gate of the little
garden hurriedly opened and closed behind him
and Tartarin found himself at home, when he saw
the little paths with their borders so neatly raked,
the basin, the fountain, the gold fish (squirming as
the gravel creaked beneath his feet), and the baobab
giant in its mignonette pot, the comfort of that
cabbage-rabbit burrow wrapped him like a security
after all his dangers and adversities. . . But the
bells, those cursed bells, tolled louder than ever;
their black heavy notes fell plumb upon his heart
and crushed it again. In funereal fashion they
were saying to him : ** Cain, what hast thou done
with thy brother? Tartarin, where is Bompard? "
Then, without courage to take one step, he sat
down upon the hot coping of the little basin and
stayed there, broken down, annihilated, to the
great agitation of the gold fish.
The bells no longer toll. The porch of the
Epilogue, 347
cathedral, lately so resounding, is restored to
the mutterings of the beggarwoman sitting by the
door, and to the cold immovability of its stone
saints. The religious ceremony is over ; all Taras-
con has gone to the Club of the Alpines, where, in
solemn session, Bompard is to tell the tale of the
catastrophe and relate the last moments of the
P. C. A. Besides the members of the Club,
many privileged persons of the army, clergy, no-
bility, and higher commerce have taken seats in
the hall of conference, the windows of which, wide
open, allow the city band, installed below on the
portico, to mingle a few heroic or plaintive notes
with the remarks of the gentlemen. An enormous
crowd, pressing around the musicians, is standing
on the tips of its toes and stretching its necks in
hopes to catch a fragment of what is said in session.
But the windows are too high, and no one would
have any idea of what was going on without the
help of two or three urchins perched in the branches
of a tall linden who fling down scraps of informa-
tion as they are wont to fling cherries from a tree :
" F/, there 's Costecalde, trying to cry. Ha ! the
beggar ! he 's got the armchair now. . . And that
poor Bezuquet, how he blows his nose ! and his
eyes are all red ! . . TV.' they've put crape on the
banner. . . There 's Bompard, coming to the table
with the three delegates. . . He has laid something
down on the desk. . . He 's speaking now. . . It
must be fine ! They are all crying. . . "
In truth, the grief became general as Bompard
advanced in his narrative. Ah ! memory had come
34^ Tartarin on the Alps,
back to him — imagination also. After picturing
himself and his illustrious companion alone on the
summit of Mont Blanc, without guides (who had
all refused to follow them on account of the bad
weather), alone with the banner, unfurled for five
minutes on the highest peak of Europe, he re-
counted, and with what emotion ! the perilous
descent and fall ; Tartarin rolling to the bottom of
a crevasse, and he, Bompard, fastening himself to
a rope two hundred feet long in order to explore
that gulf to its very depths.
" More than twenty times, gentlemen — what am
I saying? more than ninety times I sounded that
icy abyss without being able to reach our un-
fortunate presidain, whose fall, however, I was able
to prove by certain fragments left clinging in the
crevices of the ice. . . "
So saying, he spread upon the table-cloth a
fragment of a tooth, some hairs from a beard, a
morsel of waistcoat, and one suspender buckle ;
almost the whole ossuary of the Grands-Mulets.
In presence of such an exhibition the sorrowful
emotions of the assembly could not be restrained ;
even the hardest hearts, the partisans of Costecalde,
and the gravest personages — Cam.balalette, the
notary, the doctor, Tournatoire — shed tears as big
as the stopper of a water-bottle. The invited
ladies uttered heart-rending cries, smothered, how-
ever, by the sobbing howls of Excourbanies and
the bleatings of Pascalon, while the funeral march
of the drums and trumpets played a slow and
lu":ubrious bass.
Epilogue, 349
Then, when he saw the emotion, the nervous
excitement at its height, Bompard ended his tale
with a grand gesture of pity toward the scraps and
the buckles, as he said : —
" And there, gentlemen and dear fellow-citizens,
there is all that I recovered of our illustrious and
beloved president. . . The remainder the glacier
will restore to us in forty years. . . "
He was about to explain, for ignorant persons,
the recent discoveries as to the slow but regular
movement of glaciers, when the squeaking of a
door opening at the other end of the room inter-
rupted him ; some one entered, paler than one of
Home's apparitions, directly in front of the orator.
'' V^! Tartarin! . . "
" T^! Gonzague! . . "
And this race is so singular, so ready to believe
all improbable tales, all audacious and easily re-
futed lies, that the arrival of the great man whose
remains were still lying on the table caused only
a very moderate amazement in the assembly.
" It is a misunderstanding, that 's all," said Tar-
tarin, comforted, beaming, his hand on the shoulder
of the man whom he thought he had killed. " I
did Mont Blanc on both sides. Went up one way
and came down the other ; and that is why I was
thought to have disappeared."
He did not mention that he had come down on
his back.
" That damned Bompard ! " said B^zuquet ; " all
the same, he harrowed us up with his tale. . . "
And they laughed and clasped hands, while the
350 Tar tar in on the Alps,
drums and trumpets, which they vainly tried to
silence, went madly on with Tartarin's funeral
march.
*' Vel Costecalde, just see how yellow he is ! . . '*
murmured Pascalon to Bravida, pointing to the
gunsmith as he rose to yield the chair to the
rightful president, whose good face beamed. Bra-
vida, always sententious, said in a low voice as he
looked at the fallen Costecalde returning to his
subaltern rank : " ' The fate of the Abbe Mandaire,
from being the rector he now is vicaire! "
And the session went on.
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