UC-NRLF 
 
 (V. {\ ^' t !' 
 
 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, 
 i ntrigues , 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 absinth es. 
 
 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 allj hgj; 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 verdur e, 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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