 9. Prince Gregory of Montenegro It was two long weeks that the unfortunate Tartaran had been seeking his Algerian flame, and most likely he would have been seeking after her to this day, if the little God kind to lovers had not come to his help under the shape of a Montenegrin nobleman. It happened as follows. Every Saturday night in winter there is a masked ball at the grand theatre of Algiers, just as at the Paris Opera House it is the undying and ever tasteless county fancy-dress ball. Very few people on the floor, several castaways from the Parisian students' ballrooms or midnight dance houses, Jones of Arc following the army, faded characters out of the Java costume book of 1840, and half a dozen laundresses underlings who are aiming to make loftier conquests, but still preserve a faint perfume of their former life, garlic and saffron sauce. The real spectacle is not there, but in the green room, transformed for the nonsense to a hall of green cloth or gaming saloon. An enfevered and motley mob hustle one another around the long green table covers. Turcos out for the day and staking their double half-pence. Moorish traders from the native town, Negroes, Maltese, colonists from the inland who have come forty leagues in order to risk on a turning card the price of a plow, or of a yoke of oxen, all aquivering, pale, clenching their teeth, and with that singular, wavering, side-long look of the game-ster, become a squint from always staring at the same card in the lay-up. A little apart are the tribes of Algerian Jews playing among acquaintances. The men are in the Oriental costume, hideously varied, with blue stockings and velvet caps. The puffy and flabby women sit up stiffly in tight golden bodices. Grouped around the tables the whole tribe, whale's wheel combined, reckon on the fingers and play but little. Now and on, however, after long conferences, some old patriarch with a beard like those of saints by the old masters, detaches himself from the party, and goes to risk the family duro. As long as the game lasted, there would be a scintillation of hebraic eyes directed on the board, dreadful black diamonds which made the gold pieces shiver and ended by gently attracting them as if drawn by a thread. Then arose wrangles, quarrels, battles, oaths of every land, mad outcries in all tongues, knives flashing out the guard marching in, and the money disappearing. It was into the thick of this Saturnalia that the great tartarach came straying one evening to find oblivion and heart's ease. He was roving alone through the gathering, brooding about his moorish beauty, when two angered voices arose suddenly from a gaming table above all the clamour and clink of coin. I tell you, monsieur, that I am twenty francs sure. Stuff, monsieur. Stuff yourself, monsieur. You shall learn whom you are addressing, monsieur. I am dying to do that, monsieur. I am Prince Gregory of Montenegro, monsieur. Upon this title tartarach much excited cleft the throng and placed himself in the foremost rank, proud and happy to find his prince again the Montenegro noble of such politeness whose acquaintance he had begun on board of the male steamer. Unfortunately the title of highness, which had so dazzled of the worthy Tarasconian, did not produce the slightest impression upon the chasseur, our officer, with whom the noble had his dispute. Ha! and much the wiser observed the military gentleman sneeringly, and turning to the bystanders he added, Prince Gregory of Montenegro, who knows any such a person. Nobody! the indignant tartarach took one step forward. Allow me. I know the prince, said he, in a very firm voice, with his finest Tarasconian accent. The light cavalry officer eyed him hard for a moment and then shrugging his shoulders returned. Come, that is good. Just you two share the twenty francs lacking between you and let us talk no more on the score. Whereupon he turned his back upon them and mixed with the crowd. The stormy tartarach was going to rush after him, but the prince prevented that. Let him go. I can manage my own affairs. Taking the interventionist by the arm he drew him rapidly out of doors. When they were upon the square Prince Gregory of Montenegro lifted his hat off, extended his hand to our hero, and he, as he but dimly remembered his name, he began in a vibrating voice Mr. Barbarin. Tartarach prompted the other timidly. Tartarach, Barbarin, no matter. Between us, henceforward, it is a league of life and death. The Montenegro noble shook his hand with fierce energy. You may infer that the Tarasconian was proud. Prince, Prince, he repeated enthusiastically. In a quarter of an hour subsequently the two gentlemen were installed in the Latinas restaurant in a griable late supper-house, with terraces running out over the sea, where, before a hearty Russian salad, seconded by a nice Kresge wine, they renewed the friendship. You cannot imagine any more bewitching than this Montenegro Prince. Slender fine with crisp hair curled by the tongs, shaved a week under, and pumice stoned on that, bestowed with out-of-the-way decorations. He had the wily eye, the fondling gestures, and vaguely the accent of an Italian, which gave him an air of cardinal mazara without his chin-tuffed and moustaches. He was deeply versed in the Latin tongs and lugged in quotations from Tacitus, Horace and Caesar's commentaries at every opening. Of an old noble strain it appeared that his brothers had had him exiled at the age of ten, on account of his liberal opinions, since which time he had roamed the world for pleasure and instruction as a philosophical noble. A singular coincidence. The Prince had spent three years in Tarascon, and as Tartaran showed amazement at never having met him at the club or on the Esplanade, his highness evasively remarked that he never went about. Through delicacy Tarasconian did not dare to question further. All great existences have such mysterious looks. To sum up, this senior Gregory was a very genial aristocrat. Whilst sipping the rosy Kresge juice, he patiently listened to Tartaran's expiating on his lovely moor, and he even promised to find her speedily as he had full knowledge of the native ladies. They drank hard and lengthily in toasts to the ladies of Algiers and the freedom of Montenegro. Outside upon the terrace heaved the sea, and its rollers slapped the strand in the darkness with much the sound of wet sails flapping. The air was warm and the sky full of stars. In the plain trees a nightingale was piping. It was Tartaran who paid the piper. End of chapter 9 of episode 2, recording by Mike Harris Chapter 10, episode 2 of Tartaran of Tarascon. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Tartaran of Tarascon by Alphonse Daudet, episode 2. Among the Turks, chapter 10. Tell me your father's name, and I will tell you the name of that flower. Princess of Montenegro are the ones to find the lovebird. On the morrow early after this evening of the plantans, Prince Gregory was in the Tarasconians' bedroom. Quick, dress yourself quickly, your Moorish beauty is found. Her name is Bayer. She's scarce 20 as footy is a love, and already a widow. A widow? What a slice of luck joyfully exclaimed Tartaran, who dreaded oriental husbands. Aye, but woefully closely guarded by her brother. Oh, the mischief, a savage chap who vends pipes in the Orléans bazaar. Here fell a silence. A fig for that proceeded the prince. You are not the man to be daunted by such a trifle, and anyhow this old corsair can be pacified, I dare say, by having some pipes bought of him. But be quick, on with your courting suit, you lucky dog. Pale and agitated, with his heart brimming over with love, the Tarasconian leaped out of his couch, and as he hastily buttoned up his capacious nether garment, wanted to know how he should act. Right straightway to the lady and asked for a trist. Do you mean to say she knows French, queering the Tarasconian simpleton, for the disappointed mean of one who had believed thoroughly in the Orient? Not one word of the Prince imperturbably, but you can dictate the billet do, and I will translate it bit by bit. Oh, Prince, how kind you are. The lover began striding up and down the bedroom in silent meditation. Naturally, a man does not write to a Moorish girl in Algiers in the same way as to a semp stress of bokeh. It was a very lucky thing that our hero had in mind his numerous readings, which allowed him, by amalgamating the red Indian eloquence of Gustave Emma's appaches with Lamartine's rhetorical throshes in the voyage on Orient and some reminiscences of the Song of Songs to compose the most eastern letter that you could expect to see. It opened with, like unto the ostrich upon the sandy waist, and concluded by, tell me your father's name and I will tell you the name of that flower. To this missive, the romantic Tarara would have much like to join an emblematic bouquet of flowers in the eastern fashion, but Prince Gregory thought it better to purchase some pipes at the brothers which could not fail to soften his wild temper and would certainly please Lady a very great deal. Ah, she was much of a smoker. Let's be off at once to buy them, said Tarara, full of ardour. No, no, let me go alone. I can get them cheaper. Eh, what? Would you save me the trouble? Oh, Prince, Prince, you do me proud. Quite a bash the good-hearted fellow offered his purse to the obliging Montenegrin, urging him to overlook nothing by which a lady would be gratified. Unfortunately, the suit, albeit capitally commenced, did not progress as rapidly as might have been anticipated. It appeared that the Moorish beauty was very deeply affected by Tarara's eloquence, and, for that matter, three parts won beforehand, so that she wished nothing better than to receive him. But that brother of hers had qualms, and to lull them it was necessary to buy the pipes by the dozens. Nay, the gross! Well, we had best save by the shipload at once. What the plague and the buyer do with all these pipes, poor Tarara, I wanted to know more than once. But he'd pay the bills all the same, and without niggadliness. At length, after having purchased a mountain a sack of pipes and poured forth lakes of ornital posy, an interview was arranged. I have no need to tell you with what throbbing of the heart the Taraskonian prepared himself. But carefulness he trimmed, relentoned, and perfumed his rough cat-popper's beard and how he did not forget, for everything must be thought of to slip a spiky light-preserver and two or three six-shooters into his pockets. The ever-obliging prince was coming to this first meeting in the office of interpreter. The lady dwelt in the upper part of the town before her doorway a boy moor fourteen or less of smoking cigarettes. This was the brother in question, the celebrated Ali. On seeing the pair visitors arrive he gave a double knock on the postern gate and delicately glided away. The door opened, and niggress appeared who conducted the gentleman without uttering a word across the narrow inner courtyard into a small, cool room where the lady awaited them, reclining on a low ottoman. At first glance she appeared smaller and stouter than the Moorish damsel met in the omnibus by the Taraskonian. In fact, was it really the same? But the doubt merely flashed through Tartaran's brain like a stroke of lightning. The dame was so pretty thus with her feet bare and plump fingers, fine and pink, loaded with rings. Under her bodice of gilded cloth on the folds of her flower-batten dress was suggested a lovable creature, rather blessed materially, rounded everywhere and nice enough to eat. The amber mouthpiece of a Nagile smoked at her lips and enveloped her wholly in a halo of light-coloured smoke. On entering the Taraskonian laid a hand on his heart and bowed as more like as possible whilst rolling his large, impassioned eyes. Bayer gazed on him for a moment without making any answer. But then, dropping her pipe-stem, she threw her head back, hid it in her hands, and they could only see her white neck rippling with a wild laugh like a bag full of pearls. End of Chapter 10 of Episode 2 Chapter 11 of Episode 2 of Tartaran of Taraskan This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org Recording by Philippa. Tartaran of Taraskan by Alphonse Daudet. Episode 2 Among the Turks Chapter 11 Sidi Tartri Ben Tartri Should you ever drop into the coffee-houses of the Algerian upper town after dark, even at this day, you would still hear the natives chatting among themselves with many a wink and slight laugh of one Sidi Tartri Ben Tartri, a rich and good-humoured European who dwelt a few years back in that neighbourhood with a buxom witch of local origin named Bayer. This Sidi Tartri, who has left such a merry memory around the Casbah, is none other than our Tartaran, as will be guessed. How could you expect things otherwise? In the lives of heroes, of saints too, it happens the same way. There are moments of blindness, perturbation and weakness. The illustrious Taraskonian was no more exempt from this than another, and that is the reason during two months that oblivious of fame and lions he reveled in oriental amorousness and dozed like Hannibal at Capua in the delights of Algiers the White. The good fellow took a pretty little house in the native style in the heart of the Arab town with inner courtyard, banana trees, cool verandas and fountains. He dwelt a far from noise in company with the Moorish Charma, a thorough woman to the manna-born who pulled at her Hubble bubble all day when she was not eating. Stretched out on a divan in front of him, Bayer would drone him monotonous tunes with a guitar in her fist, or else, to distract her lord and master, favour him with the bee-dance, holding a hand-glass up in which she reflected her white teeth and the faces she made. As the Esmeralda did not know a word of French, and Tataran none in Arabic, the conversation died away sometimes, and the Tarasconian had plenty of leisure to do penance for the gush of language of which he had been guilty in the shop of Bezouquet the chemist, or that of Costa Cal to the gun-maker. But this penance was not devoid of charm, for he felt a kind of enjoyable sullenness in dawdling away the whole day without speaking, and in listening to the gurgling of the hookah, the strumming of the guitar, and the faint splashing of the fountain on the mosaic pavement of the yard. The pipe, the bath, and caresses filled his entire life. They seldom went out of doors. Sometimes with his lady-love upon a pillion, Sidi Tartre would ride upon a sturdy mule to eat pomegranates in a little garden he had purchased in the suburbs. But never without exception did he go down into the European quarter. This kind of Algiers appeared to him as ugly and unbearable as a barracks at home, with its zuaves in revelry, its music halls crammed with officers, and its everlasting clank of metal sabersheeds under the arcades. The sum total is that our Tarasconian was very happy. Sancho Tartre, particularly being very sweet upon Turkish pastry, declared that one could not be more satisfied than by this new existence. Quixote Tartre had some twinges at Wiles, while thinking of Tarascon and the promises of lion-skins, but this remorse did not last, and to drive away such dampening ideas there sufficed one glance from Bayer, or a spoonful of those diabolical, dizzying and odoriferous sweet-meats like Cersei's brews. In the evening Gregory came to discourse a little about a free black mountain of indefatigable obligingness, this amiable nobleman filled the functions of an interpreter in the household, or those of a steward at a pinch, and all for nothing but the sheer pleasure of it. Apart from him, Tartaran received none but Turks. All those fierce-headed pirates who had given him such frights from the backs of their black stalls turned out, when once he made their acquaintance, to be good, inoffensive tradesmen, embroiderers, dealers in spice, pipe-mouthpiece turners, well-bred fellows, humble, clever, close, and first-class hands at homely card-games. Four or five times a week these gentry would come and spend the evening at Sidi Tartari's, winning his small change, eating his cakes and dainties, and delicately retiring on the stroke of ten with thanks to the prophet. Left alone, Sidi Tartari and his faithful spouse by the broomstick wedding would finish the evening on their terrace, a broad, white roof which overlooked the city. All around them a thousand of other such white flats, placid beneath the moonshine, were descending like steps to the sea. The breeze carried up tinkling of guitars. Suddenly, like a shower of fireworks-stars, a full, clear melody would be softly sprinkled out from the sky, and on the minaret of the neighbouring mosque a handsome muzzin would appear, his blanched form outlined on the deep blue of the night, as he chanted the glory of Allah with a marvellous voice which filled the horizon. Thereupon Bayer would let go her guitar, and with her large eyes turned towards the cryer, seemed to imbibe the prayer deliciously. As long as the chant endured, she would remain thrilled there in ecstasy, like an oriental saint. The deeply impressed Tartaran would watch her pray, and conclude that it must be a splendid and powerful creed that could cause such frenzies of faith. Tarascon, veil thy face! Here is a son of thine on the point of becoming a renegade. All Libervox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit libervox.org. Recording by Jeanne Whitfield. Tartaran of Tarascon by Alphonse Daudet. Episode II Among the Turks. Chapter XII. The Latest Intelligence from Tarascon. Parting from his little country seat, C. D. Tartre was returning alone on his mule on a fine afternoon. When the sky was blue and the zebras warm, his legs were kept wide apart by ample saddlebags of Esparto cloth, swelled out with sidrats and watermelons, lulled by the ring of his large stirrups, and rocking his body to the swing and swing of the beast. The good fellow was thus traversing an adorable country with his hands folded on his paunch. Three-quarters gone through heat, in a comfortable dose, all at once on entering the town, and a stunning appeal aroused him. Ahoy! What a monster fate is! Anybody take this for M. Tartaran? On this name and at the jolly southern accent, the Tarasconian lifted his head and perceived a couple of steps away the honest, tanned visage of Captain Barbasov, master of the swamp, who was taking his absence at the door of a little coffee-house. Hey, Lord love you, Barbasov, said Tartaran, pulling up his mule. Instead of continuing the dialogue, Barbasov stared at him for a space, ere he burst into appeal of such hilarity that City Tartare set back, dumbfounded on his melons. What a stunning turban, my poor M. Tartaran! Is it true what they say of your having turned turb? How is little Bayah? Is she still singing Marco Labella? Marco Labella repeated the indignant Tartaran, I'll have you to know, Captain, that the person you mentioned is an honorable, nourish lady and one who does not know a word of French. Bayah does not know French! What lunatic asylum do you hail from then? The good Captain broke into still heartier laughter, but seeing the chops of poor City Tartare fall, he changed his course. Howsoever may happen, it is not the same last. Let's reckon that I have mixed them up. Still, Mark you, M. Tartaran, you will do well, nonetheless, to distrust Algerian Moors and Montenegroon princes. Tartaran rose and the stirrups making a writhe face. The prince is my friend, Captain. Come, come, don't wax, rathy! Won't you have some bitters to sweeten you? No? Haven't you anything to say to the folks at home, neither? Well, then, a pleasant journey. By the way, mate, I have some good French backhoe upon me, and if you would like to carry away a few pipe-fulls, you have only to take some. Take it, won't you? It's your beast, the oriental backhoes that have befogged your brain. Upon this the Captain went back to his absinthe, whilst the moody Tartaran trotted slowly on the road Although his great soul refused to credit anything, Barbasus insinuations had vexed him, and the familiar adjurations and home accents had awakened vague remorse. He found nobody at home, via having gone out to the bath. The negris appeared sinister and the dwelling saddening, a prey to inexpressible melancholy. He went and sat down by the fountain to load a pipe with Barbasus tobacco. It was wrapped up in a piece of cardboard newspaper. On flattening it out, the name of his native place struck his eyes. Our ateroscond correspondence writes, The city is in distress. There has been no news for several months from Tartaran the lion slayer who set off to hunt the great feline tribe in Africa. What can have become of our heroic fellow countrymen? Those hardly dare ask who know, as we do, how hot-headed he was. And what boldness and thirst were adventures were his. Has he, like so many others, been smothered in the sands? Or has he fallen under the murderous fangs of one of those monsters of the Atmos range, of which he had promised the skins to the municipality? What a dreadful state of uncertainty! It is true some negro traders come to Boccafair, assert having met in the middle of the deserts a European whose description with his, he was proceeding towards Timbuktu, may heaven preserve our Tartaran. When he read this the son of Tarascon reddened, blanched and shuttered. All Tarascon appeared unto him, the club, the cat-poppers, Castacaldi's green armchair, and hovering over all like a spread eagle, the imposing moustaches of the brave Commandant Bravita. At seeing himself here as he was cowardly lolling on a mat whilst his friends believed him slaughtering wild beasts, Tartaran of Tarascon was ashamed of himself and could have wept had he not been a hero. Suddenly he leapt up and thundered, the lion, the lion down with him, and dashing into the dusty lumber-hole where moldered the shelter-tent, the medicine-chest, the potted meats, and the gun-cases. He dragged them out into the middle of the court. Sancho, Tartaran, was no more. Kehote, Tartaran, occupied the field of active life. Only the time to inspect his armaments and stores, don his harness, get into his heavy boots, scribble a couple of words to confide Baya to the Prince, and slip a few banknotes sprinkled with tears into the envelope. And then the dauntless Tarasconian rolled away in the stagecoach on the build-up road, leaving the house to the negris super-stricken before the pipe, the turban, and the babooshes, all the mauslem-shell of C. D. Tartary, which sprawled piteously under the little white-trip oils of the gallery. End of Chapter 12 of Episode 2 End of Episode 2 Recording by Jeannie Whitfield, Mississippi, U.S.A. Section 27, Chapter 1, Episode 3 of Tartaran of Tarascon, this is a LibriVox recording, all LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Jeannie Whitfield, Tartaran of Tarascon, by Alphonse Daudet, Episode 3 Among the Lions, Chapter 1 What Becomes of the Old Stagecoaches? Come to look closely at the vehicle. It was an old stagecoach, all of the olden time, upholstered in faded deep blue cloth, with those enormous rough woollen balls, which after a few hours' journey finally establish a raw spot in the small of your back. Tartaran of Tarascon had a corner of the inside where he installed himself free and easily, and preliminarily to inspiring the rank emanations of the great African felines. The hero had to content himself with that homely old odor of the stagecoach, oddly composed of a thousand smells, of man and woman, horses and harness, edibles and mildewed straw. There was a little of everything inside, a trappist monk, some Jew merchants, ladies going to join their regiment, the Third Hussars, a photographic artist from Orléansville, and so on. But however charming and varied was the company, the Tarasconian was not in the mood for chatting. He remained quite thoughtful, with an arm in the armrest sling-strap and his guns between his knees. All turned up his wits, the precipitant departure by his eyes of jet, the noble chaise he was about to undertake, to say nothing of this European coach, with its Noah's Ark aspect, rediscovered in the heart of Africa, vaguely recalling the Tarascon of his youth, with its races in the suburbs, jolly dinners on the riverside, a throng of memories in short. Gradually night came on, the guard lit up the lamps, the rusty diligence danced, creakingly on its old springs, the horses trotted and their bells jangled from time to time in the boot a rose-a-dreadful clank of iron, that was the war-material. Tateran of Tarascon, nearly overcome, dwelt a moment scanning the fellow-passengers, comically shaken by the jolts, and dancing before him like the shadows in gallanty shows, till his eyes grew cloudy and his mind befogged, and only vaguely he heard the wheels grind of the conveyance squeak, complainingly. Suddenly a voice called Tateran by his name, the voice of an old fairy godmother, horse, broken and cracked. Mishur Tateran! Three times. Who's calling me? It is I, Mishur Tateran. Don't you recognize me? I am the old stage-coach who used to do the road with Twix's names in Tarascon. Twenty years are gone. How many times I have carried you and your friends when you went to shoot at caps over jocares or billigards, Wei? I did not know you again at the first on account of your turks cap, and the flesh you have accumulated. But as soon as you began snoring, what a rascal is good luck. I twigged you straight away. All right. That's right enough. Observed the Tarasconian, a shade vexed but softening, he added, but to the point, my dear old girl, what ever did you come out here for? Poof! My good Mishur Tateran, I assure you I never came of my own free will. As soon as the bouquet railway was finished I was considered good for naught, and shipped away into Algeria, but I am not the only one either. Bless you, next to all the old-stage cultures of France have been packed off like me. We were regarded as too much the conservative, the slow coaches. Do you see? And now we are here leading the life of a dog. This is what you and France call the Algerian Railways. Here the ancient vehicle heaved a long-drawn sigh before proceeding. My wheels and linchpin Mishur Tateran, how I regret my lovely Tarascon! That was the good time for me when I was young. You ought to have seen me starting off in the morning, washed with no stent of water, and all as shine with my wheels freshly varnished. My lamps blazing like a braced sun's. My boot always rubbed up with oil. It was indeed lovely when the postilion cracked his whip to the tune of L'Agadigideau. The Tarasque, the Tarasque, and the guard, his horn in its sling and laced cap cocked well over one year, chucking to his little dog always in a fury upon the top climbing up himself with a shot right away. Then would my four horses dash off to the medley of bells, barks, and horn-blast, and the windows fly open for all Tarascon to look with pride upon the royal male-coach dart over the king's highway. What a splendid road that was, Mishur Tateran! Broad and well-kept with its milestones, his little heaps of road-metal at regular distances, and its pretty clumps of vines and olive trees on either hand. Then again the roadside ends so close together and the changes of horses every five minutes, and what jolly, honest chaps my patrons were village mayors and parish priests going up to Nimes to see their prefector, Bishur taffety weavers returning openly from the meze collegians on holiday leave peasants and works-mock-rocks all fresh-shaven for the occasion that morning and up above on top you gentlemen-sportsmen always in high spirits and singing each your own family ballad to the stars as you came back in the dark. Deary me, it's a change of times now. Lord knows what rubbish I am caught in here. Come from nobody, knows there. They fill me with small deer, these negroes, Bedouin Arabs swashbucklers, adventurers from every land, and ragged settlers who poison me with their pipes, and all jabbering a language that the Tower of Babel itself could make nothing of. And furthermore you should see how they treat me. I mean how they never treat me. Never brush or wash. They begrudge me grease for my axes instead of my good fat, quiet horses of other days, little aeroponies with the devil in their frames who fight and bite and caper as they run, like so many goats, and break my slatterboard all to smithereens with their lashing out behind. Ouch! Ouch! There they are at it again. And such roads just here it is bearable because we are near the governmental headquarters. But out a bit there is nothing me sure. Not the ghost of a road at all. We get along as best we can over hill and dale, over dwarf palms and mastic trees, narrowfix, change of horses, the stopping being the whim of the guard now at one farm again at another. Some while this road goes a couple of leagues out of the way to have a glass of absinthe or champurro with a chomp, after which crack on postilion to make up for the lost time. Though the sun be broiling in the dust scorching we whip on. We catch it in the scrub and spill over, but whip on. We swim rivers, we catch cold, we get swamped, we drown, but whip, whip, whip. Then in the evening streaming a nice thing for my age with my rheumatics, I have to sleep in the open air of some caravancerol yard, open to all the winds. In the dead of night jackals and hyenas come sniffing of my body and the moradas who don't like doos get into my compartment to keep warm. Such is the life I lead my poor Mishio around, and that I shall lead to the day when burnt up by the sun and rotted by the damp nights, until unable to do anything else I shall fall in some spot of bad road where the Arabs will boil their couscous with the bones of my old carcass. Build a door, build a door, called out the guard as he opened the door. End of Chapter 1 of Episode 3 Recording by Jeannie Whitfield, Mississippi, USA Section 28 Chapter 2 Episode 3 of Tatarin of Tarascon This is a LibriVox Recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org Recording by Amy Grimoire Tatarin of Tarascon by Alfons Dodette Episode 3 A little gentleman drops in and drops upon Tatarin. Vaguely through the mud dimmed glass, Tatarin of Tarascon caught a glimpse of a second rate of a pretty town marketplace regular in shape, surrounded by colonnades implanted with orange trees in the midst of which what seemed toiled and soldiers were going through the morning exercise and the clear rosy at mist. The cafes were shedding their shutters. In one corner there was a vegetable market. It was bewitching, but it did lack of lions yet. To the south, father to the south, muttered the good old Desperado sinking back in his chair. At this moment the door opened. A puff of fresh air rushed in, bearing upon its wings, in the perfume of the orange blossoms a little person in a brown frock coat. Old and dry, wrinkled and formal, his face no bigger than your fist, his neck cloth of black silk five fingers wide, a notary's leather case, an umbrella, the very picture on perceiving the Tarasconian's warlike equipment the little gentleman who was seated over against him appeared excessively surprised and set to studying him with burdensome persistency. The horses were taken out and the fresh ones put in, whereupon the coach started off again. The little weasels still gazed at Tadrin who in the end took snuff at it. Does this astonish you, he demanded, staring the little gentleman full on the face in his turn? Oh, dear no, it only annoys me! He responded the other very tranquilly. And the fact is that with his shelter tent revolvers pair of guns in their cases and hunting knife not to speak of his natural corpulence, Tadrin of Tarascon did take up a lot of room. The little gentleman's reply angered him. Do you, by any chance fancy that I am going lion hunting with your umbrella, queried the great man hodlily? The little man looked at his umbrella, smiled blendly and still with the same lack of emotion inquired. Oh, ho, then you are, monsieur Tadrin of Tarascon, lion-killer! In uttering these words the dauntless son of Tarascon shook the blue tassel of his fez like a mane. Through the vehicle was a spell of stupefaction. The trappist brother crossed himself. The dubious women uttered little screams of a fright and the Orleansville photographer bent over towards the lion slayer already cherishing the unequaled honour of taking his likeness. The little gentleman, though, was not odd. Do you mean to say that you have killed many lions, monsieur Tadrin?" He asked very quietly. The Tarasconian received his charge in the handsomest manner. Is it many have I killed, monsieur? I wish you had only as many hairs on your head as I have killed of them. All the coach laughed on observing three yellow bristles standing up on the little gentleman's skull. In his turn the Orleansville photographer struck in. Yours must be Monsieur Tadrin. He must pass some ugly moment sometimes. I have heard that poor Monsieur Bonbenel. Oh yes, the panther killer, said Tadrin, rather disdainfully. Do you happen to be acquainted with him, inquired the insignificant person? Ah, of course, know him why we have been out on the hunt over twenty times together. The little gentleman smiled. So you also hunt panthers, monsieur Tadrin, he asked. Sometimes just for past time, said the fiery Tarasconian. But, he added, as he tossed his head with a heroic movement that inflamed the hearts of the two sweet hearts of the regiment. That's not worth lion-hunting. When all said and done, mentioned the photographer, a panther is nothing but a big cat. Right you are, said Tadrin, not sorry to abate the celebrated Bonbenel's glory a little, particularly in the presence of ladies. Here the coach stopped. The conductor came to open the door and addressed the insignificant little gentleman saying, we have arrived, monsieur. The little gentleman got up, stepped out, and said before the door was closed again, will you allow me to give you a bit of advice, monsieur Tadrin? What is it, monsieur? Faith, you wear the look of a good sort of fellow, so I would rather than not let you have it. Get you back quickly to Tarascon, monsieur Tadrin, for you are wasting your time here. There do remain a few panthers in the colony, but out upon the big cats they are too small game for you. As for lion-hunting, that's all over. There are none left in Algeria. My friend, Chasang, having lately knocked over the last, upon which the little gentleman saluted, closed the door and trotted away chuckling with his document wallet and umbrella. God, as Tadrin, screwing up his face contemptuously, who under the sun is that whole little mannequin? What? Don't you know him? By that there's, monsieur Bonbenel. End of chapter two of episode the third. Diana, Tadrin of Tarascon, alighted, leaving the stagecoach to continue its way towards the south. Two days rough journey, two nights spent with eyes open to spy out of the window if they were not discoverable, the dread figure of a lion in the fields beyond the road. So much sleeplessness well deserved some hours repose. Besides, if we must tell everything, since his misadventure with Bonbenel, the outspoken Tadrin felt ill at ease, notwithstanding his weapons, his terrifying visage, and his red cap, before the Orleansville photographer and the two ladies fond of the military. So he proceeded through the broad streets of Miliana, full of fine trees and fountains, but whilst looking up a suitable hotel, the poor fellow could not help musing over Bonbenel's words. Suppose they were true? Suppose there were no more lions in Algeria? What would be the good then of so much running about and fatigue? Suddenly at the turn of a street our hero found himself face to face with... With what? Guess. A donkey, of course. A donkey? A splendid lion this time waiting before a coffee-house door, royally sitting up on his hind quarters and with his tawny mane gleaming in the sun. What possessed them to tell me that there were no more of them, exclaimed the Tarasconian as he made a backward jump? On hearing this outcry the lion lowered his head and taking up in his mouth a wooden bowl that was before him on the footway humbly held it out towards Tartaran who was immovable with stupefaction. A passing Arab tossed a copper into the bowl and the lion wagged his tail. Thereupon Tartaran understood it all. He saw what emotion had prevented him previously perceiving that the crowd was gathered around a poor, tame, blind lion and that two stalwart negroes armed with staves were marching him through the town as the Savoyard does a marmot. The blood of Tarascon boiled over at once. Wretched that you are, he roared in a voice of thunder, thus to debase such noble beasts. Springing to the lion, he wrenched the loathsome bowl from between his royal jaws. The two Africans, believing they had a thief to contend with, rushed upon the foreigner with uplifted cudgels. There was a dreadful conflict, the black amours smiting, the women screaming and the youngsters laughing. The old Jew cobbler, bleated out of the hollow in his stall, daked him to the shochters of the beast. The lion himself in his dark state tried to roar as his hapless champion after a desperate struggle rolled on the ground among the spilled pence and the sweepings. At this juncture a man cleft the throng, made the negro stand back with a word and the women and urchins with a wave of his hand, lifted up Tartaran, brushed him down, shook him into shape and sat him breathless upon a corner post. What, Prince? Is it you, said the good Tartaran, rubbing his ribs? Yes, indeed, it is I, my valiant friend. As soon as your letter was received I entrusted Baia to her brother, hired a post-chez, flew fifty leagues as fast as a horse could go, and here I am, just in time to snatch you from the brutality of these ruffians. What have you done in the name of just heaven to bring this ugly trouble upon you? What done, Prince? It was too much for me to see this lion with a begging bowl in his mouth, humiliated, conquered, buffeted about, set up as a laughing stock to all this Muslim rabble. But you are wrong, my noble friend. On the contrary, this lion is an object of respect and adoration. This is a sacred beast who belongs to a great monastery of lions founded three hundred years ago by Mohammed Ben-Aouda, a kind of fierce and forbidding letrap. Full of roaring and wild beastly odours were strange monks rear in feed lions by the hundreds and send them out all over northern Africa accompanied by begging brothers. The alms they received served for the maintenance of the monastery and its mosques, and the two negroes showed so much displeasure to us now because it was their conviction that the lion under their charge would forthwith devour them if a single penny of their collection were lost or stolen through any fault of theirs. On hearing this incredible and yet voracious story, Tartaran of Tarascon was delighted and sniffed the air noisily. What pleases me in this, he remarked as the summing up of his opinion, is that whether Monsieur Bombanel likes it or not there are still lions in Algeria. I should think there were ejaculated the prince enthusiastically. We will start tomorrow beating up the shell of plain and you will see lions enough. What prince have you an intention to go hunting too? Of course, do you think I am going to leave you to march by yourself into the heart of Africa in the midst of voracious tribes with whose languages and usages you are ignorant? No, no, illustrious Tartaran. I shall quit you no more. Go where you will, I shall make one of the party. Oh, prince, prince! The beaming Tartaran hugged the devoted Gregory to his breast at the proud thought of his going to have a foreign prince to accompany him in his hunting after the example of Jules Girard, Bombanel and other famous lion slayers. End of Chapter 4 of Episode 3 Chapter 4 Episode 3 of Tartaran of Tarascon This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org Tartaran of Tarascon by Alphonse Daudet Episode III Among the Lions Chapter 4 The Caravan on the March Leaving Miliana at the earliest hour next morning, the intrepid Tartaran and the no less intrepid Prince Gregory descended towards the shell of plain through a delightful gorge shaded with jessamine, caruba, tuyes, and wild olive trees between hedges of little native gardens and thousands of merry, lively rills which scampered down from rock to rock with a singing splash, a bit of landscape meat for the Lebanon. As much loaded with arms as the great Tartaran Prince Gregory had, over and above that dawned a queer but magnificent military cap all covered with gold lace and a trimming of oak leaves in silver cord which gave his highness the aspect of a Mexican general or a railway station master on the banks of the Danube. This plague of a cap much puzzled the beholder and as he timidly craved some explanation the Prince gravely answered it is a kind of headgear indispensable for travel in Algeria. Whilst brightening up the peak with a sweep of his sleeve he instructed his simple companion in the important part which the military cap plays in the French connection with the Arabs and the terror this article of army insignia alone has the privilege of inspiring so that the civil service has been obliged to put all its employés in caps from the extra copyist to the receiver general. To govern Algeria, the Prince is still speaking there is no need of a strong head or even of any head at all a military cap does it alone if showy and belaced at the top of a non-human pole like Guestlers. Thus chatting and philosophizing the caravan proceeded the barefooted porters leaped from rock to rock with ape-like screams the gun cases clanked and the guns themselves flashed the natives who were passing salam to the ground before the magic cap up above on the ramparts of Miliana the head of the Arab department who was out for an airing with his wife hearing these unusual noises and seeing the weapons gleam between the branches fancied there was a revolt and ordered the drawbridge to be raised the general alarmed to be sounded and the whole town put under a state of siege a capital commencement for the caravan unfortunately before the day ended things went wrong of the black luggage bearers one was doubled up with atrocious collics from having eaten the diacalon out of the medicine-chest another fell on the roadside dead drunk with camphorated brandy the third, carrier of the travelling album the gilding on the clasps into the persuasion that he was flying with the treasures of Mecca ran off into the secar on his best legs this required consideration the caravan halted and held a council in the broken shadow of an old fig tree it's my advice that we turn up negro porters for this evening forwards at the prince trying without success to melt a cake of compressed meat in an improved pat and triple bottomed saucepan there is, happily, an Arab trader quite near here the best thing to do is to stop there and buy some donkeys no, no, no donkeys quickly interrupted Tartaran becoming quite red at memory of Noirot how can you expect, he added hypocrite that he was, that such little beasts could carry all our apparatus the prince smiled you are making a mistake, my illustrious friend however weakly and meager the Algerian boricot may appear to you he has solid loins he must have had them so to support all that he does just ask the Arabs hark to how they explain the French colonial organization on the top, they say is Mosou, the governor with a heavy club to wrap the staff the staff for revenge canes the soldier the soldier clubs the settler and he hammers the Arab the Arabs mites the negro, the negro beats the Jew and he takes it out of the donkey the poor boricot, having nothing to belabor arches up his back and bears it all you see clearly now that he can bear your boxes all the same, remonstrated Tartara it strikes me that jackasses will not chime in nicely with the effect of our caravan I want something more oriental for instance if we could only get a camel as many as you like, said his highness and off they started for the Arab mart it was held a few miles away on the banks of the shelliff there were five or six thousand Arabs in tatters here, groveling in the sunshine and noisily trafficking amid jars of black olives pots of honey, bags of spices and great heaps of cigars huge fires were roasting whole sheep basted with butter in open air slaughterhouses, stark naked negroes with ruddy arms and their feet in gore were cutting up kids hanging from cross-poles with small knives in one corner under a tent passed with a thousand colors a moorish clerk of the market in spectacles scrawled in a large book here was a cluster of men shouting with rage it was a spinning Jenny game set on a corn measure and cabels were ready to cut one another's throats over it yonder were laughs and contortions of delight it was a Jew trader on a mule drowning in the shelliff then there were dogs, scorpions, ravens and flies rather flies than anything else but a plentiful lack of camels abounded they finally unearthed one though of which the mizabbits were trying to get rid the real ship of the desert the classical standard camel bald wobegon with a long head and its hump become limp in consequence of unduly long fasts hanging melancholically on one side Tartaran considered it so handsome that he wanted the entire party to get upon it still his oriental craze the beast knelt down for them to strap on the boxes the prince enthroned himself on the animal's neck for the sake of the greater majesty Tartaran got them to hoist him on the top of the hump between two boxes where proud and cosily settled down he saluted the whole market for the lofty wave of the hand and gave the signal of departure thunderation if the people of Tartaran could only have seen him the camel rose straightened up its long knotty legs and stepped out oh, stupor! at the end of a few strides Tartaran felt he was losing colour and the heroic chechia assumed one by one its former positions in the days of sailing in the Zouave this devil's own camel pitched and tossed like a frigate Prince, Prince cast Tartaran, pallid as a ghost as he clung to the dry tuft of the hump Prince, let's get down I find, I feel that I must get off or I shall disgrace France a deal of good that talk was the camel was on the go and nothing could stop it behind it raced four thousand barefooted Arabs waving their hands and laughing like mad so that they made six hundred thousand white teeth glitter in the sun the great man of Tarascon had to resign himself to circumstances he sadly collapsed on the hump where the Fez took all the positions advanced and France was disgraced End of Chapter 4 of Episode 3 Chapter 5 Episode 3 of Tartaran of Tarascon This is a LibriVox recording All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain For more information or to volunteer visit LibriVox.org Recording by Dennis Sayers Tartaran of Tarascon by Alphonse Doday Episode 3 Among the Lions Chapter 5 The Night Watch In a Poison Tree Grove Sweetly picturesque as was their new steed our lion hunters had to give it up purely out of consideration for the red cap of course so they continued the journey on foot as before the caravan tranquilly proceeding southwardly by short stages the Tarasconian in the van the Montenegren in the rear and the camel with the weapons in their cases in the ranks the expedition lasted nearly a month during that seeking for lions which he never found until Tartaran roamed from Douar to Douar on the immense plain of the Sheilif through the odd but formidable French Algeria where the old oriental perfumes are complicated by a strong blend of absinthe and the barracks Abraham and the Zuzu mingled something fairy tale like and simply burlesque the age of the Old Testament related by Tommy Atkins a curious sight for those who have eyes that can see a wild and corrupted people whom we are civilizing by teaching them our vices the ferocious and uncontrolled authority of grotesque bushas who gravely used their grand cordons of the Legion of Honor as handkerchiefs a mere yay or nay order a man to be bestenadoed it is the justice of the consciousness bespeckled Qadis under the palm tree maworms of the Quran and law who dream languidly of promotion and sell their decrees as Issa did his birthright for a dish of lentils or sweetened couscous drunken and libertine Qadis are they? formerly servants to some general Yusuf or the like who get intoxicated on champagne along with laundresses from Port Mayan and fatten on roast mutton wouts before their tents the whole tribe waste away with hunger and fight with the Harriers for the bones of the lordly feast all around spread the plains in waste burnt grass leafless shrubs thickets of cactus and mastic the grainery of France a grainery void of grain alas and rich alone in vermin and jackals abandoned camps frightened tribes fleeing from them and famine they know not wither drewing the road with corpses at long intervals French villages with the dwellings in ruins the fields untilled the maddened locusts gnawing even the window blinds and all the settlers in the drinking places absorbing absinthe and discussing projects of reform and the constitution this is what Tartaran might have seen had he given himself the trouble but wrapped up entirely in his leonine hunger the son of Tarascon went straight on looking to neither right nor left his eyes steadfastly fixed on the imaginary monsters which never really appeared as the shelter tent was stubborn and not unfolding and the compressed meat cakes would not dissolve the caravan was obliged to stop, mourn and eave at tribal camps everywhere thanks to the gorgeous cap of Prince Gregory our hunters were welcomed with open arms they lodged in the Aga's odd palaces large white windowless farmhouses where they found palmel, nargiles and mahogany furniture smirna carpets and leather lamps cedar coffers full of Turkish sequins and French statuette decked clocks in the Louis-Philippe style everywhere too Tartaran was given splendorous galas, divas and fantasias which being interpreted mean feasts and circuses in his honor whole gooms blazed away and floated their burnoses in the sun when the powder was burnt the Aga would come and hand in his bill this is what is called Arab hospitality but always no lions no more than on London bridge nevertheless the Tarasconian did not groan disheartened ever bravely diving more deeply into the south beating up the thickets probing the dwarf palms with the muzzle of his rifle and saying to every bush and to every evening before lying down he went into ambush for two or three hours useless trouble however for the lion did not show himself one evening though going on six o'clock as the caravan scrambled a huge mastic grove where fat quails tumbled in the grass drowsy through the heat Tartaran of Tarascon fancied he heard though afar and very big and thinned down by the breeze that wondrous roaring to which he had so often listened by Métain's menagerie at home at first the hero feared he was dreaming in an instant further the roaring recommenced more distinct although yet remote and this time the camels hump shivered in terror and made the ten meats and arms and the cases rattle whilst all the dogs in the camps were heard howling and every corner of the horizon beyond doubt this was the lion quick, quick to the ambush there was not a minute to lose near at hand there happened to be an old marabout or saints tomb with a white cupola and the defuncts large yellow slippers placed in a niche over the door and a mass of odd offerings hymns of blankets gold thread red hair hung on the wall Prince and his camel and went in search of a good spot for lying in wait Prince Gregory wanted to follow him but the Tarasconian refused bent on confronting Leo alone but still he besought his highness not to go too far away and as a measure of foresight he entrusted him with his pocketbook a good sized one full of precious papers and bank notes which he feared would get torn by the lion's claws this done our hero looked up a good place a hundred steps in front of the temple a little clump of rose laurel shook in the twilight haze on the edge of a rivulet all but dried up there it was that Tartaran went and ensconced himself one knee on the ground according to the regular rule his rifle in his hand and his huge hunting knife stuck boldly before him in the sandy bank night fell the rosy tent of nature changed into violet and then into dark blue a pretty pool of clear water gleamed like a hand-glass over the river pebbles this was the watering place of the wild animals on the other slope the whitish trail was dimly to be discerned which their heavy paws had traced in the brush a mysterious path which made one's flesh creep joined to this sensation that from the vague swarming sound in African forests the swishing of branches the velvety pads of roving creatures the jackals shrill yelp and up in the sky two or three hundred feet aloft vast flocks of cranes passing on with screams like poor little children having their weasins slit you will own that there were grounds for a man being moved Tartaran was so and even more than that for the poor fellow's teeth on the crossbar of his hunting knife planted upright in the bank as we repeat his rifle barreled rattled like a pair of castanets do not ask too much of a man there are times when one is not in the mood and moreover where would be the merit if heroes were never afraid well yes Tartaran was afraid and all the time too for the matter of that nevertheless he held out for an hour better for two but heroism has its limits nigh him in the dry part of the rivulet bed the Tarasconian unexpectedly heard the sound of steps and of pebbles rolling this time terror lifted him off the ground he banged away both barrels at haphazard into the night and retreated as fast as his legs would carry him to the Marabout's chapel vault leaving his knife standing up in the sand like a cross commemorative of the grandest panic that ever assailed the soul of a conqueror of hydras help this way Prince the lion is on me there was silence Prince are you there the Prince was not there on the white moonlit wall of the fane the camel alone cast the queer-shaped shadow of his protuberance Prince Gregory had cut and run with the wallet of banknotes his highness had been for the month past awaiting this opportunity end of chapter 5 of episode 3 recording by Dennis Sayers in Modesto, California for LibriVox Chapter 6 Episode 3 of Tartara of Tarascan this is a LibriVox recording all LibriVox recordings are in the public domain for more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org recording by Elizabeth Clatt Tartara of Tarascan by Alphonse Daudet episode III among the lions Chapter 6 bagged him at last it was not until early on the morrow of this adventurous and dramatic eve that our hero awoke and acquired assurance doubly sure that the Prince and the treasure had really gone off without any prospect of return when he saw himself alone in the little white tomb-house betrayed, robbed abandoned in the heart of savage Algeria with a one-humped camel and some pocket money as all his resources then did the representative of Tarascan for the first time doubt he doubted Montenegro friendship, glory and even lions and the great man blubbered bitterly whilst he was pensively seated on the sill of the sanctuary holding his head between his hands and his gun between his legs the mooning at him the thicket over the way was divided and the stupor-stricken tartarain saw a gigantic lion appear not a dozen paces off it thrust out its high head and emitted powerful roars which made the temple walls shake beneath their votive decorations and even the saints slippers dance in their niche the Tarascanian alone did not tremble at last you've come he shouted bringing up and leveling the rifle bang, bang! went a brace of shells into its head it was done for a minute on the fiery background of the afric sky there was a dreadful firework display of scattered brains smoking blood and tawny hair when all fell tartarain perceived two colossal negroes furiously running towards him brandishing cudgels they were his two negro acquaintances of Miliana misery this was the domesticated lion the poor, blind beggar of the Mohammed monastery whom the Tarascanian's bullets had knocked over this time spite of Mahun, tartarain escaped neatly drunk with fanatical fury the two African collectors would surely have beaten him to pulp had not the god of chase and war sent him a delivering angel in the shape of the rural constable by a by-path this god Champetre came up his sword tucked under his arm the sight of the municipal cap suddenly calmed the negro's collar peaceful and majestic the officer with the brass badge drew up a report on the affair ordered the camel to be loaded with what remained of the king of beasts and the plaintiffs as well as the delinquent to follow him proceeding to Orléansville where all was deposited with the law-court's receiver a long and alarming case after the Algeria of the native tribes which he had overrun tartarain of Tarascan became then sequented with another Algeria not less weird and to be dreaded the Algeria in the towns surcharged with lawyers and their papers he got to know the petty fogger who does business at the back of the café the legal bohemian with documents reeking of warmwood bitters and white-neck cloths spotted with Champereau the ushers, the attorneys all the locusts of stamped paper meager and famished who eat up the colonist body and boots eyed the very straps of them and leave him peeled to the core like an Indian corn-stock stripped leaf by leaf before all else it was necessary to ascertain whether the lion had been killed on the civil or the military territory in the former case the matter regarded the tribunal of commerce in the second tartarain would be dealt with by the council of war and at the mere name the impressionable Tarascanian saw himself shot at the foot of the ramparts or huddled up in a casemate silo the puzzle lay in the limitation of the two territories being very hazy in Algeria at length, after a month's running about entanglements and waiting under the sun in the yards of the Arab departmental offices it was established that whereas the lion had been killed on the other hand was in the civil territory when he shot so the case was decided in the civil courts and our hero was let off on paying 2,500 francs damages costs not included how could he pay such a sum the few piastres escaped from the prince's sweep had long since gone in legal documents and judicial libations the unfortunate lion destroyer was therefore reduced to selling the store of guns by retail rifle by rifle so went the daggers, the melee creases and the life-preservers a grocer purchased the preserved elements and apothecary what remained of the medicaments the big boots themselves walked off after the improved tent to a dealer of curiosities who elevated them to the dignity of rarities from Cochin, China when everything was paid up only the lion's skin and the camel remained to Tartaran he had carefully packed to be sent to Terascant to the address of brave commandant bravida and later on we shall see what came of this fabulous trophy as for the camel he reckoned on making use of him to get back to Algiers not by riding on him but by selling him to pay his coach fare the best way to employ a camel in travelling unhappily the beast was difficult to place and no one would offer a copper for him still Tartaran wanted to regain Algiers by hook or crook he was in haste again to behold Baia's blue bodice his little snuggery and his fountains as well as to repose on the white trefoils of his little cloister whilst awaiting money from France so our hero did not hesitate distressed but not downcast he undertook to make the journey of foot and penniless by short stages in this enterprise the camel did not cast him off the strange animal had taken an unaccountable fancy for his master seeing him leave Orléansville he set to striding steadfastly behind him regulating his pace by his and never quitting him by a yard at the first outset Tartaran found this touching such fidelity and devotion above proof went to his heart all the more because the creature was accommodating and fed himself on nothing nevertheless after a few days the Tarasconian was worried by having this glum companion perpetually at his heels to remind him of his misadventures Iyer arising he hated him for his sad aspect hump and gait of a goose in harness to tell the whole truth he held him as his old man of the sea and only pondered on how to shake him off but the follower would not be shaken off Tartaran attempted to lose him but the camel always found him he tried to outrun him but the camel ran faster he made him begone and hurled stones at him the camel stopped with a mournful mean but in a minute resumed the pursuit and always ended by overtaking him Tartaran had to resign himself for all that when after an eight full days of tramping the dusty and harassed Tarasconian aspired to the first white housetops of Algiers glimmer from afar in the verdure and when he got to the city gates on the noisy Mustafa Avenue amid the Zouave, Biscay and Maounet all swarming around him and staring at him trudging by with his camel overtasked patience escaped him no, no he growled it is not likely I cannot enter Algiers with such an animal profiting by a jam of vehicles he turned off into the fields and jumped into a ditch in a minute or so he saw over his head on the highway the camel flying off with long stridex and stretching his neck with a wistful air relieved of a great weight thereby the hero sneaked out of his covert and entered the town anew a circuitous path which skirted the wall of his own little garden End of Chapter 6 of Episode 3 Chapter 7 Episode 3 of Tartarin of Tarascon This is a LibriVox recording All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org Recording by Elizabeth Klett Tartarin of Tarascon by Alphonse Daudet Episode III Among the Lions Chapter 7 Catastrophes upon Catastrophes Entirely astonished was Tartarin before his Moorish dwelling when he stopped Day was dying and the street deserted Through the low pointed arched doorway which the Negris had forgotten to close laughter was heard and the clink of wine-glasses the popping of sham cane-corks and floating all over the jolly uproar a feminine voice singing clearly and joyously Do you like Marco Labella to dance in the hall hung with bloom? Throne of Heaven ejaculated the Tarasconian turning pale as he rushed into the enclosure hapless Tartarin what a sight awaited him Beneath the arches of the little cloister amongst bottles, pastry, scattered cushions, pipes tambourines and guitars Baya was singing Marco Labella with the ship captain's cap over one ear. She had on no blue vest or bodice indeed her only wear was a silvery gauze wrapper and full pink trousers. At her feet, on a rug, surfeited with love and sweet-meats Barbasu, the infamous skipper Barbasu, was bursting with laughter at hearing her. The apparition of Tartarin haggard, thinned, dusty, his flaming eyes and the bristling up Fez tassel sharply interrupted this tender Turkish Marseille orgy. Baya piped the low wine of a frightened leveret and ran for safety into the house. But Barbasu did not wince. He only laughed the louder saying, ha-ha! Monsieur Tartarin, what do you say to that now? You see, she does know French. Tartarin of Tarascon advanced furiously crying, Captain? Digoli, Kevenge, Montbou, tell him what's happened, old deer. Screamed the Moorish woman, leaning over the first floor gallery with a pretty low-bred gesture. The poor man overwhelmed let himself collapse upon a drum. His genuine Moorish beauty not only knew French, but the French of Marseille. I told you not to trust the Algerian girls, observed Captain Barbasu sententiously. There as tricky is your Montenegrin Prince. Tartarin lifted his head. Do you know where the Prince is? No, he's not far off. He has gone to live five years in the handsome prison of Mustafa. The rogue let himself be caught with his hand in the pocket. Anyways, this is not the first time he has been clapped into the calaboos. His highness has already done three years somewhere, and—stop a bit, I believe it was at Tarascon. At Tarascon cried out her worthiest son, abruptly enlightened. That's how he only knew one part of the town. Okay? Of course. Tarascon, a jail bird's eye view from the state prison. I tell you, my poor Monsieur Tartarin, you have to keep your peeper's jolly well skin in this deuce of a country, or be exposed to very disagreeable things. For a sample, there's the Mouazin's game with you. What game? Which Mouazin? Why yawn, of course, the chap across the way who was making up Tobiah. That newspaper, the Akbar, told the yarn to other day, that all Algiers is laughing over it even now. It is so funny for that steeplejack up aloft in his crow's nest to make declarations of love under your very nose to the little beauty whilst singing out his prayers, and making appointments with her between bits of the Quran. Why, then, they're all scamps in this country, howled the unlucky Tarasconian. Barbasu snapped his fingers like a philosopher. My dear lad, you know these new countries are somehow, if you'll believe me, you'd best cut back to Tarascon at full speed. It's easy to say cut back. Where's the money to come from? Don't you know that I was plucked out there in the desert? What does that matter? said the captain merrily. The Zouave sails tomorrow, and if you like I will take you home. Does that suit you, mate? Aye. Then all goes well. You have only one thing to do. There are some bottles of fizz left in half the pie. Sit you down after the minutes wavering which self-respect commanded, the Tarasconian chose his course manfully. Down he sat, and they touched glasses. Bayer, gliding down at that chink, sang the finale of Marco Labella, and the jollification was prolonged deep into the night. About three a.m. with a light head, but heavy foot, our good Tarasconian was returning from seeing his friend the captain off when, in passing the mask, the remembrance of his Mouazin and his practical friends made him laugh, and instantly a capital idea of revenge flitted through his brain. The door was open. He entered, threaded long corridors hung with mats, mounted and kept on mounting till he finally found himself in a little oratory where an open work iron lantern swung from the ceiling and embroidered an odd pattern in shadows upon the blanched walls. There sat the crier on a divan in his large turban and white police with his mostagonum pipe and a absinthe before him, which he whipped up in the orthodox manner whilst awaiting the hour to call true believers to prayer. At view of Tartaran he dropped his pipe in terror. Not a word, naïve said the Tarasconian full of his project, quick off with turban and coat. The Turkish priest crier tremblingly handed over his outer garments as he would have done with anything else. Tartaran donned them and gravely stepped out upon the barrette platform. In the distance the sea shone. The white roofs glittered in the moonbeams. On the sea breeze was heard the strumming of a few belated guitars. The Tarasconian Rooazan gathered himself up for the effort during a space and then raising his arms he set to chanting in a very shrill voice. La ala ilala Muhammad is an old humbug. The Orient, the Quran, Beishaw's, Lyons, Moorish beauties they are all not worth a fly's skip there is nothing left but gammoners long live Tarascon. Whilst the illustrious Tartaran in his queer jumbling of Arabic and Provençal flung his mirthful maledictions to the four quarters sea, town, plain and mountain the clear solemn voices of the other Moorishans answered him taking up the strain from Minaret to Minaret and the believers of the upper town devoutly beat their bosoms. End of Chapter 7 of Episode 3 Chapter 8 Episode 3 of Tartaran of Tarascon This is a LibriVox recording all LibriVox recordings are in the public domain for more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org Recording by Elizabeth Klett Tartaran of Tarascon by Alphonse Daudet Episode III Among the Lions Chapter 8 Tarascon again Midday has come the Zouave had her steam up ready to go upon the balcony of the Valentin café high above the officers were levelling telescopes and with the Colonel at their head looking at the lucky little craft that was going back to France this is the main distraction of the staff on the lower level the roads glittered the old Turkish pan and breeches stuck up along the water side blazed in the sun the passengers hurried Biskri and Mahone piled their luggage up in the wearies Tartaran of Tarascon had no luggage here he comes down the Rue de la Marine through the little market full of bananas and melons accompanied by his friend Barbasu the hapless Tarasconian left on the moor strand his gun cases and his illusions and now for Tarascon with his hands in his otherwise empty pockets he had barely leaped into the captain's cutter before a breathless beast slid down from the heights of the square and galloped towards him it was the faithful camel who had been hunting after his master and Algiers during the last four and twenty hours on seeing him Tartaran changed countenance and feigned not to know him but the camel was not going to be put off he scampered along the key for his friend and regarded him with affection take me away his sad eye seemed to say take me away in your ship far far from this sham Arabia this ridiculous land of the East full of locomotives and stagecoaches where a camel is so sorely out of keeping that I do not know what will become of me you are the last real Turk and I am the last camel do not let us part oh my Tartaran is that camel yours? the captain inquired not a bit of it replied Tartaran who shuddered at the idea of entering Tarascon with that ridiculous escort and impudently denying the companion of his misfortunes he spurned the Algerian soil with his foot and gave the cutter the shoving-off start the camel's sniffed of the water extended its neck cracked its joints and jumping in behind the robo-dead haphazard he swam towards the zoo of with his humpback floating like a bladder and his long neck projecting over the wave like the beak of a galley cutter and camel came alongside the male steamer together this dromedary regularly cuts me up observed Captain Barbasu quite affected I have a good mind to take him aboard and make a present of him to the zoological gardens at Marseille and so they hauled up the camel with many blocks and tackles upon the deck being increased in weight by the brine and the zoo of started Tartaran spent the two days of the crossing by himself in his stateroom not because the sea was rough or that the Red Fez had too much to suffer but because the deuced camel as soon as his master appeared above decks showed him the most preposterous attentions you never did see a camel make such an exhibition of a man as this from hour to hour through the cabin portals when he stuck out his nose now and then Tartaran saw the Algerian blue sky pale away until one morning in a silvery fog he heard with delight Marseille bells ringing out the zoo of had arrived and cast anchor our man having no luggage got off without saying anything hastily slipped through Marseille for fear he was still pursued by the camel and never breathed till he was in a third class carriage making for Tartarscombe deceptive security hardly were they two leagues from the city before every head was stuck out of window there were outcries and astonishment Tartaran looked in his turn and what did he describe? the camel reader the inevitable camel racing along the line behind the train and keeping up with it the dismayed Tartaran drew back and shut his eyes after this disastrous expedition of his he had reckoned on slipping into his house incognito but the presence of this burdensome quadruped rendered the thing impossible what kind of a triumphal entry would he make good heavens, not a zoo not a lion, nothing to show for it save a camel Tartarscombe he was obliged to get down oh amazement scarcely had the hero's red fez popped out of the doorway before a loud shout of Tartaran forever made the glazed roof of the railway station tremble long life to Tartaran the lion slayer and outburst the windings of horns of the local musical societies Tartaran felt death had come he believed in a hoax but no all Tartarscombe was there waving their hats all the same way of thinking behold the brave commandant Bravita Castacaldé the armorer the chief judge, the chemist and the whole noble corps of cap-poppers who pressed around their leader and carried him in triumph out through the passages of the mirage the hide of the blind lion sent to Bravita was the cause of all this riot with that humble fur exhibited in the club-room the Tarasconians and at the back of them the whole south of France had grown exalted the semaphore newspaper had spoken of it a drama had been invented it was not merely a solitary lion which Tartaran had slain but ten, nay twenty poo a herd of lions had been made marmalade of hence on disembarking at Marseille Tartaran was already celebrated without being aware of it and an enthusiastic telegram had gone on before him by two hours to his native place but what kept the climax of the popular gladness was to see a fancifully shaped animal covered with foam and dust appear behind the hero and stumble down the station stairs Tarascon for an instant believed that its dragon was come again Tartaran set his fellow citizens at ease this is my camel he said already feeling the influence of the splendid son of Tarascon which makes people tell bouncers unwittingly he added as he fondled the camel's hump it is a noble beast it saw me kill all my lions whereupon he familiarly took to the arm of the commandant who was red with pleasure and followed by his camel surrounded by the cap hunters acclaimed by all the population gradually proceeded towards the Baobab villa and on the march thus commenced the account of his mighty hunting once upon an evening you are to imagine that out in the depths of the Sahara End of Chapter 8 of Episode 3 End of Episode 3 End of Tartaran de Tarascon by Alphonse Daudet