 Chapter 1, Episode 1 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 Nathini Kertboulez, Tartarin of Tarascon by Alphonse Daudet. Episode 1, In Tarascon Chapter 1, The garden round the giant trees. My first visit to Tartarin of Tarascon has remained a never-to-be-forgotten date in my life. Although quite ten or a dozen years ago, I remember it better than yesterday. At that time the intrepid Tartarin lived in the third house on the left as the town begins on the Avignon Road. A pretty little villa in the local style, with a front garden and a balcony behind, the walls glaringly white and the Venetians very green, and always about the doorsteps a brood of little Savoyar shoe-black waltz playing hopscotch or dosing in the brood sunshine with their heads pillowed on their boxes. Outwardly the dwelling had no remarkable features, and none would ever believe it the abode of a hero. But when you stepped inside, ye gods and little fishes, what a change! From turret to foundation stone, I mean from cellar to garret, the whole building wore a heroic front, even so the garden. Oh, that garden of Tartarans, there's not its match in Europe. Not a native tree was there, not one flower of friends, nothing but exotic plants, gum trees, gourds, cottonwoods, cuckoo and cacao, mangoes, bananas, palms, a baobab, nobles, cacti, bumpery figs. Well, you would believe yourself in the very midst of Central Africa, ten thousand leagues away. It is but fair to say that these were none of for-growth. Indeed, the cocoa palms were no bigger than beetroot and the baobab, arbous-gagantere, giant tree, you know, was easily enough circumscribed by a window-pot. But notwithstanding this, it was rather a sensation for Tarascon, and the townsfolk who were admitted on Sundays to the honor of contemplating Tartarans baobab, went home chock-full of admiration. Try to conceive my own emotion, which I was bound to feel on that day of days when I crossed through this marvelous garden, and that was capped when I was ushered into the hero's sanctum. His study, one of the lions, I should say, lion's dance, of the town, was at the end of the garden, its glass door opening right unto the baobab. You ought to picture a capacious apartment adorned with firearms and steel-blades from top to bottom, all the weapons of all the countries in the wide world. Carbines, rifles, blunderbusses, corsican, catalan, and dagger-knives, male creases, revolvers with pring bayonets, carib and flint arrows, knuck-hold oysters, dive preservers, hot-and-tot clubs, Mexican vassals. Now, can you expect me to name the rest? Upon the whole fell a fierce sunlight, which made the blades and the brass-pot-plate of the muskets gleam as if all the more to set your flesh creeping. Still, the beholder was soothed a little by the tame air of order, and tidiness raining over the arsenal. Everything was in place, brushed, dusted, labeled, as in a museum. From point to point the eye described some obliging little card reading, Poisoned arrows, do not touch. Or, loaded, take care, please. If it had not been for these cushions, I never should have dared venturing. In the middle of the room was an occasional table, on which stood a decanter of rum, a siphon of soda water, a Turkish tobacco pouch, Captain Cook's voyages, the Indian tales of Fenimo Cooper and Gustave Mar, stories of hunting the bear, eagle, elephant, and so on. Lastly, beside the table sat a man of between 40 and 45, short, stout, thick-set, ruddy, with flaming eyes and a strong stubbly beard. He wore flannel tights and was in his shirt sleeves. One hand held a book, and the other brandished a very large pipe with an iron ball cap. Whilst reading Heaven only knows what startling adventure of scalp hunters, he pouted out his lower lip in a terrifying way, which gave the honest face of the man living placidly on his means the same impression of kindly ferocity which abounded throughout the house. This man was Tartarin himself, the Tartarin of Tarascon, the great dreadnought incomparable Tartarin of Tarascon. End of Chapter 1 of Episode 1. Chapter 2, Episode 1 of Tartarin of Tarascon. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information, auto-volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Tartarin of Tarascon by Alphonse Daudet. Episode 1 in Tarascon. Chapter 2, a general glance bestowed upon the good town of Tarascon and a particular one on the cap poppers. At the time I am telling of, Tartarin of Tarascon had not become the present day Tartarin, the great one so popular in the whole south of France. But yet he was even then the cock of the walk at Tarascon. Let us show whence arose this sovereignty. In the first place you must know that everybody is shooting mad in these parts, from the greatest to the least. The chase is the local craze and so it has ever been since the mythological times when the Tarasc, as the county dragon was called, flourished himself and his tail in the town marshes and entertained shooting parties got up against him. So you see, the passion has lasted a goodish bit. It follows that every Sunday morning Tarascon flies to arms, lets loose the dogs of the hunt and rushes out of its walls with game bags slung and fouled in peace on the shoulder, together with a hurly-burly of hounds cracking of whips and blowing of whistles and hunting horns. It's splendid to see. Unfortunately there's a lack of game, an absolute death. Stupid as the brute creation is, you can readily understand that in time it learnt some distrust. For five leagues around about Tarascon, forms, lairs and burrows are empty and nesting places abandoned. You'll not find a single quail or blackbird, one little leveret or the tiniest tit. And yet the pretty hillocks are mightily tempting, sweet-smelling as they are of myrtle, lavender and rosemary. And the fine muscatels plumped out with sweetness even unto bursting as they spread along the banks of the Rhone, auducidly tempting too. True, true, but Tarascon lies behind all this and Tarascon is down in the black books of the world of fur and feather. The very birds of passage have ticked it off on their guidebooks and when the wild ducks, coming down towards the Camarque in long triangles, spy the town's steeples from afar, the outmost flyers quark out loudly, Look out! There's Tarascon! Give Tarascon the go-by, duckies! and the flocks take a swerve. In short, as far as game goes, there's not a specimen left in the land, save one old rogue of a hare, escaped by a miracle from the massacres, who is stubbornly determined to stick to it all his life. He is very well known at Tarascon and the name has been given him. Rapid is what they call him. It is known that he has his form on Mr. Bombard's grounds, which, by the way, has doubled a crippled the value of the property. But nobody has yet managed to lay him low. At present only two or three inveterate fellows worry themselves about him. The rest have given him up as a bad job and old rapid has long ago passed into the legendary world, although your Tarasconer is very slightly superstitious naturally and would eat cock robins on toast or the swallow, which is our lady's own bird, for that matter, if he could find any. But that won't do, you will say. Inasmuch as game is so scarce, what can the sportsmen do every Sunday? What can they do? Why, goodness gracious, they go out into the real country two or three leagues from town. They gather in knots of five or six, recline tranquilly in the shade of some well, old wall or olive tree, extract from their game-bags a good-sized piece of boiled beef, raw onions, a sausage and anchovies, and commands a next-to-endless snack washed down with one of those nice ron wines which sets a topper laughing and singing. After that, when thoroughly braced up, they rise, whistle the dogs to heal, set the guns on half-cock, and go on the shoot. Another way of saying that every man plucks off his cap, shies it up with all his might, and pops it on the fly with number five, six or two shot, according to what he is loaded for. The man who lodges most shot in his cap is hailed as king of the hunt and stalks back triumphantly at dusk into Tarascon with his riddled cap on the end of his gun barrel amid any quantity of dog barks and horn blasts. It is needless to say that cap-selling is a fine business in the town. There are even some hatters who sell hunting caps ready shot, torn and perforated for the bad shots. But the only buyer known is the chemist Bézuquet. This is dishonorable. As a marksman at caps, Tartaran of Tarascon never had his match. Every Sunday morning out he would march in a new cap and back he would strut every Sunday evening with a mere thing of shreds. The loft of Barba Villa was full of these glorious trophies. Hence all Tarascon acknowledged him as master and as Tartaran thoroughly understood hunting and had read all the handbooks of all possible kinds of vendry from cap-popping to Burmese tiger shooting. The sportsmen constituted him their great signage ethical judge and took him for referee and arbitrator in all their differences. Between three and four daily at Costa Cal de Gansmiths a stout stern pipe smoker might be seen in a green leather-covered armchair in the center of the shop crammed with cap-poppers. They all on foot and wrangling. This was Tartaran of Tarascon delivering judgment. Nimrod plus Solomon. End of chapter 2 of episode 1, recording by Eswa in Belgium in August 2010. Chapter 3. Episode 1 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 I in Tarascon. Chapter 3. Na, na, na. The general glance protracted upon the good town. After the craze for sporting the lusty Tarascon race cherishes one love, ballad singing. There's no believing what a quantity of ballads is used up in that little region. All the sentimental stuff turning into seer and yellow leaves in the oldest portfolios are to be found in full pristine luster in Tarascon, i. the entire collection. Every family has its own pet, as is known to the town. For instance, it is an established fact that this is the chemist Bouzouquet's families. Thou art the fair star that I adore. The gunmaker Kostakaldi's families. Wouldest thou come to the land where the log cabins rise? The official registrar's families. If I wore a coat of invisible green, do you think for a moment I could be seen? And so on for the whole of Tarascon. Two or three times a week there were parties where they were sung. The singularity was their being always the same and that the honest Tarasconers had never had an inclination to change them during the long, long time they had been harping on them. They were handed down from father to son in the families, without anybody improving on them or boldly rising them. They were sacred. Never did it occur to Kostakaldi's mind to sing the Bezoukes, or the Bezoukes to try Kostakaldi's. And yet you may believe that they ought to know by heart what they had been singing for two score years. But nay, everybody stuck to his own and they were all contented. In ballad singing, as in cat-popping, Tartarin was still the foremost. His superiority over his fellow townsmen consisted in his not having any one song of his own but to knowing the lot, the whole, mind you, but, there's a but, it was the devil's own work to get him to sing them. Surfeited early in life of his drawing-room successes, our hero preferred by far burying himself in his hunting-story books or spending the evening at the club to making a personal exhibition before a neem, piano, beet-tree, and a pair of homemade candles. These musical parades seemed to beneath him. Nevertheless, at Wiles, there was a harmonic party at Bezuque's. He would drop into the chemist's shop as if by chance, and after a deal of pressure, could set to do the grand deal in Robert Led Diabla with old Madame Bezuque. Whoso never heard that, never heard anything. For my part, even if I lived a hundred years, I should always see the mighty Tartarin solemnly stepping up to the piano, setting his arm with a gimbal, working up his tragic mean, and beneath the green reflection from the show bottles in the window, to give his pleasant visage the fierce and satanic expression of Robert the Devil. Hardly would he fall into positioning before the whole audience would be shuddering with the foreboding that something uncommon was at hand. After a hush, old Madame Bezuque would commence to her own accompaniment. Robert, my love is thine, to thee I my faith did plight, though seeest my affright, mercy for thine own sake, and mercy for mine. In an undertone, she would add, now then, Tartarin, whereupon Crocodom's clenched fists and quivering nostrils would roar three times in a formidable voice, rolling like a thunderclap in the boughs of the instrument, no, no, no, which, like the thorough subvenor he was, he pronounced naisily as na, na, na. Then would old Madame Bezuque again sing, mercy for thine own sake, and mercy for mine. Na, na, na, bellow Tartarin at his loudest, and there the gem ended. Not long, you see, but it was so handsomely voiced forth, so clearly gesticulated, and so diabolical, that a tremor of terror overran the chemo-shop, and the na, na, na would be encored several times running. Upon this, Tartarin would sponge his brow, smile on the ladies, wink to the sterner sex, and withdraw upon his triumph to go remark at the club of a trifling offhand air, I have just come from the Bezuques, where I was forced to sing them the duel from Robert Le Diabla. The cream of the joke was that he really believed it. End of Chapter 3 of Episode 1, recorded by Ricky St. Clair, being sanctified daily.blogspot.com Chiefly to the account of these diverse talents, did Tartarin owe his lofty position in the town of Tarrescon. Talking of captivating, though, this use of a fellow knew how to ensnare everybody. Why, the army at Tarrescon was for Tartarin. The brave commandant, Bravida, honorary captain, retired in the military clothing factory department, called him a game fellow. And you may well admit that the warrior knew all about game fellows. He played such a capital knife and fork on game of all kinds. So was the legislature on Tartarin's side. Two or three times in open court, the old chief judge, La Devez, had said in alluding to him, he is a character. Lastly, the masses were for Tartarin. He had become the swell bruiser, the aristocratic pugilist, the crack bully of the local Corinthians for the Tarresconers. From his build, bearing, style, that aspect of a god, trumpetous charger which fears no noise. His reputation as a hero coming from nobody knew whence or for what, and some scramblings for couples and a few kicks to the little asking at his doorway. Along the water side, when Tartarin came home from hunting on Sunday evenings with his cap on the muzzle of his gun and his first gen shooting jacket belted in tightly, the sturdy river-lighter man would respectfully bob and blinking towards the huge biceps swelling out of his arms would mutter among one another in admiration. Now there's a powerful trap, if you like. He has double muscles. Double muscles? Why, you never heard of such a thing outside of Tarrescon. For all this, with all his numberless parts, double muscles, the popular favor and the so precious esteem of brave commandant Bravida, ex-captain in the army clothing factory, Tartarin was not happy. This life in a petty town weighed upon him and suffocated him. The great man of Tarrescon was bored in Tarrescon. The fact is for a heroic temperament like his, a wild adventurous spirit which dreamt of nothing but battles, races across the pompous, mighty batches, desert sands, blizzards and typhoons, it was not enough to go out every Sunday to pop at a cap and the rest of the time to ladle out casting votes at the gun makers. Poor dear great man, if this existence were only prolonged, there would be sufficient tedium in it to kill him with consumption. In vain did he surround himself with baobabs and other African trees horizon, and some little to forget his club and the marketplace. In vain did he pile weapon upon weapon and melee crease upon melee crease. In vain did he cram with romances, endeavouring like the immortal Don Quixote to wrench himself by the vigor of his fancy out of the talents of pitiless reality. Alas! All that he did to appease thirst for deeds of daring only helped to augment it. The sight of all the murderous implements kept him in a perpetual stew of wrath and exaltation. His revolvers, repeating rifles and ducking guns, shouted battle, battle out of their mouths. Through the twigs of his baobab, the tempest of great voyages and journeys, sword and blue-bed advice to finish him, came Gustave Marre, main reed and Felimo Cooper. Oh! how many times did Tartarin with a howl spring up on the sultry summer afternoons when he was reading alone amidst his blades, points and edges? How many times did he dash down his book and rush to the world to unhook a deadly arm? The poor man forgot he was at home in Tarascon in his underclothes and with a handkerchief round his head. He would translate his readings into action and goading himself with his own voice shout out while swinging a battleaxe or tomahawk, now only let them come. Them? Who were they? Tartarin did not himself any too clearly understand. They was all that should be attacked and fought with, all that bites, claws, scarps, whoops and yells, the sous-indians dancing round the war-stake to which the unfortunate pale-faced prisoner is lashed. The grisly of the rocky mountains who wobbles on his hind legs and leaks himself with a tongue full of blood. The Twarag, too, in the desert, the Malay pirate, the brigand of the Abruzi, in short, they was warfare, travel, adventure and glory. But, alas, it was to no avail that the fearless Tarasconer called for and defied them. Never did they come. Odds-bondikins, what would they have come to do in Tarascon? Nevertheless, Tartarin always expected to run up against them, particularly some evening in going to the club. End of Chapter 4 of Episode 1 Recording by Ezoa in Belgium in April 2010. Chapter 5, Episode 1 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. Tartarin of Tarascon by Alphonse Daudet. Episode 1 in Tarascon, Chapter 5 how Tartarin went round to his club. Little, indeed, beside Tartarin of Tarascon, arming himself Capapai to go to his club at nine an hour after the retreat had sounded on the bugle, was the Templar knight preparing for a sortie upon the infidel, the Chinese tiger equipping himself for combat or the Comanche warrior painting up for going on the war path. All hands make ready for action, as the men of war's men say. In his left hand, Tartarin took a steel-pointed knuckle duster. In the right, he carried a sword cane. In his left pocket, a life preserver. In the right, a revolver. On his chest, betwixt outer and undergarment, lay a Malay crease. But never any poisoned arrows. They are weapons altogether too unfair. Before starting, in the silence and obscurity of his study, he exercised himself for a while, warding off imaginary cuts and thrusts, lunging at the wall and giving his muscles play. Then he took his master key and went through the garden leisurely. Without hurrying, mark you. Cool and calm, British courage, that is the true sort, gentlemen. At the garden end, he opened the heavy iron door violently and abruptly, so that it should slam against the outer wall. If they had been skulking behind it, you may wager they would have been jammed. Unhappily, they were not there. The way being open, out Tartarin would sally quickly glancing to the right and left, air-banging the door too and fastening it smartly with double locking. Then, on the way, not so much as a cat upon the avenue road, all the doors closed and no lights in the casements. All was black, except for the parish lamps well spaced apart, blinking in the river mist. Calm and proud, Tartarin of Tarascon marched on in the night, ringing his heels with regularity and sending sparks out of the paving stones with the feral of his stick. Whether in avenues, streets, or lanes, he took care to keep in the middle of the road. An excellent method of precaution, allowing one to see danger coming and, above all, to avoid any droppings from windows as happens after dark in Tarascon and the old town of Edinburgh. On seeing so much prudence in Tartarin, pray, do not conclude that Tartarin had any fear. Dear no, he only was on his guard. The best proof that Tartarin was not scared is that instead of going to the club by the shortest cut, he went over the town by the longest and darkest way round through a mass of vile paltry alleys at the mouth of which the road could be seen ominously gleaming. The poor night constantly hoped that beyond the turn of one of these cutthroats' hands they would leap from the shadow and fall on his back. I warrant you, they would have been warmly received, though. But, Alak, by reason of some nasty meanness of destiny, never indeed did Tartarin of Tarascon enjoy the luck to meet any ugly customers, not so much as a dog or a drunken man, nothing at all. Still, there were false alarms some-wise. He would catch a sound of steps and muffled voices. Where hoax! Tartarin would matter and stop short as if taking root in the spot, scrutinizing the gloom, sniffing the wind, even gluing his air to the ground in the Orthodox Red Indian mode. The steps would draw nearer, and the voices grow more distinct till no more doubt was possible. They were coming. In fact, here they were, steady, with higher fire and heaving breast. Tartarin would gather himself like a jaguar in readiness to spring forward, whilst uttering his war cry when, all of a sudden, out of the thick of the murkiness, he would hear honest Tarasconian voices quite tranquilly hailing him with, Hello, you by Jove! It's Tartarin. Good night, old fellow. Maledictions upon it! It was the chemist Bezuquet with his family coming from singing their family ballad at Costa Calz. Oh, good even, good even! Tartarin would growl furious at his blunder and plunging fiercely into the gloom with his cane waved on high. On arriving in the street where stood his clubhouse, the dauntless one would linger yet a moment, walking up and down before the portals here entering. But finally, weary of awaiting them and certain they would not show themselves, he would fling a last glare of defiance into the shades and snarl wrathfully. Nothing, nothing at all! There are never is nothing! Upon which double negation, which he meant as a stronger affirmative, the worthy champion would walk in to play his game of basic with the commandant. End of Chapter 5 of Episode 1, Recording by Ezoa in Belgium in August 2010. Chapter 6, Episode 1 of Tartaran of Tarascon. 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 1 in Tarascon. Chapter 6, The Two Tartarans. Answer me, you will say. How the mischief is it that Tartaran of Tarascon never left Tarascon with all this mania for adventure, need of powerful sensations and folly about travel, rides and journeys from the pole to the equator? For that is a fact. Up to the age of five and forty, the dreadless Tarasconian had never once slept outside his own room. He had not even taken that obligatory trip to Marseille which every sound-provincial makes upon coming of age. The most of his knowledge included bokeh, and yet that's not far from Tarascon, there being merely the bridge to go over. Unfortunately, this rascally bridge has so often been blown away by the gales, it is so long and frail, and the road has such a width at this spot that, well faith you understand, Tartaran of Tarascon preferred terra firma. We are afraid, we must make a clean breast of it. In our hero there were two very distinct characters. Some father of the church has said, I feel there are two men in me. He would have spoken truly in saying this about Tartaran who carried in his frame the soul of Don Quixote the same chivalric impulses, heroic ideal and crankiness for grandiose and romantic. But worse is the luck he had not the body of the celebrated Hidalgo, that thin and meager apology for a body on which material life failed to take a hold, one that could get through twenty nights without its breastplate being unbuckled off and forty-eight hours on a handful of rice. On the contrary, Tartaran's body was a stout, honest bully of a body, very fat, very weighty, most sensual and fond of coddling, highly touchy, full of low class appetite and homely requirements. The short, pounchy body on stumps of the immortal Sanchopanza. Don Quixote and Sanchopanza in the one same man, you will readily comprehend what a cat and dog they made, what strife, what clapper-clawing, oh, the fine dialogue for Lucian or Saint Ehrman to write between the two Tartarans, Quixote and Sancho Tartaran. Quixote and Tartaran firing up on the stories of Gustave Marr and shouting, up and at them, and Sancho Tartaran thinking only of the rheumatics ahead and murmuring, I mean stay at home. The duet. Quixote and Tartaran, highly excited. Cover yourself with glory, Tartaran. Sancho Tartaran, quite calmly. Tartaran, cover yourself with flannel. Quixote and Tartaran, still more excitedly, oh, for the terrible double-barreled rifle, oh, for bowy knives, lassos and moccasins. Sancho Tartaran, still more calmly, oh, for the thick knitted waist coast and warm kneecaps, oh, for the welcome padded caps with earflaps. Quixote and Tartaran above old self-control, a battle axe, fetch me a battle axe. Sancho Tartaran ringing up the maid. Now then, Jeanette, do bring up that chocolate. Whereupon Jeanette would appear with an unusually good cup of chocolate, just right in warmth, sweetly smelling, and with the play of light on watered silk upon its unctuous surface, and with succulent grilled steak flavored with anise seed, which would set Sancho Tartaran off on the broad green and into a love that drowned the shouts of Quixote and Tartaran. Thus it came about that Sancho Tartaran off Tarascon never had left Tarascon. End of Chapter 6 of Episode 1, Recording by Ezoa in Belgium in April 2010. Chapter 7, Episode 1 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 Phones Daudet. Episode 1 in Tarascon. Chapter 7, Tartaran, the Europeans at Shanghai. Commerce, the Tartars. Can Tartaran of Tarascon be an imposter? The Mirage. Under one conjunction of circumstances, Tartaran did, however, once almost start out upon a great voyage. The three brothers, Garcio Camus, relatives of Tarascon, established in business at Shanghai, offered him the mangership of one of their branches there. This undoubtedly presented the kind of life he hankered after. Plenty of active business, a whole army of understrapers to order about, and connections with Russia, Persia, Turkey and Asia, in short, to be a merchant prince. In Tartaran's mouth, the title of merchant prince thundered out as something stunning. The house of Garcio Camus had the further advantage of sometimes being favored with a call from the government. Then the doors would be slammed shut, all the clerks flew to arms, up rend the consular flag, and zizz fit bang out of the windows upon the Tartars. I need not tell you if what enthusiasm Coyote Tartaran clutched his proposition. Sad to say, Sancho Tartaran did not see it in the same light, and as he was the stronger party, it never came to anything. But in the town there was much talk about it. Would he go or would he not? I'll lay he will, and I'll wager out. It was the event of the week. In the upshot, Tartaran did not depart, but the matter redounded to his credit nonetheless. Going or not going to Shanghai was all one to Tarascon. Tartaran's journey was so much talked about that people got to believe he had done it and returned. And at the club in the evening members would actually ask for information on life at Shanghai, the manners, and customs, and climate, about opium and commerce. Deeply read up, Tartaran would graciously furnish the particular as desired, and in the end the good fellow was not quite sure himself about not having gone to Shanghai, so that after relating for the hundredth time how the Tartars came down on the trading post it would most naturally happen to him to add, then I made my men take up arms and hoist the consular flag, and zits, fit, bang out of the windows upon the Tartars. On hearing this, the whole club would quiver. But according to that, this Tartaran of yours is an awful liar. No, no, a thousand times over, no. Tartaran was no liar. But the man ought to know he has never been to Shanghai. Why, of course, he knows that. But still, but still, you see, mark that, it is high time for the law to be laid down once for all on the reputation as drawers of the longbow which northerners fleeing get souvenirs. There are no barren moon-cowsons in the south of France, neither at Nîme, nor Marseilles, Toulouse, nor Teruscone. The souvenir does not deceive, but it is self-deceived. He does not always tell the cold-drawn truth, but he believes he does. His falsehood is not any such thing, but a kind of mental mirage. Yes, purely mirage. The better the follow me, you should actually follow me into the south, and you will see I am right. You have only to look at that Lucifer's own country, where the sun transmogrifies everything and magnifies it beyond life-size. The little hills of Provence are no bigger than the beaut Montmartre. But they will loom up like the Rocky Mountains, the square house at Nîme, a mere model to pull on your sideboard, who seem grander than St. Peter's. You will see, in brief, the only exaggerator in the south is old Saul, for he does enlarge everything he touches. What was Sparta in its days of splendor, Epitaph of Hamlet? What was Athens? At the most, a second-class town, and yet in history both appear to us as enormous cities. This is a sample of what the sun can do. Are you going to be astonished after this, that the same sun falling upon Tarascon should have made an ex-captain in the army clothing factory, like Bravada, the brave common-daunt of a Sprout and Indian fig tree, and of a man who had missed going to Shanghai, one who had been there? End of Chapter 7 of Episode 1, Recording by Ricky St. Clair, being certified daily.blogspot.com Chapter 8, Episode I Of Tadrin 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. Tadrin of Tarascon By Alfons Dodette Episode I in Tarascon Chapter 8, The Tain's Menagerie A Lion from the Atlas of Tarascon A Solemn and Fierce Confrontation Exhibiting Tadrin of Tarascon, as we are, in his private life, before fame kissed his brow in garlanden with well-worn laurel wreath, and having narrated his heroic existence in a modest state, his delights and sorrows, his dreams and his hopes, are just hardly skipped to the grandest pages of his story and to the singular event which was to give the first flight to his incomparable career. It happened one evening at Costa called the Gunmakers, where Tadrin was engaged in showing several sportsmen the working of the needle-gun, then in its first novelty. The door suddenly flew open and in rushed a bewildered cat-popper howling, a lion, a lion! General was the alarm, stupor, uproar, and tumult. Tadrin prepared to resist cavalry with the bayonet, whilst costlcade ran to shut the door. The sportsman was surrounded and pressed and questioned, and he have followed what he told them. The Tain's Menagerie, returning from Bocair Fair, had consented to stay over a few days at Tarascon and was just unpacking to set up a castle-green with a lot of boas, seals, crocodiles, and a magnificent lion from the Atlas Mountains. An African lion in Tarascon? Never in the memory of living man had the lake been seen. Hence, our Dauntless Cat-Poppers looked at one another how proudly, what a beaming on their sun-burned visages, and in every nook of Castle Cod's shop, that howdy, congratulatory grips of the hand were silently engaged. The sensation was so great and that nobody could find a word to say, not even tottering. Blanched and agitated, the needle-gun still in his fist he brooded, erect before the counter. A lion from the Atlas Range at Pistol Range from him, a couple of strides off. A lion, mind you, the beast heroic and ferocious above all others, the king of the brute creation, the crowning game of his fancies, something like the leading actor in the ideal company which played such splendid plays in his mind's eye. A lion heaven be thanked and from the Atlas to boot it was more than the great Tatarin could bear. Suddenly a flush of blood flew into his face, his eyes flashed. With one convulsive movement he shouldered the needle-gun and turning towards the brave Commandant Bravita, formerly captain in the army clothing department, pleased to remember, he thundered to him, let's go have a look at him Commandant. Here, here I say, that's my gun, I immediately ventured where he cast a God. But Tatarin had already got round the corner with all the cat-poppers proudly lock-stepping behind him. When they arrived at the Menagerie, they found a goodly number of people there. Tarascon, heroic, but too long deprived of sensational shows, had rushed upon Mattain's portable theater and had taken it by storm. Hence the voluminous matter Mattain was highly contented. In an Arab costume, her arms bare to the elbow, iron-anklets on, a hand, and a plucked-the-live pull-it-in-the-other, the noted lady was doing the honors of the booth to the Tarasconians. And as she had also had double muscles, her success was almost as great as her animals. The entrance of Tatarin with the gun on his shoulder was a damper. All our good Tarasconians who had been quite tranquilly strolling before the cages, unarmed and with no distrust, without even any idea of danger, felt momentary apprehension. Naturally enough, on beholding Tatarin rushed into the enclosure with his formidable engine of war. There must be something to fear when a hero like he was came weaponed. So in a twinkling all the space along the cage-fronts was cleared. The youngsters first out squalling for fear, and the woman looked round for the nearest way out. The chemist Bezeket made off altogether alleging that he was going home for his gun. Gradually, however, Tatarin's bearing restored courage. With head erected the Tarasconian slowly and calmly made the circuit of the booth, passing the seals tank without stopping, glancing disdainfully on the long box filled with sawdust in which the boa would digest its raw fowl, and going to take a stand before the lion's cage. A terrible and solemn confrontation this. The lion of Tarascon and the lion of Africa face to face. On the one part, Tatarin erected with his hamstrings in tension, and his arms folded parallel. On the other, the lion, a gigantic specimen, humped up in the straw, with blinking orbs and brutish mien, resting his huge muscle and tawny full-bottomed wig on his forepaws, both calm in their gaze. Singular thing, whether the needle-gun had given him the needle, if the popular idiom is admissible, or that he sent in an enemy of his race, the lion, who had hitherto regarded the Tarasconians with sovereign scorn and yawned in his all-at-once affected by ire. At first he sniffed, then he growled hollowly, stretching out his claws, rising he tossed his head, shook his mane, open to capacious maw, embelled to deafening roar at Tatarin. A yellow fight responded as Tarascon precipitated itself madly towards the exit, women and children, lighter men, cat poppers, even the brave commandant Bravita himself. But alone Tatarin of Tarascon had not budged. There he stood, firm and resolute before the cage, lightnings in his eyes, and on his lip that gruesome grin with which all the town was familiar. In a moment's time, when all the cat poppers, some little fortified by his bearing and strength of the bars, re-approached their leader they heard him mutter as he stared Leo out of countenance. Now this is something like a hunt. All the rest of that day, never a word farther could they draw from Tatarin of Tarascon. End of Chapter 8 and End of Episode 1 Chapter 9 Episode 1 of Tatarin of Tarascon This is a Libavox recording. All Libavox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to vow and tear, please visit Libavox.org. Tatarin of Tarascon by Alphonse Daudet Episode 1 in Tarascon Chapter 9. Singular Effects of Mental Mirage Confining his remarks to the sentence last recorded, Tatarin had unfortunately still said over much. On the morrow, there was nothing talked about through town but the near at hand departure of Tatarin for Algeria and lion hunting. You are all witness, dear readers, that the honest fellow had not breathed a word on that head, but, you know, the mirage had its usual effect. In brief, all Tarascon spoke of nothing but the departure. On the old walk, at the club, in Castacaldes, friends accosted one another with a startled aspect. And furthermore, you know the news, at least. And furthermore, rather, Tatarin setting out, at least? For at Tarascon, all phrases begin with and furthermore, and conclude with at least, with a strong local accent. Hence, on this occasion, more than upon others, these peculiarities rang out till the windows shivered. The most surprised I've met in the town on hearing that Tatarin was going worried Africa was Tatarin himself, what vanity is. Instead of plumply answering that he was not going at all, and had not even had the intention, poor Tatarin, on the first of them mentioning the journey to him, observed a neat little evasive air, aha, maybe I shall, but I do not say as much. The second time, a trifle more familiarized with the idea, he replied very likely. And the third time, it's certain. Finally in the evening, at Castacaldes and the club, carried away by the eggnog, tears, and illumination, intoxicated by the impression that bare announcement of his departure had made on the town, the hapless fellow formally declared that he was sick of begging away at caps, and that he would surely be on the trail of the great lions of Atlas. A deafening hurrah greeted this assertion, whereupon more eggnog, bravles, handshaking, slappings of the shoulder, and a torchlight serenade up to Benakba for Baobab villa. It was Sancho Tatarin who was anything but delighted. This idea of travel in Africa and lion hunting made him shudder beforehand, and when the house was re-entered, and whilst the complimentary concert were sounding under the windows, he had a dreadful role with Criotay Tatarin, calling him a cracked head, a visionary, imprudent, and thrice an idiot, and he telling by the card, all the catastrophes awaiting him on such an expedition, shipwreck, rheumatism, yellow fever, dysentery, the black plague, elephantiasis, and the rest of them. In vain did Criotay Tatarin vow that he had not committed any imprudence, that he would wrap himself up well, and take even superfluous necessaries with him. Sancho Tatarin would listen to nothing, the poor crave and sorrow himself already torn to tatters by the lions, or engulfed in the desert sands like his late royal highness, Cambyses, and the other Tatarin only managed to appease him a little by explaining that the start was not immediate as it is clear enough indeed that none embark on such an enterprise without some preparations. A man is bound to know whether he goes, hang it all, and not fly off like a bird. Before anything else, the Tarasconian wanted to peruse the accounts of great African tourists, the narrations of Mungo Park, Dushayu, Dr. Livingstone, Stanley, and so on. In them he learned that these daring explorers before donning their sandals for distant excursions, hardened themselves well beforehand to support hunger and thirst, forced marches, and all kinds of pervation. Tatarin meant to act like they did, and from that day forward he lived upon water broth alone. The water broth of Tarascon is a few slices of bread drowned in hot water with a clove of garlic, a pinch of thyme, and a sprig of laurel, strict diet at which you may believe poor Sancho made a rye face. To the regiment of water broth, Tatarin of Tarascon had otherwise practises. To break himself into the habit of long marches he constrained himself to go around the town seven or eight times consecutively every morning, either at the fast walk or run, his elbows well set against his body, and a couple of white pebbles in the mouth, according to the antique usage. To get enured to fog, due and night coolness, he would go down into his garden every dusk, and stop out there till ten or eleven, alone with his gun on the lookout for the Baobab. Finally, so long as Miltain's wild beasts show tarried in Tarascon, the cap poppers who were belated at Custochalities might spy in the shadow of the booth as they cross the castle green, a mysterious figure stalking up and down. It was Tatarin of Tarascon habituating himself to hear without emotion the roaring of the lion in the somber night. End of Chapter 9 of Episode 1, Recording by Ricky St. Clair, daily.blogspot.com Chapter 10, Episode 1 of Tatarin of Tarascon. This is a Libavox recording. All Libavox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit Libavox.org. Tatarin of Tarascon by Alphonse Daudet, Episode 1 in Tarascon, Chapter 10 before the start. Pending Tatarin's delay of the event by all sorts of heroic means, all Tarascon kept an eye upon him, and nothing else was busied about. Cap popping was winged and ballad singing dead. The piano and Bezuque shop moldered away under a green fungus, and the Spanish flies dried upon it belly up. Tatarin's expedition have put a stopper on everything. Ah, you ought to have seen his success in the parlors. He was snatched away by one from another, fought for, loaned and borrowed, stolen. There was no greater honour for the ladies than to go to Métain's Menagerie on Tatarin's arms and have it explained before the lion's den how such large game are hunted, where they should be aimed at, at how many paces off, if the accidents were numerous and the like of that. Tatarin furnished all the elucidation desired. He had read the life of Jules Giraud, the lion slayer, and had the lion hunting at his finger ends, as if he had been through it himself, hence upon these matters with great eloquence. But where he shone the brightest was at dinner at chief Judge Zadavez's, or brave commandant Bravidaz, the former captain in the army clothing factory you will keep in mind, when coffee came in, and all the chairs were brought up close together whilst they chatted of his future hunts. Thereupon, his elbow on the cloth, his nose over his mocha, our hillow would discourse in a filling tone of all the dangers awaiting him there away. During this night, lions in wait, the pesto and chauffeons, the rivers invendomed by leaves of poison plants, the deep snow drifts, the scorching suns, the scorpions, and rains of grasshoppers. He also discounted on the peculiarities of the great lions of the atlas, their way of fighting, their phenomenal vigor, and the ferocity in the mating season. Heating with his own recital, he would rise from table, bounded to the middle of the dining room, over a lion, and the going off of a rifle crack, bang, the zizz of the explosive bullet, gesticulating and roaring about till he had overstepped the chairs. Everybody turned pale around the board, the gentlemen looking at one another and wagging their heads, the ladies shutting their eyes of pretty screams of fright, the elderly men combatively brandishing their canes, and in the side apartments, the little boys, who had been put to bed betimes, were greatly startled by the scary sound of a gunfire. Meanwhile, Tartarin did not start. End of Chapter 10 of Episode 1 Recording by Ricky Sinclair Being sanctified daily.blogspot.com Chapter 11 Episode 1 of Tartarin of Taha Skon This is a LibraVox recording, all LibraVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, Tartarin of Taha Skon by Alphonse Daudet Episode 1 in Taha Skon Chapter 11 Let's have it out with swords, gentlemen, not pins. A delicate question, whether Tartarin really had any intention of going, and one which the historian of Tartarin would be highly embarrassed to answer. In plain words, Mitten's menagerie had left Taha Skon over three months, and still the landslayer had not started. After all, blinded by a new mirage, our candid hero may have imagined in perfectly good faith that he had gone to Algeria. On the strength of having related his future hunts, he may have believed he had performed them sincerely as he had fancied he had hoisted the consular flag and fired on the Tartars. Zizz fit bang at Shanghai. Unfortunately, granting Tartarin was this time again, dup of an illusion, his fellow townsfolk were not. When, after the quarter's expectation, they perceived that the hunter had not packed even a collar box. They commenced murmuring. This is going to turn out like the Shanghai expedition remarked Koskal smiling. The gunsmith's comment was welcomed all over town, for nobody believed any longer in their late idol. The simpletons and paltrunes, all the fellows of Bazuke's stamp whom a flea would put to flight and who would not fire a shot without closing their eyes, were conspicuously pitiless. In the club rooms or on the esplanade, they accosted poor Tartar with bantering mean. And furthermore, when is that trip coming off? In Koskal's shop, his opinions gained no credence, for the cat-poppers renounced their chief. Next, epigrams dropped into the affair. Chief Judge Ledevs who willingly paid court in his leisure hours to the native muse composed in local dialect a song which won much success. It told of a sportsman called Master Gervais, whose dreaded rifle was bound to exterminate all the lines of Africa to the very last. Unluckily, this terrible gun was of a strange kind. Though loaded daily, it never went off. It never went off, you might catch the drift. In less than no time this diddy became popular, and when Tartar came by the longshoremen in the little shoe-blacks before his door sang in chorus Master Gervais' rifle all is getting charged. Master Gervais' rifle it hath to get enlarged. Master Gervais' rifle loaded off don't scoff. Master Gervais' rifle never do go off. But it was shouted from a safe distance on account of the double-muffles. Oh, the fragility of Tartar's scones fads. The great object himself feigned to see and hear nothing, but under the surface his sullen, venomous, petty warfare much afflicted him. He felt aware that Tartar's scone was slipping out of his grip and that popular favour was going to others. And this made him suffer horribly. Ah, the huge bowl of popularity. It's all well to have a seat in front of it, but what a scalding you catch when it's overturned. Notwithstanding this pain, Tartar smiled and peacefully jogged on the same life as if nothing untoward had happened. Still, the mask of jovial heedlessness glued by pride on his face would sometimes be suddenly detached. Then, in lieu of laughter, one saw grief and indignation. Thus it was that one morning, when the little black guards yelped, Master Gervais' rifle beneath his window, the wretched voices rose even to the poor great man's room where he was shaving before the glass. Tartar Han wore a full beard. But as it grew very thick, he was obliged to keep it trimmed orderly. All at once, the windows was violently opened and Tartar Han appeared in shirt sleeves and night cap smothered in lather, flourishing his razor and shaving brush and roaring in a formidable voice. Let's have it out with swords, gentlemen, not pins. Fine words worthy of history's record with only the blemish that they were addressed to little scamps not higher than their bootboxes and who were quite incapable of holding a small sword. CHAPTER XII A memorable dialogue in the little Baobab villa. Amid the general falling off, the army alone stuck out firmly for Tartar Han. Brave Commandant Provida, the former captain in the arming clothing department, continued to show him the same esteem as ever. He's game, he persisted in saying, an assertion I beg to believe fully worth the chemist Bezuques. Not once did the brave officer let out any illusion to the trip to Africa, but when the public clamour grew too loud, he determined to have his say. One evening the luckless Tartar Han was in his study, in a brown study himself, when he saw the Commandant stride in, stern, wearing black gloves, buttoned up to his ears. Tartar Han? said the ex-captain authoritatively. Tartar Han? you'll have to go. And there he dwelt, erect in the doorway frame, grand and rigid as embodied duty. Tartar Han of Tarascon comprehended all the sense in, Tartar Han? you'll have to go. Very pale, he rose and looked around with a softened eye upon the cosy snuggery, tightly closed in, full of warmth and tender light, upon the commodious easy chair, his books, the carpet, the white blinds of the windows, beyond which trembled the slender twigs of the little garden. Then, advancing towards the brave officer, he took his hand, grasped it energetically, and said in a voice somewhat tearful but stoical for all that, I am going, Bravita. And go he did, as he said he would. Not straight off, though, for it takes time to get the paraphernalia together. To begin with he ordered of bombard two large boxes bound with brass and an inscription to be on them. Tartaran of Tarascon, firearms, et cetera. The binding in brass and the lettering took much time. He also ordered at Tastavine's a showy album, in which to keep a diary and his impressions of travel, for a man cannot help having an idea or two strike him even when he is busy lion-hunting. Next he had over from Marseille a downright cargo of tinned eatables, pemicin compressed in cakes for making soup, a new patterned shelter tent, opening out and packing up in a minute, sea-boots, a couple of umbrellas, a waterproof coat and blue spectacles to ward off ophthalmia. To conclude, Bezucay the chemist made him up a miniature portable medicine chest stuffed with diacolon playster, arnica, camphor and medicated vinegar. Poor Tartaran. He did not take these safeguards on his own behalf, but he hoped by dint of precaution and delicate attentions to allay Sancho Tartaran's fury who, since the start was fixed, never left off raging day or night. Do you mean, for more information or to volunteer, please visit Librevox.org Recording by Ted Nugent Tartaran of Tarascon by Anphonse Douday Episode the first in Tarascon Chapter 13 The Departure After Soon Great and solemn day From dawn all Tarascon had been on foot encumbering the Avignon road and the approaches to Baobab villa. People were up at the windows on the roots and in the trees the roll in Bagje portes, dredges, shoe blikes, gentry, treads forked, whoppers and dweevers, poverty workers, the club members, in short, the whole town. Moreover, people from Bouquerre had come over the bridge, market gardeners from the environs, carters in the huge carts with ample tints, wine dresses upon handsome mules, tricked out with ribbons, streamers, rosettes and jingles. And even, here and there, a few pretty maids from Marlis come on the pillion behind their sweethearts with bonny blue ribbons round the head upon little iron grey chemical horses. All these swarms squeezed and jostled before our good the town's door who was going to slaughter lions in the land of the Turks. For Tarascom, Algeria, Africa, Greece, Prussia, Turkey and Mesopotamia all from one great hazy country almost to myth called the land of the Turks. They say, this is the land of the Turks, but thus the linguistic digression. In the midst of all this throng, the capopous bustled to and fro proud of their captain's triumph, living glorious weeks where they had passed. In front of the Indian fig tree house were two large the door would open and allowed several persons to be spined gravely lounging about the little garden. At every new box, the throng started and trembled. The articles were named in a loud voice. That, that's the sheltered hand. These, they ported myths. The physical chests. These, the gun cases. The capopous giving explanations. All of a sudden about 10 o'clock there was the great stool in the multitude for the garden gets banged open. Here he is here he is they shouted. It was he indeed when he appeared upon the threshold two out cries of stupefaction burst from the assemblage. He's a turb, he's got on spectacles. In truth Tatarin of Tarascon had dimmed his duty on going to Algeria to don the costume. Full white linen trousers small tight vest with metal buttons a red sash two feet wide around the waist. The neck bear and the forehead shaven. And a vast red face or sexy on his head with something like a long blue tassel there too. Together with this two heavy guns one on each shoulder a broad hunting knife in the girdle a bandolier across the breast a revolver on the hip swinging in his patent letter case that is all. No I cry your pardon I was forgetting the spectacles a pantomimically large pair of agile barnacles which came in partly to temper what was rather two fears in the bearing of our hero. Long life to Tatarin hip hip hurrah for Tatarin roared the populace the great man's mind but did not salute on account of the firearms killing him. Moreover, he knew now on what popular favor depends. It may even be that in the depths of his soul he cursed his terrible fellow townsfolk who have lied to him to go away and leave his pretty little place the house with whitened walls and green venitions. But there was no show of this. Calm and proud although a little pellet he stepped out on the footway glanced at the handcotts and seeing all was right lustily took the road to the railway station without even ones looking back towards Shbaba Fila behind him marched the brave commandant bravita the chief judge cost account the gunsmith next and then all the sportsmen who pop at caps preceding the handcotts and the rag, tag and bobtail. Before the station the station master awaited them of 1830 who shook Tatarin's hand many times with fervency. The paris to Makselio express was not yet in so Tatarin and his staff went into the waiting rooms to prevent the place being overrun the station master ordered the gates to be closed during a quarter of an hour Tatarin promenaded up and down in the rooms in the midst of his brother Maksmin speaking to them of his journey and his hunting and promising to send them skins they put the names down in his memorandum book for a lion skin a piece as wanzu, book for a dance gentle and placid as Socrates on the point of coughing the hemlock the intrepid Terasconin had a word and a smile for each he spoke simply with a naffable mean it looked as if before departing he meant to leave behind him a wake of charms, regrets and pleasant memories on hearing the leader speak in this way all the sportsmen fell tears well up and some were stung with remorse to it chief judge Ladovese and the chemist Buzuke the rainway employees blubbered in the corners whilest the outer public squinted through the bars and bellowed long live Tatarin at length the bell rang a dull rumble was heard and a piercing whistle shook the vault the Moxerio express gentlemen goodbye Tatarin good luck old fellow goodbye to you all moment the great man as with his arms around the chief commandant Bravita he braced his dear native place collectively in him then he leapt out upon the platform and clambered into a carriage full of Parisian ladies who were ready to die with fright at sight of this stranger with so many pistols and rifles and chapter 13 of episode the first chapter 14 episode the first of Tatarin 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 Tatarin of Taraskan by Alphonse Daudet episode the first in Taraskan chapter 14 the port of Marseille all aboard all aboard upon the first of December 18 in clear brilliant splendid weather under a south winter sun the startled inhabitants of Marseille beheld a Turk come down the Canobierre or their Regent Street a Turk, a regular Turk never had such a one been seen and yet heaven knows there is no lack of Turks at Marseille today the Turk in question have I any necessity of telling you it was the great Tatarin of Taraskan waddled among the keys followed by his gun cases, medicine chest and tinned commestibles to reach the landing stage of the Tuash Company and the male steamer the Zuav which was to transport him over the sea with his ears still ringing with the home applause intoxicated by the glare of the heavens Tatarin fairly beamed as he stepped out with a lofty head and between his guns on his shoulders looked with all his eyes upon that wondrous dazzling harbour of Marseille which he saw for the first time the poor fellow believed he was dreaming he fancied his name was Sinbad the Sailor and that he was roaming in one of those fantastic cities abundant in the Arabian nights as far as I could reach there spread a forest of masts and spars crisscrossing in every way flags of all countries floated English, American, Russian Swedish, Greek and Tunisian the vessels lay alongside the wars I head on so that their bowsprits stuck up out over the strand like rows of bayonets over it too sprawled the mermaids goddesses, Madonna's and other figureheads encarved in painted wood which gave names to the ships all worn by seawater split, mildewed and dripping ever and anon between the hulls a patch of harbour like watered silk splashed with oil in the intervals of the yards and booms what seemed swarms of flies prettily spotted the blue sky these were the ship boys hailing one another in all languages on the water side amidst thick green or black rivulets coming down from the soap factories loaded with oil and soda bustled a mass of custom house officers messengers, porters and truckmen with their bogies or trolleys drawn by Corsican ponies there were shops selling quaint articles smoky shanties where sailors were cooking their own queer messes dealers in pipes, monkeys, parrots ropes, sailcloth fanciful curios amongst which were mingled higgledy-piggledy old culverines huge gilded lanterns worn out pulley blocks rusty flukeless anchors smoking trumpets and marine glasses almost contemporary with the ark sellers of mussels and clams squatted beside their heaps of shellfish and yopped their goods seamen rolled by with tarpots smoking soup bowls and big baskets full of cuttlefish from which they went to wash the ink in the milky waters of the fountains everywhere a prodigious collection of all kinds of goods silks, minerals, wooden stacks lead and pigs clothes, sugars, caruba wood logs colza seed, liquorice sticks sugar canes the east and west, cheek by jowl even to pyramids of dutch cheeses which the genuys were dying red by contact with their hands yonder was the corn market porters discharging sacks down the chutes of lofty elevators upon the pier and loose grain rolling as a golden torrent through a blonde dust men in red skull caps were sifting it as they caught it in large asses skin sieves and loading it upon carts which took their millward way followed by a regiment of women and youngsters with wisps and gleaning baskets farther on the dry docks where large vessels were laid low on their sides till their yards dipped in the water they were singed with thorn bushes to free them of seaweed there rose an odor of pitch and the deafening clatter of the sheathers coppering the bottoms with broad sheets at wiles, a gap in between the masts in which tartarine could see the haven mouth where the vessels came and went a british frigate off from Malta dainty and thoroughly washed down with the officer in primrose gloves or a large home port brig hauling out in the midst of uproar and oaths whilst the fat captain in a high silk hat and frock coat ordered the operations in provol style dialect other craft were making forth under all sail and still farther out more were slowly looming up in the sunshine as if they were sailing in the air all the time a frightful riot the rumbling of carts the haul-all, haul-away of the shipmen oaths, songeds, steamboat whistles the bugles and drums in forts Saint-Jean and Saint-Nicolas the bells of the Major, the Acool and Saint-Victor with the mistral atop of all catching up the noises and clamor and rolling them up together with a furious shaking till confounded with its own voice which intoned a mad, wild heroic melody like a grand charging tune one that filled hearers with a longing to be off and the farther the better a craving for wings it was to the sound of this splendid blast that the intrepid Tartaran-Terrasco of Tarascan embarked for the land of lions End of Chapter 14 of Episode 1 End of Episode 1 Chapter 1 Episode 2 of Tartaran 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 Tartaran of Tarascan by Alphonse Daudet Episode 2 Among the Turks Chapter 1 The Passage Chapter 2 The Third Evening Out Mercy Upon Us Joyful would I be, my dear readers, if I were a painter, a great artist, I mean in order to set under your eyes at the head of this second episode the various positions taken by Tartaran's red cap in the three days' passage it made on board of the Zuav between France and Algeria First would I show you it at the steaming out upon deck arrogant and heroic as it was forming a glory round that handsome Tarascanian head Next would I show you it at the harbour mouth when the bark began to caper upon the waves I would depict it for you all of a quake in astonishment and as though already experiencing the preliminary qualms of seasickness Then in the gulf of the lion proportionably to the nearing the open sea where the white caps heaved harder I would make you behold it wrestling with the tempest upon the hero's cranium with its mighty mane of blue will bristling out in the spray and breeze Position fourth at six in the afternoon with the Corsican coast in view the unfortunate Chechia hangs over the ship's side and lamentably stares down as though to plumb the depths of ocean Finally and lastly the fifth position at the back of a narrow stateroom in a box bed so small it seemed one drawer with the rest of them something shapeless rolled on the pillow with moans of desolation This was the Fez the Fez so defiant at the sailing now reduced to the vulgar condition of a nightcap and pulled down over the very ears of the head of a pallid and convulsed sufferer How the people of Tarascon would have kicked themselves for having constrained the great Tartaran to leave home if they had but seen him stretched in the bunk in the dull, wan gleam amid the sickly odor of cooking and wet wood the heart-heaving perfume of mail-boats if they had but heard him gurgle at every turn of the screw wail for tea every five minutes and swear at the steward in a childish treble On my word of honour as a storyteller the poor Turk would have made a paste-board dummy pity him Suddenly overcome by the nausea the hapless victim had not even the power to undo the Algerian girdle-cloth or lay aside his armory The lumpy handled hunting-sword pounded his ribs and the leather revolver case made his thigh raw To finish him arose the taunts of Sancho Tartaran who never ceased to groan and invade Well, for the biggest kind of imbecile you were the finest specimen I told you truly how it would be Tra! you were bound to go to Africa, of course Well, old merriman now you were going to Africa how do you like it The cruelest part of it was that from the retreat where he was moaning the hapless invalid could hear the passengers in the grand saloon laughing, munching, singing and playing at cards On board the zoeve the company was as jolly as numerous composed of officers going back to join their regiments Ladies from the Marseille Al-Khazar Music Hall Strolling players a rich muslim returning from Mecca and a very jocular Montenegrin prince who favoured them with imitations of the low comedians Paris Not one of these jokers felt the seasickness and their time was passed in quaffing champagne with the steamer captain a good fat-born Marseille who had a wife and family as well at Algiers as at home and who answered to the merry name of Barbasseau Tartaran of Terrescon hated this pack of wretches their mirthfulness deepened his ails At length on the third afternoon there was such an extraordinary hella-belou on the deck that our hero was roused out of his long torpor the ship's bell was ringing and the seamen's heavy boots ran over the planks Go ahead stop her turn a stern bark the horse voice of captain Barbasseau and then stop her dead there was an abrupt check of movement a shock and no more saved the silent rolling of the boat from side to side like a balloon in the air this strange stillness alarmed the Terresconian Heaven of mercy upon us he yelled in a terrifying voice as recovering his strength by magic he bounded out of his berth and rushed upon deck with his arsenal End of Chapter 1 of Episode II Chapter 2 Episode II of Tartaran of Terrescon 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 Terrescon by Alphonse Daudet Episode II Among the Turks Chapter 2 To arms, to arms only the arrival, not a foundering the suave was just gliding into the roadstead a fine one of black deep water but dull and still almost deserted on elevated ground ahead rose algaeers the white city houses of a dead cream color huddling against one another lest they slid into the sea it was like midawn slope with a laundresses washing hung out to dry over it a vast blue satin sky and such a blue a little restored from his fright the illustrious Tartaran gazed upon the landscape and listened with respect to the Montenegren Prince who stood by his side as he named the different parts of the capital the Kasbah the upper town the Rue Bapuson a very finely brought up Prince was this Montenegren moreover knowing Algeria thoroughly and fluently speaking Arabic hence Tartaran thought of cultivating his acquaintance all at once along the bulwark against which they were leaning the Terresconian perceived a row of birds over the side almost instantly a negro's woolly had shot up before him and ere he had time to open his mouth the deck was overwhelmed on every side by a hundred black or yellow desperados half naked hideous and fearsome Tartaran knew who these pirates were they of course the celebrated they who had too often been hunted after by him in the byways of Terrescon last they had decided to meet him face to face at the outset surprise nailed him to the spot but when he saw the outlaws fall upon the luggage tear off the tarpaulin covering and actually commence the pillage of the ship then the hero awoke whipping out his hunting sword to arms to arms he roared to the passengers and away he flew the foremost of all upon the buccaneers Keako what's this stir what's the matter with you explained Captain Barbasu coming out of the tween decks about time you did turn up captain quick quick arm your men F for what dash it all why can't you see see what there before you the Corsairs Captain Barbasu stared bewildered at this juncture a tall black or more tore by with our hero's medicine chest upon his back you cutthroat just wait for me yelled the Terresconer as he ran after with the knife uplifted but Barbasu caught him in the spring and holding him by the waist sash made him to be quiet by the throne on high there no pirates it's long since there were any pirates here about those dark porters are light porters ha ha porters rather only come after the luggage to carry it ashore put up your cook's galley knife give me your ticket and walk off behind that nigger an honest dog who will see you to land and even to a hotel if you like a little abashed torturer and handed over his ticket and falling in behind the representative of the dark continent clamored down by the hanging ladder into a big skip dancing alongside all his effects were already there boxes trunks gun cases tend food so cramming up the boat that there was no need to wait for any other passengers the Africans scrambled upon the boxes and squatted there like a baboon with his knees clutched by his hands another negro took the oars both laughingly eyed tartarine and showed their white teeth standing in the stern sheets making that terrifying face which had daunted his fellow countrymen the great Tarasconian feverishly fumbled with his hunting knife hat for despite what Barbasu had told him he was only half at ease as regarded the intention of these ebony skinned porters who so little resembled their honest mates of Tarascon five minutes afterwards the skip landed tartarine and he set foot upon the little Barbary war where three hundred years before a Spanish galley slave eclipsed Manuel Cervantes devised under the cane of the Argentinian task master a sublime romance which was where the title of Don Quixote End of Chapter 2, Episode 2 Recording by Jeanne Chapter 3, Episode 2 of Tartarine 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 Tartarine of Tarascon by Alphonse Daudet Episode 2 among the Turks Chapter 3, An Invocation to Cervantes The Disembarkation Where are the Turks? Not a sign of them? Disenchantment O Miguel Cervantes Salvedra If what is asserted be true to wit that wherever great men have dwelt some emanation of their spirits wanderingly hovers into the end of ages then what remained of your essence on the Barbary coast must have pivoted glee on beholding disembark that marvelous type of the French sovereign in whom was embodied both heroes of your work Don Quillote and Sancho Panza The era was so tree on this occasion on the wharf ablaze of sunshine were half a dozen revenue officers some Algerians expecting news from France several squatting moors who drew out along pipes and some Maltese mariners dragging large nets between the meshes of which thousands of sardines glittered on the walls of the city but hardly a tartarin set foot on earth before the quay spring into life and changed its aspect a hoarder savages still more hideous than the pirates upon the steamer rose between the stones on the strand and rushed upon the newcomer tall Arabs are there nude under woolen blankets little moors and tatters negroes Tunisians Port Mahonis Mizvites hotel servants and white aprons all yelling and shouting one carrying away the provender another his medicine chest and pelting him in one fantastic medley with the names of preposterously entitled hotels bewildered by all this tumult poor touch when wandered to and fro swore and stormed went mad ran after his property and not knowing how to make these barbarians understand him speachified them in French and even in dog latin rosa the rose bonus bona bona all that he knew but to no use he was not heated happily like a god at Homer intervened a little fellow in a yellow colored tunic and armed of a long running footman's cane who dispersed the whole riffraff with cudgel play he was a policeman of the Algerian capital very politely he suggested torture should put up at the hotel D.L. Europe and he confided him to its waiters who carted him at his impediments thither in several barrels at the first steps he took in Algiers talk to her in a terascone open his eyes widely beforehand he had pictured it as an oriental city a fairy one mythological something between Constantinople and Zanzibar but it was back into terascone he fell cafes restaurants wide streets four story houses a little marketplace macadamize where the infantry band played often baki and polkas whilst drinking beer and eating pancakes some brilliant ladies some shady ones and soldiers more soldiers no end of soldiers but not a solitary Turk or better to say there was a solitary Turk and that was he hence he felt a little abashed about crossing the square for everybody looked at him the musicians stopped the often baki and polka halting with one foot in the air with both guns on his shoulders and the revolver flapping on his hip as fierce neatly as robinson crew so tartar and gravely passed through the groups but on arriving at the hotel his powers failed him all spun and mingled in his head the departure from terascone the harbor of marsales the voyage the montenegrin prince the corsairs they had to help him up into a room and disarm and undress him they began to talk of sending for a medical advisor but hardly was our heroes head upon the pillow and so heartily that the landlord judged the sucker of science useless and everybody considerably withdrew end of chapter 3 of episode 2 recording by rikki st. clare being sanctified daily blogspot.com section 18 episode the second chapter 4 of taterin of terascone this is a libra vox recording all libra vox recordings are in the public domain for more information if you are a volunteer please visit libravox.org recording by emi grimoire taterin of terascone by alphonse daudette episode the second among the turks chapter 4 the first lying in wait 3 o'clock was striking by the government clock when taterin awoke he had slept all the evening night and morning and even a goodish piece of the afternoon it must be granted though that in the last three days tatero's first thought in opening his eyes was I am in the land of the lions and well why should he not say it at the idea that lions were nigh hereabouts within a couple of steps almost at hand's reach and that he would have to disentangle a sniled skein with them a deadly chill struck him and he dived intrepidly under the coverlet but before a moment was over the outward gaiety, the blue sky the glowing sun that streamed into the bed chamber a nice little breakfast that he ate in bed his window wide open upon the sea the hole flavored with an uncommonly good bottle of Crestia wine it very speedily restored him his form of pluckiness let's out and at the lion he exclaimed throwing off the clothes and briskly dressing himself his plan was as follows he would go forth from the city without saying a word to a soul plunge into the great desert a wait-night fall to ambush himself and bang away at the first lion who walked up then would he return to breakfast in the morning at the hotel receive the felicitations of the natives and hire a cart to bring in the quarry so he hurriedly armed himself attached upright on his back the shelter tent which when rolled up left its center pole sticking out a clear foot above his head and descended to the street as stiffly as though he had swallowed it not caring to ask the way of anybody from fear of letting out his project he turned fairly to the right and thread the Babazoon arcade to the very end with swarms of Algerian Jews watched him pass from their corner ambushes like so many spiders crossing the theater place he entered the outer ward and lastly came upon the dusty Mustafa highway upon this was a quaint conglomeration almond buses, hackney coaches coracolos the army service wagons huge hay carts drawn by bullocks squads of chaiseur d'afrique droves of microscopic asses trucks of Alsatian immigrants spahes and scarlet cloaks a low-wind cloud of dust a mishelt songs and trumpet calls between two rows of vile-looking booths at the doors of which Lenky Mahoney's women might be seen doing their head drinking dens filled with soldiers and shops of butchers and knackers what rubbish did in me about the Orient grumbled the great totterin there are not even as many Turks here as at Marseille all of a sudden he saw a splendid camel strut by him quite closely stretching its long legs its throat like a turkey cock and that made his heart throb camels already a lions could not be far off now and indeed in five minutes time he did see a whole band of lion hunters coming his way under arms cowards thought our hero as he skirted them downright cowards to go with a lion in companies and with dogs for never it could occur to him that anything but lions were objects of the chaise in Algeria for all that these nimrods such complacent fizzes of retired tradesmen and their style of lion hunting with dogs and game bags was so patriarchal that the Tarasconian a little perplex deemed it incumbent to question one of the gentlemen and furthermore comrade is the sport good not bad responded the other regarding the speakers imposing war like equipment with a scared eye killed any rather not so bad only look where upon the Algerian sportsmen showed that it was rabbits and woodcock stuffing out the bag what do you call that your bag do you put such like in your bag where else would I put him but it's such little game some run small and some run large observe the hunter in haste to catch up with his companions he joined them with several long strides the dauntless Tadrin remained rooted in the middle of the road with stupefaction who he ejaculated after a moment's reflection these are jokers they haven't killed anything whatever and he went his way already the houses became scarcer and so did the passengers dark came on and objects were blurred though Tadrin walked on for half an hour more when he stopped for it was night a moonless night too but sprinkled with stars on the high road there was nobody the hero concluded that lions are not stagecoaches and would not of their own choice travel the main ways so he wheeled into the fields where there were brambles and ditches but he kept on nevertheless but suddenly he halted I smell lions about here said our friends sniffing right and left End of Chapter 4 of Episode II Chapter 5 of Episode II of Tartarine of Terescon This is a LibriVox recording All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain For more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org Tartarine of Terescon by Alphonse Daudet Episode II Chapter 5 Bang Bang Certainly a great wilderness bristling with odd plants of that oriental kind which look like wicked creatures under the feeble starlight their magnified shadows barred the ground in every way on the right loomed up confusedly the heavy mass of a mountain perhaps the atlas range on the heart hand the invisible sea hollowly rolling the very spot to attract wild beasts with one gun laid before him and the other in his grasp Tartarine of Terescon went down on one knee and waited an hour I a good couple and nothing turned up then he thought him how in his books the great lion slayers never went out hunting without having a lamb or a kid along with them which they tied up a space before them and set bleeding or buying its foot with the string not having any goat the Teresconer had the idea of employing an invitation and he sat to crying in a tremulous voice ba at first it was done very softly because at bottom he was a little alarmed lest the lion should hear him but as nothing came he ba more loudly still nothing losing patience he resumed many times running at the top of his voice till the ba ba came out with so much power that the goat began to be mistakeable for a bull unexpectedly a few steps in front some gigantic black thing appeared he was hushed this thing lowered its head sniffed the ground bound it up rolled over and darted off at the gallop but returned and stopped short who could doubt it was the lion for now its four short legs could plainly be seen its formidable mane and its large eyes gleaming in the gloom up went his gun into position fires the word and bang bang it was done and immediately there was a leap back and the drawing of the hunting knife to the Teresconian's shot a terrible roaring replied he's got it cried our good Tartarin as studying himself on his sturdy supporters he prepared to receive the brute's charge but it had more than its fill and galloped off howling he did not budge for he expected to see the female mate appear as the story books always lay it down she should unhappily no female came after two or three hours waiting the Teresconian grew tired the ground was damp the night was getting cool and the sea breeze pricked sharply I have a good mind to take a nap till daylight he said to himself to avoid catching rheumatism he had recourse to his patent tent but here's where old Nick interfered this tent was of so very ingenious a construction that he could not manage to open it in vain did he toil over it and perspire an hour through the confounded apparatus would not come unfolded there are some umbrellas which amuse themselves under torrential rains with just such tricks upon you fairly tired out with the struggle the victim dashed down the machine and lay upon it swearing like the regular southern he was tar tar, raw tar tar raw tar what on earth that wondered Tartarine suddenly aroused it was the bugles of the Chaucé d'Afrique sounding the turnout in the Mustafa barracks the stupefied lions layer rubbed his eyes for he had believed himself out in the boundless wilderness and do you know where he really was in a field of artichokes between a cabbage garden and a patch of beets his Sahara grew kitchen vegetables close to him on the pretty, verdant slope of Upper Mustafa the snowy villas glowed in the rosy rising sun anybody would believe himself in the neighborhood of Marseille amongst its bastides and bastidons the commonplace and kitchen gardenish aspect of the sleep-steeped country much astonished the poor man and put him in bad humor these folk are crazy he reasoned to plant artichokes in the prowling round of lions for in short I have not been dreaming lions have come here and there is the proof what he called the proof was blood spots left behind the beast in its flight bending over this ruddy trail with his eye on the lookout and his revolver in his fist the valiant Tarasconian went from artichoke to artichoke up to a little field of oats in the trampled grass was a pool of blood and in the midst of the pool lying on its flank with a large wound in the head was a guess what a lion of course not a bit of it and ass one of those little donkeys so common in Algeria where they are called bro quo end of chapter 5 of episode 2 chapter 6 episode 2 of tartarine 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 tartarine of Tarascon by Alphonse Daudet episode 2 chapter 6 arrival of the female a terrible combat game fellows meet here looking on his hapless victim tartarine's first impulse was one of vexation there is such a wide gap between a lion and poor jack his second feeling was one of pity the poor broque was so pretty and looked so kindly the hide on his still warm sides heaved and fell like waves tartarine knelt down and strove with the end of his Algerian sash to staunch the blood and all you can imagine in the way of touchingness was offered by the picture of this great man tending this little ass at the touch of the silky cloth the donkey who had not too penny worth of life in him opened his large grey eye and winked his long ears two or three times as much as to say oh thank you the final spasm shook it from head to tail where after it stirred no more noro, blacky suddenly screamed a voice choking with anguish as the branches in a thicket hard by moved at the same time tartarine had no more than enough time to rise and stand upon guard this was the female she rushed up fearsome and roaring under form of an old Alsatian woman her hair in a kerchief armed with a large red umbrella and calling for her ass till all the echoes of Mustafa rang it certainly would have been better for tartarine to have had to deal with a lioness in fury than this old Varago in vain did the luckless sportsman try to make her understand how the blunder had occurred and he had mistaken noro for a lion the Herod didn't believe he was making fun of her and uttering energetical dirtuffles fell upon our hero to bang him with the gingham a little bewildered tartarine defended himself as best he could warding off the blows with his rifle streaming with perspiration panting jumping about and crying out but madam but much good as butts were madam was dull of hearing and her blows continued hard as ever fortunately a third party arrived on the battlefield the Alsatian's husband of the same race a roadside innkeeper as well as a very good ready reckoner when he saw what kind of a customer he had to deal with a slaughterer who only wanted to pay the value of his victim he disarmed his better half and they came to an understanding tartarine gave two hundred francs the donkey being worth about ten at least that is the current price in the Arab markets then poor blackie was laid to rest at the foot of a fig tree and the Alsatian, raised to joviality by the color of the terescon ducats invited the hero to have a quencher with him in his wine-shop which stood only a few steps off on the edge of the highway every Sunday the sportsman from the city came there to regale of a morning for the plane abounded with game and there was no better place for rabbits for two leaks around how about lions, inquired tartarine the Alsatian stared at him greatly astounded lions, yes lions don't you see them sometimes resumed the poor fellow with less confidence the Boniface burst out and laughed her oh oh bless us lions what will we do with lions here are there then none in Algeria upon my faith I never saw any, albeit I have been twenty years in the colony still I believe I have heard tell of such a thing least wise I fancy the newspaper said but that is ever so much farther inland down south you know at this point they reached the hostelry a suburban pot-house with a withered green bow over the door crossed billiard-queues painted on the wall and this harmless sign over a picture of wild rabbits feeding game-fellows meet here game-fellows it made tartarine think of Captain Bravita End of Chapter Six of Episode Two Chapter Seven of Episode Two of Tartarine 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 Tartarine of Tarascon by Alphonse Doday Episode The Second Chapter Seven about an omnibus a moorish beauty and a wreath of jessamine common people would have been discouraged by such a first adventure but men of tartarine's metal do not easily get cast down the lions are in the south are they mused the hero very well then south I go as soon as he had swallowed his last mouthful he jumped up thanked his host nodded goodbye to the old hag without any ill will dropped a final tear over the hapless blackie and quickly returned to Algiers with the firm intention of packing up and starting that very day for the south the Mustafa High Road seemed unfortunately to have stretched since overnight and what a sun and dust there were and what a weight in that shelter tent tartarine did not feel to have the courage to walk to the town and he beckon to the first omnibus coming along and climbed in oh our poor tartarine of Tarascon how much better it would have been for his name and fame not to have stepped into that fatal arc on wheels but to have continued on his road of foot at the risk of falling suffocated beneath the burden of the atmosphere the tent and his heavy double barreled rifles when tartarine got in the bus was full at the end with his nose in his prayer book sat a large and black-bearded vicar from the town facing him was a young Moorish merchant smoking coarse cigarettes and a Maltese sailor and four or five Moorish women muffled up in white cloths so that only their eyes could be spied these ladies had been to offer up prayers to the Abdel Qadir Cemetery but this funerial visit did not seem to have much saddened them for they could be heard chuckling and chattering between themselves under their coverings whilst munching pastry tartarine fancied that they watched him narrowly one in particular seated over against him had fixed her eyes upon his and never took them off all the drive although the dame was veiled the liveliness of the big black eyes lengthened out by coal a delightfully slender wrist loaded with gold bracelets of which a glimpse was given from time to time among the folds the sound of her voice the graceful almost childlike movements of the head all revealed that a young, pretty and lovable creature bloomed underneath the veil the unfortunate tartarine did not know where to shrink the fond, mute gaze of these splendorous oriental orbs agitated him, perturbed him and made him feel like dying with flushes of heat and fits of cold shivers to finish him the lady's slipper meddled in the onslaught he felt the dainty thing wander and frisk about over his heavy hunting boots like a tiny red mouse what could he do? answer the glance and the pressure, of course aye, but what about the consequences? a loving intrigue in the east is a terrible matter with his romantic southern nature the honest Tarasconian saw himself already falling into the grip of the eunuchs to be decapitated, or better and worse than that sewn up in a leather sack and sunk in the sea with his head under his arm beside him this somewhat cooled him in the meantime the little slipper continued its proceedings and the eyes, widely open opposite him like twin black velvet flowers seemed to say, come, cull us the bus stopped on the theater place at the mouth of the roux babazoon one by one embedded in their voluminous trousers and drawing their mufflers around them with wild grace the Moorish women alighted Tartarine's confrontress was the last to rise and in doing so her countenance skimmed so closely to our heroes that her breath enveloped him a veritable nose-gay of youth and freshness with an indescribable aftertang of musk jessamine and pastry the Tarasconian stood out no longer intoxicated with love and ready for anything he darted out after the beauty at the rumbling sound of his belts and boots she turned laid a finger on her veiled mouth as one who would say, hush and with the other hand quickly tossed him a little wreath of sweet scented jessamine flowers Tartarine of Tarascon stooped to pick it up but as he was rather clumsy and much overburdened with implements of war the operation took rather long when he did straighten up with the jessamine garland upon his heart the Donatrix had banished End of Chapter 7 of Episode 2 Chapter 8 Episode 2 of Tartarine 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 Tartarine of Tarascon by Alphonse Doday Episode 2 Chapter 8 Ye lions of the Atlas repose in peace Lions of the Atlas sleep sleep tranquilly at the back of your lairs amid the aloes and cacti for a few days to come anyway Tartarine of Tarascon will not massacre you for the time being all his warlike paraphernalia gun cases, medicine chest, elementary preserves dwelt peacefully under cover in a corner of room 36 in the Hotel de Lyocop Sleep with no fear, great red lions the Tarasconian is engaged in looking up that moorish charmer since the adventure in the omnibus the unfortunate swain perpetually fancied he felt the fidgeting of that pretty red mouse upon his huge backwood's trappers foot and the sea breeze fanning his lips was ever scented do what he would with a love-exciting odor of sweet-cakes and patchouli he hungered for his indispensable light of the harem and he meant to behold her anew but it was no joke of a task to find one certain person in a city of a hundred thousand souls known only by the eyes, breath, and slipper none but a son of Tarascon, pan-applied by love would be capable of attempting such an adventure the plague is that, under their broad white mufflers all the moorish women resemble one another besides they do not go about much and to see them a man has to climb up into the native or upper town the city of the Turks and that is a regular cutthroat's den little black alleys, very narrow climbing perpendicularly up between mysterious house-walls whose rubes lean to touching and form a tunnel low doors and sad, silent little casements well barred and graded moreover, on both hands, stacks of darksome stalls wherein ferocious turks smote long pipes stuck between glittering teeth in piratical heads with white eyes and mumbled in undertones as of hatching wicked attacks to say that Tartarine traverse this grisly place without any emotion would be putting forth falsehood on the contrary he was much affected and the stout fellow only went up the obscure lanes where his corporation took up all the width with the utmost precaution his eye skinned and his finger on his revolver trigger his eye scanned and his finger on his revolver trigger in the same manner as he went to the clubhouse of Tarascon at any moment he expected to have a whole gang of eunuchs and janissaries drop upon his back yet the longing to behold that dark damsel again gave him a giant strength and boldness for a full week the undaunted Tartarine never quitted the high town yes for all that period he might have been seen cooling his heels before the Turkish bath houses awaiting the hour when the ladies came forth in troops shivering and still redolent of soap and hot water or squatting at the doorways of mosques puffing and melting and trying to get out of his big boots in order to enter the temples but times at nightfall when he was returning heartbroken at not having discovered anything at either banjo or mosque our man from Tarascon in passing mansions would hear monotonous songs smothered twanging of guitars thumping of tambourines and feminine laughter peels which would make his heart beat happily she is there he would say to himself thereupon granting the street was unpeopled he would go up to one of these swellings lift the heavy knocker of the low-postern and timidly wrap the songs and merriment would instantly cease there would be audible behind the wall nothing accepting low dull flutterings as in a slumbering aviary let's stick to it old boy our hero would think something will befall us yet what most often befell him was the contents of the cold water jug on the head or else peel of oranges and barberry figs never anything more serious well might the lines of the atlas mountains doze in peace