Delphi complete works of.., p.36
Delphi Complete Works of Alphonse Daudet (Illustrated), page 36
The other guests at the dinner were talking and smoking around them, and at one moment when Lieutenant Shipp had whispered in the doctor’s ear something that made him laugh out loud, the commodore looked up: —
“What did he say, that Shipp?” he inquired. The lieutenant repeated his remark, and they all laughed more than ever, without Pascalon being able to make out what was meant.
On deck, during this time, leaning on the back of Lady William’s chair, Tartarin, in the fragrance of the dying breeze and the dazzling reflections of the setting sun hanging to the cordage like bunches of currants — Tartarin was relating his loves with the Princess Likiriki and their agonizing separation. He knew that women love to comfort; that the surest way to succeed with all of them is to wear your heart-griefs in a sling visibly... Oh! the scene of those farewells between the little princess and himself murmured in milady’s ear in the gathering mystery of the twilight! Whoso has not heard that, has heard nothing.
I will not affirm to you that the narrative was strictly correct, that the scene was not a trifle touched up; but, in any case, it was what he would have liked it to be — a passionate, ardent Likiriki, a poor princess, torn between her family feelings and her conjugal love, clinging to the hero with despairing little hands: “Take me! take me!” And he, with aching heart, repulsing her, tearing himself from her embraces: “No, no, my child; it must be so. Remain with your father, he has naught but you..”
In relating these things the hero shed tears, real tears, and it seemed to him that the beautiful creole eyes raised to his were moistened by his tale, while the sun slowly sinking in the sea left a soft horizon behind it, bathed in violet mist.
Suddenly the shadows deepened, and the voice of the commodore, sharp and glacial, broke the charm: —
“It is late, and too chilly for you, my dear: you must come in.”
She rose, bowed slightly: —
“Good-night, Monsieur Tartarin.”
And she left him, all emotion from the sweetness she had put into those words. For some moments longer he walked up and down the deck, hearing still that “Good-night, Monsieur Tartarin.” But the commodore was right; the evening was getting chilly, and he made up his mind to go to bed.
Passing before the little salon, he saw through its half-opened door Pascalon seated at a table, his head in his hands, absorbed in the study of a dictionary.
“What are you doing there, child?”
The faithful secretary informed him of the scandal his abrupt departure had caused, the indignant whisperings round the table, and especially a certain mysterious phrase of Lieutenant Shipp, which the commodore had made him repeat to the great amusement of everybody.
“Though I understand English tolerably well,” said Pascalon, “I could not make out what it meant; but I remembered a few words of it, and I am trying now to reconstruct the sentence.”
During these explanations Tartarin had gone to bed, where he stretched himself out, much at his ease, his head in his foulard, a large glass of orange-flower at hand, and he asked, while lighting the pipe that he always smoked before going to sleep:
“Well, did you succeed in your translation?”
“Yes, my dear master, here it is: In short, the Tarasconese type is only the Frenchman enlarged, exaggerated, as if seen through a magnifying prism.”
“And you say they laughed at that?”
“All of them — lieutenant, doctor, the commodore himself, they never stopped laughing.”
“You may know those English seldom have occasion to laugh if they can be amused by such silliness! Come, good-night, my child, go to bed.”
And soon the two were in the land of dreams, where one found his Clorinde, the other the commodore’s lady — for the Princess Likiriki was already remote.
The days followed the days, grouping themselves into weeks, and still the voyage lasted, — a charming, delightful trip, during which Tartarin, who loved to inspire sympathy and admiration, felt those blessings about him in varied forms. He might have said, with Victor Jacquemont (the celebrated French traveller): “How strange my position is among the English! These men, who seem so impassable, so cold and stiff among themselves, unbend immediately under my gayety. They become affectionate to one another for the first time in their lives. I make kind people, I make Frenchmen out of all the Englishmen with whom I am thrown for twenty-four hours.”
Everybody on board the “Tomahawk,” fore and aft, officers and sailors, adored him. There was no longer any talk of being prisoner of war, or trial before an English tribunal; of course he would be released the moment they arrived at Gibraltar.
As for the sulky commodore, enchanted to find a partner of Pascalon’s strength, he kept him every evening for hours over the chess-board, which rendered that poor unfortunate, sighing for his Clorinde, desperate, and prevented him from carrying to her between decks the dainties of his dinner. For the poor Tarasconese were compelled to continue an emigrant life, penned up in their galley; and it formed the secret sadness, the remorse of Tartarin while he perorated on the poop, where he held his court at the melancholy hour of the setting sun, to see down below on the forward deck his compatriots herded like cattle, under watchful sentinels, and turning their eyes away from him in horror, especially since the day when he fired at La Tarasque.
They had never forgiven him that crime, and he himself could not forget the shot that would surely bring him evil.
The ship had passed the straits of Malacca, the Red Sea, the headlands of Sicily, and was running down the Mediterranean to Gibraltar. One morning, land having been signalled, Tartarin and Pascalon were packing their trunks, aided by one of the stewards, when suddenly they felt the swaying sensation caused by the stoppage of a vessel. The “Tomahawk” had really stopped, and at the same moment the sound of approaching oars was heard.
“Look out, Pascalon,” said Tartarin; “it may be the pilot...”
A boat hailed them, but it was not the pilot; it carried a French flag, and French sailors manned it; among them were two men dressed in black with tall hats. The soul of Tartarin stirred within him: —
“Ah! the French flag!.. Let me gaze upon it, my child.”
He sprang to the porthole; but at this moment the door of the cabin opened, letting in a flood of light together with two French agents of police in citizen’s clothes, common and brutal in manner, but duly furnished with warrants for arrest and orders for extradition, who proceeded to lay their paws on the unfortunate State of Things and his secretary.
The Governor drew back, livid but dignified:
“Take care what you do. I am Tartarin of Tarascon.”
“Yes, and it is you we are looking for.”
Behold them both, Governor and secretary, prisoners, without a word of explanation or reply to their reiterated questions; without knowing what they had done, why they were arrested, or where they were being taken. Imagine the shame of passing, in irons (for they were handcuffed) before the officers and sailors of the British ship, assailed by the laughs and hoots of their compatriots, who leaned over the bulwarks applauding and shouting at the top of their voices: “Well done!.. zou!.. zou!..” while the captives were being put into the boat.
At that moment Tartarin would gladly have been engulfed in the sea. From prisoner of war like Napoleon and Themistocles, to fall to the condition of a common thief!..
And the lady of the commodore was looking at him!
Ah! decidedly he was right. La Tarasque was taking her revenge, and she took it cruelly.
III.
Continuation of Pascalon’s Memorial.
JULY 5. PRISON of Tarascon-sur-Rhone. I am just returned from examination. I know, at last, of what we are accused, the Governor and I, and why, abruptly seized on the “Tomahawk,” harpooned on the road to happiness, wakened from dreams of joy, like two poor crayfish flung out of water, we were transferred to a French ship, brought to Marseilles handcuffed, and sent to Tarascon for solitary confinement in the prison of the town.
We are accused of swindling, and of homicide by reason of imprudence, and infraction of the laws of emigration. Ah! as for that, it is very certain I infringed it, that law of emigration, for this is the first time I ever heard the name, merely the name, of that slut of a law.
After two days’ incarceration, forbidden absolutely to speak to a soul, — and that is terrible to a Tarasconese, — we were taken to-day before the examining judge, M. Bonaric. That magistrate began his career in Tarascon about ten years ago; and he knows me perfectly, having come at least a hundred times to the pharmacy, where I prepared him salves for a chronic eczema he had in his cheek.
Nevertheless, he asked my name, Christian name, age, profession, as if we had never seen each other. I was made to tell all I knew about the affair of Port-Tarascon; I had to talk two hours without stopping. His clerk could not keep up with me, I went so fast. After which, neither good-day nor good-evening, but: “Prisoner, you may retire.”
In the corridor of the court-house I found my poor Governor, whom I had not seen since the day of our incarceration. He seemed to me greatly changed. As we passed, he pressed my hand and said in his kind voice: —
“Courage! child. Truth is like oil; it always comes to the top.”
He could say no more, for the gendarmes dragged him away brutally.
Gendarmes for him!.. Tartarin in irons at Tarascon!.. And the rage, the hatred of a whole people!..
I shall always have in my ears those cries of fury of the populace, that hot breath of the riffraff, as the cellular van of the law took us back to prison, each padlocked in his own compartment. I could see nothing, but I heard all around us the uproar of the crowd. Once the vehicle was stopped on the Market-place; I knew where we were by the smell that came in through the chinks, like the breath of the town itself, that odour of tomatoes and artichokes, of Cavaillon melons and red peppers, and big mild onions. Merely to smell those good, nice things of which I have been so long deprived, made my mouth water.
There was such a crowd, our horses evidently could not get on. Tarascon full, overflowing, enough to make one believe that no one had ever been killed, or drowned, or devoured by anthropophagi. Certainly I felt sure I recognized the voice of Cambalalette the registrar. But how could that be? It must have been an illusion, for did not Bézuquet himself eat him, our much regretted Cambalalette? I am certain I heard the gong of Excourbanies; no one could mistake that; it howled above all the other cries: “To the water!.. Zou!.. To the Rhone! to the Rhone!.. Fen dé brut! To the water, Tartarin!”
To the water, Tartarin!.. What a lesson of history! What a page for this Memorial!
I forgot to say that Judge Bonaric returned me my journal, seized on board the “Tomahawk.” He found it interesting, and even advised me to continue it. Apropos of certain Tarasconese expressions which have slipped in now and then, I saw him smile a little between his red whiskers.
From July 5 to July 15. The prison of the town of Tarascon is an historical building, the old castle of King René, which is seen from a distance along the Rhone, flanked by its four towers. We have had bad luck with historical castles. In Switzerland, when our illustrious Tartarin was taken for a Nihilist leader, and we with him, they flung us into Bonnivard’s dungeon in the Castle of Chillon. Here, it is true, things are much less gloomy, for there’s the sun, and the full light of it, cooled by the Rhone breezes; it does not rain here as it does in Switzerland and Port-Tarascon.
My cell is very narrow: four walls of rough stone, an iron bed, a table, and a chair. The sun comes in through a barred window, high up, overhanging the Rhone. It was from here, during the Revolution, that the Jacobins were flung into the river to the famous air of: Dé brin o dé bran, cabussaran... As the popular repertory does not change much, they are now singing it to us, that threatening chorus! I do not know where they have lodged the poor Governor, but he must hear, as plainly as I do, these shouts that come up in the evening from the banks of the Rhone, and surely he must be making strange reflections.
If they had only put us together!.. Though, to tell the truth, I take a certain comfort in being alone; in possessing myself, as it were. Intimacy with a great man is wearing at times. He talks to you only of himself; he does not care for what interests you. So that on the “Tomahawk” not a moment did I have to myself, not an instant to be near my Clorinde. How many times I said to myself: “She is down there!” But never could I get away. After dinner, I had to play chess with the commodore, and the rest of the day Tartarin never let go of me, especially after I told him about the Memorial. “Write this...” he would say. “Don’t forget that...” And the anecdotes about himself! about his relatives even, which were not at all interesting.
Think how Las Cases did the same for years and years! The Emperor would wake him at six o’clock in the morning and carry him off, on foot, on horseback, in a carriage, and as soon as they had started: “Where were we, Las Cases?.. Now continue... When I signed the treaty of Campo-Formio... The poor confidant had his own affairs too, — a child very ill, his wife left in France, — but what was that to the other, who was thinking only of relating himself and explaining himself before Europe, the Universe, Posterity, all day, and at all hours, and for years and years! The true martyr at Saint Helena was not Napoleon, it was Las Cases.
As for me, at the present moment I am spared that trial. God is my witness that I did nothing to bring this about. They parted us themselves, and I have profited by the separation to think of myself, of my own misfortune, which is great, and of my much-loved Clorinde.
Does she believe me guilty? She, no; but her family, all those Espazettes de l’Escudelle de Lambesc?.. Among that class of people a man without a title is always guilty. In any case, I have no hope now that they will ever accept me as a husband for Clorinde, fallen as I am from grandeur. I shall return to my employment behind Bézuquet’s bottles, at the pharmacy, on the little square... And this is Fame!
July 17. One thing makes me very uneasy; no one has come to see me in my prison. They are as angry with me as with my master. My amusement in my solitary cell is to mount upon the table, and in that way I reach the window, and there, truly, is a marvellous view between the bars.
The Rhone rolls scattered sun among its little islands of a tender green which the breeze ruffles up. The sky is filled with a black whirl of swifts and their little cries as they pursue each other, brushing close to me, or dropping from great heights; while far below that iron bridge is swaying, so long, so slight, that we look to see it gone daily, carried off like a hat.
On the banks of the river are the ruins of old castles, — that of Beaucaire with the town at its feet; those of Courtezon and Vacqueiras. Behind their thick walls, battered now by time, were held in other days the “tournaments of love;” where troubadours, the poets of Provence, were loved by the queens whom they sang — as Pascalon has sung his Clorinde. But what a change, since those far-distant days! The sumptuous manors are running wild with briars, the poets of our gay Provence may sing of dames and damoisels, but the damoisels will laugh at them!
One sight less saddening is that of the canal of Beaucaire, with its boats, painted green or yellow, moored in a mass; and on the quays the bright red spots made by the soldiery whom I see from my window as they strut about. They ought to be much pleased, those Beaucaire people, at the Governor’s misfortune and the downfall of our great man, for Tartarin’s renown always offended them, those vainglorious fellows over there! I remember, in my childhood, what a snorting they made about their fair, the Fair of Beaucaire. People came from all parts — not from Tarascon, you may be sure; that iron-wire bridge is so dangerous!— ’Twas an enormous crowd, more than five hundred thousand souls at least, assembled on that fair ground... Year by year the numbers have lessened. The fair of Beaucaire still exists, but nobody goes to it now. In the town you see nothing but notices in the windows, “To let... To let...” and if by chance a traveller does get there, from a commercial house for example, the inhabitants make a festival of his coming, they quarrel who shall have him, and the city council goes out to meet him with a band of music. In short, Beaucaire has lost all credit, while Tarascon has become famous... And thanks to whom, if not to Tartarin?
Mounted on the table just now, I was looking out and thinking of all these things. The sun had gone, night was coming on, when suddenly, on the other side of the Rhone, a great fire was lighted on the top of the tower of the Castle of Beaucaire. It burned a long time, and long I looked at it. It seemed to me that there was something mysterious about it, that fire, as it cast its ruddy reflections on the Rhone, in the great silence of the darkness, broken only by the soft flight of the ospreys. What can it be? A signal, perhaps?
Could some one, some admirer of our great Tartarin, desire to assist him to escape?.. It is very extraordinary, that flame, lighted at the top of a ruined tower precisely in front of his prison.
July 18. Coming back to-day from another examination, I heard, as the cellular vehicle passed the church of Saint Martha, the ever-imperious voice of the Marquise des Espazettes calling, in the accent of these parts: “Cloréïnde!.. Cloréïnde!. and a soft, angelic voice, the voice of my beloved, replying:— “Yes, mamma.” No doubt she was going to church to pray for me, for a safe issue to the trial.
Returned to my prison, much overcome, and committed to paper a few Provençal verses on the happy omen of this encounter.
That evening, at the same hour, the same fire on the tower of Beaucaire. It shines, over there, in the darkness like the bonfires which they light for the Saint John. Evidently it is a signal.
Tartarin, with whom I was able to exchange a few words in the judge’s corridor, saw the fire, as I did, through the bars of his window; and when I told him what I thought, namely, that his friends were wishing to help him to escape, like Napoleon at Saint Helena, he seemed much struck with that coincidence.
_preview.jpg)
