ENTIRELY2 astonished was Tartarin before his Moorish3 dwelling4 when he stopped.
Day was dying and the street deserted5. Through the low pointed-arch doorway6 which the negress had forgotten to close, laughter was heard; and the clink of wine-glasses, the popping of champagne7 corks8; and, floating over all the jolly uproar9, a feminine voice singing clearly and joyously10:
“Do you like, Marco la Bella, to dance in the hall hung with bloom?”
“Throne of heaven!” ejaculated the Tarasconian, turning pale, as he rushed into the enclosure.
Hapless Tartarin! what a sight awaited him! Beneath the arches of the little cloister11, amongst bottles, pastry12, scattered13 cushions, pipes, tambourines14, and guitars, Baya was singing “Marco la Bella” with a ship captain’s cap over one ear. She had on no blue vest or bodice; indeed, her only wear was a silvery gauze wrapper and full pink trousers. At her feet, on a rug, surfeited15 with love and sweetmeats, Barbassou, the infamous16 skipper Barbassou, was bursting with laughter at hearing her.
The apparition17 of Tartarin, haggard, thinned, dusty, his flaming eyes, and the bristling18 up fez tassel19, sharply interrupted this tender Turkish-Marseillais orgie. Baya piped the low whine20 of a frightened leveret, and ran for safety into the house. But Barbassou did not wince21; he only laughed the louder, saying:
“Ha, ha, Monsieur Tartarin! What do you say to that now? You see she does know French.”
Tartarin of Tarascon advanced furiously, crying:
“Captain!”
“Digo-li que vengue, moun bon! — Tell him what’s happened, old dear!” screamed the Moorish woman, leaning over the first floor gallery with a pretty low-bred gesture!
The poor man, overwhelmed, let himself collapse22 upon a drum. His genuine Moorish beauty not only knew French, but the French of Marseilles!
“I told you not to trust the Algerian girls,” observed Captain Barbassou sententiously! “They’re as tricky23 as your Montenegrin prince.”
Tartarin lifted his head
“Do you know where the prince is?”
“Oh, he’s not far off. He has gone to live five years in the handsome prison of Mustapha. The rogue24 let himself be caught with his hand in the pocket. Anyways, this is not the first time he has been clapped into the calaboose. His Highness has already done three years somewhere, and — stop a bit! I believe it was at Tarascon.”
“At Tarascon!” cried out her worthiest25 son, abruptly26 enlightened. “That’s how he only knew one part of the Town.”
“Hey? Of course. Tarascon — a jail bird’s -eye view from the state prison. I tell you, my poor Monsieur Tartarin, you have to keep your peepers jolly well skinned in this deuce of a country, or be exposed to very disagreeable things. For a sample, there’s the muezzin’s game with you.”
“What game? Which muezzin?”
“Why your’n, of course! The chap across the way who is making up to Baya. That newspaper, the Akbar, told the yarn27 t’other day, and all Algiers is laughing over it even now. It is so funny for that steeplejack up aloft in his crow’s -nest to make declarations of love under your very nose to the little beauty whilst singing out his prayers, and making appointments with her between bits of the Koran.”
“Why, then, they’re all scamps in this country!” howled the unlucky Tarasconian.
Barbassou snapped his fingers like a philosopher.
“My dear lad, you know, these new countries are ‘rum!’ But, anyhow, if you’ll believe me, you’d best cut back to Tarascon at full speed.”
“It’s easy to say, ‘Cut back.’ Where’s the money to come from? Don’t you know that I was plucked out there in the desert?”
“What does that matter?” said the captain merrily. “The Zouave sails tomorrow, and if you like I will take you home. Does that suit you, mate? Ay? Then all goes well. You have only one thing to do. There are some bottles of fizz left, and half the pie. Sit you down and pitch in without any grudge28.”
After the minute’s wavering which self-respect commanded, the Tarasconian chose his course manfully. Down he sat, and they touched glasses. Baya, gliding29 down at that chink, sang the finale of “Marco la Bella,” and the jollification was prolonged deep into the night.
About 3 A.M., with a light head but a heavy foot, our good Tarasconian was returning from seeing his friend the captain off when, in passing the mosque30, the remembrance of his muezzin and his practical jokes made him laugh, and instantly a capital idea of revenge flitted through his brain.
The door was open. He entered, threaded long corridors hung with mats, mounted and kept on mounting till he finally found himself in a little oratory31, where an openwork iron lantern swung from the ceiling, and embroidered32 an odd pattern in shadows upon the blanched33 walls.
There sat the crier on a divan34, in his large turban and white pelisse, with his Mostaganam pipe, and a bumper35 of absinthe before him, which he whipped up in the orthodox manner, whilst awaiting the hour to call true believers to prayer. At view of Tartarin, he dropped his pipe in terror.
“Not a word, knave36!” said the Tarasconian, full of his project. “Quick! Off with turban and coat!”
The Turkish priest-crier tremblingly handed over his outer garments, as he would have done with anything else. Tartarin donned them, and gravely stepped out upon the minaret37 platform.
In the distance the sea shone. The white roofs glittered in the moonbeams. On the sea breeze was heard the strumming of a few belated guitars. The Tarasconian muezzin gathered himself up for the effort during a space, and then, raising his arms, he set to chanting in a very shrill38 voice:
“La Allah il Allah! Mahomet is an old humbug39! The Orient, the Koran, bashaws, lions, Moorish beauties — they are all not worth a fly’s skip! There is nothing left but gammoners. Long live Tarascon!”
Whilst the illustrious Tartarin, in his queer jumbling40 of Arabic and Provencal, flung his mirthful maledictions to the four quarters, sea, town, plain and mountain, the clear, solemn voices of the other muezzins answered him, taking up the strain from minaret to minaret, and the believers of the upper town devoutly41 beat their bosoms42.
点击收听单词发音
1 catastrophes | |
n.灾祸( catastrophe的名词复数 );灾难;不幸事件;困难 | |
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2 entirely | |
ad.全部地,完整地;完全地,彻底地 | |
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3 moorish | |
adj.沼地的,荒野的,生[住]在沼地的 | |
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4 dwelling | |
n.住宅,住所,寓所 | |
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5 deserted | |
adj.荒芜的,荒废的,无人的,被遗弃的 | |
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6 doorway | |
n.门口,(喻)入门;门路,途径 | |
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7 champagne | |
n.香槟酒;微黄色 | |
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8 corks | |
n.脐梅衣;软木( cork的名词复数 );软木塞 | |
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9 uproar | |
n.骚动,喧嚣,鼎沸 | |
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10 joyously | |
ad.快乐地, 高兴地 | |
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11 cloister | |
n.修道院;v.隐退,使与世隔绝 | |
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12 pastry | |
n.油酥面团,酥皮糕点 | |
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13 scattered | |
adj.分散的,稀疏的;散步的;疏疏落落的 | |
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14 tambourines | |
n.铃鼓,手鼓( tambourine的名词复数 );(鸣声似铃鼓的)白胸森鸠 | |
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15 surfeited | |
v.吃得过多( surfeit的过去式和过去分词 );由于过量而厌腻 | |
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16 infamous | |
adj.声名狼藉的,臭名昭著的,邪恶的 | |
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17 apparition | |
n.幽灵,神奇的现象 | |
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18 bristling | |
a.竖立的 | |
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19 tassel | |
n.流苏,穗;v.抽穗, (玉米)长穗须 | |
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20 whine | |
v.哀号,号哭;n.哀鸣 | |
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21 wince | |
n.畏缩,退避,(因痛苦,苦恼等)面部肌肉抽动;v.畏缩,退缩,退避 | |
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22 collapse | |
vi.累倒;昏倒;倒塌;塌陷 | |
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23 tricky | |
adj.狡猾的,奸诈的;(工作等)棘手的,微妙的 | |
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24 rogue | |
n.流氓;v.游手好闲 | |
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25 worthiest | |
应得某事物( worthy的最高级 ); 值得做某事; 可尊敬的; 有(某人或事物)的典型特征 | |
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26 abruptly | |
adv.突然地,出其不意地 | |
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27 yarn | |
n.纱,纱线,纺线;奇闻漫谈,旅行轶事 | |
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28 grudge | |
n.不满,怨恨,妒嫉;vt.勉强给,不情愿做 | |
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29 gliding | |
v. 滑翔 adj. 滑动的 | |
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30 mosque | |
n.清真寺 | |
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31 oratory | |
n.演讲术;词藻华丽的言辞 | |
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32 embroidered | |
adj.绣花的 | |
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33 blanched | |
v.使变白( blanch的过去式 );使(植物)不见阳光而变白;酸洗(金属)使有光泽;用沸水烫(杏仁等)以便去皮 | |
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34 divan | |
n.长沙发;(波斯或其他东方诗人的)诗集 | |
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35 bumper | |
n.(汽车上的)保险杠;adj.特大的,丰盛的 | |
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36 knave | |
n.流氓;(纸牌中的)杰克 | |
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37 minaret | |
n.(回教寺院的)尖塔 | |
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38 shrill | |
adj.尖声的;刺耳的;v尖叫 | |
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39 humbug | |
n.花招,谎话,欺骗 | |
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40 jumbling | |
混杂( jumble的现在分词 ); (使)混乱; 使混乱; 使杂乱 | |
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41 devoutly | |
adv.虔诚地,虔敬地,衷心地 | |
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42 bosoms | |
胸部( bosom的名词复数 ); 胸怀; 女衣胸部(或胸襟); 和爱护自己的人在一起的情形 | |
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