“A letter, Monsieur Bêzuquet!.. Comes from Switzerland, vé!.. Switzerland!” cried the postman joyously7, from the other end of the little square, waving something in the air, and hurrying along in the coming darkness.
The apothecary8, who took the air, as they say, of an evening before his door in his shirt-sleeves, gave a jump, seized the letter with feverish9 hands and carried it into his lair10 among the varied11 odours of elixirs12 and dried herbs, but did not open it till the postman had departed, refreshed by a glass of that delicious sirop de cadavre in recompense for what he brought.
Fifteen days had Bêzuquet expected it, this letter from Switzerland, fifteen days of agonized13 watching! And here it was. Merely from looking at the cramped14 and resolute15 little writing on the envelope, the postmark “Interlaken” and the broad purple stamp of the “H?tel Jungfrau, kept by Meyer,” the tears filled his eyes, and the heavy moustache of the Barbary corsair through which whispered softly the idle whistle of a kindly16 soul, quivered.
“Confidential. Destroy when read.“ Those words, written large at the head of the page, in the telegraphic style of the pharmacopoeia (“external use; shake before using”) troubled him to the point of making him read aloud, as one does in a bad dream: ”Fearful things are happening to me . . . ” In the salon18 beside the pharmacy where she was taking her little nap after supper, Mme. Bézuquet, mère, might hear him, or the pupil whose pestle19 was pounding its regular blows in the big marble mortar20 of the laboratory. Bézuquet continued his reading in a low voice, beginning it over again two or three times, very pale, his hair literally21 standing22 on end. Then, with a rapid look about him, cra cra . . . and the letter in a thousand scraps23 went into the waste-paper basket; but there it might be found, and pieced together, and as he was stooping to gather up the fragments a quavering voice called to him:
“Vé! Ferdinand, are you there?” “Yes, mamma,” replied the unlucky corsair, curdling25 with fear, the whole of his long body on its hands and knees beneath the desk. “What are you doing, my treasure?” “I am . . . h’m, I am making Mile. Tournatoire’s eye-salve.”
Mamma went to sleep again, the pupil’s pestle, suspended for a moment, began once more its slow clock movement, while Bézuquet walked up and down before his door in the deserted26 little square, turning pink or green according as he passed before one or other of his bottles. From time to time he threw up his arms, uttering disjointed words: “Unhappy man!.. lost . . . fatal love . . . how can we extricate27 him?” and, in spite of his trouble of mind, accompanying with a lively whistle the bugle28 “taps” of a dragoon regiment29 echoing among the plane-trees of the Tour de Ville.
“Hé! good night, Bézuquet,” said a shadow hurrying along in the ash-coloured twilight30.
“Where are you going, Pégoulade?”
“To the Club, pardi!.. Night session . . . they are going to discuss Tartarin and the presidency31 . . . You ought to come.”
“Té! yes, I ‘ll come . . . ” said the apothecary vehemently32, a providential idea darting33 through his mind. He went in, put on his frock-coat, felt in its pocket to assure himself that his latchkey was there, and also the American tomahawk, without which no Tarasconese whatsoever34 would risk himself in the streets after “taps.” Then he called: “Pascalon!.. Pascalon!..” but not too loudly, for fear of waking the old lady.
Almost a child, though bald, wearing all his hair in his curly blond beard, Pascalon the pupil had the ardent35 soul of a partizan, a dome-like forehead, the eyes of crazy goat, and on his chubby36 cheeks the delicate tints37 of a shiny crusty Beaucaire roll. On all the grand Alpine4 excursions it was to him that the Club entrusted38 its banner, and his childish soul had vowed39 to the P. C. A. a fanatical worship, the burning, silent adoration40 of a taper41 consuming itself before an altar in the Easter season.
“Pascalon,” said the apothecary in a low voice, and so close to him that the bristle42 of his moustache pricked43 his ear. “I have news of Tartarin . . . It is heart-breaking . . . ”
Seeing him turn pale, he added:
“Courage, child! all can be repaired . . . Différemment I confide17 to you the pharmacy . . . If any one asks you for arsenic44, don’t give it; opium45, don’t give that either, nor rhubarb . . . don’t give anything. If I am not in by ten o’clock, lock the door and go to bed.”
With intrepid46 step, he plunged47 into the darkness, not once looking back, which allowed Pascalon to spring at the waste-paper basket, turn it over and over with feverish eager hands and finally tip out its contents on the leather of the desk to see if no scrap24 remained of the mysterious letter brought by the postman.
To those who know Tarasconese excitability, it is easy to imagine the frantic48 condition of the little town after Tartarin’s abrupt49 disappearance50. Et autrement, pas moins, différemment, they lost their heads, all the more because it was the middle of August and their brains boiled in the sun till their skulls51 were fit to crack. From morning till night they talked of nothing else; that one name “Tartarin” alone was heard on the pinched lips of the elderly ladies in hoods52, in the rosy53 mouths of grisettes, their hair tied up with velvet54 ribbons:
“Tartarin, Tartarin . . . ” Even among the plane-trees on the Promenade, heavy with white dust, distracted grasshoppers, vibrating in the sunlight, seemed to strangle with those two sonorous55 syllables56: “Tar1.. tar.. tar.. tar.. tar . . . ”
As no one knew anything, naturally every one was well-informed and gave explanations of the departure of the president. Extravagant57 versions appeared. According to some, he had entered La Trappe; he had eloped with the Dugazon; others declared he had gone to the Isles58 to found a colony to be called Port-Tarascon, or else to roam Central Africa in search of Livingstone.
“Ah! va?! Livingstone!.. Why he has been dead these two years.”
But Tarasconese imagination defies all hints of time and space. And the curious thing is that these ideas of La Trappe, colonization59, distant travel, were Tartarin’s own ideas, dreams of that sleeper60 awake, communicated in past days to his intimate friends, who now, not knowing what to think, and vexed61 in their hearts at not being duly informed, affected62 toward the public the greatest reserve and behaved to one another with a sly air of private understanding. Excourbaniès suspected Bravida of being in the secret; Bravida, on his side, thought: “Bézuquet knows the truth; he looks about him like a dog with a bone.”
True it was that the apothecary suffered a thousand deaths from this hair-shirt of a secret, which cut him, skinned him, turned him pale and red in the same minute and caused him to squint63 continually. Remember that he belonged to Tarascon, unfortunate man, and say if, in all martyrology, you can find so terrible a torture as this — the torture of Saint Bézuquet, who knew a secret and could not tell it.
This is why, on that particular evening, in spite of the terrifying news he had just received, his step had something, I hardly know what, freer, more buoyant, as he went to the session of the Club. Enfin!.. He was now to speak, to unbosom himself, to tell that which weighed so heavily upon him; and in his haste to unload his breast he cast a few half words as he went along to the loiterers on the Promenade. The day had been so hot, that in spite of the unusual hour (a quarter to eight on the clock of the town hall!) and the terrifying darkness, quite a crowd of reckless persons, bourgeois64 families getting the good of the air while that of their houses evaporated, bands of five or six sewing-women, rambling65 along in an undulating line of chatter66 and laughter, were abroad. In every group they were talking of Tartarin.
“Et autrement, Monsieur Bézuquet, still no letter?” they asked of the apothecary, stopping him on his way.
“Yes, yes, my friends, yes, there is . . . Read the Forum67 to-morrow morning . . . ”
He hastened his steps, but they followed him, fastened on him, and along the Promenade rose a murmuring sound, the bleating68 of a flock, which gathered beneath the windows of the Club, left wide open in great squares of light.
The sessions were held in the bouillotte room, where the long table covered with green cloth served as a desk. At the centre, the presidential arm-chair, with P. C. A. embroidered69 on the back of it; at one end, humbly70, the armless chair of the secretary. Behind, the banner of the Club, draped above a long glazed71 map in relief, on which the Alpines stood up with their respective names and altitudes. Alpenstocks of honour, inlaid with ivory, stacked like billiard cues, ornamented72 the corners, and a glass-case displayed curiosities, crystals, silex, petrifactions, two porcupines73 and a salamander, collected on the mountains.
In Tartarin’s absence, Costecalde, rejuvenated74 and radiant, occupied the presidential arm-chair; the armless chair was for Excourbaniès, who fulfilled the functions of secretary; but that devil of a man, frizzled, hairy, bearded, was incessantly75 in need of noise, motion, activity which hindered his sedentary employments. At the smallest pretext76, he threw out his arms and legs, uttered fearful howls and “Ha! ha! has!” of ferocious77, exuberant78 joy which always ended with a war-cry in the Tarasconese patois79: ”Fen80 dé brut . . . let us make a noise “ . . . He was called “the gong” on account of his metallic81 voice, which cracked the ears of his friends with its ceaseless explosions.
Here and there, on a horsehair divan82 that ran round the room were the members of the committee.
In the first row, sat the former captain of equipment, Bravida, whom all Tarascon called the Commander; a very small man, clean as a new penny, who redeemed83 his childish figure by making himself as moustached and savage84 a head as Vercingétorix.
Next came the long, hollow, sickly face of Pégoulade, the collector, last survivor85 of the wreck86 of the “Medusa.” Within the memory of man, Tarascon has never been without a last survivor of the wreck of the “Medusa.” At one time they even numbered three, who treated one another mutually as impostors, and never con~ sented to meet in the same room. Of these three the only true one was Pégoulade. Setting sail with his parents on the “Medusa,” he met with the fatal disaster when six months old — which did not prevent him from relating the event, de visu, in its smallest details, famine, boats, raft, and how he had taken the captain, who was selfishly saving himself, by the throat: “To your duty, wretch87!.. “At six months old, outre! . . . Wearisome, to tell the truth, with that eternal tale which everybody was sick of for the last fifty years; but he took it as a pretext to assume a melancholy88 air, detached from life: “After what I have seen!” he would say — very unjustly, because it was to that he owed his post as collector and kept it ‘under all administrations.
Near him sat the brothers Rognonas, twins and sexagenarians, who never parted, but always quarrelled and said the most monstrous89 things to each other; their two old heads, defaced, corroded90, irregular, and ever looking in opposite directions out of antipathy91, were so alike that they might have figured in a collection of coins with IANVS BIFRONS on the exergue.
Here and there, were Judge Bédaride, Barjavel the lawyer, the notary92 Cambalalette, and the terrible Doctor Tournatoire, of whom Bravida remarked that he could draw blood from a radish.
In consequence of the great heat, increased by the gas, these gentlemen held the session in their shirt-sleeves, which detracted much from the solemnity of the occasion. It is true that the meeting was a very small one; and the infamous93 Costecalde was anxious to profit by that circumstance to fix the earliest possible date for the elections without awaiting Tartarin’s return. Confident in this manoeuvre94, he was enjoying his triumph in advance, and when, after the reading of the minutes by Excourbaniès, he rose to insinuate95 his scheme, an infernal smile curled up the corners of his thin lips.
“Distrust the man who smiles before he speaks,” murmured the Commander.
Costecalde, not flinching96, and winking97 with one eye at the faithful Tournatoire, began in a spiteful voice:—
“Gentlemen, the extraordinary conduct of our president, the uncertainty98 in which he leaves us . . . ”
“False!.. The president has written . . . ”
Bézuquet, quivering, planted himself squarely before the table; but conscious that his attitude was anti-parliamentary, he changed his tone, and, raising one hand according to usage, he asked for the floor, to make an urgent communication.
“Speak! Speak!”
Costecalde, very yellow, his throat tightened99, gave him the floor by a motion of his head. Then, and not till then, Bézuquet spoke100:
“Tartarin is at the foot of the Jungfrau . . . he is about to make the ascent101 . . . he desires to take with him our banner . . . ”
Silence; broken by the heavy breathing of chests; then a loud hurrah102, bravos, stamping of the feet, above which rose the gong of Excourbaniès uttering his war-cry “Ha! ha! ha! fen dé brut!“ to which the anxious crowd without responded.
Costecalde, getting more and more yellow, tinkled103 the presidential bell desperately104. Bézuquet at last was allowed to continue, mopping his forehead and puffing105 as if he had just mounted five pairs of stairs.
Différemment, the banner that their president requested in order to plant it on virgin106 heights, should it be wrapped up, packed up, and sent by express like an ordinary trunk?..
“Never!.. Ah! ah! ah!..” roared Excourbaniès.
Would it not be better to appoint a delegation107 — draw lots for three members of the committee?..
He was not allowed to finish. The time to say zou! and Bézuquet’s proposition was voted by acclamation, and the names of three delegates drawn108 in the following order: 1, Bravida; 2, Pégoulade; 3, the apothecary.
No. 2, protested. The long journey frightened him, so feeble and ill as he was, péchèrel ever since that terrible event of the “Medusa.”
“I ‘ll go for you, Pégoulade,” roared Excour-baniès, telegraphing with all his limbs. As for Bézuquet, he could not leave the pharmacy, the safety of the town depended on him. One imprudence of the pupil, and all Tarascon might be poisoned, decimated:
“Outre!“ cried the whole committee, agreeing as one man.
Certainly the apothecary could not go himself, but he could send Fascalon; Pascalon could take charge of the banner. That was his business. Thereupon, fresh exclamations109, further explosions of the gong, and on the Promenade such a popular tempest that Excourbaniès was forced to show himself and address the crowd above its roarings, which his matchless voice soon mastered.
“My friends, Tartarin is found. He is about to cover himself with glory.”
Without adding more than “Vive Tartarin!” and his war-cry, given with all the force of his lungs, he stood for a moment enjoying the tremendous clamour of the crowd below, rolling and hustling110 confusedly in clouds of dust, while from the branches of the trees the grasshoppers added their queer little rattle111 as if it were broad day.
Hearing all this, Costecalde, who had gone to a window with the rest, returned, staggering, to his arm-chair.
“Vé! Costecalde,” said some one. “What’s the matter with him?.. Look how yellow he is!”
They sprang to him; already the terrible Tournatoire had whipped out his lancet: but the gunsmith, writhing112 in distress113, made a horrible grimace114, and said ingenuously115:
“Nothing . . . nothing . . . let me alone . . . I know what it is . . . it is envy.”
Poor Costecalde, he seemed to suffer much.
While these things were happening, at the other end of the Tour de Ville, in the pharmacy, Bézuquet’s pupil, seated before his master’s desk, was patiently patching and gumming together the fragments of Tartarin’s letter overlooked by the apothecary at the bottom of the basket. But numerous bits were lacking in the reconstruction116, for here is the singular and sinister117 enigma118 spread out before him, not unlike a map of Central Africa, with voids and spaces of terra incognita, which the artless standard-bearer explored in a state of terrified imagination:
mad with love reed
-wick lam
preserves of Chicago.
cannot tear myself
Nihilist
to death condition
abom in exchange
for her
You know me, Ferdi
know my liberal ideas,
but from there to tzaricide
rrible consequences
Siberia hung
adore her
Ah! press thy loyal hand
Tar Tar
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1
tar
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| n.柏油，焦油；vt.涂或浇柏油/焦油于 | |
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grasshoppers
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| n.蚱蜢( grasshopper的名词复数 )；蝗虫；蚂蚱；（孩子）矮小的 | |
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promenade
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| n./v.散步 | |
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alpine
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| adj.高山的；n.高山植物 | |
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alpines
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| n.高山的，高山上的（尤指阿尔卑斯山）( alpine的名词复数 ) | |
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pharmacy
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| n.药房，药剂学，制药业，配药业，一批备用药品 | |
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7
joyously
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| ad.快乐地, 高兴地 | |
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apothecary
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| n.药剂师 | |
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feverish
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| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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lair
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| n.野兽的巢穴；躲藏处 | |
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varied
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| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
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elixirs
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| n.炼金药，长生不老药( elixir的名词复数 )；酏剂 | |
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agonized
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| v.使（极度）痛苦，折磨( agonize的过去式和过去分词 )；苦斗；苦苦思索；感到极度痛苦 | |
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cramped
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| a.狭窄的 | |
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resolute
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| adj.坚决的，果敢的 | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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confide
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| v.向某人吐露秘密 | |
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salon
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| n.[法]沙龙；客厅；营业性的高级服务室 | |
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pestle
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| n.杵 | |
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mortar
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| n.灰浆，灰泥；迫击炮；v.把…用灰浆涂接合 | |
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literally
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| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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scraps
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| 油渣 | |
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scrap
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| n.碎片；废料；v.废弃，报废 | |
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curdling
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| n.凝化v.（使）凝结( curdle的现在分词 ) | |
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deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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extricate
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| v.拯救，救出；解脱 | |
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bugle
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| n.军号，号角，喇叭；v.吹号，吹号召集 | |
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regiment
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| n.团，多数，管理；v.组织，编成团，统制 | |
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twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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presidency
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| n.总统(校长，总经理)的职位(任期) | |
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vehemently
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| adv. 热烈地 | |
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darting
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| v.投掷，投射( dart的现在分词 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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whatsoever
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| adv.（用于否定句中以加强语气）任何；pron.无论什么 | |
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ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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chubby
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| adj.丰满的，圆胖的 | |
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tints
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| 色彩( tint的名词复数 )； 带白的颜色； （淡色）染发剂； 痕迹 | |
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entrusted
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| v.委托，托付( entrust的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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vowed
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| 起誓，发誓（vow的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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adoration
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| n.爱慕，崇拜 | |
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taper
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| n.小蜡烛，尖细，渐弱；adj.尖细的；v.逐渐变小 | |
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bristle
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| v.（毛发）直立，气势汹汹，发怒；n.硬毛发 | |
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43
pricked
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| 刺，扎，戳( prick的过去式和过去分词 )； 刺伤； 刺痛； 使剧痛 | |
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arsenic
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| n.砒霜，砷；adj.砷的 | |
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45
opium
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| n.鸦片；adj.鸦片的 | |
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46
intrepid
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| adj.无畏的，刚毅的 | |
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47
plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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48
frantic
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| adj.狂乱的，错乱的，激昂的 | |
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abrupt
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| adj.突然的，意外的；唐突的，鲁莽的 | |
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50
disappearance
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| n.消失，消散，失踪 | |
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51
skulls
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| 颅骨( skull的名词复数 )； 脑袋； 脑子； 脑瓜 | |
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52
hoods
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| n.兜帽( hood的名词复数 )；头巾；（汽车、童车等的）折合式车篷；汽车发动机罩v.兜帽( hood的第三人称单数 )；头巾；（汽车、童车等的）折合式车篷；汽车发动机罩 | |
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53
rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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54
velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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55
sonorous
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| adj.响亮的，回响的；adv.圆润低沉地；感人地；n.感人，堂皇 | |
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56
syllables
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| n.音节( syllable的名词复数 ) | |
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57
extravagant
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| adj.奢侈的；过分的；(言行等)放肆的 | |
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58
isles
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| 岛( isle的名词复数 ) | |
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59
colonization
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| 殖民地的开拓，殖民，殖民地化； 移殖 | |
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60
sleeper
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| n.睡眠者，卧车，卧铺 | |
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61
vexed
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| adj.争论不休的；（指问题等）棘手的；争论不休的问题；烦恼的v.使烦恼( vex的过去式和过去分词 )；使苦恼；使生气；详细讨论 | |
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62
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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63
squint
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| v. 使变斜视眼, 斜视, 眯眼看, 偏移, 窥视; n. 斜视, 斜孔小窗; adj. 斜视的, 斜的 | |
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64
bourgeois
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| adj./n.追求物质享受的(人)；中产阶级分子 | |
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65
rambling
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| adj.[建]凌乱的，杂乱的 | |
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66
chatter
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| vi.／n.喋喋不休；短促尖叫；(牙齿)打战 | |
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67
forum
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| n.论坛，讨论会 | |
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68
bleating
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| v.（羊，小牛）叫( bleat的现在分词 )；哭诉；发出羊叫似的声音；轻声诉说 | |
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69
embroidered
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| adj．绣花的 | |
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70
humbly
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| adv. 恭顺地，谦卑地 | |
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glazed
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| adj.光滑的，像玻璃的；上过釉的；呆滞无神的v.装玻璃( glaze的过去式)；上釉于，上光；（目光）变得呆滞无神 | |
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72
ornamented
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| adj.花式字体的v.装饰，点缀，美化( ornament的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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73
porcupines
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| n.豪猪，箭猪( porcupine的名词复数 ) | |
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74
rejuvenated
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| 更生的 | |
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75
incessantly
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| ad.不停地 | |
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76
pretext
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| n.借口，托词 | |
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77
ferocious
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| adj.凶猛的，残暴的，极度的，十分强烈的 | |
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exuberant
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| adj.充满活力的；（植物）繁茂的 | |
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79
patois
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| n.方言；混合语 | |
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80
fen
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| n.沼泽，沼池 | |
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81
metallic
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| adj.金属的；金属制的；含金属的；产金属的；像金属的 | |
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82
divan
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| n.长沙发；（波斯或其他东方诗人的）诗集 | |
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83
redeemed
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| adj. 可赎回的，可救赎的 动词redeem的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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84
savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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85
survivor
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| n.生存者，残存者，幸存者 | |
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86
wreck
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| n.失事，遇难；沉船；vt.(船等)失事，遇难 | |
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wretch
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| n.可怜的人，不幸的人；卑鄙的人 | |
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88
melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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monstrous
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| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
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90
corroded
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| 已被腐蚀的 | |
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91
antipathy
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| n.憎恶；反感，引起反感的人或事物 | |
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92
notary
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| n.公证人，公证员 | |
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93
infamous
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| adj.声名狼藉的，臭名昭著的，邪恶的 | |
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manoeuvre
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| n.策略，调动；v.用策略，调动 | |
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95
insinuate
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| vt.含沙射影地说，暗示 | |
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96
flinching
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| v.（因危险和痛苦）退缩，畏惧( flinch的现在分词 ) | |
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97
winking
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| n.瞬眼，目语v.使眼色( wink的现在分词 )；递眼色（表示友好或高兴等）；（指光）闪烁；闪亮 | |
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98
uncertainty
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| n.易变，靠不住，不确知，不确定的事物 | |
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99
tightened
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| 收紧( tighten的过去式和过去分词 )； （使）变紧； （使）绷紧； 加紧 | |
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100
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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101
ascent
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| n.(声望或地位)提高；上升，升高；登高 | |
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102
hurrah
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| int.好哇，万岁，乌拉 | |
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103
tinkled
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| （使）发出丁当声，（使）发铃铃声( tinkle的过去式和过去分词 )； 叮当响着发出，铃铃响着报出 | |
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104
desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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105
puffing
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| v.使喷出( puff的现在分词 )；喷着汽（或烟）移动；吹嘘；吹捧 | |
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106
virgin
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| n.处女，未婚女子；adj.未经使用的；未经开发的 | |
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107
delegation
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| n.代表团；派遣 | |
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108
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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109
exclamations
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| n.呼喊( exclamation的名词复数 )；感叹；感叹语；感叹词 | |
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110
hustling
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| 催促（hustle的现在分词形式） | |
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111
rattle
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| v.飞奔，碰响；激怒；n.碰撞声；拨浪鼓 | |
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112
writhing
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| （因极度痛苦而）扭动或翻滚( writhe的现在分词 ) | |
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113
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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114
grimace
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| v.做鬼脸，面部歪扭 | |
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115
ingenuously
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| adv.率直地，正直地 | |
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116
reconstruction
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| n.重建，再现，复原 | |
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117
sinister
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| adj.不吉利的，凶恶的，左边的 | |
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118
enigma
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| n.谜，谜一样的人或事 | |
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