French fiction -- Translations into English; Short stories
We had very little time in which to make our small preparations. I
hurried to change my dress, and, when I had done this, I was wise enough
not to sit in my easy-chair, for fear I should fall asleep.
At five o'clock I went to the colonel's. He lived in a large Moorish
house. I found the open court filled with French and natives, all
crowding round a band of pilgrims or mountebanks who had come from the
South.
An old man conducted the performance; he was as ugly as a monkey and
half naked, under his burnous, which was full of holes. His skin was the
colour of chocolate made of water; he was tattooed all over with scars;
his hair was frizzy and so matted that from a distance one might have
thought he had a bearskin cap on his head; and his beard was white and
bristly.
He was reputed to be a great saint and a great wizard.
In front of him an orchestra, composed of two flutes and three
tambourines, made an infernal din, worthy of the performance about to be
played. He said that he had received complete sway over demons and wild
beasts from a famous Mahomedan priest, and, after some compliments
addressed to the colonel and the elite audience, he went off into a sort
of prayer or incantation, accompanied by his orchestra, whilst the
actors danced to his command, turned on one foot, and struck their
breasts heavy blows with their fists.
Meanwhile the tambourines and flutes increased their din and played
faster and faster.
When exhaustion and giddiness had made these people lose what few brains
they had, the chief sorcerer drew several scorpions and serpents from
some baskets round him, and, after showing that they were full of life,
he threw them to his jesters, who fell upon them like dogs on a bone,
and tore them to pieces with their teeth, if you please!
We looked down on this extraordinary spectacle from a high gallery; no
doubt the colonel treated us to it to give us a good appetite for our
dinner. As for myself, I turned my eyes away from these beasts, who
disgusted me, and amused myself by staring at a pretty girl of thirteen
or fourteen years of age, who had threaded through the crowd to get
nearer to the performance.
She had the most beautiful eyes imaginable, and her hair fell on her
shoulders in fine tresses; these ended in small pieces of silver, which
made a tinkling sound as she moved her head gracefully about. She was
dressed with more taste than most of the girls of that country; she had
a kerchief of silk and gold on her head, a bodice of embroidered velvet,
and short pantaloons of blue satin, showing her bare legs encircled with
silver anklets. There was not a vestige of a veil over her face. Was she
a Jewess or a heathen? or did she perhaps belong to those wandering
tribes of unknown origin who never trouble themselves with religious
prejudice?
Whilst I followed her every movement with so much interest, she had
arrived at the first row of the circle where the fanatics carried on
their exercises.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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