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He spoke to them of his coming expedition, promising to send them skins, and entering their orders in his note-book as if they were a list of groceries. As tranquil as was Socrates at the moment when he drank the hemlock, the bold Tartarin had a word for everyone. He spoke simply and affably, as if before departing he wished to leave behind a legacy of charm, happy memories and regrets.
Then he set off. On the Avignon road there was not so much as a cat. Doors were shut and curtains drawn across windows. Here and there a street light blinked in the mist rising from the Rhone. Superb and calm Tartarin de Tarascon strode through the night, his heels striking the road with measured tread and the metal tip of his cane raising sparks from the paving-stones.
The huge vessels lie over on one side and are flamed with fires of brushwood to rid them of seaweed, while their yardarms soak in the water. There is a smell of pitch and the deafening hammering of shipwrights lining the hulls with sheets of copper. Sometimes, between the masts, a gap opened and Tartarin could see the harbour mouth and the movement of ships.
No matter how charming and varied the company, Tartarin did not feel like chatting and remained silent, his arm hooked into the arm-strap and his weaponry between his knees.... His hurried departure, the dark eyes of Baia, the dangerous chase on which he was about to engage, these thoughts troubled his mind, and also there was something about this venerable stage-coach, now domiciled in Africa, which recalled to him vaguely the Tarascon of his youth.
So the notion grew, until that night at his club Tartarin announced, amid tremendous cheering, that he was sick of cap-hunting, and meant very soon to set forth in pursuit of the lions of the Atlas. Now began a great struggle between the two Tartarins.
Tartarin had barely time to get up and put himself on guard. It was the female!... She arrived, roaring and terrible, in the guise of an elderly Alsation lady in a rabbit-skin coat, armed with a red umbrella and calling for her donkey in a voice which woke all the echoes of Mustapha.
While Tartarin was preparing himself by these strenuous methods, all Tarascon had its eyes on him. Nothing else was of interest. Hat shooting was abandoned, the ballads languished; in Bezuquet the chemist's the piano was silent beneath a green dust cover, with cantharides flies drying, belly up, on the top... Tartarin's expedition had brought everything to a halt.
Everywhere Tartarin was treated to fetes and official receptions. In his honour whole villages turned out, firing volleys in the air, their burnous gleaming in the sun: after which the good chieftain would come to present the bill. Nowhere, however, were there any more lions than there are on the Pont Neuf in Paris: but Tartarin was not discouraged, he pushed bravely on to the south.
Tartarin, in confusion, defended himself as best he could, parrying the blows with his rifle, sweating, puffing, jumping about and crying "But Madame!... But Madame!". To no avail. Madame was deaf to his pleas and redoubled her efforts. Happily a third party arrived on the field of battle. It was the husband of the Alsation lady, also an Alsation.... A tavern keeper and a shrewd man of business.
Altogether our Tartarin was perfectly happy. Tartarin-Sancho in particular, very fond of Turkish pastries, declared himself entirely satisfied with his new existence.
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