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Fine words but wasted on a bunch of brats about two bricks tall. Amid the general defection, the army alone stood firmly by Tartarin, the brave Commandant Bravida continued to treat him with esteem. "He's a stout fellow," He persisted in saying, and this affirmation was worth a good deal more, I should imagine, than anything said by Bezuquet the chemist.
There are even some hatters who sell hunting-caps ready shot, torn, and perforated for the bad shots; but the only buyer known is the chemist Bezuquet. This is dishonourable! As a marksman at caps, Tartarin of Tarascon never had his match. Every Sunday morning out he would march in a new cap, and back he would strut every Sunday evening with a mere thing of shreds.
On hearing their leader speak in this way, all the sportsmen felt tears well up, and some were stung with remorse, to wit, Chief Judge Ladevese and the chemist Bezuquet. The railway employees blubbered in the corners, whilst the outer public squinted through the bars and bellowed: "Long live Tartarin!" At length the bell rang. A dull rumble was heard, and a piercing whistle shook the vault.
Each family had its own ballad and in the town this was well understood. One knew, for example, that for Bezuquet the chemist it was:"Thou pale star whom I adore." For the gunsmith Costecalde:"Come with me to the forest glade." For the Town Clark: "If I was invisible, no one would see me." No matter for how long they had been singing them, the people of Tarascon had no desire to change them.
Hardly would he fall into position before the whole audience would be shuddering with the foreboding that something uncommon was at hand. After a hush, old Madame Bezuquet would commence to her own accompaniment: "Robert, my love is thine! To thee I my faith did plight, Thou seest my affright, Mercy for thine own sake, And mercy for mine!" In an undertone she would add: "Now, then, Tartarin!"
As the Esmeralda did not know a word of French, and Tartarin none in Arabic, the conversation died away sometimes, and the Tarasconian had plenty of leisure to do penance for the gush of language of which he had been guilty in the shop of Bezuquet the chemist or that of Costecalde the gunmaker.
To conclude, Bezuquet the chemist made him up a miniature portable medicine chest stuffed with diachylon plaister, arnica, camphor, and medicated vinegar. Poor Tartarin! he did not take these safeguards on his own behalf; but he hoped, by dint of precaution and delicate attentions, to allay Sancho-Tartarin's fury, who, since the start was fixed, never left off raging day or night.
Then Tartarin, with arm extended, clenched fist and quivering nostrils, said three times in a formidable voice which rolled like a clap of thunder in the entrails of the piano "Non! Non! Non!" Which as a good southerner he pronounced "Nan. Nan. Nan" Upon which madame Bezuquet repeated "Mercy on yourself and on me" "Nan! Nan! Nan!"
Whereupon Tartarin of Tarascon, with crooked arms, clenched fists, and quivering nostrils, would roar three times in a formidable voice, rolling like a thunderclap in the bowels of the instrument: "No! no! no!" which, like the thorough southerner he was, he pronounced nasally as "Naw! naw! naw!" Then would old Madame Bezuquet again sing: "Mercy for thine own sake, And mercy for mine!"
As soon as he had taken up his position, a quiver of expectation ran through the gathering. One felt that something great was about to happen. After a moment of silence, madame Bezuquet the elder, accompanying herself on the piano, began: "Robert, thou whom I adore And in whom I trust, Have mercy on yourself And mercy on me." She added, sotto voce, "Its you now Tartarin."
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