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Updated: May 2, 2025
In brief, all Tarascon spoke of nothing but the departure. On the Old Walk, at the club, in Costecalde's, friends accosted one another with a startled aspect: "And furthermore, you know the news, at least?" "And furthermore, rather? Tartarin's setting out, at least?" For at Tarascon all phrases begin with "and furthermore," and conclude with "at least," with a strong local accent.
Finally, in the evening, at Costecalde's and the club, carried away by the egg-nogg, cheers, and illumination; intoxicated by the impression that bare announcement of his departure had made on the town, the hapless fellow formally declared that he was sick of banging away at caps, and that he would shortly be on the trail of the great lions of the Atlas. A deafening hurrah greeted this assertion.
It was the chemist Bezuquet, with his family, coming from singing their family ballad at Costecalde's. "Oh, good even, good even!" Tartarin would growl, furious at his blunder, and plunging fiercely into the gloom with his cane waved on high. On arriving in the street where stood his club-house, the dauntless one would linger yet a moment, walking up and down before the portals ere entering.
The green armchair at Costecalde's shop: and soaring above, like the extended wings of an eagle, the formidable moustache of the brave Commandant Bravida. Then to see himself squatting slothfully on his mat, while he was believed to be engaged in slaying lions, filled him with shame. Suddenly he leaped to his feet. "To the lions!... To the lions!"
Never in the memory of living man had the like been seen. Hence our dauntless cap-poppers looked at one another how proudly! What a beaming on their sunburned visages! and in every nook of Costecalde's shop what hearty congratulatory grips of the hand were silently exchanged! The sensation was so great and unforeseen that nobody could find a word to say not even Tartarin.
One evening at Costecalde's, the gunsmith's, when Tartarin was explaining some mechanism of a rifle, the door was opened and an excited voice announced, "A lion! A lion!" The news seemed incredible, but you can imagine the terror that seized the little group at the gunsmith's as they asked for more news.
All Tarascon appeared unto him: the club, the cap-poppers, Costecalde's green arm-chair, and, hovering over all like a spread eagle, the imposing moustaches of brave Commandant Bravida. At seeing himself here, as he was, cowardly lolling on a mat, whilst his friends believed him slaughtering wild beasts, Tartarin of Tarascon was ashamed of himself, and could have wept had he not been a hero.
On the pavement, at the club, at Costecalde's shop, people accosted one another with an air of excitement. "Et autrement, have you heard the latest, au moins?" "Et autrement, what now, is Tartarin going, au moins?"
Finally, so long as Mitaine's wild beast show tarried in Tarascon, the cap-poppers who were belated at Costecalde's might spy in the shadow of the booth, as they crossed the Castle-green, a mysterious figure stalking up and down. It was Tartarin of Tarascon, habituating himself to hear without emotion the roarings of the lion in the sombre night. X. Before the Start.
At the club, on the esplanade, they accosted poor Tartarin with little mocking remarks, "Et autremain, what about this trip then?" At Costecalde's shop his opinion was no longer law. The hat hunters had deserted their leader. Then there were the epigrams. President Ladeveze who in his spare time dabbled in provencal poetry, composed a little song in dialect which was a great success.
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