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Updated: May 25, 2025
I had come to keep Christmas with my old friend Monsieur de Vièlmur according to the traditional Provençal rites and ceremonies in his own entirely Provençal home: an ancient dwelling which stands high up on the westward slope of the Alpilles, overlooking Arles and Tarascon and within sight of Avignon, near the Rhône margin of Provence.
Such adjustment was not needed for Tartarin de Tarascon, begun shortly after Le Petit Chose, because subtle humour of the kind lavished in that inimitable creation and in its sequels, while implying observation, does not necessarily imply any marked departure from the romantic and poetic points of view.
Tartarin of Tarascon advanced furiously, crying: "Captain!" "Digo-li que vengue, moun bon! Tell him what's happened, old dear!" screamed the Moorish woman, leaning over the first floor gallery with a pretty low-bred gesture! The poor man, overwhelmed, let himself collapse upon a drum. His genuine Moorish beauty not only knew French, but the French of Marseilles!
The country between this place and Tarascon is fertile and well cultivated, and the cheerfulness of its aspect presents a striking contrast to the silence and solitude of the town. The streets, however, are as clean as those of Holland, and the inhabitants are neat and tidy in their attire.
Such were their projects and their hopes when the Gazette de France, on the 21st of June, 1642, gave these two pieces of news both together. "The cardinal-duke, after remaining two days at Arles, embarked on the 11th of this month for Tarascon, his health becoming better and better. The king has ordered under arrest Marquis de Cinq- Mars, grand equerry of France."
How remarkable are the effects of the "mirage". The skin of the blind lion sent to the Commandant was the cause of all this tumult. At the sight of this modest trophy, displayed at the club, Tarascon and beyond Tarascon the whole of the Midi had worked themselves into a state of excitement. "The Semaphore" had spoken. A complete scenario had been invented.
The camel knelt, the trunks were strapped on, the prince installed himself on the creature's neck and Tartarin was hoisted up to the top of the hump, between two cases, from where he proudly saluted the assembled market and gave the signal for departure.... Heavens above!.... If only Tarascon could see him now! The camel rose, stretched out its long legs and took off. Calamity!
Then a Maxim rattled forth amongst the rocks, and warned us that the action had begun in earnest. The commando kept the enemy back just long enough to give us a decent start, and then retired. We afterwards learnt that this British force under Barnum-Powell, of Tarascon had been sent out from Pretoria expressly to intercept us.
Returning early from some drawing-room success, our hero preferred to immerse himself in his books on hunting or spend the evening at the club rather than join in a sing-song round a Nimes piano, between two Tarascon candles. He felt that musical evenings were a little beneath him.
The Tarasconian muezzin gathered himself up for the effort during a space, and then, raising his arms, he set to chanting in a very shrill voice: "La Allah il Allah! Mahomet is an old humbug! The Orient, the Koran, bashaws, lions, Moorish beauties they are all not worth a fly's skip! There is nothing left but gammoners. Long live Tarascon!"
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