บทที่ บทที่ 13 · XIII. The Departure.

. XIII. The Departure.

EFTSOON arrived the great and solemn day. From dawn all Tarascon had

been on foot, encumbering the Avignon road and the approaches to Baobab

Villa. People were up at the windows, on the roofs, and in the trees;

the Rhone bargees, porters, dredgers, shoeblacks, gentry, tradesfolk,

warpers and weavers, taffety-workers, the club members, in short the

whole town; moreover, people from Beaucaire had come over the bridge,

market-gardeners from the environs, carters in their huge carts with

ample tilts, vinedressers upon handsome mules, tricked out with ribbons,

streamers, bells, rosettes, and jingles, and even, here and there, a few

pretty maids from Arles, come on the pillion behind their sweethearts,

with bonny blue ribbons round the head, upon little iron-grey Camargue

horses.

All this swarm squeezed and jostled before our good Tartarin’s door, who

was going to slaughter lions in the land of the Turks.

For Tarascon, Algeria, Africa, Greece, Persia, Turkey, and Mesopotamia,

all form one great hazy country, almost a myth, called the land of the

Turks. They say “Tur’s,” but that’s a linguistic digression.

In the midst of all this throng, the cap-poppers bustled to and fro,

proud of their captain’s triumph, leaving glorious wakes where they had

passed.

In front of the Indian fig-tree house were two large trucks. From time

to time the door would open, and allow several persons to be spied,

gravely lounging about the little garden. At every new box the throng

started and trembled. The articles were named in a loud voice:

“That there’s the shelter-tent; these the potted meats; that’s

the physic-chest; these the gun-cases,”--the cap-poppers giving

explanations.

All of a sudden, about ten o’clock, there was a great stir in the

multitude, for the garden gate banged open.

“Here he is! here he is!” they shouted.

It was he indeed. When he appeared upon the threshold, two outcries of

stupefaction burst from the assemblage:

“He’s a Turk!” “He’s got on spectacles!”

In truth, Tartarin of Tarascon had deemed it his duty, on going to

Algeria, to don the Algerian costume. Full white linen trousers, small

tight vest with metal buttons, a red sash two feet wide around the

waist, the neck bare and the forehead shaven, and a vast red fez, or

chechia, on his head, with something like a long blue tassel thereto.

Together with this, two heavy guns, one on each shoulder, a broad

hunting-knife in the girdle, a bandolier across the breast, a revolver

on the hip, swinging in its patent leather case--that is all. No, I cry

your pardon, I was forgetting the spectacles--a pantomimically large

pair of azure barnacles, which came in partly to temper what was rather

too fierce in the bearing of our hero.

“Long life to Tartarin! hip, hip, hurrah for Tartarin!” roared the

populace.

The great man smiled, but did not salute, on account of the firearms

hindering him. Moreover, he knew now on what popular favour depends;

it may even be that in the depths of his soul he cursed his terrible

fellow-townsfolk, who obliged him to go away and leave his pretty little

pleasure-house with whitened walls and green venetians. But there was no

show of this.

Calm and proud, although a little pallid, he stepped out on the footway,

glanced at the hand-carts, and, seeing all was right, lustily took the

road to the railway-station, without even once looking back towards

Baobab Villa. Behind him marched the brave Commandant Bravida, Ladevese

the Chief Judge, Costecalde the gunsmith next, and then all the

sportsmen who pop at caps, preceding the hand-carts and the rag, tag,

and bobtail.

Before the station the station-master awaited them, an old African

veteran of 1830, who shook Tartarin’s hand many times with fervency.

The Paris-to-Marseilles express was not yet in, so Tartarin and his

staff went into the waiting-rooms. To prevent the place being overrun,

the station-master ordered the gates to be closed.

During a quarter of an hour, Tartarin promenaded up and down in the

rooms in the midst of his brother marksmen, speaking to them of his

journey and his hunting, and promising to send them skins; they put

their names down in his memorandum-book for a lionskin apiece, as

waltzers book for a dance.

Gentle and placid as Socrates on the point of quaffing the hemlock, the

intrepid Tarasconian had a word and a smile for each. He spoke simply,

with an affable mien; it looked as if, before departing, he meant to

leave behind him a wake of charms, regrets, and pleasant memories. 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.

“The Marseilles express, gen’lemen!”

“Good-bye, Tartarin! Good luck, old fellow!”

“Good-bye to you all!” murmured the great man, as, with his arms

around the brave Commandant Bravida, he embraced his dear native place

collectively in him. Then he leaped out upon the platform, and clambered

into a carriage full of Parisian ladies, who were ready to die with

fright at sight of this stranger with so many pistols and rifles.