Tartarin of Tarascon | Page 9

on that head; but, you know, the mirage had its usual effect. 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. Hence, on this occasion more
than upon others, these peculiarities rang out till the windows shivered.

The most surprised of men in the town on hearing that Tartarin was
going away to Africa, was Tartarin himself. But only see what vanity is!
Instead of plumply answering that he was not going at all, and had not
even had the intention, poor Tartarin, on the first of them mentioning
the journey to him, observed with a neat little evasive air, "Aha! maybe
I shall -- but I do not say as much." The second time; a trifle more
familiarised with the idea, he replied, "Very likely;" and the third time,
"It's certain."
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. Whereupon more
egg-nogg, bravoes, handshaking, slappings of the shoulder, and a
torchlight serenade up to midnight before Baobab Villa.
It was Sancho-Tartarin who was anything but delighted. This idea of
travel in Africa and lion-hunting made him shudder beforehand; and
when the house was re-entered, and whilst the complimentary concert
was sounding under the windows, he had a dreadful "row" with
Quixote-Tartarin, calling him a cracked head, a visionary, imprudent,
and thrice an idiot, and detailing by the card all the catastrophes
awaiting him on such an expedition -- shipwreck, rheumatism, yellow
fever, dysentery, the black plague, elephantiasis, and the rest of them.
In vain did Quixote-Tartarin vow that he had not committed any
imprudence -- that he would wrap himself up well, and take even
superfluous necessaries with him. Sancho-Tartarin would listen to
nothing. The poor craven saw himself already torn to tatters by the
lions, or engulfed in the desert sands like his late royal highness
Cambyses, and the other Tartarin only managed to appease him a little
by explaining that the start was not immediate, as nothing pressed.
It is clear enough, indeed, that none embark on such an enterprise
without some preparations. A man is bound to know whither he goes,
hang it all! and not fly off like a bird. Before anything else, the

Tarasconian wanted to peruse the accounts of great African tourists, the
narrations of Mungo Park, Du Chaillu, Dr. Livingstone, Stanley, and so
on.
In them, he learnt that these daring explorers, before donning their
sandals for distant excursions, hardened themselves well beforehand to
support hunger and thirst, forced marches, and all kinds of privation.
Tartarin meant to act like they did, and from that day forward he lived
upon water broth alone. The water broth of Tarascon is a few slices of
bread drowned in hot water, with a clove of garlic, a pinch of thyme,
and a sprig of laurel. Strict diet, at which you may believe poor Sancho
made a wry face.
To the regimen of water broth Tartarin of Tarascon joined other wise
practices. To break himself into the habit of long marches, he
constrained himself to go round the town seven or eight times
consecutively every morning, either at the fast walk or run, his elbows
well set against his body, and a couple of white pebbles in the mouth,
according to the antique usage.
To get inured to fog, dew, and night coolness, he would go down into
his garden every dusk, and stop out there till ten or eleven, alone with
his gun, on the lookout, behind the baobab.
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.
PENDING Tartarin's delay of the event by all sorts of heroic means, all
Tarascon kept an eye upon him, and nothing else was busied about.
Cap-popping was winged, and ballad-singing dead. The piano in
Bezuquet's shop mouldered away under a green fungus, and the

Spanish flies dried upon it, belly up. Tartarin's expedition