At last the great day arrived. From first light the whole of Terascon
was afoot, blocking the Avignon road and the approaches to the little
house of the baobab. There were people at windows, on roofs, up trees.
Bargees from the Rhône, stevedores, boot-blacks, clerks, weavers,
the club members, in fact the whole town. Then there were people from
Beaucaire who had come across the bridge, market-gardeners from
the suburbs, carts with big hoods, vignerons mounted on fine mules
ornamented with ribbons, tassels, bows and bells, and even here and
there some pretty girls from Arles, with blue kerchiefs round their
heads, riding on the crupper behind their sweethearts on the small
iron-grey horses of the Camargue. All this crowd pushed and jostled
before Tartarin’s gate, the gate of this fine M. Tartarin who was going
to kill lions in the country of the “Teurs”. (In Tarascon: Africa,
Greece, Turkey and Mesopotamia formed a vast, vague almost mythical
country which was called the Teurs... that is the Turks). Throughout
this mob the hat shooters came and went, proud of the triumph of their
leader, and leaving in their wake, as it were, little trails of glory.
In front of the house of the baobab there were two large handcarts. From
time to time the gate was opened and one could see men walking busily
about in the garden. They carried out trunks, cases and carpet-bags
which they piled onto the carts. On the arrival of each new package the
crowd stirred and a description of the article was shouted out. “That’s
his tent! There’s the preserved foods! The medicine chest! The arms
chest!” While the hat shooters gave a running commentary.
Suddenly, at about ten o’clock, there was a great movement in the crowd.
The garden gate swung back violently on its hinges.... “It’s him!....
Its him!” they cried.
It was indeed him. When he appeared on the threshold, two cries
of amazement rose from the crowd:--“He’s a Teur!.... He’s wearing
sun-glasses!”.... Tartarin, it is true, had believed that as he was going
to Algeria he should adopt Algerian costume. Large baggy pantaloons of
white cloth, a small tight jacket with metal buttons, a red sash wound
round his stomach and on his head a gigantic “Chechia” (a red floppy
bonnet) with an immensely long blue tassel dangling from its crown.
Added to this, he carried two rifles, one on each shoulder, a hunting
knife stuck into the sash round his middle, a cartridge-bag slung on
one side and a revolver in a leather holster on the other. That was
it. Ah!... forgive me... I forgot the sun-glasses, a huge pair of blue
sun-glasses which were just the very thing to correct any suggestion of
extravagance in his turnout.
“Vive Tartarin!... Vive Tartarin!” Yelled the people. The great man
smiled but did not wave, partly because of the rifles, which were giving
him some trouble and partly because he had learned what little value one
can place on popular favour. Perhaps even, in the depths of his soul, he
cursed these terrible compatriots who were forcing him to leave, to quit
his pretty little house with its green shutters and white walls, but if
so he did not show it. Calm and proud, though a little pale, he marched
down the pathway, inspected his handcarts and seeing that all was in
order set off jauntily on the road to the station, without looking back
even once at the house of the baobab.
On his arrival at the station he was greeted by the station-master,
a former soldier, who shook him warmly by the hand several times. The
Paris-Marseille express had not yet arrived, so Tartarin and his general
staff went into the waiting-room. To keep back the following crowd the
station-master closed the barriers.
For fifteen minutes Tartarin paced back and forward, surrounded by the
hat shooters. He spoke to them of his coming expedition, promising to
send them skins, and entering their orders in his note-book as if they
were a list of groceries. As tranquil as was Socrates at the moment
when he drank the hemlock, the bold Tartarin had a word for everyone.
He spoke simply and affably, as if before departing he wished to leave
behind a legacy of charm, happy memories and regrets. To hear their
chief speak thus brought tears to the eyes of the hat shooters, and to
some, such as the president Ladevèze and the chemist Bezuquet, even a
twinge of remorse. Some of the station staff were dabbing their eyes in
corners, while outside the crowd peered through the railings and shouted
“Vive Tartarin!”
Then a bell rang. There was a rumbling noise of wheels. A piercing
whistle split the heavens... All aboard!... All aboard!... Goodbye
Tartarin!... Goodbye Tartarin!. “Goodbye everyone” murmured the great
man, and on the cheeks of the brave Commandant Bravida he planted a
farewell salute to his beloved Tarascon. Then he hurried along the
platform and got into a carriage full of Parisian ladies, who almost
died of fright at the appearance of this strange man with his revolver
and rifles.