It was an ancient, old-fashioned stage-coach, upholstered in the old way
in heavy blue cloth, very faded, and with enormous pom-poms, which after
a few hours on the road dug uncomfortably into one’s back. Tartarin had
an inside seat, where he installed himself as best he could, and where,
instead of the musky scent of the great cats, he could savour the ripe
perfume of the coach, compounded of a thousand odours of men, women,
horses, leather, food and damp straw.
The other passengers on the coach were a mixed lot. A Trappist monk,
some Jewish merchants, two Cocottes, returning to their unit, the third
Hussars, and a photographer from Orleansville.
No matter how charming and varied the company, Tartarin did not feel
like chatting and remained silent, his arm hooked into the arm-strap and
his weaponry between his knees.... His hurried departure, the dark eyes
of Baia, the dangerous chase on which he was about to engage, these
thoughts troubled his mind, and also there was something about this
venerable stage-coach, now domiciled in Africa, which recalled to him
vaguely the Tarascon of his youth. Trips to the country. Dinners by the
banks of the Rhône, a host of memories.
Little by little it grew dark. The guard lit the lanterns. The old coach
swayed and squeaked on its worn springs. The horses trotted, the bells
on their harness jingling, and from time to time there sounded the clash
of ironmongery from Tartarin’s arms chest on the top of the coach.
Sleepily Tartarin contemplated his fellow passengers as they danced
before his eyes, shaken by the jolting of the coach, then his eyes
closed and he heard no more, except vaguely, the rumble of the axles and
the groaning of the coach sides....
Suddenly an ancient female voice, rough, hoarse and cracked, called the
Tarasconais by name: “Monsieur Tartarin!... Monsieur Tartarin!” “Who is
calling me?” “It is I, Monsieur Tartarin, don’t you recognise me?... I
am the stage-coach which once ran... it is now twenty years ago... the
service from Tarascon to Nimes.... How many times have I carried you
and your friends when you went hat shooting over by Joncquières or
Bellegarde... I didn’t recognise you at first because of your bonnet and
the amount of weight you have put on, but as soon as you began to snore,
you old rascal, I knew you right away.” “Bon!... Bon!” Replied Tartarin,
somewhat vexed, but then softening, he added: “But now, my poor old
lady, what are you doing here?” “Ah! My dear M. Tartarin, I did not come
here of my own free will I can promise you. Once the railway reached
Beaucaire no one could find a use for me so I was shipped off to
Africa... and I am not the only one, nearly all the stage-coaches in
France have been deported like me; we were found too old fashioned and
now here we all are, leading a life of slavery.” Here the old coach gave
a long sigh, then she went on: “I can’t tell you monsieur Tartarin how
much I miss my lovely Tarascon. These were good times for me, the time
of my youth. You should have seen me leaving in the morning, freshly
washed and polished, with new varnish on my wheels, my lamps shining
like suns and my tarpaulin newly dressed with oil. How grand it was
when the postillion cracked his whip and sang out, ‘Lagadigadeou, la
Tarasque, la Tarasque’ and the guard, with his ticket-punch slung on its
bandolier and his braided cap tipped over one ear, chucked his little
yapping dog onto the tarpaulin of the coach-roof and scrambled up
himself crying ‘Let’s go!... Let’s go!’ Then my four horses would start
off with a jingle of bells, barking and fanfares. Windows would open and
all Tarascon would watch with pride the stage-coach setting off along
the king’s highway.
“What a fine road it was, Monsieur Tartarin, wide and well kept, with
its kilometre markers, its heaps of roadmender’s stones at regular
intervals, and to right and left vinyards and pretty groves of olive
trees. Then inns every few yards, post-houses every five minutes... and
my travellers! What fine folk!... Mayors and curés going to Nimes to see
their Prefect or Bishop, honest workmen, students on holiday, peasants
in embroidered smocks, all freshly shaved that morning, and up on top,
all of you hat shooters, who were always in such good form and who sang
so well to the stars as we returned home in the evening.
“Now it is a different story... God knows the sort of people I carry. A
load of miscreants from goodness knows where, who infest me with vermin.
Negroes, Bedouins, rascals and adventurers from every country, colonists
who stink me out with their pipes, and all of them talking a language
which even our Heavenly Father couldn’t understand.... And then you
see how they treat me. Never brushed. Never washed. They grudge me the
grease for my axles, and instead of the fine big, quiet horses which I
used to have, they give me little Arab horses which have the devil in
them, fighting, biting, dancing about and running like goats, breaking
my shafts with kicks. Aie!... Aie! They are at it again now.... And the
roads! It’s still all right here, because we are near Government House,
but out there, nothing! No road of any sort. One goes as best one can
over hill and dale through dwarf palms and mastic trees. Not a single
fixed stop. One pulls up at wherever the guard fancies, sometimes at one
farm, sometimes at another. Sometimes this rogue takes me on a detour of
two leagues just so that he can go and drink with a friend. After that
it’s ‘Whip up postillion, we must make up for lost time.’ The sun burns.
The dust chokes... Whip!... Whip! We crash. We tip over.
More whip. We swim across rivers, we are cold, soaked and half
drowned... Whip!... Whip!... Whip! Then in the evening, dripping wet...
that’s good for me at my age... I have to bed down in the yard of some
caravan halt, exposed to all the winds. At night jackals and hyenas
come to sniff at my lockers and creatures which fear the dawn hide in
my compartments. That’s the life I lead, monsieur Tartarin, and I shall
lead until the day when, scorched by sun and rotted by humid nights, I
shall fall at some corner of this beastly road, where Arabs will boil
their cous-cous on the remains of my old carcase.”
“Blidah!... Blidah!” Shouted the guard, opening the coach door.