photographic artist from Orleansville, and so on. But,
however charming and varied was the company, the Tarasconian was not in
the mood for chatting; he remained quite thoughtful, with an arm in the
arm-rest sling-strap and his guns between his knees. All churned up his
wits--the precipitate departure, Baya's eyes of jet, the terrible chase
he was about to undertake, to say nothing of this European coach; with
its Noah's Ark aspect, rediscovered in the heart of Africa, vaguely
recalling the Tarascon of his youth, with its races in the suburbs,
jolly dinners on the river-side--a throng of memories, in short.

Gradually night came on. The guard lit up the lamps. The rusty diligence
danced creakingly on its old springs; the horses trotted and their bells
jangled. From time to time in the boot arose a dreadful clank of iron:
that was the war material.

Tartarin of Tarascon, nearly overcome, dwelt a moment scanning the
fellow-passengers, comically shaken by the jolts, and dancing before
him like the shadows in galanty-shows, till his eyes grew cloudy and his
mind befogged, and only vaguely he heard the wheels grind and the sides
of the conveyance squeak complainingly.

Suddenly a voice called Tartarin by his name, the voice of an old fairy
godmother, hoarse, broken, and cracked.

"Monsieur Tartarin!" three times.

"Who's calling me?"

"It's I, Monsieur Tartarin. Don't you recognise me? I am the old
stage-coach who used to do the road betwixt Nimes and Tarascon twenty
year agone. How many times I have carried you and your friends when you
went to shoot at caps over Joncquieres or Bellegarde way! I did not know
you again at the first, on account of your Turk's cap and the flesh you
have accumulated; but as soon as you began snoring--what a rascal is
good-luck!--I twigged you straight away."

"All right, that's all right enough!" observed the Tarasconian, a shade
vexed; but softening, he added, "But to the point, my poor old girl;
whatever did you come out here for?"

"Pooh! my good Monsieur Tartarin, I assure you I never came of my
own free will. As soon as the Beaucaire railway was finished I was
considered good for nought, and shipped away into Algeria. And I am not
the only one either! Bless you, next to all the old stage-coaches of
France have been packed off like me. We were regarded as too much the
conservative--'the slow-coaches'--d'ye see, and now we are here
leading the life of a dog. This is what you in Fra