ad 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.

XIV. The Port of Marseilles--"All aboard, all aboard!"

UPON the 1st of December 18--, in clear, brilliant, splendid weather,
under a south winter sun, the startled inhabitants of Marseilles beheld
a Turk come down the Canebiere, or their Regent Street. A Turk, a
regular Turk--never had such a one been seen; and yet, Heaven knows,
there is no lack of Turks at Marseilles.

The Turk in question--have I any necessity of telling