hind, and in the little
world of fur and feather Tarascon has an evil fame. The birds of passage
themselves have marked it with a big cross on their maps of the route,
and when the wild-ducks, descending towards Camargue in long triangles,
see the steeples of the town in the distance, the leader screams at the
top of his lungs, "There is Tarascon!--There is Tarascon!" and the whole
flight turns.

In short, as far as game is concerned, only one old rogue of a hare
remains, who has escaped by some miracle from the September massacres of
the Tarasconners, and who insists on living there. In Tarascon this hare
is well known. They have given him a name. He is called "The Express."
It is known that his form is in M. Bompard's ground--which, by the way,
has doubled and even trebled its price--but so far no one has been able
to get at it.

At the present moment there are one or two desperate fellows who have
set their hearts upon him.

The others have made up their minds that it is hopeless, and "The
Express" has become a sort of local superstition, although the
Tarasconners are not very superstitious and eat swallows in a salmi when
they can get them.

"But," you object, "if game is so rare in Tarascon, what do the Tarascon
sportsmen do every Sunday?"

What do they do?

Well, bless me! they go out into the open country two or three leagues
from the town. They gather into little groups of six or seven, stretch
themselves tranquilly in the shadow of an old wall, an olive-tree, take
out of their game-bags a great piece of beef seasoned with _daube_, some
uncooked onions, a large sausage, some anchovies, and begin an
interminable luncheon, moistened by one of those nice little Rhone wines
which make a man laugh and sing.

After that, when one has laid in a good stock of provisions, one rises,
whistles the dogs, loads the guns, and the chase begins. That is to say,
each gentleman takes his cap, flings it into the air with all his might,
and fires at it.

He who puts most shots into his cap is proclaimed king of the hunt, and
returns in the evening to Tarascon in triumph, with his peppered cap on
the end of his gun, amidst yappings and fanfares.

Needless to say, there is a great trade of caps in the town. There are
even hatters who sell caps torn and full of holes for the use of the
clumsy. But hardly any one but Bezuquet, the chemist, buys them. It is
dishonouring!

As a cap-hunter, Tartarin of Tarascon has no equal.