a mythic siege by the
Prussians) in the "Contes du Lundi." In the introduction which, for the
new edition of his works, he has lately supplied to "Tartarin," the
author of this extravagant but kindly satire gives some account of the
displeasure with which he has been visited by the ticklish Tarasconnais.
Daudet relates that in his attempt to shed a humorous light upon some of
the more vivid phases of the Provencal character he selected Tarascon at
a venture; not because the temperament of its natives is more
vainglorious than that of their neighbours, or their rebellion against
the "despotism of fact" more marked, but simply because he had to name a
particular Provencal city. Tartarin is a hunter of lions and charmer of
women, a true "_produit du midi_," as Daudet says, a character of the
most extravagant, genial comedy. He is a minimised Don Quixote, with
much less dignity but with equal good faith; and the story of his
exploits is a little masterpiece of the free fantastic. The
Tarasconnais, however, declined to take the joke, and opened the vials
of their wrath upon the mocking child of Nimes, who would have been
better employed, they doubtless thought, in showing up the infirmities
of his own family. I am bound to add that when I passed through Tarascon
they did not appear to be in the least out of humour. Nothing could have
been brighter, easier, more suggestive of amiable indifference, than the
picture it presented to my mind. It lies quietly beside the Rhone,
looking across at Beaucaire, which seems very distant and independent,
and tacitly consenting to let the castle of the good King Rene of Anjou,
which projects very boldly into the river, pass for its most interesting
feature. The other features are, primarily, a sort of vivid sleepiness
in the aspect of the place, as if the September noon (it had lingered on
into October) lasted longer there than elsewhere; certain low arcades
which make the streets look grey and exhibit empty vistas; and a very
curious and beautiful walk beside the Rhone, denominated the Chaussee--a
long and narrow causeway, densely shaded by two rows of magnificent old
trees planted in its embankment and rendered doubly effective at the
moment I passed over it by a little train of collegians who had been
taken out for mild exercise by a pair of young priests. Lastly one may
say that a striking element of Tarascon, as of any town that lies on the
Rhone, is simply the Rhone itself; the big bro