In short, as far as game goes, there's not a specimen left in the land
save one old rogue of a hare, escaped by miracle from the
massacres, who is stubbornly determined to stick to it all his life!
He is very well known at Tarascon, and a name has been given him.
"Rapid" is what they call him. It is known that he has his form on
M. Bompard's grounds -- which, by the way, has doubled, ay,
tripled, the value of the property -- but nobody has yet managed to
lay him low. At present, only two or three inveterate fellows worry
themselves about him. The rest have given him up as a bad job, and
old Rapid has long ago passed into the legendary world, although
your Tarasconer is very slightly superstitious naturally, and would
eat cock-robins on toast, or the swallow, which is Our Lady's own
bird, for that matter, if he could find any.

"But that won't do!" you will say. Inasmuch as game is so scarce,
what can the sportsmen do every Sunday?

What can they do?

Why, goodness gracious! they go out into the real country two or
three leagues from town. They gather in knots of five or six,
recline tranquilly in the shade of some well, old wall, or olive tree,
extract from their game-bags a good-sized piece of boiled beef, raw
onions, a sausage, and anchovies, and commence a next to endless
snack, washed down with one of those nice Rhone wines, which
sets a toper laughing and singing. After that, when thoroughly
braced up, they rise, whistle the dogs to heel, set the guns on half
cock, and go "on the shoot" -- another way of saying that every
man plucks off his cap, "shies" it up with all his might, and pops it