was afoot, blocking the Avignon road and the approaches to the little
house of the baobab. There were people at windows, on roofs, up trees.
Bargees from the Rhône, stevedores, boot-blacks, clerks, weavers,
the club members, in fact the whole town. Then there were people from
Beaucaire who had come across the bridge, market-gardeners from
the suburbs, carts with big hoods, vignerons mounted on fine mules
ornamented with ribbons, tassels, bows and bells, and even here and
there some pretty girls from Arles, with blue kerchiefs round their
heads, riding on the crupper behind their sweethearts on the small
iron-grey horses of the Camargue. All this crowd pushed and jostled
before Tartarin's gate, the gate of this fine M. Tartarin who was going
to kill lions in the country of the "Teurs". (In Tarascon: Africa,
Greece, Turkey and Mesopotamia formed a vast, vague almost mythical
country which was called the Teurs... that is the Turks). Throughout
this mob the hat shooters came and went, proud of the triumph of their
leader, and leaving in their wake, as it were, little trails of glory.

In front of the house of the baobab there were two large handcarts. From
time to time the gate was opened and one could see men walking busily
about in the garden. They carried out trunks, cases and carpet-bags
which they piled onto the carts. On the arrival of each new package the
crowd stirred and a description of the article was shouted out. "That's
his tent! There's the preserved foods! The medicine chest! The arms
chest!" While the hat shooters gave a running commentary.

Suddenly, at about ten o'clock, there was a great movement in the crowd.
The garden gate swung back violently on its hinges.... "It's him!....
Its him!" they cried.

It was indeed him. When he appeared on the threshold, two cries