For fifteen minutes Tartarin paced back and forward, surrounded by the
hat shooters. He spoke to them of his coming expedition, promising to
send them skins, and entering their orders in his note-book as if they
were a list of groceries. As tranquil as was Socrates at the moment
when he drank the hemlock, the bold Tartarin had a word for everyone.
He spoke simply and affably, as if before departing he wished to leave
behind a legacy of charm, happy memories and regrets. To hear their
chief speak thus brought tears to the eyes of the hat shooters, and to
some, such as the president Ladevèze and the chemist Bezuquet, even a
twinge of remorse. Some of the station staff were dabbing their eyes in
corners, while outside the crowd peered through the railings and shouted
"Vive Tartarin!"

Then a bell rang. There was a rumbling noise of wheels. A piercing
whistle split the heavens... All aboard!... All aboard!... Goodbye
Tartarin!... Goodbye Tartarin!. "Goodbye everyone" murmured the great
man, and on the cheeks of the brave Commandant Bravida he planted a
farewell salute to his beloved Tarascon. Then he hurried along the
platform and got into a carriage full of Parisian ladies, who almost
died of fright at the appearance of this strange man with his revolver
and rifles.




Chapter 11.

On the first day of December 186-, in the clear bright winter sunshine
of Provence, the startled inhabitants of Marseille witnessed the arrival
of a Teur. Never had they seen one like this before, though God knows