there is no shortage of Teurs in Marseille. The Teur, need I tell you,
was none other than Tartarin de Tarascon, who was proceeding down the
quay followed by his case of arms, his medicine chest and his preserved
foods, in search of the embarkation point of the Compagnie Touache and
the ferry-boat "Le Zouave" which was to carry him away.

His ears still ringing with the cheers of Tarascon and bemused by the
brightness of the sky and the smell of the sea, Tartarin marched along,
his rifles slung on his shoulders, gazing around in wonder at this
marvellous port of Marseille, which he was seeing for the first time and
which quite dazzled him. He almost felt that he was dreaming and that
like Sinbad he was wandering in one of the fabulous cities of the
Thousand and one Nights.

As far as the eye could see, there stretched a jumble of masts and
yards, criss-crossing in all directions. The flags of a multitude of
nations fluttering in the wind. The ships level with the quay, their
bowsprits projecting over the edge like a row of bayonets, and below
them the carved and painted wooden figureheads of nymphs, goddesses
and saintly virgins from which the ships took their names. From time to
time, between the hulls one could see a patch of sea, like a great sheet
of cloth spattered with oil, while in the entanglement of yardarms a
host of seagulls made pretty splashes of white against the blue sky.
On the quay, amid the streams which trickled from the soapworks, thick,
green, streaked with black, full of oil and soda, there was a whole
population of customs officers, shipping agents, and stevedores with
trollies drawn by little Corsican ponies. There were shops selling
strange sweetmeats. Smoke enshrouded huts where seamen were cooking.
There were merchants selling monkeys, parrots, rope, sailcloth and
fantastic collections of bric-a-brac where, heaped up pell-mell, were