clutching, bewildered, at the head of our hero, its long blue woollen
tassel streaming in the spume and gusting wind.

The fourth position. Six in the evening. Off the coast of Corsica. The
wretched chechia is leaning over the rail and sadly contemplating the
depths of the ocean.

Fifth and last position. Down in a narrow cabin, in a little bed which
has the appearance of a drawer in a commode, something formless and
desolate rolls about, moaning, on the pillow. It is the chechia, the
heroic chechia, now reduced to the vulgar status of a night-cap, and
jammed down to the ears of a pallid and convulsing invalid.

Ah! If the townsfolk of Tarascon could have seen the great Tartarin,
lying in his commode drawer, in the pale, dismal light which filtered
through the porthole, amongst the stale smell of cooking and wet wood,
the depressing odour of the ferry boat. If they had heard him groan
at every turn of the propeller, ask for tea every five minutes, and
complain to the steward in the weak voice of a child, would they have
regretted having forced him to leave? On my word, the poor Tuer deserved
pity. Overcome by sea-sickness, he had not the will even to loosen
his sash or rid himself of his weapons. The hunting knife with the big
handle dug into his ribs. His revolver bruised his leg, and the final
straw was the nagging of Tartarin-Sancho, who never ceased whining and
carping:--"Imbecile! Va! I warned you didn't I?.... But you had to go to
Africa!.... Well now you're on your way, how do you like it?"

What was every bit as cruel was that, shut in his cabin, between his
groans he could hear the other passengers in the saloon, laughing,
eating, singing, playing cards. The society in the Zouave was as