Ah...! The Garden... there was not another like it in Europe. Not one
indigenous tree grew there, not one French flower; nothing but exotic
plants, gum trees, calabashes, cotton trees, coconut palms, mangos,
bananas, cactuses, figs and a baobab. One might have thought oneself in
the middle of Africa, thousands of miles from Tarascon. Of course none
of these trees was fully grown, the coconut palm was about the size of
a swede and the baobab (arbos gigantica) fitted comfortably into a
pot full of earth and gravel. No matter.... For Tarascon it was quite
splendid, and those citizens who were admitted, on Sundays, to have the
privilege of inspecting Tartarin's baobab went home full of admiration.

You may imagine my emotions as I walked through this remarkable
garden... they were nothing, however, to what I felt on being admitted to
the sanctum of the great man himself.

This building, one of the curiosities of the town, was at the end of the
garden, to which it opened through a glass door. Picture a large room
hung from floor to ceiling with firearms and swords; weapons from every
country in the world. Guns, carbines, rifles, blunderbusses,
knives, spears, revolvers, daggers, arrows, assegais, knobkerries,
knuckledusters and I know not what.

The brilliant sunlight glittered on the steel blades of sabres and the
polished butts of firearms. It was really quite a menacing scene... what
was a little reassuring was the good order and discipline which ruled
over this arsenal. Everything was neat tidy and dusted. Here and there a
simple notice, reading "Poison arrows, Do not touch." or "Beware. Loaded
firearms." made one feel it safe to approach.

In the middle of the room was a table. On the table was a flagon of