like chatting and remained silent, his arm hooked into the arm-strap and
his weaponry between his knees.... His hurried departure, the dark eyes
of Baia, the dangerous chase on which he was about to engage, these
thoughts troubled his mind, and also there was something about this
venerable stage-coach, now domiciled in Africa, which recalled to him
vaguely the Tarascon of his youth. Trips to the country. Dinners by the
banks of the Rhône, a host of memories.

Little by little it grew dark. The guard lit the lanterns. The old coach
swayed and squeaked on its worn springs. The horses trotted, the bells
on their harness jingling, and from time to time there sounded the clash
of ironmongery from Tartarin's arms chest on the top of the coach.

Sleepily Tartarin contemplated his fellow passengers as they danced
before his eyes, shaken by the jolting of the coach, then his eyes
closed and he heard no more, except vaguely, the rumble of the axles and
the groaning of the coach sides....

Suddenly an ancient female voice, rough, hoarse and cracked, called the
Tarasconais by name: "Monsieur Tartarin!... Monsieur Tartarin!" "Who is
calling me?" "It is I, Monsieur Tartarin, don't you recognise me?... I
am the stage-coach which once ran... it is now twenty years ago... the
service from Tarascon to Nimes.... How many times have I carried you
and your friends when you went hat shooting over by Joncquières or
Bellegarde... I didn't recognise you at first because of your bonnet and
the amount of weight you have put on, but as soon as you began to snore,
you old rascal, I knew you right away." "Bon!... Bon!" Replied Tartarin,
somewhat vexed, but then softening, he added: "But now, my poor old
lady, what are you doing here?" "Ah! My dear M. Tartarin, I did not come
here of my own free will I can promise you. Once the railway reached