Beaucaire no one could find a use for me so I was shipped off to
Africa... and I am not the only one, nearly all the stage-coaches in
France have been deported like me; we were found too old fashioned and
now here we all are, leading a life of slavery." Here the old coach gave
a long sigh, then she went on: "I can't tell you monsieur Tartarin how
much I miss my lovely Tarascon. These were good times for me, the time
of my youth. You should have seen me leaving in the morning, freshly
washed and polished, with new varnish on my wheels, my lamps shining
like suns and my tarpaulin newly dressed with oil. How grand it was
when the postillion cracked his whip and sang out, 'Lagadigadeou, la
Tarasque, la Tarasque' and the guard, with his ticket-punch slung on its
bandolier and his braided cap tipped over one ear, chucked his little
yapping dog onto the tarpaulin of the coach-roof and scrambled up
himself crying 'Let's go!... Let's go!' Then my four horses would start
off with a jingle of bells, barking and fanfares. Windows would open and
all Tarascon would watch with pride the stage-coach setting off along
the king's highway.

"What a fine road it was, Monsieur Tartarin, wide and well kept, with
its kilometre markers, its heaps of roadmender's stones at regular
intervals, and to right and left vinyards and pretty groves of olive
trees. Then inns every few yards, post-houses every five minutes... and
my travellers! What fine folk!... Mayors and curés going to Nimes to see
their Prefect or Bishop, honest workmen, students on holiday, peasants
in embroidered smocks, all freshly shaved that morning, and up on top,
all of you hat shooters, who were always in such good form and who sang
so well to the stars as we returned home in the evening.

"Now it is a different story... God knows the sort of people I carry. A
load of miscreants from goodness knows where, who infest me with vermin.