undertake, to say nothing of this European coach; with its Noah's
Ark aspect, rediscovered in the heart of Africa, vaguely recalling
the Tarascon of his youth, with its races in the suburbs, jolly dinners
on the river-side -- a throng of memories, in short.

Gradually night came on. The guard lit up the lamps. The rusty
diligence danced creakingly on its old springs; the horses trotted
and their bells jangled. From time to time in the boot arose a
dreadful clank of iron: that was the war material.

Tartarin of Tarascon, nearly overcome, dwelt a moment scanning
the fellow-passengers, comically shaken by the jolts, and dancing
before him like the shadows in galanty-shows, till his eyes grew
cloudy and his mind befogged, and only vaguely he heard the
wheels grind and the sides of the conveyance squeak complainingly.

Suddenly a voice called Tartarin by his name, the voice of an old
fairy godmother, hoarse, broken, and cracked.

"Monsieur Tartarin!" three times.

"Who's calling me?"

"It's I, Monsieur Tartarin. Don't you recognise me? I am the old
stage-coach who used to do the road betwixt Nimes and Tarascon
twenty year agone. How many times I have carried you and your
friends when you went to shoot at caps over Joncquieres or
Bellegarde way! I did not know you again at the first, on account
of your Turk's cap and the flesh you have accumulated; but as soon
as you began snoring -- what a rascal is good-luck! -- I twigged