orrow, there was nothing talked about through town but the
near-at-hand departure of Tartarin for Algeria and lion-hunting. You
are all witness, dear readers, that the honest fellow had not breathed
a word on that head; but, you know, the mirage had its usual effect. In
brief, all Tarascon spoke of nothing but the departure.

On the Old Walk, at the club, in Costecalde's, friends accosted one
another with a startled aspect:

"And furthermore, you know the news, at least?"

"And furthermore, rather? Tartarin's setting out, at least?"

For at Tarascon all phrases begin with "and furthermore," and conclude
with "at least," with a strong local accent. Hence, on this occasion
more than upon others, these peculiarities rang out till the windows
shivered.

The most surprised of men in the town on hearing that Tartarin was
going away to Africa, was Tartarin himself. But only see what vanity is!
Instead of plumply answering that he was not going at all, and had not
even had the intention, poor Tartarin, on the first of them mentioning
the journey to him, observed with a neat little evasive air, "Aha!
maybe I shall--but I do not say as much." The second time; a trifle more
familiarised with the idea, he replied, "Very likely;" and the third
time, "It's certain."

Finally, in the evening, at Costecalde's and the club, carried away by
the egg-nogg, cheers, and illumination; intoxicated by the impression
that bare announcement of his departure had made on the town, the
hapless fellow formally declared that he was sick of banging away at
caps, and that he would shortly be on the trail of the great lions of
the Atlas. A deafening hurrah greeted this assertion. Whereupon more
egg-nogg, bravoes, handshaking, slappings of the shoulder, and a
torchlight serenade up to midnight before Baobab Villa.

It was Sancho-Tartarin who was anything but delighted. This idea of
travel in Africa and lion-hunting made him shudder beforehand; and
when the house was re-entered, and whilst the complimentary concert
was sounding under the windows, he had a dreadful "row" with
Quixote-Tartarin, calling him a cracked head, a visionary, imprudent,
and thrice an idiot, and detailing by the card all the catastrophes
awaiting him on such an expedition--shipwreck, rheumatism, yellow fever,
dysentery, the black plague, elephantiasis, and the rest of them.

In vain did Quixote-Tartarin vow that he had not committed any
imprudence--that he would wrap himself