itude was heroic. Quickly detaching himself from
Sonia: "Fly, save yourself!" he said to her in a smothered voice. Then
he mounted the stairs as if to the scaffold, his head high, his eyes
proud, but so disturbed in mind that he was forced to cling to the
baluster.

As he entered the corridor, he saw persons grouped at the farther end
of it before his door, looking through the keyhole, rapping, and calling
out: "Hey! Tartarin..."

He made two steps forward, and said, with parched lips: "Is it I whom
you are seeking, messieurs?"

"_Te! pardi_, yes, my president!."

And a little old man, alert and wiry, dressed in gray, and apparently
bringing on his coat, his hat, his gaiters and his long and pendent
moustache all the dust of his native town, fell upon the neck of the
hero and rubbed against his smooth fat cheeks the withered leathery skin
of the retired captain of equipment.

"Bravida!.. not possible!.. Excourbanies too!.. and who is that over
there?.."

A bleating answered: "Dear ma-a-aster!.." and the pupil advanced,
banging against the wall a sort of long fishing-rod with a packet at one
end wrapped in gray paper, and oilcloth tied round it with string.

"Hey! _ve!_ why it's Pascalon... Embrace me, little one... What's that
you are carrying?.. Put it down..."

"The paper... take off the paper!.." whispered Bravida. The youth undid
the roll with a rapid hand and the Tarasconese banner was displayed to
the eyes of the amazed Tartarin.

The delegates took off their hats.

"President"--the voice of Bravida trembled solemnly--"you asked for the
banner and we have brought it, _te!_"

The president opened a pair of eyes as round as apples: "I! I asked for
it?"

"What! you did not ask for it? Bezuquet said so.

"Yes, yes, _certainemain_..." said Tartarin, suddenly enlightened by
the mention of Bezuquet. He understood all and guessed the rest, and,
tenderly moved by the ingenious lie of the apothecary to recall him to
a sense of duty and honour, he choked, and stammered in his short beard:
"Ah! my children, how kind you are! What good you have done me!"

"_Vive le presidain!_" yelped Pascalon, brandishing the oriflamme.
Excourbanies' gong responded, rolling its war-cry (" Ha! ha! ha! _fen
de brut_..") to the very cellars of the hotel. Doors opened, inquisitive
heads protruded on every floor and then disappeared, alarmed, before
that standard and the dark and hairy men who were roaring singular
words and tos