its marvellous effects
of mirage, so fruitful in surprises, inventions, delirious absurdities,
this joyous little populace, not much larger than a chick-pea, which
reflects and sums up in itself the instincts of the whole French South,
lively, restless, gabbling, exaggerated, comical, impressionable--that
is what the people on the express-train look out for as they pass, and
it is that which has made the popularity of the place.

In memorable pages, which modesty prevents him from mentioning more
explicitly, the historiographer of Tarascon essayed, once upon a time,
to depict the happy days of the little town, leading its club life,
singing its romantic songs (each his own) and, for want of real game,
organizing curious cap-hunts. Then, war having come and the dark times,
Tarascon became known by its heroic defence, its torpedoed esplanade,
the club and the Cafe de la Comedie, both made impregnable; all the
inhabitants enrolled in guerilla companies, their breasts braided with
death's head and cross-bones, all beards grown, and such a display
of battle-axes, boarding cutlasses, and American revolvers that the
unfortunate inhabitants ended by frightening themselves and no longer
daring to approach one another in the streets.

Many years have passed since the war, many a worthless almanac has been
put in the fire, but Tarascon has never forgotten; and, renouncing the
futile amusements of other days, it thinks of nothing now but how to
make blood and muscle for the service of future revenge. Societies for
pistol-shooting and gymnastics, costumed and equipped, all having band
and banners; armouries, boxing-gloves, single-sticks, list-shoes; foot
races and flat-hand fights between persons in the best society; these
things have taken the place of the former cap-hunts and the platonic
cynegetical discussions in the shop of the gunsmith Costecalde.

And finally the club, the old club itself, abjuring bouillotte and
bezique, is now transformed into a "Club Alpin" under the patronage of
the famous Alpine Club of London, which has borne even to India the fame
of its climbers. With this difference, that the Tarasconese, instead of
expatriating themselves on foreign summits, are content with those they
have in hand, or rather underfoot, at the gates of their town.

"The Alps of Tarascon?" you ask. No; but the Alpines, that chain of
mountainettes, redolent of thyme and lavender, not very dangerous, nor
yet very high (five to six h