ded down in
families from father to son and nobody dared to interfere with them,
they were sacrosanct. They were never even borrowed. It would never
occur to the Bezuquets to sing the Costecaldes' song or to the
Costecaldes to sing that of the Bezuquets. You might suppose that
having known them for some forty years they might sometimes sing them to
themselves, but no, everyone stuck to his own.

In the matter of ballads, as in that of hats, Tartarin played a leading
role. His superiority over his fellow citizens arose from the fact that
he did not have a song of his own, and so he could take part in all of
them, only it was extremely difficult to get him to sing at all.

Returning early from some drawing-room success, our hero preferred to
immerse himself in his books on hunting or spend the evening at the
club rather than join in a sing-song round a Nimes piano, between two
Tarascon candles. He felt that musical evenings were a little beneath
him.

Sometimes, however, when there was music at Bezuquet the chemists,
he would drop in as if by chance, and after much persuasion he would
consent to take part in the great duet from "Robert le Diable" with
madame Bezuquet the elder.

Anyone who has not heard this has heard nothing. For my part, if I live
to be a hundred, I shall always recall the great Tartarin approaching
the piano with solemn steps, leaning his elbow upon it, making his
grimace and in the greenish light reflected from the chemist's jars,
trying to give his homely face the savage and satanic expression of
Robert le Diable.

As soon as he had taken up his position, a quiver of expectation ran
through the gathering. One felt that something great was about to
happen.

After a moment of silence, madame Bezuquet the elder, accompanying
herself on the piano, began:

"Robert, thou whom I adore

And in whom I trust,

You see my fear (twice)

Have mercy on yourself

And mercy on me."

She added, sotto voce, "Its you now Tartarin."

Then Tartarin, with arm extended, clenched fist and quivering nostrils,
said three times in a formidable voice which rolled like a clap of
thunder in the entrails of the piano "Non! Non! Non!" Which as a good
southerner he pronounced "Nan. Nan. Nan" Upon which madame Bezuquet
repeated "Mercy on yourself and on me" "Nan! Nan! Nan!" Bellowed
Tartarin even more loudly... and the matter ended there.... It was not
very long, but it was so well presented, so well acted, so diab