n office full of clerks to control. Relations with
Russia, Persia, Turkey. In short, Big Business, which in Tartarin's eyes
was of enormous proportions.

The establishment had another advantage in that it was sometimes
attacked by bandits. On these occasions the gates were slammed shut, the
staff armed themselves, the consular flag was hoisted and "Pan! Pan!"
They fired through the windows at the bandits.

I need hardly tell you with what enthusiasm Tartarin-Quixote greeted
this proposal; unfortunately Tartarin-Sancho did not see the matter in
the same light, and as his views prevailed the affair came to nothing.

At the time there was a great deal of talk in the town. Was he going or
not going? It was a matter for eager discussion.

Although in the end Tartarin did not go, the event brought him a great
deal of credit. To have nearly gone to Shanghai and actually to have
gone there was for Tarascon much the same thing. As a result of so much
talk about Tartarin's journey, people ended by believing that he had
just returned, and in the evenings at the club the members would ask him
for a description of the life in Shanghai, the customs, the climate, and
big business.

Tartarin, who had gathered much information from the brothers was happy
to reply to their questions, and before long he was not entirely sure
himself whether he had been to Shanghai or not; so much so that when
describing for the hundredth time the raid by bandits he got to the
point of saying "Then I dished out arms to my staff. Hoisted the
consular flag and we fired 'Pan! Pan!' Through the windows at the
bandits." On hearing this the members would exchange suitably solemn
looks.

Tartarin then, you will say, is just a frightful liar. No!.... A
thousand times no! How is that? you may say, he must know vey well that
he has not been to Shanghai... to be sure he knows... only.... Perhaps the
time has come when we should settle the question of the reputation for
lying which has been given to the people of the Midi.

There are no liars in the Midi, neither at Marseille, nor Nimes, nor
Toulouse, nor Tarascon. The man of the Midi does not lie, he deceives
himself. He does not always speak the truth but he believes he speaks
it. His untruth, for him, is not a lie, it is a sort of mirage. To
understand better you must visit the Midi yourself. You will see a
countryside where the sun transfigures everything and makes it larger
than life-size. The little hill