"Naw, naw, naw!'' The general glance protracted upon the good town.
AFTER the craze for sporting, the lusty Tarascon race cherishes one love: ballad-singing.There's no believing what a quantity of ballads is used up in that little region.All the sentimental stuff turning into sere and yellow leaves in the oldest portfolios, are to be found in full pristine lustre in Tarascon.Ay, the entire collection.
Every family has its own pet, as is known to the town.
For instance, it is an established fact that this is the chemist Bezuquet's family's:
"Thou art the fair star that I adore!"
The gunmaker Costecalde's family's:
"Would'st thou come to the land Where the log-cabins rise?"The official registrar's family's :
"If I wore a coat of invisible green, Do you think for a moment I could be seen?"And so on for the whole of Tarascon.Two or three times a week there were parties where they were sung.The singularity was their being always the same, and that the honest Tarasconers had never had an inclination to change them during the long, long time they had been harping on them.They were handed down from father to son in the families, without anybody improving on them or Bowdlerising them: they were sacred.Never did it occur to Costecalde's mind to sing the Bezuquets', or the Bezuquets to try Costecalde's.And yet you may believe that they ought to know by heart what they had been singing for two-score years! But, nay!
every-body stuck to his own ,and they were all contented.
In ballad-singing.as in cap-popping, Tartarin was still the foremost.
His superiority over his fellow-townsmen consisted in his not having any one song of his own, but in knowing the lot, the whole, mind you! But -- there's a but -- it was the devil's own work to get him to sing them.
Surfeited early in life with his drawing-room successes, our hero preferred by far burying himself in his hunting story-books, or spending the evening at the club, to making a personal exhibition before a Nimes piano between a pair of home-made candles.These musical parades seemed beneath him.Nevertheless, at whiles, when there was a harmonic party at Bezuquet's, he would drop into the chemist's shop, as if by chance, and, after a deal of pressure, consent to do the grand duo in Robert le Diable with old Madame Bezuquet.Whoso never heard that never heard anything! For my part, even if I lived a hundred years, I should always see the mighty Tartarin solemnly stepping up to the piano, setting his arms akimbo, working up his tragic mien, and, beneath the green reflection from the show-bottles in the window, trying to give his pleasant visage the fierce and satanic expression of Robert the Devil.Hardly would he fall into position before the whole audience would be shuddering with the foreboding that something uncommon was at hand.After a hush, old Madame Bezuquet would commence to her own accompaniment:
"Robert, my love is thine!
To thee I my faith did plight, Thou seest my affright, --Mercy for thine own sake, And mercy for mine!"In an undertone she would add: "Now, then, Tartarin!" Whereupon Tartarin of Tarascon, with crooked arms, clenched fists, and quivering nostrils, would roar three times in a formidable voice, rolling like a thunderclap in the bowels of the instrument :
"No! no! no!" which, like the thorough southerner he was, he pronounced nasally as "Naw! naw! naw!" Then would old Madame Bezuquet again sing:
"Mercy for thine own sake, And mercy for mine!""Naw! naw! naw!" bellowed Tartarin at his loudest, and there the gem ended.
Not long, you see; but it was so handsomely voiced forth, so clearly gesticulated, and so diabolical, that a tremor of terror overran the chemist's shop, and the "Naw! naw! naw!" would be encored several times running.
Upon this Tartarin would sponge his brow, smile on the ladies, wink to the sterner sex, and withdraw upon his triumph to go remark at the club with a trifling, offhand air:
"I have just come from the Bezuquets', where I was forced to sing 'em the duo from Robert le Diable."The cream of the joke was that he really believed it!
