These mighty spheres that gem infinity
Were only specks of tinsel fixed in heaven
To light the midnights of his native town."
Shelley, "Queen Mab."
CHAPTER XIV
A HUMAN DOCUMENT
The inside of the fly being stuffy and the view impeded from that position, I decided to make the return journey from the Pont du Gard on the box. Tartarin was too philosophic and too polite to show any surprise at this new form of Britannic madness, so we set off, and the good cocher proved a most entertaining companion.
He had read a great deal in one way and another, and had developed quite a philosophy of his own, Epicurean in the true, not the popular sense of the word, strange as it may appear. Hard experience had wrung it out of him as wine from the wine-press. He was born at Tarascon, and had one sister who had also lived in the city of St. Martha since her birth. The two did not live together; no, she was a little—enfin, she had her ways of living and he had his. He liked his liberty, and she—well, she did not like it: his liberty, bien entendu. She could not support that he should have a key of the house; she would always sit up for him if he was out in the evenings, and it was gênant. Not that Tartarin cared to stay out late, he was quiet in his tastes. "Je ne fais pas la noce moi," he explained; "c'est vide tout ça; néomoins il faut que je suis maître de moi-même; quoique je ne le suis pas," he added with a philosophic shrug and a good-natured "Ain!" to his horse. He lodged "chez Bottin" in the main street with a number of his colleagues. They were hired to drive the carriages, and if they did not get many fares the patron reproached them for laziness. Most of the drivers were eager to make a good haul, for if they were very unsuccessful the employer might discharge them. Tartarin's attitude was characteristic. He made his effort; set forth the attractions of Tarascon and the Castle of Beaucaire, and calmly awaited the result. If the visitors took the carriage he was pleased; if one after another passed him, "Eh! bien, tant pis"; he hoped for better luck next time. And resolutely he abstained from adding to the little turn of ill-fortune the pain of regret.
After all, he had "le bon soleil." When it was cold—and it can be cold in the Midi—he needed all his philosophy: to wait and wait for visitors who never came, to pass hours and days in the bitter wind, and to have time to think about life and what it must always be for him! Yes, there were moments, "Mais que voulez-vous? C'est la vie." One thing he was sure of: la vie was always more or less like that même pour les riches (Oh! deep-visioned Tartarin!).