The drive had taken about a couple of hours, time well spent, apart from the charm of the country we had passed through, for a human life, in its emotions as well as in its events, had been unrolled before me.
And strangely pathetic it was; the life of this good-hearted, disillusioned, unembittered philosopher, who, with a sort of sad cheerfulness, waited in fair weather and foul under the plane-trees in the main street, trying to tempt the tourist to take the round of the sights—preferably the whole round, but if that piece of good-luck failed him, then "sans Beaucaire."
Yes, sometimes his heart was a little heavy; he was more or less dependent on his employer, he was solitary though he had many good comrades among the people of his native town. But he was spared anxiety in that his risks were his own and his alone; but he had no one to live for, no one to care for. A wife, as he had before declared, he would not have; la misère à deux was not the route to happiness; and in his case la famille had not proved comforting. Often when he went back to Bottin's after the day's work, he felt a sinking of the heart, for, after all, was it a life, this? But "enfin, que voulez-vous?" He was better off than many a poor devil, and so he said to himself: "Raphael" (for that was poor Tartarin's real name), "Raphael, mon vieux, tu es donc un imbécile."
And that usually restored him to a more satisfactory frame of mind; though there were times when even this rousing adjuration lost its efficacy. At these moments the gloom would last the night and pursue him when he went to his work next morning, and he would feel as if he could endure the empty monotony no longer.
Then suddenly—a ray of sunshine, the flight of a bird, and all the dark thoughts would melt away!
I almost started as Tartarin said these words. As a philosopher I already knew him, but here was an artist!
We parted with many expressions of good-will, I promising to send him a copy of Maeterlinck's "La Sagesse et la Destinée," for I thought he might gain comfort and enjoyment from a philosophy which had many points in common with his own. Perhaps the Belgian poet would help him a step or two further on his road, and teach him to know the value of the wisdom he had already won.
In acknowledgment, he sent me an illustrated post-card of the Pont du Gard, with a charming little inscription expressing his gratitude for my having thus remembered "le pauvre cocher."
And this good-hearted philosopher will hereafter always be to me the real Tartarin de Tarascon.