It was to the possession of these various talents that Tartarin owed his
high standing in the town. There were, however, other ways in which he
had made his mark on society.
In Tarascon the army supported Tartarin. The gallant Commandant Bravida
(Quartermaster. Ret) said of him “He’s a stout fellow,” and one may
suppose that having kitted out so many stout fellows in his time, he
knew what he was talking about.
The magistrature supported Tartarin. Two or three times, on a full
bench, the aged president Ladevèze had said of him “He’s quite a
character”.
Finally, the people supported Tartarin, his stolid appearance, the
heroic reputation he had somehow acquired, the distribution of small
sums of money and a few clips round the ear to the youngsters who hung
around his doorstep, had made him lord of the neighbourhood and king
of the Tarascon market-place. On the quay, on sunday evenings, when
Tartarin returned from the hunt, his hat dangling from the end of his
gun, the stevedores would nod to him respectfully and eying the arms
bulging the sleeves of his tightly buttoned jacket, would murmur to one
another, “He’s strong he is. He’s got double muscles.” The possession of
double muscles is something you hear about only in Tarascon.
However, in spite of his numerous talents, double muscles, popular
favour and the so precious esteem of the gallant Commandant Bravida
(Quartermaster. Ret) Tartarin was not happy. This small-town life
weighed him down, stifled him. The great man of Tarascon was bored
with Tarascon. The fact is that for an heroic nature such as his, for a
daring and adventurous spirit which dreamt of battles, explorations, big
game hunting, desert sands, hurricanes and typhoons, to go every Sunday
hat shooting and for the rest of the time dispense justice at Costecalde
the gunsmith’s was... well... hardly satisfying. It was enough indeed to
send one into a decline.
In vain, in order to widen his horizon and forget for a while the club
and the market square, did he surround himself with African plants; in
vain did he pile up a collection of weapons; in vain did he pore over
tales of daring-do trying to escape by the power of his imagination from
the pitiless grip of reality. Alas all that he did to satisfy his lust
for adventure seemed only to increase it. The sight of his weapons kept
him in a perpetual state of furious agitation. His rifles, his arrows
and his spears rang out war-cries. In the branches of the baobab the
wind whispered enticingly of great voyages.
How often on these heavy summer afternoons, when he was alone, reading
amongst his weaponry, did Tartarin jump to his feet and throwing down
his book rush to the wall to arm himself, then, quite forgetting that
he was in his own house at Tarascon, cry, brandishing a gun or a spear,
“Let them all come”!!... Them?... What them? Tartarin did not quite know
himself, “Them” was everything that attacked, that bit, that clawed.
“Them” was the Indian brave dancing round the stake to which his
wretched prisoner was tied. It was the grizzly bear, shuffling and
swaying, licking bloodstained lips. The Toureg of the desert, the Malay
pirate, the Corsican bandit. In a word it was “Them!”
Alas it was fruitless for the fearless Tartarin to challenge them... they
never appeared; but though it seemed unlikely that they would come
to Tarascon, Tartarin was always ready for them, particularly in the
evenings when he went to the club.