The knight of the temple preparing for a sortie against the Saracen. The
Chinese warrior equipping himself for battle. The Comanchee brave taking
to the warpath were as nothing compared to Tartarin de Tarascon arming
himself to go to the club at nine o’clock on a dark evening, an hour
after the bugle had blown the retreat. He was cleared for action as the
sailors say.
On his left hand he had a metal knuckleduster. In his right he carried
a sword-stick. In his left pocket there was a cosh and in his right a
revolver. Stuck into his waistband was a knife. Before setting out, in
the privacy of his den, he carried out a few exercises. He made a pass
at the wall with his sword-stick, drew his revolver, flexed his
muscles and then taking his identity papers he crossed the
garden... steadily... unhurriedly... à l’Anglais. That is the mark of true
courage.
At the end of the garden he opened the heavy iron gate. He opened it
brusquely, violently, so that it banged against the wall. If “They” had
been behind it, it would have made a fine mess of them. Unfortunately
they were not behind it.
Having opened the gate Tartarin went out, cast a quick look right and
left, closed the gate swiftly and double locked it. Then he set off.
On the Avignon road there was not so much as a cat. Doors were shut and
curtains drawn across windows. Here and there a street light blinked in
the mist rising from the Rhône.
Superb and calm Tartarin de Tarascon strode through the night, his heels
striking the road with measured tread and the metal tip of his cane
raising sparks from the paving-stones. On boulevards, roads or lanes he
was always careful to walk in the middle of the causeway, an excellent
precaution which allows one to see approaching danger and moreover to
avoid things which at night, in the streets of Tarascon, sometimes fall
from windows. Seeing this prudence you should not entertain the notion
that Tartarin was afraid. No! He was just being cautious.
The clearest evidence that Tartarin was unafraid is that he went to the
club not by the short way but by the longest and darkest way, through
a tangle of mean little streets, at the end of which one glimpsed the
sinister gleam of the Rhone. He almost hoped that at a bend in one of
these alleys “They” would come rushing from the shadows to attack him
from behind. They would have had a hot reception I can promise you;
but sadly Tartarin was never fated to encounter any danger... not even a
dog... not even a drunk... Nothing.
Sometimes however there was an alarm. The sound of footsteps... Muffled
voices. Tartarin comes to a halt, peering into the shadows, sniffing
the air, straining his ears. The steps draw nearer, the voices more
distinct... there can be no doubt... VThey” are here. With heaving
breast and eyes ablaze Tartarin is gathering himself like a jaguar and
preparing to leap on his foes, when suddenly out of the gloom a good
Tarasconais voice calls “Look! There’s Tartarin! Hulloa there Tartarin!”
Malediction! It is Bezuquet the chemist and his family who have been
singing their ballad at the Costecaldes. “Bon soir, bon soir” growls
Tartarin, furious at his mistake, and shouldering his cane he disappears
angrily into the night.
Arrived at the club the fearless Tarasconais waits a little longer,
walking up and down in front of the door before entering. In the
end, tired of waiting for “them” and certain that they will not show
themselves, he throws a last look of defiance into the dark and mutters
crossly “Nothing... nothing... always nothing” With that our hero goes in
to play bezique with the Commandant.