Tartarin of Tarascon | Page 4

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!

IV. "They!"
CHIEFLY to the account of these diverse talents did Tartarin owe his
lofty position in the town of Tarascon. Talking of captivating, though,
this deuce of a fellow knew how to ensnare everybody. Why, the army,
at Tarascon, was for Tartarin. The brave commandant, Bravida,
honorary captain retired -- in the Military Clothing Factory Department
-- called him a game fellow; and you may well admit that the warrior
knew all about game fellows, he played such a capital knife and fork on

game of all kinds.
So was the legislature on Tartarin's side. Two or three times, in open
court, the old chief judge, Ladevese, had said, in alluding to him:
"He is a character!"
Lastly, the masses were for Tartarin. He had become the swell bruiser,
the aristocratic pugilist, the crack bully of the local Corinthians for the
Tarasconers, from his build, bearing, style -- that aspect of a
guard's-trumpeter's charger which fears no noise; his reputation as a
hero coming from nobody knew whence or for what, and some
scramblings for coppers and a few kicks to the little ragamuffins
basking at his doorway.
Along the waterside, when Tartarin came home from hunting on
Sunday evenings, with his cap on the muzzle of his gun, and his fustian
shooting-jacket belted in tightly, the sturdy river-lightermen would
respectfully bob, and blinking towards the huge biceps swelling out his
arms, would mutter among one another in admiration:
"Now, there's a powerful chap if you like! he has double-muscles!"
"Double muscles!" why, you never heard of such a thing outside of
Tarascon!
For all this, with all his numberless parts, double-muscles, the popular
favour, and the so precious esteem of brave Commandant Bravida,
ex-captain (in the Army Clothing Factory), Tartarin was not happy: this
life in a petty town weighed upon him and suffocated him.
The great man of Tarascon was bored in Tarascon.
The fact is, for a heroic temperament like his, a wild adventurous spirit
which dreamt of nothing but battles, races across the pampas, mighty
battues, desert sands, blizzards and typhoons, it was not enough to go
out every Sunday to pop at a cap, and the rest of the time to ladle out
casting-votes at the gunmaker's. Poor dear great man! If this existence

were only prolonged, there would be sufficient tedium in it to kill him
with consumption.
In vain did he surround himself with baobabs and other African trees,
to widen his horizon, and some little to forget his club and the
market-place; in vain did he pile weapon upon weapon, and Malay
kreese upon Malay kreese; in vain did he cram with romances,
endeavouring like the immortal Don Quixote to wrench himself by the
vigour of his fancy out of the talons of pitiless reality. Alas! all that he
did to appease his thirst for deeds of daring only helped to augment it.
The sight of all the murderous implements kept him in a perpetual stew
of wrath and exaltation. His revolvers, repeating rifles, and
ducking-guns shouted "Battle! battle!" out of their mouths. Through the
twigs of his baobab, the tempest of great voyages and journeys soughed
and blew bad advice. To finish him came Gustave Aimard, Mayne Reid,
and Fenimore Cooper.
Oh, how many times did Tartarin with a howl spring up on the sultry
summer afternoons, when he was reading alone amidst his blades,
points, and edges; how many times did he dash down his book and rush
to the wall to unhook a deadly arm! The poor man forgot he was at
home in Tarascon, in his underclothes, and with a handkerchief round
his head. He would translate his readings into action, and, goading
himself with his own voice, shout out whilst swinging a battle-axe or
tomahawk:
"Now, only let 'em come!"
"Them"? who were they?
Tartarin did not himself any too clearly understand. "They" was all that
should be attacked and fought with, all