Bab Bab 5 · V. How Tartarin went round to his club.

. V. How Tartarin went round to his club.

LITTLE, indeed, beside Tartarin of Tarascon, arming himself capa-pie

to go to his club at nine, an hour after the retreat had sounded on the

bugle, was the Templar Knight preparing for a sortie upon the infidel,

the Chinese tiger equipping himself for combat, or the Comanche warrior

painting up for going on the war-path. “All hands make ready for

action!” as the men-of-war’s men say.

In his left hand Tartarin took a steel-pointed knuckle-duster; in the

right he carried a sword-cane; in his left pocket a life-preserver; in

the right a revolver. On his chest, betwixt outer and under garment,

lay a Malay kreese. But never any poisoned arrows--they are weapons

altogether too unfair.

Before starting, in the silence and obscurity of his study, he exercised

himself for a while, warding off imaginary cuts and thrusts, lunging at

the wall, and giving his muscles play; then he took his master-key and

went through the garden leisurely; without hurrying, mark you. “Cool and

calm--British courage, that is the true sort, gentlemen.” At the garden

end he opened the heavy iron door, violently and abruptly so that it

should slam against the outer wall. If “they” had been skulking behind

it, you may wager they would have been jam. Unhappily, they were not

there.

The way being open, out Tartarin would sally, quickly glancing to the

right and left, ere banging the door to and fastening it smartly with

double-locking. Then, on the way.

Not so much as a cat upon the Avignon road--all the doors closed, and

no lights in the casements. All was black, except for the parish lamps,

well spaced apart, blinking in the river mist.

Calm and proud, Tartarin of Tarascon marched on in the night, ringing

his heels with regularity, and sending sparks out of the paving-stones

with the ferule of his stick. Whether in avenues, streets, or lanes,

he took care to keep in the middle of the road--an excellent method of

precaution, allowing one to see danger coming, and, above all, to avoid

any droppings from windows, as happens after dark in Tarascon and the

Old Town of Edinburgh. On seeing so much prudence in Tartarin, pray do

not conclude that Tartarin had any fear--dear, no! he only was on his

guard.

The best proof that Tartarin was not scared is, that instead of going to

the club by the shortest cut, he went over the town by the longest and

darkest way round, through a mass of vile, paltry alleys, at the mouth

of which the Rhone could be seen ominously gleaming. The poor knight

constantly hoped that, beyond the turn of one of these cut-throats’

haunts, “they” would leap from the shadow and fall on his back. I

warrant you, “they” would have been warmly received, though; but, alack!

by reason of some nasty meanness of destiny, never indeed did Tartarin

of Tarascon enjoy the luck to meet any ugly customers--not so much as a

dog or a drunken man--nothing at all!

Still, there were false alarms somewhiles. He would catch a sound of

steps and muffled voices.

“Ware hawks!” Tartarin would mutter, and stop short, as if taking root

on the spot, scrutinising the gloom, sniffing the wind, even glueing his

ear to the ground in the orthodox Red Indian mode. The steps would

draw nearer, and the voices grow more distinct, till no more doubt was

possible. “They” were coming--in fact, here “they” were!

Steady, with eye afire and heaving breast, Tartarin would gather

himself like a jaguar in readiness to spring forward whilst uttering his

war-cry, when, all of a sudden, out of the thick of the murkiness, he

would hear honest Tarasconian voices quite tranquilly hailing him with:

“Hullo! you, by Jove! it’s Tartarin! Good night, old fellow!”

Maledictions upon it! It was the chemist Bezuquet, with his family,

coming from singing their family ballad at Costecalde’s.

“Oh, good even, good even!” Tartarin would growl, furious at his

blunder, and plunging fiercely into the gloom with his cane waved on

high.

On arriving in the street where stood his club-house, the dauntless one

would linger yet a moment, walking up and down before the portals ere

entering. But, finally, weary of awaiting “them,” and certain “they”

would not show “themselves,” he would fling a last glare of defiance

into the shades and snarl wrathfully:

“Nothing, nothing at all! there never is nothing!”

Upon which double negation, which he meant as a stronger affirmative,

the worthy champion would walk in to play his game of bezique with the

commandant.