บทที่ บทที่ 4 · IV. “They!”

. 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 that bites, claws, scalps,

whoops, and yells--the Sioux Indians dancing around the war-stake to

which the unfortunate pale-face prisoner is lashed. The grizzly of the

Rocky Mountains, who wobbles on his hind legs, and licks himself with a

tongue full of blood. The Touareg, too, in the desert, the Malay pirate,

the brigand of the Abruzzi--in short, “they” was warfare, travel,

adventure, and glory.

But, alas!! it was to no avail that the fearless Tarasconer called for

and defied them; never did they come. Odsboddikins! what would they have

come to do in Tarascon?

Nevertheless Tartarin always expected to run up against them,

particularly some evening in going to the club.