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 impleme