cies of yellow bile, proceeding from his liver
in puffs, suffuses his broad, clean-shaven, regular face, with its
surface dented as if by a hammer, like an ancient coin of Tiberius or
Caracalla. Envy with him is a disease, which he makes no attempt
to hide, and, with the fine Tarasconese temperament that overlays
everything, he sometimes says in speaking of his infirmity: "You don't
know how that hurts me..."

Naturally the curse of Costecalde is Tartarin. So much fame for a single
man! He everywhere! always he! And slowly, subterraneously, like a
worm within the gilded wood of an idol, he saps from below for the last
twenty years that triumphant renown, and gnaws it, and hollows it. When,
in the evening, at the club, Tartarin relates his encounters with lions
and his wanderings in the great Sahara, Costecalde sits by with mute
little laughs, and incredulous shakes of the head.

"But the skins, _au mouain_, Costecalde... those lions' skins he sent
us, which are there, in the salon of the club?.."

"_Te! pardi_... Do you suppose there are no furriers in Algeria?.."

"But the marks of the balls, all round, in the heads?"

"_Et autremain_, did n't we ourselves in the days of the cap-hunts see
ragged caps torn with bullets at the hatters' for sale to clumsy shots?"

No doubt the long established fame of Tartarin as a slayer of wild
beasts resisted these attacks; but the Alpinist in himself was open to
criticism, and Costecalde did not deprive himself of the opportunity,
being furious that a man should be elected as president of the "Club
of the Alpines" whom age had visibly overweighted and whose liking,
acquired in Algeria, for Turkish slippers and flowing garments
predisposed to laziness.

In fact, Tartarin seldom took part in the ascensions; he was satisfied
to accompany them with votive wishes, and to read in full session, with
rolling eyes, and intonations that turned the ladies pale, the tragic
narratives of the expeditions.

Costecalde, on the contrary, wiry, vigorous "Cock-leg," as they called
him, was always the foremost climber; he had done the Alpines, one by
one, planting on their summits inaccessible the banner of the Club, _La
Tarasque_, starred in silver. Nevertheless, he was only vice-president,
V. P. C. A. But he manipulated the place so well that evidently, at the
coming elections, Tartarin would be made to skip.

Warned by his faithfuls--Bezuquet the apothecary, Excourbanies, the
brave Commander