Bravida--the hero was at first possessed by black
disgust, by that indignant rancour which ingratitude and injustice
arouse in the noblest soul. He wanted to quit everything, to expatriate
himself, to cross the bridge and go and live in Beaucaire, among the
Volsci; after that, he grew calmer.

To quit his little house, his garden, his beloved habits, to renounce
his chair as president of the Club of the Alpines, founded by himself,
to resign that majestic P. C. A. which adorned and distinguished his
cards, his letter-paper, and even the lining of his hat! Not possible,
_ve!_ Suddenly there came into his head an electrifying idea...

In a word, the exploits of Costecalde were limited to excursions among
the Alpines. Why should not Tartarin, during the three months that
still intervened before the elections, why should he not attempt some
grandiose adventure? plant, for instance, the standard of the Club on
the highest peak of Europe, the Jungfrau or the Mont Blanc?

What triumph on his return! what a slap in the face to Costecalde when
the _Forum_ should publish an account of the ascension! Who would dare
to dispute his presidency after that?

Immediately he set to work; sent secretly to Paris for quantities of
works on Alpine adventure: Whymper's "Scrambles," Tyndall's "Glaciers,"
the "Mont-Blanc" of Stephen d'Arve, reports of the Alpine Club,
English and Swiss; cramming his head with a mass of mountaineering
terms--chimneys, couloirs, moulins, neves, seracs, moraines,
rotures--without knowing very well what they meant.

At night, his dreams were fearful with interminable slides and sudden
falls into bottomless crevasses. Avalanches rolled him down, icy aretes
caught his body on the descent; and long after his waking and the
chocolate he always took in bed, the agony and the oppression of that
nightmare clung to him. But all this did not hinder him, once afoot,
from devoting his whole morning to the most laborious training
exercises.

Around Tarascon is a promenade planted with trees which, in the local
dictionary, is called the "Tour de Ville." Every Sunday afternoon,
the Tarasconese, who, in spite of their imagination, are a people of
routine, make the tour of their town, and always in the same direction.
Tartarin now exercised himself by making it eight times, ten times, of
a morning, and often reversed the way. He walked, his hands behind
his back, with short-mountain-steps, both slow and sure, till the
shop