On his left hand he had a metal knuckleduster. In his right he carried a sword-stick. In his left pocket there was a cosh and in his right a revolver. Stuck into his waistband was a knife. Before setting out, in the privacy of his den, he carried out a few exercises. He made a pass at the wall with his sword-stick, drew his revolver, flexed his muscles and then taking his identity papers he crossed the garden... steadily... unhurriedly... à l’Anglais. That is the mark of true courage. At the end of the garden he opened the heavy iron gate. He opened it brusquely, violently, so that it banged against the wall. If “They” had been behind it, it would have made a fine mess of them. Unfortunately they were not behind it. Having opened the gate Tartarin went out, cast a quick look right and left, closed the gate swiftly and double locked it. Then he set off. On the Avignon road there was not so much as a cat. Doors were shut and curtains drawn across windows. Here and there a street light blinked in the mist rising from the Rhône. Superb and calm Tartarin de Tarascon strode through the night, his heels striking the road with measured tread and the metal tip of his cane raising sparks from the paving-stones. On boulevards, roads or lanes he was always careful to walk in the middle of the causeway, an excellent precaution which allows one to see approaching danger and moreover to avoid things which at night, in the streets of Tarascon, sometimes fall from windows. Seeing this prudence you should not entertain the notion that Tartarin was afraid. No! He was just being cautious. The clearest evidence that Tartarin was unafraid is that he went to the club not by the short way but by the longest and darkest way, through a tangle of mean little streets, at the end of which one glimpsed the sinister gleam of the Rhone. He almost hoped that at a bend in one of these alleys “They” would come rushing from the shadows to attack him from behind. They would have had a hot reception I can promise you; but sadly Tartarin was never fated to encounter any danger... not even a dog... not even a drunk... Nothing. Sometimes however there was an alarm. The sound of footsteps... Muffled voices. Tartarin comes to a halt, peering into the shadows, sniffing the air, straining his ears. The steps draw nearer, the voices more distinct... there can be no doubt... VThey” are here. With heaving breast and eyes ablaze Tartarin is gathering himself like a jaguar and preparing to leap on his foes, when suddenly out of the gloom a good Tarasconais voice calls “Look! There’s Tartarin! Hulloa there Tartarin!” Malediction! It is Bezuquet the chemist and his family who have been singing their ballad at the Costecaldes. “Bon soir, bon soir” growls Tartarin, furious at his mistake, and shouldering his cane he disappears angrily into the night.