"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.