Steady, with eye afire and heaving breast, Tartarin would gather
himself like a jaguar in readiness to spring forward whilst uttering
his war-cry, when, all of a sudden, out of the thick of the
murkiness, he would hear honest Tarasconian voices quite
tranquilly hailing him with:

"Hullo! you, by Jove! it's Tartarin! Good night, old fellow!"

Maledictions upon it! It was the chemist Bezuquet, with his family,
coming from singing their family ballad at Costecalde's.

"Oh, good even, good even!" Tartarin would growl, furious at his
blunder, and plunging fiercely into the gloom with his cane waved
on high.

On arriving in the street where stood his club-house, the dauntless
one would linger yet a moment, walking up and down before the
portals ere entering. But, finally, weary of awaiting "them," and
certain "they" would not show "themselves," he would fling a last
glare of defiance into the shades and snarl wrathfully:

"Nothing, nothing at all! there never is nothing!"

Upon which double negation, which he meant as a stronger
affirmative, the worthy champion would walk in to play his game of
bezique with the commandant.