The knight of the temple preparing for a sortie against the Saracen. The
Chinese warrior equipping himself for battle. The Comanchee brave taking
to the warpath were as nothing compared to Tartarin de Tarascon arming
himself to go to the club at nine o'clock on a dark evening, an hour
after the bugle had blown the retreat. He was cleared for action as the
sailors say.

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