The great man himself pretended to see nothing, to hear nothing.
Although at heart this underhand, venomous campaign hurt him deeply, in
spite of his suffering, he continued to go about his life with a smile;
but sometimes the mask of cheerful indifference which pride had pinned
on his features slipped, then instead of laughter one saw indignation
and grief. So it was one morning when some street urchins were chanting
their jeers beneath the window of the room where our poor hero was
trimming his beard. Suddenly the window was thrown open and Tartarin's
head appeared, his face covered in soapsuds, waving a razor and shaving
brush and shouting "Sword-thrusts, gentlemen, sword-thrusts, not
pin-pricks!" Fine words but wasted on a bunch of brats about two bricks
tall.

Amid the general defection, the army alone stood firmly by Tartarin,
the brave Commandant Bravida continued to treat him with esteem. "He's a
stout fellow," He persisted in saying, and this affirmation was worth
a good deal more, I should imagine, than anything said by Bezuquet the
chemist.

The gallant Commandant had never uttered a word about the African
journey, but at last, when the public clamour became too loud to ignore,
he decided to speak.

One evening, the unhappy Tartarin was alone in his study thinking sad
thoughts, when the Commandant appeared, somberly dressed and gloved,
with every button fastened "Tartarin!" said the former captain, with
authority, "Tartarin, you must go!" and he stood, upright and rigid in
the doorway, the very embodiment of duty.