I remember my first visit to Tartarin of Tarascon as clearly as if it had been yesterday, though it is now more than a dozen years ago.  When you had passed into his back garden, you would never have fancied yourself in France.  Every tree and plant had been brought from foreign climes; he was such a fellow for collecting the curiosities of Nature, this wonderful Tartarin.  His garden boasted, for instance, an example of the baobab, that giant of the vegetable world, but Tartarin’s specimen was only big enough to occupy a mignonette pot.  He was mightily proud of it, all the same.

The great sight of his place, however, was the hero’s private den at the bottom of the garden.  Picture to yourself a large hall gleaming from top to bottom with firearms and weapons of all sorts:  carbines, rifles, blunderbusses, bowie-knives, revolvers, daggers, flint-arrows—­in a word, examples of the deadly weapons of all races used by man in all parts of the world.  Everything was neatly arranged, and labelled as if it were in a public museum.  “Poisoned Arrows.  Please do not touch!” was the warning on one of the cards.  “Weapons loaded.  Have a care!” greeted you from another.  My word, it required some pluck to move about in the den of the great Tartarin.

There were books of travel and adventure, books about mighty hunting on the table in the centre of the room; and seated at the table was a short and rather fat, red-haired fellow of about forty-five, with a closely-trimmed beard and a pair of bright eyes.  He was in his shirtsleeves, reading a book held in one hand while he gesticulated wildly with a large pipe in the other—­Tartarin!  He was evidently imagining himself the daring hero of the story.

Now you must know that the people of Tarascon were tremendously keen on hunting, and Tartarin was the chief of the hunters.  You may think this funny when you know there was not a living thing to shoot at within miles of Tarascon; scarcely a sparrow to attract local sportsmen.  Ah, but you don’t know how ingenious they are down there.

Every Sunday morning off the huntsmen sallied with their guns and ammunition, the hounds yelping at their heels.  Each man as he left in the morning took with him a brand new cap, and when they got well into the country and were ready for sport, they took their caps off, threw then high in the air, and shot at them as they fell.  In the evening you would see them returning with their riddled caps stuck on the points of their guns, and of all these brave men Tartarin was the most admired, as he always swung into town with the most hopeless rag of a cap at the end of a day’s sport.  There’s no mistake, he was a wonder!

But for all his adventurous spirit, he had a certain amount of caution.  There were really two men inside the skin of Tartarin.  The one Tartarin said to him, “Cover yourself with glory.”  The other said to him, “Cover yourself with flannel.”  The one, imagining himself fighting Red Indians, would call for “An axe!  An axe!  Somebody give me an axe!” The other, knowing that he was cosy by his fireside, would ring the bell and say, “Jane, my coffee.”