TARTARIN OF TARASCON [31]
himself, the dubious women uttered little screams of affright, and the Orleansville photographer bent over towards the lion-slayer, already cherishing the unequalled honour of taking his likeness.
The little gentleman, though, was not awed.
"Do you mean to say that you have killed many lions, Monsieur Tartarin?" he asked, very quietly.
The Tarasconian received his charge in the handsomest manner.
"Is it many have I killed, Monsieur? I wish you had only as many hairs on your head as I have killed of them."
All the coach laughed on observing three yellow bristles standing up on the little gentleman's skull.
In his turn, the Orleansville photographer struck in:
"Yours must he a terrible profession, Monsieur Tartarin. You must pass some ugly moments sometimes. I have heard that poor Monsieur Bombonnel" -- "Oh, yes, the panther-killer," said Tartarin, rather disdainfully.
"Do you happen to be acquainted with him?" inquired the insignificant person.
"Eh! of course! Know him? Why, we have been out on the hunt over twenty times together."
The little gentleman smiled.
"So you also hunt panthers, Monsieur Tartarin?" he asked.
"Sometimes, just for pastime," said the fiery Tarasconian. "But," he added, as he tossed his head with a heroic movement that inflamed the heart of the two sweethearts of. the regiment, "that's not worth lion-hunting."
"When all's said and done," ventured the photographer, "a panther is nothing but a big cat."
"Right you are!" said Tartarin, not sorry to abate the celebrated Bombonnel's glory a little, particularly in the presence of ladies.
Here the coach stopped. The conductor came to open the door, and addressed the insignificant little gentleman most respect- fully, saying:
"We have arrived, Monsieur."
The little gentleman got up, stepped out, and said, before the door was closed again:
"Will you allow me to give you a bit of advice, Monsieur Tartarin?"
"What is it, Monsieur?"
"Faith! you wear the look of a good sort of fellow, so I would, rather than not, let you have it. Get you back quickly to Tarascon, Monsieur Tartarin, for you are wasting your time here. There do remain a few panthers in the colony, but, out upon the big cats! they are too small game for you. As for lion-hunting, that's all over. There are none left in Algeria, my friend Chassaing having lately knocked over the last."
Upon which the little gentleman saluted, closed the door, and trotted away chuckling, with his document-wallet and umbrella.
"Guard," asked Tartarin, screwing up his face contemptuously, "who under the sun is that poor little mannikin?"
"What! don't you know him? Why, that there's Monsieur Bombonnel!"
III. A Monastery of Lions.
AT Milianah, Tartarin of Tarascon alighted, leaving the stage-coach to continue its way towards the South.
Two days' rough jolting, two nights spent with eyes open to spy out of window if there were not discoverable the dread figure of a lion in the fields beyond the road -- so much sleeplessness well deserved some hours repose. Besides, if we must tell everything, since his misadventure with Bombonnel, the outspoken Tartarin felt ill at ease, notwithstanding his weapons, his terrifying visage, and his red cap, before the Orleansville photographer and the two ladies fond of the military.
So he proceeded through the broad streets of Milianah, full of fine trees and fountains; but whilst looking up a suitable hotel, the poor fellow could not help musing over Bombonnel's words. Suppose they were true! Suppose there were no more lions in Algeria? What would be the good then of so much running about and fatigue?
Suddenly, at the turn of a street, our hero found himself face to face with -- with what? Guess! "A donkey, of course!" A donkey? A splendid lion this time, waiting before a coffee-house door, royally sitting up on his hind-quarters, with his tawny mane gleaming in the sun.
"What possessed them to tell me that there were no more of them?" exclaimed the Tarasconian, as he made a backward
The little gentleman, though, was not awed.
"Do you mean to say that you have killed many lions, Monsieur Tartarin?" he asked, very quietly.
The Tarasconian received his charge in the handsomest manner.
"Is it many have I killed, Monsieur? I wish you had only as many hairs on your head as I have killed of them."
All the coach laughed on observing three yellow bristles standing up on the little gentleman's skull.
In his turn, the Orleansville photographer struck in:
"Yours must he a terrible profession, Monsieur Tartarin. You must pass some ugly moments sometimes. I have heard that poor Monsieur Bombonnel" -- "Oh, yes, the panther-killer," said Tartarin, rather disdainfully.
"Do you happen to be acquainted with him?" inquired the insignificant person.
"Eh! of course! Know him? Why, we have been out on the hunt over twenty times together."
The little gentleman smiled.
"So you also hunt panthers, Monsieur Tartarin?" he asked.
"Sometimes, just for pastime," said the fiery Tarasconian. "But," he added, as he tossed his head with a heroic movement that inflamed the heart of the two sweethearts of. the regiment, "that's not worth lion-hunting."
"When all's said and done," ventured the photographer, "a panther is nothing but a big cat."
"Right you are!" said Tartarin, not sorry to abate the celebrated Bombonnel's glory a little, particularly in the presence of ladies.
Here the coach stopped. The conductor came to open the door, and addressed the insignificant little gentleman most respect- fully, saying:
"We have arrived, Monsieur."
The little gentleman got up, stepped out, and said, before the door was closed again:
"Will you allow me to give you a bit of advice, Monsieur Tartarin?"
"What is it, Monsieur?"
"Faith! you wear the look of a good sort of fellow, so I would, rather than not, let you have it. Get you back quickly to Tarascon, Monsieur Tartarin, for you are wasting your time here. There do remain a few panthers in the colony, but, out upon the big cats! they are too small game for you. As for lion-hunting, that's all over. There are none left in Algeria, my friend Chassaing having lately knocked over the last."
Upon which the little gentleman saluted, closed the door, and trotted away chuckling, with his document-wallet and umbrella.
"Guard," asked Tartarin, screwing up his face contemptuously, "who under the sun is that poor little mannikin?"
"What! don't you know him? Why, that there's Monsieur Bombonnel!"
III. A Monastery of Lions.
AT Milianah, Tartarin of Tarascon alighted, leaving the stage-coach to continue its way towards the South.
Two days' rough jolting, two nights spent with eyes open to spy out of window if there were not discoverable the dread figure of a lion in the fields beyond the road -- so much sleeplessness well deserved some hours repose. Besides, if we must tell everything, since his misadventure with Bombonnel, the outspoken Tartarin felt ill at ease, notwithstanding his weapons, his terrifying visage, and his red cap, before the Orleansville photographer and the two ladies fond of the military.
So he proceeded through the broad streets of Milianah, full of fine trees and fountains; but whilst looking up a suitable hotel, the poor fellow could not help musing over Bombonnel's words. Suppose they were true! Suppose there were no more lions in Algeria? What would be the good then of so much running about and fatigue?
Suddenly, at the turn of a street, our hero found himself face to face with -- with what? Guess! "A donkey, of course!" A donkey? A splendid lion this time, waiting before a coffee-house door, royally sitting up on his hind-quarters, with his tawny mane gleaming in the sun.
"What possessed them to tell me that there were no more of them?" exclaimed the Tarasconian, as he made a backward