Tartarin’s first reaction at the sight of his unfortunate victim was
one of annoyance. There is after all a considerable difference between
a lion and a bourriquot. This was quickly replaced by a feeling of pity.
The poor bourriqout was so pretty, so gentle, its warm flanks rising and
falling as it breathed. Tartarin knelt down and with the end of his sash
he tried to staunch the blood from its wound. The sight of this great
man tending the little donkey was the most touching thing you could
imagine. At the soothing contact of the sash, the bourriquot, which
was already at death’s door, opened a big grey eye and twitched once
or twice its long ears, as if to say “Thank you!... Thank you!”. Then a
final tremor shook it from head to tail and it moved no more.
“Noiraud!... Noiraud!” Came a sudden cry from a strident, anxious voice,
and the branches of some nearby bushes were thrust aside. Tartarin had
barely time to get up and put himself on guard. It was the female!...
She arrived, roaring and terrible, in the guise of an elderly Alsation
lady in a rabbit-skin coat, armed with a red umbrella and calling for
her donkey in a voice which woke all the echoes of Mustapha. Certainly
it might have been better for Tartarin to have had to deal with an angry
lioness than this infuriated old lady. In vain he tried to explain what
had happened... how he had mistaken Noiraud for a lion, she thought he
was trying to make fun of her and, uttering loud cries of indignation,
she set about our hero with blows from her umbrella. Tartarin, in
confusion, defended himself as best he could, parrying the blows
with his rifle, sweating, puffing, jumping about and crying “But
Madame!... But Madame!”. To no avail. Madame was deaf to his pleas and
redoubled her efforts.
Happily a third party arrived on the field of battle. It was the husband
of the Alsation lady, also an Alsation.... A tavern keeper and a shrewd
man of business. When he saw with whom he was dealing and that the
assassin was willing to pay for his crime, he disarmed his spouse and
took her to one side. Tartarin gave two hundred francs. The donkey was
worth at least ten, which is the going price for bourriquots in the Arab
market. Then the poor Noiraud was buried beneath a fig tree, and the
Alsation, put in a good humour at the sight of so much money, invited
our hero to break a crust at his tavern, which was not far away at the
edge of the main road. The Algerian hunters went there every Sunday
for luncheon; for the countryside was full of game, and for two leagues
about the city there was not a better place for rabbits. “And the
lions?” Asked Tartarin. The Alsation looked at him with surprise... “The
lions?” “Yes, the lions, do you see them sometimes?” Tartarin replied,
with a little less assurance. The tavern-keeper burst out laughing,
“Lions!... Lions!... What is all this about lions?” “Are there no lions
in Algeria then?” “Moi foi! I have been here for twenty years and I have
never seen any.... though I did once hear... I think there was a report
in the newspaper... but it was long ago... somewhere in the south”....
At that moment they reached the tavern, a wayside pot house, the sort of
thing one can see by any main road. It had a very faded sign above the
door, some billiard cues painted on the wall and the inoffensive name
“Au rendezvous des lapins”.