Indistinctly, through the steamed up windows, Tartarin could see the
pretty square of a neatly laid out little township, surrounded by
arcades and planted with orange trees, in the centre of which a group of
soldiers was drilling in the thin, pink haze of early morning. The cafés
were taking down their shutters, in one corner a vegetable market was
under way. It was charming, but in no way did it suggest lions. “To the
south, further to the south.” Murmured Tartarin, settling back in his
corner.
At that moment the coach door was opened, letting in a gust of fresh
air, which bore on its wings, amongst the scent of orange blossom,
a very small gentleman in a brown overcoat. Neat, elderly, thin and
wrinkled, with a face no bigger than a fist, a silk cravat five fingers
high, a leather brief-case and an umbrella. The perfect image of a
village notary. On seeing Tartarin’s weaponry, the little gentleman, who
was seated opposite him, looked very surprised, and began to stare at
our hero.
The horses were changed and the coach set off... the little gentleman
continued to stare. At length Tartarin became offended and staring in
his turn at the little gentleman he asked “Do you find this surprising?”
“Not at all, but it does rather get in the way.” Was the reply, and
the fact is that with his tent, his revolver, his two rifles and their
covers, not to mention his natural corpulence, Tartarin de Tarascon did
take up quite a lot of space.
This reply from the little gentleman annoyed Tartarin, “Do you suppose
that I would go after lions with an umbrella?” Asked the great man
proudly. The little gentleman looked at his umbrella, smiled and
and asked calmly, “You monsieur are...?” “Tartarin de Tarascon, lion
hunter.” And in pronouncing these words the brave Tartarin shook the
tassel of his chechia as if it were a mane.
In the coach there was a startled response. The Trappist crossed
himself, the Cocottes uttered little squeaks of excitement and the
photographer edged closer to the lion killer, thinking that he might be
a good subject for a picture. The little gentleman was not in the least
disturbed. “Have you killed many lions, Monsieur Tartarin?” He asked
quietly. Tartarin adopted a lofty air, “Yes many of them. More than you
have hairs on your head.” And all the passengers laughed at the sight
of the three or four yellow hairs which sprouted from the little
gentleman’s scalp.
The photographer then spoke up, “A terrible profession yours, Monsieur
Tartarin, you must have moments of danger sometimes like that brave
M. Bombonnel.” “Ah!... yes... M. Bombonnel, the man who hunts panthers.”
Said Tartarin, with some disdain. “Do you know him?” Asked the little
gentleman. “Ti!... Pardi!... To be sure I know him, we have hunted
together more than twenty times.” “You hunt panthers also M. Tartarin?”
“Occasionally, as a pastime.” Said Tartarin casually, and raising his
head with a heroic gesture which went straight to the hearts of the two
Cocottes, he added “They cannot be compared to lions.” “One could say,”
Hazarded the photographer, “That a panther is no more than a large
pussy-cat.” “Quite right.” Said Tartarin, who was not reluctant to lower
the reputation of this M. Bombonnel, particularly in front of the ladies.
At this moment the coach stopped. The guard came to open the door and
he addressed the little old man, “This is where you want to get off
Monsieur.” He said very respectfully.
The little gentleman got up to leave, but before he closed the door
he said “Would you permit me to give you a word of advice M. Tartarin?”
“What is that Monsieur?” “Go back quickly to Tarascon, M. Tartarin, you
are wasting your time here... There are a few panthers left in Algeria,
but, fi donc! They are too small a quarry for you... as for lions, they
are finished. There are no more in Algeria, my friend Chassaing has just
killed the last one.”
On that the little gentleman saluted, closed the door and went off,
laughing, with his brief-case and umbrella. “Guard!” Said Tartarin,
making his grimace. “Who on earth was that fellow?” “What! Don’t you
know him?” Said the guard, “That’s Monsieur Bombonnel!”