On perceiving the Tarasconian’s warlike equipment, the little gentleman, who was seated over against him, appeared excessively surprised, and set to studying him with burdensome persistency.

The horses were taken out and the fresh ones put in, whereupon the coach started off again.  The little weasel still gazed at Tartarin, who in the end took snuff at it.

“Does this astonish you?” he demanded, staring the little gentleman full in the face in his turn.

“Oh, dear, no! it only annoys me,” responded the other, very tranquilly.

And the fact is, that, with his shelter-tent, revolvers, pair of guns in their cases, and hunting-knife, not to speak of his natural corpulence, Tartarin of Tarascon did take up a lot of room.

The little gentleman’s reply angered him.

“Do you by any chance fancy that I am going lion-hunting with your umbrella?” queried the great man haughtily.

The little man looked at his umbrella, smiled blandly, and still with the same lack of emotion, inquired: 

“Oho, then you are Monsieur” —­

“Tartarin of Tarascon, lion-killer!”

In uttering these words the dauntless son of Tarascon shook the blue tassel of his fez like a mane.

Through the vehicle was a spell of stupefaction.

The Trappist brother crossed 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 hearts 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.