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"....