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.