الفصل الفصل 20 · VI. Arrival of the Female--A Terrible Combat--“Game Fellows Meet Here!”

. VI. Arrival of the Female--A Terrible Combat--“Game Fellows Meet Here!”

LOOKING on his hapless victim, Tartarin’s first impulse was one of

vexation. There is such a wide gap between a lion and poor Jack! His

second feeling was one of pity. The poor bourriquot was so pretty and

looked so kindly. The hide on his still warm sides heaved and fell like

waves. Tartarin knelt down, and strove with the end of his Algerian sash

to stanch the blood; and all you can imagine in the way of touchingness

was offered by the picture of this great man tending this little ass.

At the touch of the silky cloth the donkey, who had not twopennyworth of

life in him, opened his large grey eye and winked his long ears two or

three times, as much as to say, “Oh, thank you!” before a final spasm

shook it from head to tail, whereafter it stirred no more.

“Noiraud! Blackey!” suddenly screamed a voice, choking with anguish, as

the branches in a thicket hard by moved at the same time.

Tartarin had no more than enough time to rise and stand upon guard. This

was the female!

She rushed up, fearsome and roaring, under form of an old Alsatian

woman, her hair in a kerchief, armed with large red umbrella, and

calling for her ass, till all the echoes of Mustapha rang. It certainly

would have been better for Tartarin to have had to deal with a lioness

in fury than this old virago. In vain did the luckless sportsman try to

make her understand how the blunder had occurred, and he had mistaken

“Noiraud” for a lion. The harridan believed he was making fun of her,

and uttering energetical “Der Teufels!” fell upon our hero to bang him

with the gingham. A little bewildered, Tartarin defended himself as

best he could, warding off the blows with his rifle, streaming with

perspiration, panting, jumping about, and crying out:

“But, Madame, but”--

Much good his buts were! Madame was dull of hearing, and her blows

continued hard as ever.

Fortunately a third party arrived on the battlefield, the Alsatian’s

husband, of the same race; a roadside innkeeper, as well as a very good

ready-reckoner, which was better. When he saw what kind of a customer he

had to deal with--a slaughterer who only wanted to pay the value of his

victim--he disarmed his better-half, and they came to an understanding.

Tartarin gave two hundred francs, the donkey being worth about ten--at

least that is the current price in the Arab markets. Then poor Blackey

was laid to rest at the root of a fig-tree, and the Alsatian, raised to

joviality by the colour of the Tarascon ducats, invited the hero to have

a quencher with him in his wine-shop, which stood only a few steps off

on the edge of the highway. Every Sunday the sportsmen from the city

came there to regale of a morning, for the plain abounded with game, and

there was no better place for rabbits for two leagues around.

“How about lions?” inquired Tartarin.

The Alsatian stared at him, greatly astounded.

“Lions!”

“Yes, lions. Don’t you see them sometimes?” resumed the poor fellow,

with less confidence.

The Boniface burst out in laughter.

“Ho, ho! bless us! lions! What would we do with lions here?”

“Are there, then, none in Algeria?”

“‘Pon my faith, I never saw any, albeit I have been twenty years in the

colony. Still, I believe I have heard tell of such a thing--leastwise, I

fancy the newspapers said--but that is ever so much farther inland--down

South, you know”--

At this point they reached the hostelry, a suburban pothouse, with a

withered green bough over the door, crossed billiard-cues painted on the

wall, and this harmless sign over a picture of wild rabbits, feeding:

“GAME FELLOWS MEET HERE.”

“Game fellows!” It made Tartarin think of Captain Bravida.