Kabanata Kabanata 28 · II. A little gentleman drops in and “drops upon” Tartarin.
. II. A little gentleman drops in and “drops upon” Tartarin.
VAGUELY through the mud-dimmed glass Tartarin of Tarascon caught a
glimpse of a second-rate but pretty town market-place, regular in shape,
surrounded by colonnades and planted with orange-trees, in the midst
of which what seemed toy leaden soldiers were going through the morning
exercise in the clear roseate mist. The cafes were shedding their
shutters. In one corner there was a vegetable market. It was bewitching,
but it did not smack of lions yet.
“To the South! farther to the South!” muttered the good old desperado,
sinking back in his corner.
At this moment the door opened. A puff of fresh air rushed in, bearing
upon its wings, in the perfume of the orange-blossoms, a little person
in a brown frock-coat, old and dry, wrinkled and formal, his face no
bigger than your fist, his neckcloth of black silk five fingers wide,
a notary’s letter-case, and umbrella--the very picture of a village
solicitor.
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 be 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.
Here the coach stopped. The conductor came to open the door, and
addressed the insignificant little gentleman most respectfully, saying:
“We have arrived, Monsieur.”
The little gentleman got up, stepped out, and said, before the door was
closed again:
“Will you allow me to give you a bit of advice, Monsieur Tartarin?”
“What is it, Monsieur?”
“Faith! you wear the look of a good sort of fellow, so I would, rather
than not, let you have it. Get you back quickly to Tarascon, Monsieur
Tartarin, for you are wasting your time here. There do remain a few
panthers in the colony, but, out upon the big cats! they are too small
game for you. As for lion-hunting, that’s all over. There are none left
in Algeria, my friend Chassaing having lately knocked over the last.”
Upon which the little gentleman saluted, closed the door, and trotted
away chuckling, with his document-wallet and umbrella.
“Guard,” asked Tartarin, screwing up his face contemptuously, “who under
the sun is that poor little mannikin?”
“What! don’t you know him? Why, that there’s Monsieur Bombonnel!”