“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: