“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.