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: