The photographer then spoke up, “A terrible profession yours, Monsieur Tartarin, you must have moments of danger sometimes like that brave M. Bombonnel.” “Ah!... yes... M. Bombonnel, the man who hunts panthers.” Said Tartarin, with some disdain. “Do you know him?” Asked the little gentleman. “Ti!... Pardi!... To be sure I know him, we have hunted together more than twenty times.” “You hunt panthers also M. Tartarin?” “Occasionally, as a pastime.” Said Tartarin casually, and raising his head with a heroic gesture which went straight to the hearts of the two Cocottes, he added “They cannot be compared to lions.” “One could say,” Hazarded the photographer, “That a panther is no more than a large pussy-cat.” “Quite right.” Said Tartarin, who was not reluctant to lower the reputation of this M. Bombonnel, particularly in front of the ladies.
At this moment the coach stopped. The guard came to open the door and he addressed the little old man, “This is where you want to get off Monsieur.” He said very respectfully.
The little gentleman got up to leave, but before he closed the door he said “Would you permit me to give you a word of advice M. Tartarin?” “What is that Monsieur?” “Go back quickly to Tarascon, M. Tartarin, you are wasting your time here... There are a few panthers left in Algeria, but, fi donc! They are too small a quarry for you... as for lions, they are finished. There are no more in Algeria, my friend Chassaing has just killed the last one.”
On that the little gentleman saluted, closed the door and went off, laughing, with his brief-case and umbrella. “Guard!” Said Tartarin, making his grimace. “Who on earth was that fellow?” “What! Don’t you know him?” Said the guard, “That’s Monsieur Bombonnel!”
When the coach reached Milianah Tartarin got out and left it to continue its journey to the south. Two days of being bumped about and nights spent peering out of the window in the hope of seeing the outline of a lion in the fields lining the road, had earned a little rest; and then it must be admitted that after the misadventure over M. Bombonnel, Tartarin, in spite of his weapons, his terrible grimace and his red chechia, had not felt entirely at ease in the presence of the photographer and the two ladies of the third Hussars.