Tartarin’s first reaction at the sight of his unfortunate victim was one of annoyance. There is after all a considerable difference between a lion and a bourriquot. This was quickly replaced by a feeling of pity. The poor bourriqout was so pretty, so gentle, its warm flanks rising and falling as it breathed. Tartarin knelt down and with the end of his sash he tried to staunch the blood from its wound. The sight of this great man tending the little donkey was the most touching thing you could imagine. At the soothing contact of the sash, the bourriquot, which was already at death’s door, opened a big grey eye and twitched once or twice its long ears, as if to say “Thank you!... Thank you!”. Then a final tremor shook it from head to tail and it moved no more. “Noiraud!... Noiraud!” Came a sudden cry from a strident, anxious voice, and the branches of some nearby bushes were thrust aside. Tartarin had barely time to get up and put himself on guard. It was the female!... She arrived, roaring and terrible, in the guise of an elderly Alsation lady in a rabbit-skin coat, armed with a red umbrella and calling for her donkey in a voice which woke all the echoes of Mustapha. Certainly it might have been better for Tartarin to have had to deal with an angry lioness than this infuriated old lady. In vain he tried to explain what had happened... how he had mistaken Noiraud for a lion, she thought he was trying to make fun of her and, uttering loud cries of indignation, she set about our hero with blows from her umbrella. Tartarin, in confusion, defended himself as best he could, parrying the blows with his rifle, sweating, puffing, jumping about and crying “But Madame!... But Madame!”. To no avail. Madame was deaf to his pleas and redoubled her efforts.