Indistinctly, through the steamed up windows, Tartarin could see the pretty square of a neatly laid out little township, surrounded by arcades and planted with orange trees, in the centre of which a group of soldiers was drilling in the thin, pink haze of early morning. The cafés were taking down their shutters, in one corner a vegetable market was under way. It was charming, but in no way did it suggest lions. “To the south, further to the south.” Murmured Tartarin, settling back in his corner. At that moment the coach door was opened, letting in a gust of fresh air, which bore on its wings, amongst the scent of orange blossom, a very small gentleman in a brown overcoat. Neat, elderly, thin and wrinkled, with a face no bigger than a fist, a silk cravat five fingers high, a leather brief-case and an umbrella. The perfect image of a village notary. On seeing Tartarin’s weaponry, the little gentleman, who was seated opposite him, looked very surprised, and began to stare at our hero. The horses were changed and the coach set off... the little gentleman continued to stare. At length Tartarin became offended and staring in his turn at the little gentleman he asked “Do you find this surprising?” “Not at all, but it does rather get in the way.” Was the reply, and the fact is that with his tent, his revolver, his two rifles and their covers, not to mention his natural corpulence, Tartarin de Tarascon did take up quite a lot of space. This reply from the little gentleman annoyed Tartarin, “Do you suppose that I would go after lions with an umbrella?” Asked the great man proudly. The little gentleman looked at his umbrella, smiled and and asked calmly, “You monsieur are...?” “Tartarin de Tarascon, lion hunter.” And in pronouncing these words the brave Tartarin shook the tassel of his chechia as if it were a mane. In the coach there was a startled response. The Trappist crossed himself, the Cocottes uttered little squeaks of excitement and the photographer edged closer to the lion killer, thinking that he might be a good subject for a picture. The little gentleman was not in the least disturbed. “Have you killed many lions, Monsieur Tartarin?” He asked quietly. Tartarin adopted a lofty air, “Yes many of them. More than you have hairs on your head.” And all the passengers laughed at the sight of the three or four yellow hairs which sprouted from the little gentleman’s scalp.