is 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:

"We have arrived, Monsieur."

The little gentleman got up, stepped out, and said, before the door was
closed again:

"Will you allow me to give you a bit of advice, Monsieur Tartarin?"

"What is it, Monsieur?"

"Faith! you wear the look of a good sort of fellow, so I would, rather
than not, let you have it. Get you back quickly to Tarascon, Monsieur
Tartarin, for you are wasting your time here. There do remain a few
panthers in the colony, but, out upon the big cats! they are too small
game for you. As for lion-hunting, that's all over. There are none left
in Algeria, my friend Chassaing having lately knocked over the last."

Upon which the little gentleman saluted, closed the door, and trotted
away chuckling, with his document-wallet and umbrella.

"Guard," asked Tartarin, screwing up his face contemptuously, "who under
the sun is that poor little mannikin?"

"What! don't you know him? Why, that there's Monsieur Bombonnel!"

III. A Monastery of Lions.

AT Milianah, Tartarin of Tarascon alighted, leaving the stage-coach to
continue its way towards the South.

Two days' rough jolting, two nights spent with eyes open to spy out of
window if there were not discoverable the dread figure of a lion in the
fields beyond the road--so much sleeplessness well deserved some hours
repose. Besides, if we must tell everything, since his misadventure with
Bombonnel, the outspoken Tartarin felt ill at ease, notwithstanding his
weapons, his terrifying visage, and his red cap, before the Orleansville
photographer and the two ladies fond of the military.

So he proceeded through the broad streets of Milianah, full of fine
trees and fountains; but whilst looking up a suitable hotel, the poor
fellow could not help musing over Bombonnel's words. Suppose they were
true! Suppose there were no more lions in Algeria? What would be the
good then of so much running about and fatigue?

Suddenly, at the turn of a street, our hero found h