VAGUELY through the mud-dimmed glass Tartarin of Tarascon
caught a glimpse of a second-rate but pretty town market-place,
regular in shape, surrounded by colonnades and planted with
orange-trees, in the midst of which what seemed toy leaden soldiers
were going through the morning exercise in the clear roseate mist.
The cafes were shedding their shutters. In one corner there was a
vegetable market. It was bewitching, but it did not smack of lions
yet.

"To the South! farther to the South!" muttered the good old
desperado, sinking back in his corner.

At this moment the door opened. A puff of fresh air rushed in,
bearing upon its wings, in the perfume of the orange-blossoms, a
little person in a brown frock-coat, old and dry, wrinkled and
formal, his face no bigger than your fist, his neckcloth of black silk
five fingers wide, a notary's letter-case, and umbrella -- the very
picture of a village solicitor.

On perceiving the Tarasconian's warlike equipment, the little
gentleman, who was seated over against him, appeared excessively
surprised, and set to studying him with burdensome persistency.

The horses were taken out and the fresh ones put in, whereupon the
coach started off again. The little weasel still gazed at Tartarin,
who in the end took snuff at it.

"Does this astonish you?" he demanded, staring the little gentleman
full in the face in his turn.