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.