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 himself face to face
with -- with what? Guess! "A donkey, of course!" A donkey? A
splendid lion this time, waiting before a coffee-house door, royally
sitting up on his hind-quarters, with his tawny mane gleaming in the
sun.

"What possessed them to tell me that there were no more of them?"
exclaimed the Tarasconian, as he made a backward jump.

On hearing this outcry the lion lowered his head, and taking up in
his mouth a wooden bowl that was before him on the footway,
humbly held it out towards Tartarin, who was immovable with
stupefaction. A passing Arab tossed a copper into the bowl, and the
lion wagged his tail. Thereupon Tartarin understood it all. He saw
what emotion had prevented him previously perceiving: that the
crowd was gathered around a poor tame blind lion, and that two
stalwart Negroes, armed with staves, were marching him through
the town as a Savoyard does a marmot.

The blood of Tarascon boiled over at once.

"Wretches that you are!" he roared in a voice of thunder, "thus to
debase such noble beasts!"