occurred, and he had mistaken "Noiraud" for a lion. The harridan
believed he was making fun of her, and uttering energetical "Der
Teufels!" fell upon our hero to bang him with the gingham. A little
bewildered, Tartarin defended himself as best he could, warding
off the blows with his rifle, streaming with perspiration, panting,
jumping about, and crying out:

"But, Madame, but" --

Much good his buts were! Madame was dull of hearing, and her
blows continued hard as ever.

Fortunately a third party arrived on the battlefield, the Alsatian's
husband, of the same race; a roadside innkeeper, as well as a very
good ready-reckoner, which was better. When he saw what kind of
a customer he had to deal with -- a slaughterer who only wanted to
pay the value of his victim -- he disarmed his better-half, and they
came to an understanding.

Tartarin gave two hundred francs, the donkey being worth about
ten -- at least that is the current price in the Arab markets. Then
poor Blackey was laid to rest at the root of a fig-tree, and the
Alsatian, raised to joviality by the colour of the Tarascon ducats,
invited the hero to have a quencher with him in his wine-shop,
which stood only a few steps off on the edge of the highway. Every
Sunday the sportsmen from the city came there to regale of a
morning, for the plain abounded with game, and there was no better
place for rabbits for two leagues around.

"How about lions?" inquired Tartarin.