The bell of the government clock was sounding three when Tartarin awoke.
He had slept all evening, all night, all morning and even a good part of
the afternoon. It has, of course, to be admitted that over the preceding
three days the chechia had had a pretty rough time.
His first thought on waking was “Here I am, in lion country!” and it
must be confessed that this notion that he was surrounded by lions
and was about to go in pursuit of them produced a marked chill, and he
buried himself safely under the bedclothes.
Soon, however, the gaiety of the scene outside, the sky so blue, the
bright sunshine which flooded into his room through the large window
which opened towards the sea, and a good meal which he had served in
bed, washed down by a carafe of wine, quickly restored his courage. “To
the lions! To the lions!” He cried, and throwing off the bed clothes he
dressed himself hurriedly.
His plan of action was this. Leave town and go well out into the desert.
Wait until nightfall. Lie in hiding, and at the first lion that comes
along... Pan! Pan!.... Return in the morning. Lunch at hotel. Receive the
congratulations of the Algerians and hire a cart to go and collect the
kill.
He armed himself hastily, strapped onto his back the bivouac tent, the
pole of which stuck up above his head, and then, held rigid by this
contraption, he went down to the street. He turned sharply to the right
and walked to the end of the shopping arcade of Bab-Azoum, where a
series of Algerian store-keepers watched him pass, concealed in corners
of their dark boutiques like spiders. He went through the Place du
théatre, through the suburbs and eventually reached the dusty main road
to Mustapha.
Here was a fantastic confusion of traffic. There were coaches, cabs,
curricles, military supply wagons, great carts of hay drawn by oxen,
some squadrons of Chasseurs d’Afrique, troops of microscopic little
donkeys, negresses selling galettes, loads of emigrants from Alsasce,
some Spahis in red cloaks. All passing in a great cloud of dust, with
cries, songs and trumpet calls, between two rows of miserable shacks,
where could be seen prostitutes applying their make-up at their doors,
tap-rooms full of soldiers and the stalls of butchers and slaughtermen.
The tales I have been told about this place are quite untrue, thought
Tartarin, there are fewer “Teurs” here than there are in Marseille.
Suddenly he saw striding past him, long-legged and proud as a turkey
cock, a magnificent camel. The sight quickened his pulse; where there
were camels lions could not be far away, and indeed within five minutes
he saw coming towards him with guns on their shoulders, a whole company
of lion hunters with their dogs.
A cowardly lot, thought Tartarin, as he came alongside them... hunting
lions in a group and with dogs... for it had never occurred to him that
In Algeria one could hunt anything but lions. However these hunters
looked like comfortably retired businessmen, and Tartarin, curious about
this way of hunting lions with dogs and game-bags, took it on himself to
address one of them.
“Et autrement, my friend, a good day?”
“Not bad” Replied the other, looking with some surprise at the heavy
armament of our Tarascon warrior.
“You have killed some of them?”
“Yes... a few... as you can see.” And the Algerian pointed to his
game-bag, bulging with rabbits and woodcock.
“How is that?... you put them in your game-bag?”
“Where would you like me to put them?”
“But then they... they must be very small!”
“Some big, some small.” Said the hunter, and as he was in a hurry to
catch up with his companions and go home, he made off at high speed.
Tartarin stood, stupefied, in the middle of the road. Then after a
moment of thought “Bah!” He said to himself, “These people are trying to
have me on, they haven’t shot anything.” And he continued on his way.
Already the houses were becoming more scattered, the passers-by less
frequent. Night was falling. Objects becoming less distinct.... He
marched on for another half an hour, and then he stopped. It was now
completely dark, a moonless night spangled with stars. There was no one
on the road, but in spite of that Tartarin reckoned that lions were
not like coaches and would not stick to the highway. He set off across
country. At every step there were ditches, thorns and bushes. No matter,
he walked on until at last he reached a spot he thought suited to his
purpose. A likely place for lions.