When the coach reached Milianah Tartarin got out and left it to continue
its journey to the south. Two days of being bumped about and nights
spent peering out of the window in the hope of seeing the outline of a
lion in the fields lining the road, had earned a little rest; and then
it must be admitted that after the misadventure over M. Bombonnel,
Tartarin, in spite of his weapons, his terrible grimace and his
red chechia, had not felt entirely at ease in the presence of the
photographer and the two ladies of the third Hussars.
He made his way along the wide streets of Milianah, full of handsome
trees and fountains, but while he looked for a convenient hotel, he
could not prevent himself from mulling over the words of M. Bombonnel.
What if it were true... what if there were no more lions in Algeria? What
then was the point of all this travel and all these discomforts?
Suddenly at a bend in the road our hero was confronted by a remarkable
spectacle. He found himself face to face with--believe it or not--a
superb lion which was seated regally at the door of a café, Its mane
tawny in the sunshine.
“Who says there are no more lions?” Cried Tartarin, jumping back. On
hearing this exclamation the lion lowered its head, and taking in
its jaws the wooden begging bowl which lay on the pavement before it,
extended it humbly in the direction of Tartarin, who was paralyzed by
astonishment... a passing Arab tossed in a few coppers. Then Tartarin
understood. He saw what his surprise had at first prevented him from
seeing, a crowd of people which was gathered round the poor tame lion,
which was blind, and the two big negroes, armed with cudgels, who led it
about the town.
Tartarin’s blood boiled. “Wretches!” He cried “To debase this noble
creature!” And running to the lion he snatched the sordid begging bowl
from the royal jaws.... The two negroes, believing they were dealing
with a thief, threw themselves on Tartarin with raised cudgels. It was
a terrible set-to. Women were screeching children laughing there were
calls for the police and the lion in its darkness joined in with a
fearsome roar. The unhappy Tartarin after a desperate struggle, rolled
on the ground among copper coins and road sweepings.
At this moment a man pushed through the crowd. He dismissed the negroes
with a word and the women and children with a gesture. He helped
Tartarin to his feet, brushed him down and seated him, out of breath,
on a bollard. “Good heavens... prince... Is it really you?” Said Tartarin,
rubbing his ribs. “Indeed yes my valiant friend... it is I. As soon as
I received your letter I confided Baia to her brother, hired a
post-chaise, came fifty leagues flat out and here I am just in time to
save you from the brutality of these louts.... For God’s sake what have
you been doing to get yourself dragged into a mess like this?” “What
could you expect me to do, prince, when I saw this unfortunate lion with
the begging bowl in its teeth, humiliated, enslaved, ridiculed, serving
as a laughing stock for this unsavoury rabble...?” “But you are mistaken
my noble friend.” Said the prince, “This lion on the contrary is an
object of respect and adoration. It is a sacred beast, a member of
a great convent of lions founded three centuries ago by
Mahommed-ben-Aouda, a sort of wild fierce monastry where strange monks
rear and tame hundreds of lions and send them throughout all north
Africa, accompanied by mendicant brothers. The alms which these brothers
receive serve to maintain the monastry and its mosque, and if those two
negroes were in such a rage just now, it is because they are convinced
that if one sou, one single sou, of their takings is lost through any
fault of theirs, the lion which that are leading will immediately devour
them.”
On hearing this unlikely but plausible tale, Tartarin recovered his
spirits. “It seems evident after all,” He said “That in spite of what M.
Bombonnel said, there are still lions in Algeria.” “To be sure there are,”
said the prince, “And tomorrow we shall begin to search the plains by
the river Cheliff and you shall see.” “What!... prince. Do you mean to
join in the hunt yourself?” “Of course” Said the prince “Do you think I
would leave you to wander alone in the middle of Africa, among all those
savage tribes, of whose language and customs you know nothing? No! No!
My dear Tartarin. I shall not leave you again. Wherever you go I shall
accompany you.” “Oh!... prince!... prince!” And Tartarin clasped the
valiant Gregory in a warm embrace.