Despite the picturesque nature of their new mode of transport our lion
hunters were forced to dismount, out of regard for the chechia. They
continued their journey as before, on foot, and the caravan proceeded
tranquilly toward the south with Tartarin in front, the prince in the
rear and between them the camel with the baggage.
The expedition lasted for a month. For a whole month, Tartarin, hunting
for non-existent lions, wandered from village to village in the immense
plain of the Chetiff, across this extraordinary, cock-eyed French
Algeria, where the perfumes of ancient Araby are mingled with a powerful
stink of Absinthe and barrack-room; Abraham and Zouzou combined, a
strange mixture like a page of the Old Testament rewritten by Sergeant
Le Ramée or Corporal Pitou.... A curious spectacle for those who would
care to look.... A savage and decadent people whom we are civilising
by giving them our own vices. The cruel and uncontrolled authority of
Pashas, inflated with self-importance in their cordons of the legion of
honour, who at their whim have people beaten on the soles of their feet.
The so-called justice of bespectacled Cadis, traitors to the koran and
to the law, who sell their judgements as did Esau his birthright for
a plate of cous-cous. Drunken and libertine headmen, former batmen to
General Yussif someone or other, who guzzle champagne in the company of
harlots, and indulge in feasts of roast mutton, while before their tents
the whole tribe is starving and disputes with the dogs the leavings of
the seigniorial banquet.
Then, all around, uncultivated plain. Scorched grass. Bushes bare of
leaves. Scrub. Cactus. Mastic trees... The granary of France?... A granary
empty of grain and rich only in jackals and bugs. Abandoned villages.
Bewildered tribesfolk who run they know not where, fleeing from famine
and sowing corpses along the road. Here and there a French settlement,
the houses dilapidated, the fields untilled and raging hordes of locusts
who eat the very curtains from the windows, while the colonists are all
in cafés, drinking absinthe and discussing projects for the reform of
the constitution.
That is what Tartarin could have seen, if he had taken the trouble, but
obsessed with his fantasy the man from Tarascon marched straight ahead,
his vision limited to searching for these monstrous felines, of which
there was no trace.
Since the bivouac tent obstinately refused to open and the pemmican
tablets to dissolve, the hunting party was compelled to stop daily at
tribal villages. Everywhere, thanks to the prince’s kepi, they were
received with open arms. They were lodged by chieftains in strange
palaces, great white buildings without windows, where were piled up
hookahs and mahogany commodes, Smyrna carpets and adjustable oil lamps,
cedar-wood chests full of Turkish sequins and clocks decorated in the
style of Louis Phillipe. Everywhere Tartarin was treated to fêtes and
official receptions. In his honour whole villages turned out, firing
volleys in the air, their burnous gleaming in the sun: after which the
good chieftain would come to present the bill.
Nowhere, however, were there any more lions than there are on the Pont
Neuf in Paris: but Tartarin was not discouraged, he pushed bravely on to
the south. His days were spent scouring the scrub, rummaging among the
dwarf palms with the end of his carbine and going “Frt!... Frt!” At each
bush... Then every evening a stand-to of two or three hours... A wasted
effort. No lions appeared.
One evening, however, at about six o’clock, as they were going through
a wood of mastic trees, where fat quail, made lazy by the heat were
jumping up from the grass, Tartarin thought he heard... but so far
off... so distorted by the wind... so faint, the wonderful roar which
he had heard so many times back home in Tarascon, behind the menagerie
Mitaine.
At first he thought he had imagined it, but in a moment, still far
distant, but now more distinct, the roaring began again, and this time
one could hear, all around, the barking of village dogs; while, stricken
by terror and rattling the boxes of arms and preserves, the camel’s hump
trembled. There could be no more doubt.... It was a lion! Quick!... Quick!
Into position! Not a moment to lose!
There was, close by them, an old Marabout (the tomb of a holy man) with
a white dome: the big yellow slippers of the deceased lying in a recess
above the door, together with a bizarre jumble of votive offerings which
hung along the walls: fragments of burnous, some gold thread, a tuft
of red hair. There Tartarin installed the prince and the camel,
and prepared to look for a hide. He was determined to face the lion
single-handed, so he earnestly requested His Highness not to leave the
spot, and for safe keeping he handed to him his wallet, a fat wallet
stuffed with valuable papers and banknotes. This done our hero sought
his post.
About a hundred yards in front of the Marabout, on the banks of an
almost dry river, a clump of oleanders stirred in the faint twilight
breeze, and it was there that Tartarin concealed himself in ambush,
kneeling on one knee, in what he felt was an appropriate position, his
rifle in his hands and his big hunting knife stuck into the sandy soil
of the river bank in front of him.
Night was falling. The rosy daylight turned to violet and then to
a sombre blue.... Below, amongst the stones of the river bed, there
glistened like a hand-mirror a little pool of clear water: a drinking
place for the wild animals. On the slope of the opposite bank one could
see indistinctly the path which they had made through the trees: a view
which Tartarin found a bit unnerving. Add to this the vague noises of
the African night, the rustle of branches, the thin yapping of jackals,
and in the sky a flock of cranes passing with cries like children being
murdered. You must admit that this could be unsettling, and Tartarin was
unsettled, he was even very unsettled! His teeth chattered and the rifle
shook in his hands; well... there are evenings when one is not at one’s
best, and where would be the merit if heroes were never afraid?
Tartarin was, admittedly, afraid, but in spite of his fear he held on
for an hour... two hours, but heroism has its breaking point. In the dry
river bed, close to him, Tartarin heard the sound of footsteps rattling
the pebbles. Terror overtook him. He rose to his feet, fired both
barrels blindly into the night and ran at top speed to the Marabout,
leaving his knife stuck in the ground as a memorial to the most
overwhelming panic that ever affected a hero.
“A moi! prince!... A Moi!... The lion!”... There was no answer.
“Prince!... prince! Are you there?”.... The prince was not there. Against
the white wall of the Marabout was only the silhouette of the worthy
camel’s hump. The prince Gregory had disappeared, taking with him the
wallet and the banknotes. His highness had been waiting for a month for
such an opportunity.