With that the Captain returned to his absinthe and Tartarin pensively trotted his mule down the road to his little house. Although in his loyal heart he refused to believe any of the insinuations made by the Captain, they had upset him, and his rough oaths and country accent had combined to awake in him a vague feeling of remorse. When he reached home, Baia had gone to the baths, the negress seemed to him ugly, the house dismal, and prey to an indefinable melancholy, he went and sat by the fountain and filled his pipe with Barbassou's tobacco. The tobacco had been wrapped in a fragment of paper torn from "The Semaphore" and when he spread it out the name of his home town caught his eye.

"News from Tarascon," He read, "The town is in a state of alarm. Tartarin the lion killer, who went to hunt the big cats in Africa, has not been heard of for several months.... What has happened to our heroic compatriot? One dare hardly ask oneself, knowing as we do his ardent nature, his courage and love of adventure.... Has he, like so many others, been swallowed up in the desert sands, or has he perhaps fallen victim to the murderous teeth of those feline monsters, whose skins he promised to the municipality.... A terrible incertitude! However, some African merchants who came to the fair at Beaucaire, claim to have met, in the heart of the desert, a white man whose description corresponds with his and who was heading for Timbuctoo. May God preserve our Tartarin!"

When he read this, Tartarin blushed and trembled. All Tarascon rose before his eyes. The club. The hat hunters. The green armchair at Costecalde's shop: and soaring above, like the extended wings of an eagle, the formidable moustache of the brave Commandant Bravida. Then to see himself squatting slothfully on his mat, while he was believed to be engaged in slaying lions, filled him with shame. Suddenly he leaped to his feet. "To the lions!... To the lions!" He cried, and hurrying to the dusty corner where lay idle his bivouac tent, his medicine chest, his preserved foods and his weapons, he dragged them into the middle of the courtyard. Tartarin-Sancho had just perished, only Tartarin-Quixote was left.

There was just time enough to inspect his equipment, to don his arms and accoutrements, to put on his big boots, to write a few lines to prince Gregory, confiding Baia to his care, to slip into an envelope some banknotes, wet with tears, and the intrepid Tarasconais was in a stage-coach, rolling down the road to Blidah, leaving the stupefied negress in his house, gazing at the turban, the slippers and all the muslim rig-out of Sidi Tart'ri, hanging discarded on the wall.



Chapter 24.

It was an ancient, old-fashioned stage-coach, upholstered in the old way in heavy blue cloth, very faded, and with enormous pom-poms, which after a few hours on the road dug uncomfortably into one's back. Tartarin had an inside seat, where he installed himself as best he could, and where, instead of the musky scent of the great cats, he could savour the ripe perfume of the coach, compounded of a thousand odours of men, women, horses, leather, food and damp straw.

The other passengers on the coach were a mixed lot. A Trappist monk, some Jewish merchants, two Cocottes, returning to their unit, the third Hussars, and a photographer from Orleansville.

No matter how charming and varied the company, Tartarin did not feel like chatting and remained silent, his arm hooked into the arm-strap and his weaponry between his knees.... His hurried departure, the dark eyes of Baia, the dangerous chase on which he was about to engage, these thoughts troubled his mind, and also there was something about this venerable stage-coach, now domiciled in Africa, which recalled to him vaguely the Tarascon of his youth. Trips to the country. Dinners by the banks of the Rhone, a host of memories.

Little by little it grew dark. The guard lit the lanterns. The old coach swayed and squeaked on its worn springs. The horses trotted, the bells on their harness jingling, and from time to time there sounded the clash of ironmongery from Tartarin's arms chest on the top of the coach.

Sleepily Tartarin contemplated his fellow passengers as they danced before his eyes, shaken by the jolting of the coach, then his eyes closed and he heard no more, except vaguely, the rumble of the axles and the groaning of the coach sides....

Suddenly an ancient female voice, rough, hoarse and cracked, called the Tarasconais by name: "Monsieur Tartarin!... Monsieur Tartarin!" "Who is calling me?" "It is I, Monsieur Tartarin, don't you recognise me?... I am the stage-coach which once ran... it is now twenty years ago... the service from Tarascon to Nimes.... How many times have I carried you and your friends when you went hat shooting over by Joncquieres or Bellegarde... I didn't recognise you at first because of your bonnet and the amount of weight you have put on, but as soon as you began to snore, you old rascal, I knew you right away." "Bon!... Bon!" Replied Tartarin, somewhat vexed, but then softening, he added: "But now, my poor old lady, what are you doing here?" "Ah! My dear M. Tartarin, I did not come here of my own free will I can promise you. Once the railway reached Beaucaire no one could find a use for me so I was shipped off to Africa... and I am not the only one, nearly all the stage-coaches in France have been deported like me; we were found too old fashioned and now here we all are, leading a life of slavery." Here the old coach gave a long sigh, then she went on: "I can't tell you monsieur Tartarin how much I miss my lovely Tarascon. These were good times for me, the time of my youth. You should have seen me leaving in the morning, freshly washed and polished, with new varnish on my wheels, my lamps shining like suns and my tarpaulin newly dressed with oil. How grand it was when the postillion cracked his whip and sang out, 'Lagadigadeou, la Tarasque, la Tarasque' and the guard, with his ticket-punch slung on its bandolier and his braided cap tipped over one ear, chucked his little yapping dog onto the tarpaulin of the coach-roof and scrambled up himself crying 'Let's go!... Let's go!' Then my four horses would start off with a jingle of bells, barking and fanfares. Windows would open and all Tarascon would watch with pride the stage-coach setting off along the king's highway.

"What a fine road it was, Monsieur Tartarin, wide and well kept, with its kilometre markers, its heaps of roadmender's stones at regular intervals, and to right and left vinyards and pretty groves of olive trees. Then inns every few yards, post-houses every five minutes... and my travellers! What fine folk!... Mayors and cures going to Nimes to see their Prefect or Bishop, honest workmen, students on holiday, peasants in embroidered smocks, all freshly shaved that morning, and up on top, all of you hat shooters, who were always in such good form and who sang so well to the stars as we returned home in the evening.

"Now it is a different story... God knows the sort of people I carry. A load of miscreants from goodness knows where, who infest me with vermin. Negroes, Bedouins, rascals and adventurers from every country, colonists who stink me out with their pipes, and all of them talking a language which even our Heavenly Father couldn't understand.... And then you see how they treat me. Never brushed. Never washed. They grudge me the grease for my axles, and instead of the fine big, quiet horses which I used to have, they give me little Arab horses which have the devil in them, fighting, biting, dancing about and running like goats, breaking my shafts with kicks. Aie!... Aie! They are at it again now.... And the roads! It's still all right here, because we are near Government House, but out there, nothing! No road of any sort. One goes as best one can over hill and dale through dwarf palms and mastic trees. Not a single fixed stop. One pulls up at wherever the guard fancies, sometimes at one farm, sometimes at another. Sometimes this rogue takes me on a detour of two leagues just so that he can go and drink with a friend. After that it's 'Whip up postillion, we must make up for lost time.' The sun burns. The dust chokes... Whip!... Whip! We crash. We tip over. More whip. We swim across rivers, we are cold, soaked and half drowned... Whip!... Whip!... Whip! Then in the evening, dripping wet... that's good for me at my age... I have to bed down in the yard of some caravan halt, exposed to all the winds. At night jackals and hyenas come to sniff at my lockers and creatures which fear the dawn hide in my compartments. That's the life I lead, monsieur Tartarin, and I shall lead until the day when, scorched by sun and rotted by humid nights, I shall fall at some corner of this beastly road, where Arabs will boil their cous-cous on the remains of my old carcase."

"Blidah!... Blidah!" Shouted the guard, opening the coach door.



Chapter 25.

Indistinctly, through the steamed up windows, Tartarin could see the pretty square of a neatly laid out little township, surrounded by arcades and planted with orange trees, in the centre of which a group of soldiers was drilling in the thin, pink haze of early morning. The cafes were taking down their shutters, in one corner a vegetable market was under way. It was charming, but in no way did it suggest lions. "To the south, further to the south." Murmured Tartarin, settling back in his corner.

At that moment the coach door was opened, letting in a gust of fresh air, which bore on its wings, amongst the scent of orange blossom, a very small gentleman in a brown overcoat. Neat, elderly, thin and wrinkled, with a face no bigger than a fist, a silk cravat five fingers high, a leather brief-case and an umbrella. The perfect image of a village notary. On seeing Tartarin's weaponry, the little gentleman, who was seated opposite him, looked very surprised, and began to stare at our hero.

The horses were changed and the coach set off... the little gentleman continued to stare. At length Tartarin became offended and staring in his turn at the little gentleman he asked "Do you find this surprising?"

"Not at all, but it does rather get in the way." Was the reply, and the fact is that with his tent, his revolver, his two rifles and their covers, not to mention his natural corpulence, Tartarin de Tarascon did take up quite a lot of space.

This reply from the little gentleman annoyed Tartarin, "Do you suppose that I would go after lions with an umbrella?" Asked the great man proudly. The little gentleman looked at his umbrella, smiled and and asked calmly, "You monsieur are...?" "Tartarin de Tarascon, lion hunter." And in pronouncing these words the brave Tartarin shook the tassel of his chechia as if it were a mane.

In the coach there was a startled response. The Trappist crossed himself, the Cocottes uttered little squeaks of excitement and the photographer edged closer to the lion killer, thinking that he might be a good subject for a picture. The little gentleman was not in the least disturbed. "Have you killed many lions, Monsieur Tartarin?" He asked quietly. Tartarin adopted a lofty air, "Yes many of them. More than you have hairs on your head." And all the passengers laughed at the sight of the three or four yellow hairs which sprouted from the little gentleman's scalp.

The photographer then spoke up, "A terrible profession yours, Monsieur Tartarin, you must have moments of danger sometimes like that brave M. Bombonnel." "Ah!... yes... M. Bombonnel, the man who hunts panthers." Said Tartarin, with some disdain. "Do you know him?" Asked the little gentleman. "Ti!... Pardi!... To be sure I know him, we have hunted together more than twenty times." "You hunt panthers also M. Tartarin?" "Occasionally, as a pastime." Said Tartarin casually, and raising his head with a heroic gesture which went straight to the hearts of the two Cocottes, he added "They cannot be compared to lions." "One could say," Hazarded the photographer, "That a panther is no more than a large pussy-cat." "Quite right." Said Tartarin, who was not reluctant to lower the reputation of this M. Bombonnel, particularly in front of the ladies.

At this moment the coach stopped. The guard came to open the door and he addressed the little old man, "This is where you want to get off Monsieur." He said very respectfully.

The little gentleman got up to leave, but before he closed the door he said "Would you permit me to give you a word of advice M. Tartarin?" "What is that Monsieur?" "Go back quickly to Tarascon, M. Tartarin, you are wasting your time here... There are a few panthers left in Algeria, but, fi donc! They are too small a quarry for you... as for lions, they are finished. There are no more in Algeria, my friend Chassaing has just killed the last one."

On that the little gentleman saluted, closed the door and went off, laughing, with his brief-case and umbrella. "Guard!" Said Tartarin, making his grimace. "Who on earth was that fellow?" "What! Don't you know him?" Said the guard, "That's Monsieur Bombonnel!"



Chapter 26.

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 cafe, 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.



Chapter 27.

Very early the next morning the intrepid Tartarin and the no less intrepid prince Gregory, followed by half a dozen negro porters, left Milianah and descended towards the plain of the Chetiff by a steep pathway, delightfully shaded by jasmine, carobs and wild olives, between the hedges of little native gardens where a thousand bubbling springs trickled melodiously from rock to rock, a veritable Eden.

Carrying as much in the way of arms as the great Tartarin, the prince was further adorned by a magnificent and colourful kepi, covered with gold braid and decorated with oak leaves embroidered in silver thread, which gave his highness the appearance of a Mexican General, or a Middle-European Station-Master. This fantastic kepi greatly intrigued Tartarin and he asked humbly for an explanation.

"An indispensable form of headgear for the traveller in Africa." The prince replied gravely; and while polishing the peak on his coat-sleeve he instructed his innocent companion on the important role played by the kepi in colonial administration, and the deference which its appearance inspires. This to such an extent that the government has been obliged to issue kepis to everyone from the canteen worker to the registrar-general. In fact, according to the prince, to govern the country there was no necessity for an elaborate regime. All that was needed was a fine gold-braided kepi glittering on the end of a big stick.

Thus conversing and philosophising, they went there way. The bare-footed porters leapt from rock to rock, shouting and chattering. The armaments rattled in their case. The guns glittered in the sun.. The locals who passed bowed deeply before the magical kepi.... Up on the ramparts of Milianah, the chief of the Arab bureau, who was walking with his lady in the cool of the morning, hearing these unusual noises and seeing between the branches the flash of sunlight on the weapons, feared a surprise attack; whereupon he lowered the portcullis, beat the alarm and put the town in a state of siege.

This was a good start to the expedition. Regrettably, before the end of the day, the situation deteriorated. One of the negroes was taken with the most fearful colic, having eaten the plasters in the medicine chest. Another fell, dead drunk, by the wayside, as a result of swigging spirits of camphor. A third, in charge of the log-book, deceived by the gold lettering on the cover, thought he had hold of the treasures of Mecca and made off with it at top speed.... Clearly some planning was needed, so the party halted and took council in the shade of an old fig tree. "In my opinion" Said the prince, trying unsuccessfully to dissolve a tablet of pemmican in a cooking pot, "In my opinion, after this evening we should get rid of these negro porters. There is an Arab market near here and our best plan would be to go there and buy some bourriquots." "No!... No!... No bourriquots!" Interrupted Tartarin, who had become very red at the memory of Noiraud, adding hypocritically, "How can these little creatures carry all our equipment?"

The prince smiled, "You are mistaken my illustrious friend," He said, "The bourriquot may seem to you a poor weak creature, but it has a great heart... It needs it to support all it has to bear... ask the Arabs. This is their idea of our administration. On top they say, is the governor with a big stick which he uses to thump his staff. The staff in turn thump the soldiers. The soldiers thump the colonist. The colonist thumps the Arab, the Arab the negro, and the Negro thumps the bourriquot. The poor little bourriquot having no one to thump, bares its back and puts up with it. So you can see it is well able to carry all our gear."

"That's all very well." Replied Tartarin, "But I don't think that donkeys add much colour to the general appearance of our caravan. Now if we could have a camel...!"

"Just as you wish." Said his highness, and they set off for the market.

The market was held some distance away on the bank of the Cheliff. There were five or six thousand Arabs milling around in the sun, trading noisily among piles of olives, pots of honey, sacks of spices and heaps of cigars. There were fires at which whole sheep were roasting, dripping with butter. There were open air butcheries where almost naked negroes, their feet paddling in blood and their arms red to the elbow, were cutting up the carcases of goats hanging from hooks... In one corner, in a tent repaired in a thousand different colours, was a Moorish official with a big book and spectacles. Over there is a crowd. There are cries of rage. It is a roulette game that has been set up on a corn bin and the tribesmen gathered about it have started fighting with knives. Elsewhere, there are cheers, laughter and stamping of feet, a merchant and his mule have fallen into the river and are in danger of drowning.... There are scorpions, crows, dogs and flies, millions of flies, but no camels.

Eventually a camel was discovered which some nomads were trying to dispose of. This was a real desert camel, with little hair, a sad expression and a hump which through long shortage of fodder hung flaccidly to one side. Tartarin was so taken with it that he wanted the two partners to be mounted. This proved to be a mistake.

The camel knelt, the trunks were strapped on, the prince installed himself on the creature's neck and Tartarin was hoisted up to the top of the hump, between two cases, from where he proudly saluted the assembled market and gave the signal for departure.... Heavens above!.... If only Tarascon could see him now!

The camel rose, stretched out its long legs and took off. Calamity! The camel pitched and rolled like a frigate in a rough sea and the chechia responded to the motion as it had on the Zouave. "Prince... prince" Murmured Tartarin, ashen-faced, and clutching the scanty hair of the hump, "Prince... let us get down, I feel... I feel I am going to disgrace France." But the camel was in full flight and nothing was going to stop it. Four thousand Arabs were running behind, bare-footed, waving, laughing like idiots, six hundred thousand white teeth glistening in the sun.... The great man of Tarascon had to resign himself to the inevitable, and France was disgraced.



Chapter 28.

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 Ramee 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 cafes, 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 fetes 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.



Chapter 29.

The day after this adventurous yet tragic evening, when at first light our hero awoke and realised that the prince and his money had gone and would not return; when he saw himself alone in this little white tomb, betrayed, robbed and abandoned in the middle of savage Algeria with a one-humped camel and some loose change as his total resources, for the first time some misgivings entered his mind. He began to have doubts about Montenegro, about friendship, fame and even lions. Overcome by misery he shed bitter tears.

While he was sitting disconsolately at the door of the Marabout with his head in his hands, his rifle between his knees and watched over by the camel... behold! The undergrowth opposite was thrust aside and the thunderstruck Tartarin saw not ten paces away a gigantic lion, which advanced towards him uttering roars which shook the ragged offerings on the wall of the Marabout and even the slippers of the holy man in their recess. Only Tartarin remained unshaken. "At last!" He cried, jumping to his feet with his rifle butt to his shoulder... Pan!... Pan!... Pft!... Pft!... The lion had two explosive bullets in its head! Fragments of lion erupted like fireworks into the burning African sky, and as they fell to earth, Tartarin saw two furious negroes, who ran towards him with raised cudgels. The two negroes of Milianah... Oh! Misere!... It was the the tame lion, the poor blind lion of the convent of Mahommed that the bullets of the Tarasconais had felled.

This time Tartarin had the narrowest of escapes. Drunk with fanatical fury, the two negro mendicants would surely have had him in pieces had not the God of the Christians sent him a Guardian Angel in the shape of the District Police Officer from Orleansville, who arrived down the pathway, his sabre tucked under his arm, at that very moment. The sight of the municipal kepi had an immediate calming effect on the two negroes. Stern and majestic the representative of the law took down the particulars of the affair, had the remains of the lion loaded onto the camel, and ordered the plaintiff and the accused to follow him to Orleansville, where the whole matter was placed in the hands of the legal authorities.

There then commenced a long and involved process. After the tribal Algeria in which he had been wandering, Tartarin now made the acquaintance of the no less peculiar and cock-eyed Algeria of the towns: litigious and legalistic. He encountered a sleazy justicary who stitched up shady deals in the back rooms of cafes. The Bohemian society of the gentlemen of the law; dossiers which stank of absinthe, white cravats speckled with drink and coffee stains. He was embroiled with ushers, solicitors, and business agents, all the locusts of officialdom, thin and ravenous, who strip the colonist down to his boots and leave him shorn leaf by leaf like a stalk of maize.

The first essential point to be decided was whether the lion had been killed on civil or military territory. In the first case Tartarin would come before a civil tribunal, in the second he would be tried by court-martial: at the word court-martial Tartarin imagined himself lying shot at the foot of the ramparts, or crouching in the depths of a dungeon... A major difficulty was that the delimitation of these two areas was extremely vague, but at last, after months of consultation, intrigue, and vigils in the sun outside the offices of the Arab Bureau, it was established that on the one hand the lion was, when killed, on military ground, but on the other hand that Tartarin when he fired the fatal shot was in civilian territory. The affair was therefore a civil matter, and Tartarin was freed on the payment of an indemnity of two thousand five hundred francs, not including costs.

How was this to be paid? The little money left after the prince's defection had long since gone on legal documents and judicial absinthe. The unfortunate lion killer was now reduced to selling off his armament rifle by rifle. He sold the daggers, the knives and coshes. A grocer bought the preserved food, a chemist what was left of the medicine chest. Even the boots went, with the bivouac tent, into the hands of a merchant of bric-a-brac. Once everything had been paid, Tartarin was left with little but the lion-skin and the camel. The lion-skin he packed up carefully and despatched to Tarascon, to the address of the brave Commandant Bravida. As for the camel, he counted on it to get him back to Algiers: not by riding it, but by selling it to raise the fare for the stage-coach, which was at least better than camel-back. Sadly the camel proved a difficult market, and no one offered to buy it at any price.

Tartarin was determined to get back to Algiers, even if it meant walking. He longed to see once more Baia's blue corslet, his house, his fountain and to rest on the white tiles of his his little cloister while he awaited money to be sent from France. In these circumstances the camel did not desert him. This strange animal had developed an inexplicable affection for its master, and seeing him set out from Orleansville it followed him faithfully, regulating its pace to his and not quitting him by as much as a footstep.

At first Tartarin found it touching. This fidelity, this unshakable devotion seemed wholly admirable; besides which the beast was no trouble and was able to find its own food. However, after a few days Tartarin grew tired of having perpetually at his heels this melancholy companion, who reminded him of all his misadventures. He began to be irritated. He took a dislike to its air of sadness to its hump and its haughty bearing. In he end he became so exasperated with it that his only wish was to be rid of it; but the camel would not be dismissed. Tartarin tried to lose it, but the camel always found him. He tried running away, but the camel could run faster. He shouted "Clear off!" and threw stones: the camel stopped and regarded him with a mournful expression, then after a few moments it resumed its pace and caught up with him. Tartarin had to resign himself to its company.

When, after eight days of walking, Tartarin, tired and dusty, saw gleaming in the distance the white terraces of Algiers, when he found himself on the outskirts of the town, on the bustling Mustapha road, amid the crowds who watched him go by with the camel in attendance, his patience snapped, and taking advantage of some traffic congestion he ducked into a field and hid in a ditch. In a few moments he saw above his head, on the causeway, the camel striding along rapidly, its neck anxiously extended. Greatly relieved to be rid of it, Tartarin entered the town by a side road which ran along by the wall of his house.

On his arrival at his Moorish house, Tartarin halted in astonishment. The day was ending, the streets deserted. Through the low arched doorway, which the negress had forgotten to close, could be heard laughter, the clinking of glasses, the popping of a champagne cork and the cheerful voice of a woman singing loud and clear:

"Aimes-tu Marco la belle,

"La danse aux salons en fleurs..."

"Tron de Diou!" Said Tartarin, blenching, and he rushed into the courtyard.

Unhappy Tartarin! What a spectacle awaited him!.... Amid bottles, pastries, scattered cushions, tambourine, guitar, and hookah, Baia stood, without her blue jacket or her corslet, dressed only in a silver gauze blouse and big pink pantaloons, singing "Marco la belle" with a naval officer's hat tipped over one ear... while on a rug at her feet surfeited with love and confitures, was Barbassou, the infamous Barbassou, roaring with laughter as he listened to her.

The arrival of Tartarin, haggard, thin, covered in dust, with blazing eyes and bristling chechia cut short this enjoyable Turco-Marseillaise orgy. Baia uttered a little cry, and like a startled leveret she bolted into the house, but Barbassou was not in the least put out and laughed more than ever: "He!... He!... Monsieur Tartarin. What did I tell you? You can hear that she knows French all right."

Tartarin advanced, furious: "Captain!.." He began; but then, leaning over the balcony with a rather vulgar gesture, Baia threw down a few well-chosen words. Tartarin, deflated, sat down on a drum, his Moor spoke in the argot of the Marseilles back-streets.

"When I warned you not to trust Algerian women," Said Captain Barbassou sententiously, "The same applied to your Montenegrin prince." Tartarin looked up, "Do you know where the prince is?" he asked.

"Oh, he is not far away. He will spend the next five years in the fine prison at Mustapha. The clown was foolish enough to be caught stealing... and anyway this is not the first time His Highness has been inside, he has already done three years in gaol somewhere, and... hang on!... I believe it was in Tarascon!

"In Tarascon!" Cried Tartarin, suddenly enlightened, "that is why I never saw him there. All he knew of Tarascon was what he could see from a cell window."

"He!... without a doubt.... Ah! My poor M. Tartarin, you have to keep both eyes wide open in this devilish country if you don't want to be taken in. Like that business of the Muezzin."

"What business?... What Muezzin?"

"Ti!... Pardi!" The Muezzin opposite, who was courting Baia; all Algiers knew about it. Not all the prayers he was chanting were addressed to Allah, some were directed to the little one, and he was making propositions under your nose. "It seems that everyone in this beastly country is a crook", Wailed the unhappy Tartarin. Barbassou shrugged his shoulders, "My dear fellow, you know how it is. All these sort of places are the same. If you take my advice you will go back to Tarascon as quickly as possible."

"That's easy to say, but what am I to do for money? Don't you know how they robbed me out there in the desert?"

"Don't worry about that," laughed the Captain, "the Zouave is leaving tomorrow and I'll take you back if you want... does that suit you, colleague?... All right... Good! There's only one thing left to do, there is still some champagne and some pastries left. Come, sit down and let bygones be bygones." After a little delay which his dignity required, our hero accepted the offer. They sat down and poured out a drink. Hearing the clink of glasses, Baia came down and finished singing Marco la Belle, and the party went on until late in the night.



Chapter 30.

It is mid-day. The Zouave has steam up and is ready to depart. Up above on the balcony of the cafe Valentin, a group of officers aim the telescope, and come one by one, in order of seniority, to look at the lucky little ship which is going to France. It is the principle entertainment of the general staff. Down below, the water of the anchorage sparkles.... The breeches of the old Turkish cannons, mounted along the quay, glisten in the sunshine.... Passengers arrive.... Baggage is loaded onto tenders.

Tartarin does not have any baggage. He comes down from the Rue de la Marine by the little market, full of bananas and water-melons, accompanied by his friend Captain Barbassou.

Tartarin de Tarascon has left on the Moorish shore his arms, his equipment and his illusions, and is preparing to sail back to Tarascon with nothing in his pockets but his hands. Scarcely, however, had he set foot in the captain's launch, when a breathless creature scrambled down from the square above and galloped towards him. It was the camel, the faithful camel, which for twenty-four hours had been searching for its master.

When Tartarin saw it, he changed colour and pretended not to know it; but the camel was insistent. It frisked along the quay. It called to its friend and regarded him with tender looks. "Take me away!" Its sad eyes seemed to say, "Take me away with you, far away from this mock Arabia, this ridiculous Orient, full of locomotives and stage coaches, where I as a second-class dromadary do not know what will become of me. You are the last Teur, I am the last camel, let us never part, Oh my Tartarin!" "Is that your camel?" Asked the Captain.

"No!... No!... Not mine." Replied Tartarin, who trembled at the thought of entering Tarascon with this absurd escort; and shamelessly repudiating the companion of his misfortunes he repelled with his foot the soil of Algeria and pushed the boat out from the shore. The camel sniffed at the water, flexed its joints and leapt headlong in behind the boat, where it swam in convoy toward the Zouave, its hump floating on the water like a gourd and it neck lying on the surface like the ram of a trireme.

The boat and the camel came alongside the Zouave at the same time. "I don't know what I should do about this dromadary." Said the captain, "I think I'll take it on board and present it to the zoo at Marseille, I can't just leave it here." So by means of block and tackle the wet camel was hoisted onto the deck of the Zouave, which then set sail.

Tartarin spent most of the time in his cabin. Not that the sea was rough or that the chechia had to much to suffer, but because whenever he appeared on the deck the camel made such a ridiculous fuss of its master. You never saw a camel so attached to anyone as this.

Hour by hour, when he looked through the porthole, Tartarin could see the Algerian sky turn paler, until one morning, in a silvery mist, he heard to his delight the bells of Marseilles. The Zouave had arrived.

Our man, who had no baggage, disembarked without a word and hurried across Marseilles, fearing all the time that he might be followed by the camel, and he did not breathe easily until he was seated in a third-class railway carriage, on his way to Tarascon... a false sense of security. They had not gone far from Marseilles when heads appeared at windows and there were cries of astonishment, Tartarin looked out in turn and what did he see but the inescapable camel coming down the line behind the train with a remarkable turn of speed.

Tartarin resumed his seat and closed his eyes. After this disastrous expedition he had counted on getting back home unrecognised, but the presence of this confounded camel made it impossible. What a return to make, Bon Dieu!... No money... No lions... Nothing but a camel!.... "Tarascon!... Tarascon!"... It was time to get out.

To Tartarin's utter astonishment, the heroic chechia had barely appeared in the doorway, when it was greeted by a great cry of "Vive Tartarin!... Vive Tartarin!" Which shook the glass vault of the station roof. "Vive Tartarin!... Hurrah for the lion killer!" Then came fanfares and a choir. Tartarin could have died, he thought this was a hoax: but no, all Tarascon was there, tossing their hats in the air and shouting his praises. There stood the brave Commandant Bravida, Costecalde the gunsmith, the President Ladeveze, the chemist and all the noble body of hat shooters, who pressed round their chief and carried him all the way down the steps.

How remarkable are the effects of the "mirage". The skin of the blind lion sent to the Commandant was the cause of all this tumult. At the sight of this modest trophy, displayed at the club, Tarascon and beyond Tarascon the whole of the Midi had worked themselves into a state of excitement. "The Semaphore" had spoken. A complete scenario had been invented. This was no longer one lion killed by Tartarin, it was ten lions, twenty lions, a whole troop of lions. So Tartarin, when he reached Marseilles was already famous, and an enthusiastic telegram had warned his home town of his imminent arrival.

The excitement of the populace reached its peak when a fantastic animal, covered in dust and sweat, stumbled down the station steps behind our hero. For a moment they thought that the Tarasque had returned.

Tartarin reassured his fellow citizens, "It is my camel" He said, and already under the influence of the Tarascon sun, that fine sun which induces fanciful exaggeration, he stroked the camel's hump and added, "It is a noble creature, it saw me kill all my lions." So saying, he took the arm of the Commandant, who was blushing with pride, and followed by his camel, surrounded by hat shooters and acclaimed by the people, he proceeded peacefully toward the little house of the baobab; and as he walked along he began the story of his great expedition.

"There was one particular evening," He said, "When I was out in the heart of the Sahara..."

THE END