Bab Bab 18 · IV. The First Lying in Wait.

. IV. The First Lying in Wait.

THREE o’clock was striking by the Government clock when Tartarin awoke.

He had slept all the evening, night, and morning, and even a goodish

piece of the afternoon. It must be granted, though, that in the last

three days the red fez had caught it pretty hot and lively!

Our hero’s first thought on opening his eyes was, “I am in the land of

the lions!” And--well, why should we not say it?--at the idea that lions

were nigh hereabouts, within a couple of steps, almost at hand’s reach,

and that he would have to disentangle a snarled skein with them, ugh! a

deadly chill struck him, and he dived intrepidly under the coverlet.

But, before a moment was over, the outward gaiety, the blue sky, the

glowing sun that streamed into the bedchamber, a nice little breakfast

that he ate in bed, his window wide open upon the sea, the whole

flavoured with an uncommonly good bottle of Crescia wine--it very

speedily restored him his former pluckiness.

“Let’s out and at the lion!” he exclaimed, throwing off the clothes and

briskly dressing himself.

His plan was as follows: he would go forth from the city without saying

a word to a soul, plunge into the great desert, await nightfall to

ambush himself, and bang away at the first lion who walked up. Then

would he return to breakfast in the morning at the hotel, receive the

felicitations of the natives, and hire a cart to bring in the quarry.

So he hurriedly armed himself, attached upright on his back the

shelter-tent (which, when rolled up, left its centre pole sticking out

a clear foot above his head), and descended to the street as stiffly as

though he had swallowed it. Not caring to ask the way of anybody, from

fear of letting out his project, he turned fairly to the right, and

threaded the Bab-Azoon arcade to the very end, where swarms of Algerian

Jews watched him pass from their corner ambushes like so many spiders;

crossing the Theatre place, he entered the outer ward, and lastly came

upon the dusty Mustapha highway.

Upon this was a quaint conglomeration: omnibuses, hackney coaches,

corricolos, the army service waggons, huge hay-carts drawn by bullocks,

squads of Chasseurs d’Afrique, droves of microscopic asses, trucks

of Alsatian emigrants, spahis in scarlet cloaks--all filed by in a

whirlwind cloud of dust, amidst shouts, songs, and trumpetcalls, between

two rows of vile-looking booths, at the doors of which lanky Mahonnais

women might be seen doing their hair, drinking-dens filled with

soldiers, and shops of butchers and knackers.

“What rubbish, to din me about the Orient!” grumbled the great Tartarin;

“there are not even as many Turks here as at Marseilles.”

All of a sudden he saw a splendid camel strut by him quite closely,

stretching its long legs and puffing out its throat like a turkey-cock,

and that made his heart throb. Camels already, eh? Lions could not be

far Off now; and, indeed, in five minutes’ time he did see a whole band

of lion-hunters coming his way under arms.

“Cowards!” thought our hero as he skirted them; “downright cowards, to

go at a lion in companies and with dogs!”

For it never could occur to him that anything but lions were objects of

the chase in Algeria. For all that, these Nimrods wore such complacent

phizzes of retired tradesmen, and their style of lion-hunting with

dogs and game-bags was so patriarchal, that the Tarasconian, a little

perplexed, deemed it incumbent to question one of the gentlemen.

“And furthermore, comrade, is the sport good?”

“Not bad,” responded the other, regarding the speaker’s imposing warlike

equipment with a scared eye.

“Killed any?”

“Rather! Not so bad--only look.” Whereupon the Algerian sportsman showed

that it was rabbits and woodcock stuffing out the bag.

“What! do you call that your bag? Do you put such-like in your bag?”

“Where else should I put ‘em?”

“But it’s such little game.”

“Some run small and some run large,” observed the hunter.

In haste to catch up with his companions, he joined them with several

long strides. The dauntless Tartarin remained rooted in the middle of

the road with stupefaction. “Pooh!” he ejaculated, after a moment’s

reflection, “these are jokers. They haven’t killed anything whatever,”

and he went his way.

Already the houses became scarcer, and so did the passengers. Dark came

on and objects were blurred, though Tartarin walked on for half an hour

more, when he stopped, for it was night. A moonless night, too, but

sprinkled with stars. On the highroad there was nobody. The hero

concluded that lions are not stage-coaches, and would not of their own

choice travel the main ways. So he wheeled into the fields, where there

were brambles and ditches and bushes at every step, but he kept on

nevertheless.

But suddenly he halted.

“I smell lions about here!” said our friend, sniffing right and left.