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 hen 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.Amoonless 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.
