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