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Updated: June 13, 2025
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.
Cried the good Tarasconais and prepared himself to receive a possible attack, but the creature had had enough and it fled at top speed, bellowing.... He, however, did not budge: he was waiting for the female... as happened in all his books. Unfortunately the female failed to turn up, and after two or three hours of waiting Tartarin became tired.
The arrival of Tartarin with the rifle on his shoulder produced something of a chill, all the bold Tarasconais who had been walking tranquilly before the cages, unarmed, trusting, with no notion of danger, became suddenly alarmed at the sight of the great Tartarin entering the place, carrying this lethal weapon.
Unfortunately this title of prince which had so dazzled the worthy Tarasconais, did not produce the least impression on the officer of the Chasseurs with whom the prince was in dispute. "A likely story" said the officer with a sneer, and then turning to the onlookers, "Prince Gregory of Montenegro, who has ever heard of him?... No one!" Tartarin, indignant, took a pace forward.
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?"
At the moment his equipment, his arms, his medicine chest, the preserved food and the bivouac tent are piled up peacefully in a corner of room 36 in the Hotel de l'Europe. Sleep without fear, great tawny lions! The Tarasconais is searching for his Moor.
He must find his Dulcinea; but to find in a city of one hundred thousand inhabitants a person of whom one knows only the scent of their breath, the appearance of their slippers and the colour of their eyes is no light undertaking. Only a lovesick Tarasconais would attempt such a task.
You will be aware, for a start, that everyone in these parts is a hunter. From the highest to the lowest hunting is a passion with the Tarasconais and has been ever since the legendary Tarasque prowled in the marshes near the town and was hunted down by the citizens.
Following this blood-spoor, with watchful eye and revolver in hand, the valiant Tarasconais went from artichoke to artichoke until he arrived at a small field of oats.... In a patch of flattened grain was a pool of blood and in the middle of the pool, lying on its side with a large wound to its head, was... what?... a lion?... No Parbleu!... A donkey!
Calm and erect, the intrepid Tarasconais strolled round the menagerie. He passed the seals without stopping. He cast a contemptuous eye on the container full of noise, where the boa was swallowing its chicken, and at last halted in front of the lion's cage.... A dramatic confrontation.... The lion of Tarascon and the lion of the Atlas mountains face to face.
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