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ANSWER me, you will say, how the mischief is it that Tartarin of Tarascon never left Tarascon with all this mania for adventure, need of powerful sensations, and folly about travel, rides, and journeys from the Pole to the Equator? For that is a fact: up to the age of five-and-forty, the dreadless Tarasconian had never once slept outside his own room.
After the minute's wavering which self-respect commanded, the Tarasconian chose his course manfully. Down he sat, and they touched glasses. Baya, gliding down at that chink, sang the finale of "Marco la Bella," and the jollification was prolonged deep into the night.
There was an abrupt check of movement, a shock, and no more, save the silent rolling of the boat from side to side like a balloon in the air. This strange stillness alarmed the Tarasconian. "Heaven ha' mercy upon us!" he yelled in a terrifying voice, as, recovering his strength by magic, he bounded out of his berth, and rushed upon deck with his arsenal. II. "To arms! to arms"
The little gentleman, though, was not awed. "Do you mean to say that you have killed many lions, Monsieur Tartarin?" he asked, very quietly. The Tarasconian received his charge in the handsomest manner. "Is it many have I killed, Monsieur? I wish you had only as many hairs on your head as I have killed of them."
It thrust out its high head and emitted powerful roars, which made the temple walls shake beneath their votive decorations, and even the saint's slippers dance in their niche. The Tarasconian alone did not tremble. "At last you've come!" he shouted, jumping up and levelling the rifle. Bang, bang! went a brace of shells into its head. It was done.
As the Esmeralda did not know a word of French, and Tartarin none in Arabic, the conversation died away sometimes, and the Tarasconian had plenty of leisure to do penance for the gush of language of which he had been guilty in the shop of Bezuquet the chemist or that of Costecalde the gunmaker.
"He's got it!" cried our good Tartarin as, steadying himself on his sturdy supporters, he prepared to receive the brute's charge. But it had more than its fill, and galloped off; howling. He did not budge, for he expected to see the female mate appear, as the story-books always lay it down she should. Unhappily, no female came. After two or three hours' waiting the Tarasconian grew tired.
Only the time to inspect his armament and stores, don his harness, get into his heavy boots, scribble a couple of words to confide Baya to the prince, and slip a few bank-notes sprinkled with tears into the envelope, and then the dauntless Tarasconian rolled away in the stage-coach on the Blidah road, leaving the house to the negress, stupor-stricken before the pipe, the turban, and babooshes all the Moslem shell of Sidi Tart'ri which sprawled piteously under the little white trefoils of the gallery.
Nevertheless, the Tarasconian did not grow disheartened. Ever bravely diving more deeply into the South, he spent the days in beating up the thickets, probing the dwarf-palms with the muzzle of his rifle, and saying "Boh!" to every bush. And every evening, before lying down, he went into ambush for two or three hours. Useless trouble, however, for the lion did not show himself.
"Why, then, they're all scamps in this country!" howled the unlucky Tarasconian. Barbassou snapped his fingers like a philosopher. "My dear lad, you know, these new countries are 'rum! But, anyhow, if you'll believe me, you'd best cut back to Tarascon at full speed." "It's easy to say, 'Cut back. Where's the money to come from? Don't you know that I was plucked out there in the desert?"
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