All around spread the plains in waste, burnt grass, leafless shrubs, thickets of cactus and mastic —­ “the Granary of France!” —­ a granary void of grain, alas! and rich alone in vermin and jackals.  Abandoned camps, frightened tribes fleeing from them and famine, they know not whither, and strewing the road with corpses.  At long intervals French villages, with the dwellings in ruins, the fields untilled, the maddened locusts gnawing even the window-blinds, and all the settlers in the drinking-places, absorbing absinthe and discussing projects of reform and the Constitution.

This is what Tartarin might have seen had he given himself the trouble; but, wrapped up entirely in his leonine-hunger, the son of Tarascon went straight on, looking to neither right nor left, his eyes steadfastly fixed on the imaginary monsters which never really appeared.

As the shelter-tent was stubborn in not unfolding, and the compressed meat-cakes would not dissolve, the caravan was obliged to stop, morn and eve, at tribal camps.  Everywhere, thanks to the gorgeous cap of Prince Gregory, our hunters were welcomed with open arms.  They lodged in the aghas’ odd palaces, large white windowless farmhouses, where they found, pell-mell, narghilehs and mahogany furniture, Smyrna carpets and moderator lamps, cedar coffers full of Turkish sequins, and French statuette-decked clocks in the Louis Philippe style.

Everywhere, too, Tartarin was given splendrous galas, diffas, and fantasias, which, being interpreted, mean feasts and circuses.  In his honour whole goums blazed away powder, and floated their burnouses in the sun.  When the powder was burnt, the agha would come and hand in his bill.  This is what is called Arab hospitality.

But always no lions, no more than on London Bridge.

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.

One evening, though, going on six o’clock, as the caravan scrambled through a violet-hued mastic-grove, where fat quails tumbled about in the grass, drowsy through the heat, Tartarin of Tarascon fancied he heard though afar and very vague, and thinned down by the breeze —­ that wondrous roaring to which he had so often listened by Mitaine’s Menagerie at home.

At first the hero feared he was dreaming; but in an instant further the roaring recommenced more distinct, although yet remote; and this time the camel’s hump shivered in terror, and made the tinned meats and arms in the cases rattle, whilst all the dogs in the camps were heard howling in every corner of the horizon.

Beyond doubt this was the lion.

Quick, quick! to the ambush.  There was not a minute to lose.