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.  A moonless 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.