With his two rifles on his shoulders, his revolver by his side, unflinching and stately he passed through the throng, but on reaching the hotel his strength deserted him.  The departure from Tarascon.  The harbour at Marseille.  The crossing.  The Montenegrin prince.  The pirates, all whirled in confusion round his brain.  He had to be taken up to his room, disarmed and undressed... there was even talk of sending for a doctor, but hardly had his head touched the pillow than he began to snore so loudly and vigorously that the hotel manager decided that medical assistance was not required, and everyone discreetly withdrew.

Chapter 15.

The bell of the government clock was sounding three when Tartarin awoke.  He had slept all evening, all night, all morning and even a good part of the afternoon.  It has, of course, to be admitted that over the preceding three days the chechia had had a pretty rough time.

His first thought on waking was “Here I am, in lion country!” and it must be confessed that this notion that he was surrounded by lions and was about to go in pursuit of them produced a marked chill, and he buried himself safely under the bedclothes.

Soon, however, the gaiety of the scene outside, the sky so blue, the bright sunshine which flooded into his room through the large window which opened towards the sea, and a good meal which he had served in bed, washed down by a carafe of wine, quickly restored his courage.  “To the lions!  To the lions!” He cried, and throwing off the bed clothes he dressed himself hurriedly.

His plan of action was this.  Leave town and go well out into the desert.  Wait until nightfall.  Lie in hiding, and at the first lion that comes along...  Pan!  Pan!....  Return in the morning.  Lunch at hotel.  Receive the congratulations of the Algerians and hire a cart to go and collect the kill.

He armed himself hastily, strapped onto his back the bivouac tent, the pole of which stuck up above his head, and then, held rigid by this contraption, he went down to the street.  He turned sharply to the right and walked to the end of the shopping arcade of Bab-Azoum, where a series of Algerian store-keepers watched him pass, concealed in corners of their dark boutiques like spiders.  He went through the Place du theatre, through the suburbs and eventually reached the dusty main road to Mustapha.

Here was a fantastic confusion of traffic.  There were coaches, cabs, curricles, military supply wagons, great carts of hay drawn by oxen, some squadrons of Chasseurs d’Afrique, troops of microscopic little donkeys, negresses selling galettes, loads of emigrants from Alsasce, some Spahis in red cloaks.  All passing in a great cloud of dust, with cries, songs and trumpet calls, between two rows of miserable shacks, where could be seen prostitutes applying their make-up at their doors, tap-rooms full of soldiers and the stalls of butchers and slaughtermen.  The tales I have been told about this place are quite untrue, thought Tartarin, there are fewer “Teurs” here than there are in Marseille.