“No!...  No!...  Not mine.”  Replied Tartarin, who trembled at the thought of entering Tarascon with this absurd escort; and shamelessly repudiating the companion of his misfortunes he repelled with his foot the soil of Algeria and pushed the boat out from the shore.  The camel sniffed at the water, flexed its joints and leapt headlong in behind the boat, where it swam in convoy toward the Zouave, its hump floating on the water like a gourd and it neck lying on the surface like the ram of a trireme.

The boat and the camel came alongside the Zouave at the same time.  “I don’t know what I should do about this dromadary.”  Said the captain, “I think I’ll take it on board and present it to the zoo at Marseille, I can’t just leave it here.”  So by means of block and tackle the wet camel was hoisted onto the deck of the Zouave, which then set sail.

Tartarin spent most of the time in his cabin.  Not that the sea was rough or that the chechia had to much to suffer, but because whenever he appeared on the deck the camel made such a ridiculous fuss of its master.  You never saw a camel so attached to anyone as this.

Hour by hour, when he looked through the porthole, Tartarin could see the Algerian sky turn paler, until one morning, in a silvery mist, he heard to his delight the bells of Marseilles.  The Zouave had arrived.

Our man, who had no baggage, disembarked without a word and hurried across Marseilles, fearing all the time that he might be followed by the camel, and he did not breathe easily until he was seated in a third-class railway carriage, on his way to Tarascon... a false sense of security.  They had not gone far from Marseilles when heads appeared at windows and there were cries of astonishment, Tartarin looked out in turn and what did he see but the inescapable camel coming down the line behind the train with a remarkable turn of speed.

Tartarin resumed his seat and closed his eyes.  After this disastrous expedition he had counted on getting back home unrecognised, but the presence of this confounded camel made it impossible.  What a return to make, Bon Dieu!...  No money...  No lions...  Nothing but a camel!....  “Tarascon!...  Tarascon!"...  It was time to get out.

To Tartarin’s utter astonishment, the heroic chechia had barely appeared in the doorway, when it was greeted by a great cry of “Vive Tartarin!...  Vive Tartarin!” Which shook the glass vault of the station roof.  “Vive Tartarin!...  Hurrah for the lion killer!” Then came fanfares and a choir.  Tartarin could have died, he thought this was a hoax:  but no, all Tarascon was there, tossing their hats in the air and shouting his praises.  There stood the brave Commandant Bravida, Costecalde the gunsmith, the President Ladeveze, the chemist and all the noble body of hat shooters, who pressed round their chief and carried him all the way down the steps.