As he took his first steps in Algiers, Tartarin looked about him wide-eyed. He had imagined beforehand a fairylike Arabian city, something between Constantinople and Zanzibar... but here he was back in Tarascon. Some cafés some restaurants, wide streets, houses of four stories, a small tarmac square where a military band played Offenbach polkas, men seated on chairs, drinking beer and nibbling snacks, a few ladies, a sprinkling of tarts and soldiers, more soldiers, everywhere soldiers... and not a single “Teur” in sight except for him... so he found walking across the square a bit embarrassing. Everyone stared.... The military band stopped playing and the Offenbach polka came to a halt with one foot in the air. 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.