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
théatre, through the suburbs and eventually reached the dusty main road
to Mustapha.