empty of grain and rich only in jackals and bugs. Abandoned villages.
Bewildered tribesfolk who run they know not where, fleeing from famine
and sowing corpses along the road. Here and there a French settlement,
the houses dilapidated, the fields untilled and raging hordes of locusts
who eat the very curtains from the windows, while the colonists are all
in cafés, drinking absinthe and discussing projects for the reform of
the constitution.

That is what Tartarin could have seen, if he had taken the trouble, but
obsessed with his fantasy the man from Tarascon marched straight ahead,
his vision limited to searching for these monstrous felines, of which
there was no trace.

Since the bivouac tent obstinately refused to open and the pemmican
tablets to dissolve, the hunting party was compelled to stop daily at
tribal villages. Everywhere, thanks to the prince's kepi, they were
received with open arms. They were lodged by chieftains in strange
palaces, great white buildings without windows, where were piled up
hookahs and mahogany commodes, Smyrna carpets and adjustable oil lamps,
cedar-wood chests full of Turkish sequins and clocks decorated in the
style of Louis Phillipe. Everywhere Tartarin was treated to fêtes and
official receptions. In his honour whole villages turned out, firing
volleys in the air, their burnous gleaming in the sun: after which the
good chieftain would come to present the bill.

Nowhere, however, were there any more lions than there are on the Pont
Neuf in Paris: but Tartarin was not discouraged, he pushed bravely on to
the south. His days were spent scouring the scrub, rummaging among the
dwarf palms with the end of his carbine and going "Frt!... Frt!" At each
bush... Then every evening a stand-to of two or three hours... A wasted