EPISODE THE THIRD
AMONG THE LIONS



I.
What becomes of the Old Stage-coaches.


COME to look closely at the vehicle, it was an old stage-coach all of
the olden time, upholstered in faded deep blue cloth, with those
enormous rough woollen balls which, after a few hours' journey,
finally establish a raw spot in the small of your back.

Tartarin of Tarascon had a corner of the inside, where he installed
himself most free-and-easily: and, preliminarily to inspiring the rank
emanations of the great African felines, the hero had to content
himself with that homely old odour of the stage-coach, oddly
composed of a thousand smells, of man and woman, horses and
harness, eatables and mildewed straw.

There was a little of everything inside -- a Trappist monk, some
Jew merchants, two fast ladies going to join their regiment, the
Third Hussars, a photographic artist from Orleansville, and so on.
But, however charming and varied was the company, the
Tarasconian was not in the mood for chatting; he remained quite
thoughtful, with an arm in the arm-rest sling-strap and his guns
between his knees. All churned up his wits -- the precipitate
departure, Baya's eyes of jet, the terrible chase he was about to