Original subtitles

This film was restored by PATHÉ in 2015

The editors used several generations of film

to reconstitute the movie in its original form

TARTARIN OF TARASCON

Excuse me, sir.

Where does Mr. Tartarin live?

Where does he live?

My poor man. Anybody here can tell you.

Our Tartarin lives over there.

Third house on the left on the Avignon road.

Thank you, sir.

- You're not from here? - No, from Paris.

I can see that.

That's a weird sort of accent.

Turn the handle, come in.

Can I help you?

Is Mr. Tartarin at home?

He's working at the moment. Studying.

First the male!

Hear that? He's studying.

May I see him? Mr. Costecalde, the gunsmith, sent me.

You didn't come to sell him guns, I hope.

We have more than enough.

Go on in, sir. He'll see you.

And now for the female.

Don't worry, I'm firing blanks.

Mr. Costecalde sent me.

- Come in. Sit down. - Thank you.

I haven't much time now. I'm working.

But if Mr. Costecalde sent you...

I'm Mr. Castel, representing Roubaix Arms.

We have a new line of big game rifles.

But Mr. Costecalde's clients rarely use guns like that.

So he told me to call on you.

He was right. I love weapons.

Have a look at this.

Or this.

Poisoned arrows Don't touch!

Over here, please.

Look but don't touch.

Club from India.

African blade. Malaysian dagger.

A terrifying weapon.

Shaped like a lightning bolt

so the wound can't be healed.

Corsican vendetta.

The Catalan knife. A charming weapon.

The blade is sharp as a razor.

A word of advice: to disembowel a man,

or a woman, same technique,

never hold it like this.

If you miss, you rip open your thigh.

Do it this way. So if you miss,

there's no risk. To disembowel a man,

if you hold it right, you slit him open.

And his liver lands at your feet.

So you've been to the East, Africa and India?

Not exactly.

You haven't been there?

It must be beautiful.

Yes, very beautiful!

The sun beating down on the jungle or the Savannah.

The vultures devouring a dead camel.

The huge snakes in the mangroves.

The virgin forest, the bush, the scorpions, the vipers.

And the trees, what trees! I have a few.

Follow me.

This way.

Here's my little tropical forest.

Calabash, gum, cactus, coconut palm, banana tree,

and the jujube.

Over here.

Here.

The baobab.

A giant tree: Arbos gigantes.

This tree covers acres and acres.

You could put half of Tarascon in its shade.

This one must be young.

It's just starting.

I don't know if our climate is any help.

I wonder if the mistral isn't scaring it.

So instead of shooting upwards,

the little fellow holds back.

Yes, I see what it must be like.

If you haven't been there, you can't know.

Were you there for long?

- Where? - Over there.

India, Africa.

I've never set foot there.

But I spend my days there.

As I read a lot: novels, travel literature.

I know those lands better than the natives.

- Tartarin! - Bravida!

In case you don't know, we meet at Bézuquet's tonight.

To talk about our big hunt tomorrow.

Just so you know.

I do know.

As I was passing...

I'll be there.

You'll join us?

Bravida, meet my friend Mr. Castel.

The famous agent from Roubaix Arms.

Major Bravida.

Sir, we'll be delighted to welcome you.

It's our weekly social and musical salon,

hosted by our druggist, Mr. Bézuquet.

Do come. It will be charming.

Goodbye, Tartarin.

Goodbye, Bravida.

A fine fellow.

Now you've seen my trees, let's talk about your guns.

"Fire!"

"Once the male is shot dead..."

"the hunter mustn't get overconfident"

"and step into the clearing,"

"with his gun smoking,"

"to admire the wild beast he's just shot."

"He should reload his gun immediately,"

"or better still, have a second loaded gun at hand."

"As he has to wait for the female."

You read. I can't kill the lion and read at the same time.

"The female appears."

"The female is smaller than the male."

"She is slighter and never has a mane."

That's no surprise.

We know women rarely have beards.

"When the hunter sees her in the shadows,"

"he should hold his fire."

"He should let her come as close as possible."

Impossible! Oh my God!

Quiet, Madam.

If you won't let the lion approach, don't be a hunter.

"As close as possible."

"And not until the animal discovers the hunter,"

"and the beast crouches to spring..."

"does the man stand up,"

"take aim,"

"and fire unhurriedly."

Bang!

And that's how we hunt lions.

- Admirable. - Marvelous.

- You were superb. - Two lumps, please.

And now, ladies and gentlemen, dear friends,

as we have a distinguished visitor,

Mr. Castel,

the famous hunting arms manufacturer,

for big game!

I would like to ask our great Tartarin

to perform the famous duet

from Robert le Diable.

No! Out of the question.

Come now, Tartarin.

Even with a fine voice one isn't always in good voice.

Tartarin, do us this favor.

Everyone wants it. Tartarin, sing us the duet.

You haven't sung it for over a week.

It's difficult. If you'd told me in advance...

Our visitor might leave with a bad impression.

Not at all, Mr. Tartarin.

We beg you.

Honor to the ladies.

I can refuse them nothing when they ask like that.

But I want my usual partner,

the wildcat of Tarascon. Mrs. Bézuquet.

Your cue.

And now we must discuss the organization

of our big hunt tomorrow.

Forgive me, ladies and gentlemen,

allow me to retire.

I don't talk, I act.

I need to go home, check my guns.

And tomorrow at daybreak,

about 11 a.m., you can count on me.

No need to see me out.

I want to be alone. So leave me alone.

Well, Mr. Castel, will you join us tomorrow?

I don't know if I should.

He's one of us.

What do you make of our Tartarin?

He astonishes me.

I understand.

The man's a wonder.

And what strength.

- He's double-muscled! - Like a rabbit.

He has a lion hunter's temperament.

When he talks.

What?

He's never been lion hunting.

Yet he describes it as if he had.

But he will.

Whether it's before he describes it or after,

it's all the same.

Maybe.

It's like that Shanghai story

he told during dinner.

He's been to Shanghai.

He's been there... really?

Yes. No two ways about it, he has or he hasn't.

But while he tells it he's been there.

Meanwhile,

in reality, since you insist on reality,

he really almost went.

He almost went.

But he didn't.

No, certainly not.

Forgive the gravity of these words,

but in that case, your Tartarin is a blatant liar.

Absolutely not. Tartarin is not a liar.

He must know he's never been to Shanghai.

Sure he knows. Except... Listen,

I don't come from these parts,

but I've become a Tarasconian heart and soul.

We must clear up, once and for all,

this reputation for lying that Northerners

foisted on us Southerners.

There are no liars in the South.

The Southerner does not lie.

He may not always tell the truth, but he believes he is.

The lies he tells

aren't lies. They're a sort of mirage.

In this damn region the sun makes everything larger than life.

Look at the little hills in Provence.

No higher than Montmartre,

yet they seem gigantic.

The Maison Carrée in Nîmes.

It's a little gem,

but to us it's as big as Notre-Dame Cathedral.

The only liar in the South, if there is one,

is the sun.

The same sun shining on Tarascon

turns a turnip into a baobab

and a man who almost went to Shanghai into one who did.

Evening, Mr. Tartarin.

Sit down. What will you have?

Nothing, thanks. I've just been to Bézuquet's.

I sang the Robert le Diable duet.

We heard it.

When a singer sings, everyone can hear it.

But it's exhausting. 9.30 pm, I must go home.

Aren't you afraid crossing town on this dark night?

Afraid? Look, sir.

Here.

Wait.

Here.

But never poisoned arrows! That's foul play.

So let them come, just once.

"Them"? Who do you mean?

"Them"?

Anything that attacks, gouges,

scratches, scalps.

"They" are the Sioux doing a war dance

around the poor white man.

The grizzly in the Rockies,

lurching, his tongue dripping with blood.

I defy them, but they never come.

What would they do in Tarascon?

No idea, but I'm ready for them. Especially at night.

Dark nights like this one. Good night.

That's one fearless fellow!

What's there to fear?

With an imagination like that, you need lots of courage.

Beware!

I thought it was them. But it's only my shadow.

Let's be heroic, but prudent too.

This time...

Evening, gentlemen.

Coming on the hunt tomorrow?

I never miss one.

The most terrifying, the most glorious.

I go on them all.

Good night, gentlemen.

- What a hunt! - Phenomenal.

Fantastic!

You may wonder why we start hunting so late.

We start late because there's no game.

- None whatsoever. - How come?

There just isn't any.

I don't understand.

It's simple. We're very good hunters.

So the not so dumb animals end up being leery.

Even the birds flying over the Rhône

towards Tarascon,

as soon as they see the bells of St Martha's,

their leader cries: "Danger, Tarascon!"

And zoom, they fly the other way.

So there's nothing here.

Don't say that.

We still have the sprinter.

- What sprinter? - The hare.

He lives in Bompard's fields.

I've already killed him five times.

I only killed him once.

The same hare?

The same hare.

You see him, you aim... Bang!

He drops dead. You approach... Zoom, he takes off.

That creature astonishes me. He's a wonder.

So what do you hunt?

Your turn, Tartarin!

Shoot, Tartarin!

Excellent!

We're champions!

- He's the best! - Unbeatable.

Terrifying.

A massacre.

Gentlemen! There's a lion in Tarascon.

A lion?

Yes. With the traveling menagerie.

Why didn't you say so?

Gentlemen, fall in.

Let us pay our respects to the King of Beasts.

Follow me, gentlemen.

Step up for the boa's dinner!

This bloodthirsty reptile will devour live meat

before your very eyes!

See the most extraordinary spectacle of modern times!

See seals and polar bears from Greenland!

Step right up!

Here is the creature that men rightly call

the King of Beasts!

The most heroic, ferocious animal of all.

I'm talking about the Lion of the Atlas!

The Atlas?

Step right up!

Half price for nursemaids and officers.

Keep the change. They're with me, I'm paying.

Here we are in the lion's den.

Come, gentlemen, follow me.

Don't be afraid. It's a goat.

A little over sized but a goat.

It stinks in here.

There he is.

Look.

Look at that bloodthirsty maw.

Those ferocious eyes.

This animal is most fearsome during the mating season.

Careful, Mr. Tartarin.

I think the brute understands you.

Here.

Now that's what I call big game.

- Sign here, please. - Here?

- Just a moment. - What is it?

Has Mr. Tartarin received mail from Africa recently?

I've never seen any. Why do you ask?

I sent over a rep

from a high-caliber rifle manufacturer.

He bought one!

Double barrel, 12 mm, no less.

Don't say it's for shooting caps.

- No, I won't. - Good.

Last night he visited the menagerie to see the lion.

You know what he said?

"There's my big game."

And the look in his eyes said:

"I'd like to meet you in the desert."

So putting 2 and 2 together,

I'd say he wants to go.

That's news.

- Very interesting. - I think so.

Mum's the word. If he gets mail from Africa, let me know.

- But mum's the word. - No worries.

- Hello. - May I help you?

Tastevin, two cents overweight charge.

Can't they weigh their mail?

Have you heard the news?

What news?

About Tartarin, he's going lion hunting.

The rascal! I knew it! Who told you?

He bought some extraordinary rifles

that shoot cartridges big as sausages.

Costecalde told me.

Last night he went to the menagerie.

You were there.

He locked eyes with the lion

and said: "You're my big game."

"We will soon meet in the desert."

And he's expecting a letter from Africa.

Maybe from a great Arabian sheikh inviting him to...

I don't know... hunt lions?

Fickle finger of fate!

Good morning.

Mum's the word.

Have you printed my bills?

- I've prepared the package. - Good.

- What did the postman say? - About Tartarin?

- You know? - What?

The letter from the Emir.

Yes, the great Arabian sheikh. The lion hunt.

That must be it!

I knew it. Of course.

Hasn't he been practicing for years?

And buying rifles?

And bullets the size of oranges?

As I was telling the missus.

- Tell me... - Hello.

- When's he leaving? - Soon.

If he hasn't told the Club, he isn't telling anyone.

May I help you?

Major, quick! Open the door!

Tartarin's leaving for Africa! Open up!

Suffering succotash!

Come in, the door's open.

It's unfortunate, these constant exaggerations.

I spoke to Mr. Costecalde about it.

And Mr. Tastevin, and the blacksmith, etc.

Let me tell you something.

Be careful, lies are circulating.

They say he's going to India. Not true.

He's going to Africa.

They say he's going to hunt rhinos, tigers.

Not true.

He's only going to hunt lions.

They say he's received 30 letters from Rajahs, Nubian kings,

an Indian chief, an Aztec Emperor.

Not true.

He received one letter.

From one Arabian sheikh. I delivered it myself.

I didn't even realize it.

They say he's leaving tomorrow.

He's leaving in 2 weeks. The barber's boy saw the ticket.

Here comes Jeannette.

Hello.

- Well? - Everything's fine.

- And Mr. Tartarin? - Tootling along.

Tootling along to where?

Sorry?

What's he getting up to?

He's getting up slowly. I took him hot chocolate in bed.

Apart from that?

- Apart from that? - What's the news?

What news?

- Mr. Tartarin's trip? - Trip?

There's no trip. Where would he go?

You can tell us, since we already know.

It's best to tell the truth, nip rumors in the bud.

Our great man is off to Africa to hunt lions.

He's leaving in 2 weeks, the Club is giving him a party.

With speeches and a brass band.

What are you saying?

Now I understand! Oh, my God!

Give her some smelling salts.

Quick! My God!

Wait, I'll speak to him. You'll see.

What's the matter?

Why didn't you tell me? I heard about it from strangers.

- Why didn't you tell me? - What?

- That you're leaving me. - Me?

That you're going to Africa

to play the hero until the lions devour you.

Who told you that?

The whole town's talking.

You misunderstood.

Don't lie. They heard you tell Mr. Bézuquet:

"The fateful departure is next month."

You even showed them your boat ticket.

- The postman saw it. - He did?

A yellow paper with a portrait of the boat.

Portrait of the boat?

And what did you say at the barber's?

Yes, what did I say?

"In three weeks, I'll be deep in the Sahara."

He said: "No water in the Sahara."

And you said: "Then I'll drink lion's blood."

Lion's blood.

And the town's giving you a send-off.

- When? - Tonight!

Tonight?

Jeannette, don't cry. Let me think this over.

The situation is serious, but interesting.

Someday maybe, I'll drink lion's blood.

But not today.

Tarascon Hunting Club

This gentleman is from the Avignon Gazette.

I asked him here.

I contacted the correspondent of the Petit Marseillais.

A great honor for Tarascon.

A lion is nothing to sneeze at!

It'll be a change from hunting caps.

Look out!

Here he comes.

Strike up the band!

In place!

Get to your places!

Music!

Long live Tartarin!

My friends,

my dear friends,

my very dear friends, I'm thrilled

by this splendid reception

and this magnificent music.

But it's too much ado about nothing.

As I must tell you

that what people are saying isn't true.

My friends, my very dear friends...

I'm not leaving.

Long live Tartarin!

Please listen, let me speak...

No, say no more.

My dear, my most dear friend,

don't speak, as there's nothing left to say.

- We know everything. - What do you know, Bravida?

I'm overriding you for the first time.

Listen.

Heroes are not talkers.

They act. We know this.

Bravo!

But your friends have something to say.

First they will scold you fondly.

Why hide your plans from your friends?

But my dear Bravida...

Later, later. Continue.

I knew you'd say it was

out of discretion, modesty.

No, Bravida...

It's not over. You can talk after.

One more thing.

When the news of your trip came,

some of us were very surprised.

No. It didn't surprise anyone.

It did. Some people were stunned.

Tartarin, we were glad but not surprised.

Why not? People were amazed, flabbergasted even.

Thank you, Tartarin.

So the news of this departure

surprised many.

I ask them: "Why are you surprised?"

Tartarin staying home would be more surprising.

Let me explain.

Here is a man, gentlemen,

who has always enthused about India, America, Africa.

A man who reads daily Gérard's "Lion Hunting",

Bombonnel's "Stalking the Panther",

and works about bisons, elephants and rhinoceros.

He knows these books by heart.

He recites them, he acts them for us.

What's a lion to him? He's told us.

It's game.

Bravo!

Each year, this man enhances his arsenal with a new weapon,

an automatic rifle, a smokeless gun.

And you're surprised he's leaving?

Gentlemen, for years now his every move

is the promise of departure.

If he doesn't leave, what would he be?

He'd be a...

- He'd be a... - Have a drink.

He wouldn't be Tartarin.

I raise my glass to our hero's glory.

Thank you. You're very kind but...

Yes, yes.

And now, my dear friends,

we escort our hero home with pomp and splendor.

To prove to him the friendship, affection and admiration

of all his compatriots.

Glory to Tartarin!

My friends,

my very dear friends,

I'm choked with emotion.

But let me tell you the truth.

Today,

on the banks of the Rhône, a son of Tarascon

throws down the gauntlet

to the dreaded desert of darkest Africa.

My friends,

my dear friends,

I can't explain, but I understand myself.

And you as well.

Thank you. But let me say

I will bear high and proud

the banner of Tarascon.

Long live Tarasconians!

Long live Tarascon!

Proud of yourself? Idiot!

Crackpot, dreamer, imbecile. See what you've got us into?

A shipwreck at night with sharks chewing our legs.

Not all ships are wrecked.

And if we do get there, what then? Rheumatism.

Our knees twisted like olive branches.

Or elephantiasis: our legs like sacks of potatoes.

And our feet blown up.

Not to mention dysentery. Yes, dysentery!

You don't even have time to unbutton your pants.

Tartarin, come back a hero.

Tartarin, go back to bed.

My nice warm dressing gown.

My soft furry slippers.

It's not for right away.

It's being discussed. But talk never killed anyone.

There's no hurry, old chap.

After all, we haven't left yet.

I understand.

Prepare yourself.

- Study it. - Study...

You don't go off to Algeria

like you stroll around the corner.

Prepare yourself. Go into training.

When you're ready, you can still say no.

For the moment you're the town hero.

That's natural.

Quite natural.

In fact, very natural.

Meanwhile, he doesn't leave.

It's been going on for 4 months.

And the receptions, the brass band, the champagne.

He's taking his time.

Does he really intend to go?

He had a ticket for May 1st, today is July 12th.

Regrettable, but I still believe it.

Say what you like, he's a rabbit.

A rabbit who's scared of lions!

Charming!

You know the song our president composed about him?

- Sing a few lines. - Listen.

The allusion, so subtle!

Delightful!

Some more talc.

Well, dear friend,

what about your trip?

Getting ready, Major. Getting ready.

No hurry.

Easy does it.

You see, gentlemen,

you don't rush into a trip like this.

Certainly not.

Definitely not.

Will these gentlemen take long?

Another hour at least.

Alright.

I'll come back.

Good day, gentlemen.

Goodbye, Tartarin.

I think he's starting to get it.

I feel sorry for him.

Now he has to go!

I know.

Major, only you can tell him.

You have the courage, authority and eloquence.

Tell him frankly.

I'll do it now.

He has to go. That's that!

It's dragged on too long.

"I'm going, I'm not going..."

I thought you went to the barber's.

I did. But I left.

They keep saying I'm going to Africa.

They seemed to be mocking me.

Those gentlemen should be ashamed.

When I walked in, they were singing a song:

"Master Gervais' rifle Is always loaded

"Never goes off".

I know. Everyone's singing it.

They sing it to you? Cowards.

They've got it into their heads I'm going to Africa.

I have a pension. I lead a quiet life.

Well, I'm not going.

If they snub me at the Club, I'll resign.

If they cut me on the street, I'll stay home.

Anyway, there's no one to say hello in the desert.

I confirm that I am a lion killer.

How about that?

You might say: "Then go kill lions."

But we're not in court, I don't need proof.

They want me devoured.

The hide they want is mine!

Scoundrels!

You won't have my hide.

Bloodthirsty wild beast molesters!

- I won't go. - No. You shouldn't.

Point your swords, gentlemen, not your fingers!

Master Gervais is astounding A true hero

He can kill an elephant As easily as a bunny

If he hasn't done so yet

It's just because

Master Gervais' rifle Is always loaded

Master Gervais' rifle Never goes off

Get lost!

Little rascals! How dare you!

You have to go.

Tartarin, the time has come.

You know your friends are sniggering.

I know they mock me.

But I don't care. So we're quits.

Why do they want me to go?

To give them something to talk about? An old trick.

They're too scared, so someone has to go for them.

They want to hunt lions, but by proxy.

While I trudge over the burning desert sand,

my eyes red and swollen as a monkey's bum,

they'll tell the Beaucaire boys:

"We Tarasconians are lion hunters."

My eye!

Tartarin, that's all true.

But a perilous venture is a glorious one.

Hunting lions alone, for the glory of your town,

is a fine, noble mission.

Come, live up to your reputation.

Your trunks are packed. Go.

Are you afraid of Africa?

I'm not afraid of going to Africa.

I'm afraid of leaving Tarascon.

You're not leaving forever. You'll be back.

Yes, I'll be back if the lions don't eat me.

We're not asking for 500 lions.

2 dozen will suffice.

You think in dozens, like counting pigeons.

I say!

Listen, my friend,

you're a fine shot.

You never miss a cap.

True, I never miss a cap.

And a lion is much bigger than a cap.

He who never misses a cap

won't miss a lion.

Look, Major.

Look at this.

You know what it is?

A lion's tooth.

Good Heavens!

Ever seen a cap with fangs like this?

I won't beat about the bush.

To sum up,

Tartarin, I must tell you:

here under the shady trees, with a fan and a good cigar,

and a cold absinthe on the table,

it's very easy to talk about Africa.

And imagine oases and lions.

And lovely Moorish women,

belly-dancing with tambourines.

But that's not the real Africa.

Algeria is still a very wild place.

A brutal climate. Crawling with lions.

And black panthers.

That's the truth.

I honestly believe you'll never return.

Our honor is at stake.

You must go.

Our town is a laughing stock now.

Because one of her sons tried to win glory for her.

The citizens of Beaucaire laugh at us.

When people from Nîmes come to Tarascon,

they roar like lions.

Which is very scary.

The initial prank

has become a national tragedy.

Bravida,

you should have said so.

I'm going.

Thank you.

It's all so moving.

Our friend Barbassou is commanding the Zouave,

he sails from Marseille soon.

I'll telegraph him to book your passage.

You do that.

Get a round-trip. I'll be back.

Tartarin of Tarascon Gun crate

Ammunition

Tinned food

First Aid

Tent

The tent.

Seen all that food!

And the First Aid!

The famous crate of guns, 12 rifles!

And ammunition for 3 months!

Have you ever seen elephants in combat?

No, never.

- Then be quiet. - I didn't say a word.

You could sink into quicksand.

Certainly!

And be swallowed up.

It's him!

He's wearing glasses!

You're a free man, Fuentes.

But remember, you're banned from Tarascon.

You must leave immediately.

Willingly.

On the first train.

Especially as I feel a great need

to broaden my horizon.

After 3 years in prison.

3 years. Already.

How time flies. Don't you agree?

Well, goodbye. Until next time.

Glory to Tartarin!

Allow me, worthy citizen,

as your home town station master,

to embrace you on your great departure.

Thank you.

God bless you.

Good day, ladies.

Your presence sweetens the bitterness of this hazardous departure.

- Remember us out there. - I will.

- And don't forget my skins. - No.

- Nor mine. - Don't worry.

Here, hold this.

I'll take notes so I don't mix them up.

Mrs. Bézuquet, what will it be?

For me, a jaguar skin.

A jaguar for Mrs. Bézuquet.

For me, Mr. Tartarin, a lion, please.

A lion or a lioness? Be specific.

- A lion. - One lion.

A big one or a little one?

It's to go in front of a sofa.

Then a big one.

And you, Mrs. Bravida?

- I daren't say. - Go ahead.

An elephant hide.

An elephant? I'll have to cross more deserts.

But you'll have it. Not a big one, but an elephant.

Ladies have no idea, my dear fellow.

I have one prayer: take care and come back to us.

I echo the president's words.

Step back!

- Which compartment? - I'm in 1st class.

Tarascon!

Come now, let me get on.

My dear Major, allow me

to embrace on your cheek my beloved Tarascon.

Farewell.

Good day, ladies.

Be brave.

Easy does it.

The rifles!

Don't forget the rifles.

Tartarin, your lunch!

Keep in touch!

Long live Tartarin!

My presence won't disturb you, sir?

Not at all, young man.

Prince Gregory of Montenegro.

Prince.

And I am Tartarin of Tarascon.

Lion hunter.

Lion hunter!

- A fine profession. - Isn't it?

I've spent the most restful 3 years

of my eventful life in your town.

Indeed.

And now I'm going to Algeria.

So am I.

How nice, we'll travel together.

Your first visit to Africa?

Yes. To hunt lions, you must go to their lairs.

Of course.

Of course. Be careful, Mr. Tartarin.

I know Algeria very well.

You can run into sharks far deadlier than lions.

Really?

Yes. Are you carrying any valuables in your luggage?

No. Just my guns, my cartridges...

Food supplies...

First Aid...

But you have money too, I suppose?

Yes, but I keep my money in my pocket.

And in a secret hiding place too.

Between the lining and the outer fabric of my coat.

You're very clever. I could see that.

Your ingenuity reassures me. It's a great relief.

- Slice of bread? - Yes, please.

Start the engines!

Oh, Mama...

I can see him now...

leaning proudly on the ship's rail,

confiding his hopes and dreams to the sea.

Remember, I never doubted his courage.

Me neither. Right, Tastevin?

Obviously, Bézuquet.

You've darkened many a month casting aspersions

that his admirable self-sacrifice proved wrong.

No point in arguing now.

Tartarin has gone.

Far away from the pettiness of civilization.

Right. No need to worry about our great Tarasconian...

Drop anchor!

This time we're sinking! My God!

To die so young, and at sea. Save me!

We've arrived, Mr. Tartarin.

Thank you, Prince.

Thank me later.

After I've explained the intricacies of Algerian life.

I speak fluent Arabic, you know.

Let's meet tomorrow evening.

At the Grand Theatre ball.

- The ball? - The costume ball.

Where all the great lion hunters meet.

Didn't you know?

I forgot.

- Well, good night. - Good night.

See you tomorrow!

Onward!

To the lions...

A camel. The lions can't be far.

Are you scared?

Lion hunters! Already.

They hunt in packs with dogs. Cowards.

So, comrade? How was the hunting?

Not bad.

- Did you kill many? - Sure, look.

You put them in your game bag? They must be small.

Some small, some big.

I say! You have odd habits in your country.

We're off to hunt lions!

I don't speak? I seduce him silently?

Talk to him in Arabic, I'll translate.

- I don't speak Arabic. - Nor do I.

But I'm an excellent translator.

I see!

Is there much money?

The lining of his jacket is stuffed with cash.

Quick, get dressed.

Mr. Tartarin!

You recognized me?

By your personality, my friend.

My dear friend.

My great friend.

So how was the hunting?

Very good.

- A lion already? - No, I killed a donkey.

Well, that's something.

May I?

I recognize you better now.

So kind of you, Prince,

to invite me to this fancy dress ball.

Do you dance?

I'm more of a hunter.

Shall I introduce you to these ladies?

Let's go to the casino. Very interesting.

Are there many hunters?

Hundreds.

- The only game I know is bezique. - A charming game.

Sir, here's a seat.

Take it, dear friend.

Number 6.

Number 6 pays.

Have you placed your bets?

Obviously.

I lost.

He could pay dearly for it.

A bullet that goes astray... farewell Tarascon.

Especially at dusk, when the lions come out to drink.

We forced him to go there.

Not me! No!

- Nor I. - Nor I!

I regret writing some not very witty songs

that drove him to the burning sands

where his bones are bleaching in the sun.

What an adventure, Prince!

You're not flattering me?

My word is my bond.

She said: "That man's gaze transfixed me."

She said transfixed!

In Arabic, naturally.

Transfixed.

How wonderful.

And she's a princess?

A genuine princess. Princess Baya.

She's from a family almost as old as mine.

Her father was a sort of Muslim pope.

The daughter of a Pope!

Listen, Prince.

I'll convert if I must.

Simple.

I can fix it: 1,000 F, tip included.

That's amazing.

Only this must remain a secret.

Or her brothers and their savage horsemen

will sack this house to get her back.

Jesus Christ! Forgive me, Prince.

Not to worry. Is your compliment ready?

I was inspired by an Arabic poem.

Come in.

I had it translated. Who's that?

It's her.

By all the saints!

All the perfumes of Arabia!

Prince, she looks more tanned.

No. That's her nurse.

Excuse me.

She's proud to be under the great white chief's roof.

She asks your name. May I tell her?

Now for your compliment. I'll translate it.

"More crimson than the forest peony, I saw you, O Baya."

"I trembled like the sleeper Surprised by the storm."

"Your face is the shade and shape Of an ostrich egg."

"Your teeth are like jasmine petals."

"Your tongue is a goldfish In an aquarium..."

- Bravo. - It's not finished.

"Would I had 1,000 mouths"

"Happy he for whom The saliva of your mouth"

"Is a sweet beverage"

"Day and night."

- That's all. - Bravo!

She says no translation is needed.

She read it all in your eyes.

My dear chap, what a wonderful start.

Very important.

She says she can't give herself to you

unless you pay her nurse 1,000 F as written in the Koran.

These oriental customs are strange but charming.

Thank you, my friend.

And a small tip for the nurse.

- Come now, Prince... - Not too small.

Now I'll leave you two alone.

I fondly bestow upon you my Montenegrin blessing.

Goodbye, dear friend.

Aren't you hot?

May I?

The Pope's daughter, my God.

Cruel one.

The lioness circles round, opens her immense jaws

and keels over on the cactus.

I dreamed it 4 times last night.

It's clearly about an exploit of our great Tartarin.

He must have shot a few by now.

Several a day.

Don't exaggerate.

Tell us. Where is Tartarin?

All in good time.

First, a nice cool absinthe.

- Have mine. - Thanks.

First, Tartarin has disappeared.

- Devoured? - Horrors!

Hold on. He disappeared with a prince,

who insisted on hunting with him.

Disappeared to where?

I was told: "The lion hunter left."

"With the prince."

"He took all his bags."

I'd say they went south where lions abound.

- Marvelous! - Fantastic!

- Where's this prince from? - No idea.

It's not surprising.

Great lion hunters are always accompanied by princes.

Where there's big game, there are princes.

Your health.

On my next trip out, I hope to have news,

a letter from him at Café Babassou

where I drink my absinthe.

- Waiter! - Captain?

- No letter for me? - Nothing.

What's happened to my Tartarin?

You know Mr. Tartarin?

Sure. He comes in every day.

He lives nearby in Baya's house.

Baya? The cabaret singer who sings

Cute and curly sexy girly?

Rumor has it Tartarin is converting.

He's nutty enough. He'll go Muslim.

What nonsense.

Mr. Tartarin turning Muslim!

C'mon, take me to his house.

Mr. Tartarin!

Mr. Barbassou, how are you?

My poor Mr. Tartarin.

So you've turned Muslim?

Not completely.

Does Baya still sing Cute and curly sexy girly?

Mr. Barbassou,

Miss Baya doesn't speak French.

Baya doesn't speak French?

Where have you been?

Miss Baya is a genuine princess.

The Prince of Montenegro introduced us.

Watch out for Moorish princesses

and oriental princes.

Your words upset me.

Slandering the prince.

Let's not argue.

- Have a mint tea? - No.

Any news for back home?

By the way...

I have a newspaper.

The Avignon Gazette.

There's an article about you.

Me?

I don't have my glasses. Can you read it?

- "Echos." - Of what?

"A dispatch from Tarascon."

"The town is in a trance."

"Tartarin, the lion killer,"

"who left to hunt big cats in Africa,"

"hasn't been heard of for months."

"What's happened to our great compatriot?"

"We shudder to think,"

"knowing as we do his ardent spirit,"

"his audacity, his thirst for adventure."

"God keep and save our Tartarin."

To the lions!

If you don't leave your door open,

I'll tell him everything.

To the lions!

Tartarini!

Tartarini is dead. There's only the lion killer.

When I'm gone, talk to her.

You're leaving? Stash your papers.

I only carry money. Lions don't eat it.

Say no more, Prince.

Tell her that to appease her brothers,

I'll give them 20,000 F.

Those people are sticklers for principles.

Their wrath costs more like 3,500 F.

Here's 3,000 F, that's it.

And a tip for the horsemen?

Here's 5 F.

Stay one more night with us.

Impossible, Prince. Honor calls!

I'll meet you tomorrow.

Not in the desert.

As you yourself said, honor calls.

We understand each other. Farewell.

- Farewell. - Farewell, Tartarini.

Farewell, Baya.

To the lions!

Surprised?

No, uncomfortable.

Would I hunt lions with your umbrella?

- You are...? - Tartarin of Tarascon.

Wholesale lion killer.

Have you killed many lions?

I wish you had as many hairs on your head.

You have a fearsome profession.

There must be terrible moments.

You get used to it.

You also hunt panthers?

Sometimes, but not lately.

The panther is just a big tabby.

What courage. How splendid.

May I give you some advice?

What?

Go back to Tarascon, Mr. Tartarin.

You're wasting your time.

There are still a few panthers here,

but that's small game for you.

And there are no lions left in Algeria.

But my mentor Gérard and my friend Bombonnel...

You know Bombonnel?

I've hunted with him many times.

Next time you see him, give him my regards.

- Who shall I say? - Anyone will tell you.

Good day, sir.

Who's the old coot who was talking to me like that?

Mr. Bombonnel, the panther hunter.

He's changed, I didn't recognize him.

Take this, kid.

Goodbye, ladies and gentlemen.

Enjoy your journey.

Thanks, kid.

Tell them to leave my bags at the bus station.

Here, take this.

Come here, kid. Thanks.

Let's go, kid.

Fickle finger of fate!

So there are lions in Algeria.

The wretches! Debasing that noble beast.

Stop!

I'll shoot you down.

- Prince! - It's me, my friend.

I've come 50 miles nonstop. Thank God I'm in time.

How did you get mixed up in this?

Look, demeaning that noble beast to amuse the Muslims.

No, you're mistaken.

That lion is an object of veneration.

It's a collection plate beast

and the alms

go to the upkeep of the mosque.

It proves there are still lions in Algeria.

There are indeed. Sit down, my friend.

Tomorrow we'll comb the desert

and see hundreds of them.

Prince, not a lion in sight.

You'll see them, my friend.

How are you handling the journey?

I feel very nauseous.

It's worse than Mr. Barbassou's boat.

We're on the desert ship.

Stop. I fear I'll let France down again.

Prince, let's stop.

Thank you.

If the Tarasconians could see me now.

Look at that caravan.

Prince, to the lions!

The caravan has shrunk.

Just a bit.

We're still at the head?

And at the tail too, soon. We're losing an Arab per mile.

It's a well-known fact:

The Arab can't bear the African climate.

I see. To the lions.

Onward.

Everything is ready for us to camp here.

Good, we'll get some rest.

We'll pitch the tent. At midnight, we'll go.

It's a rifle shot away.

All precautions have been taken.

Give me a hand with this tent.

"Press lightly on the spring"

"and the tent opens."

Pull.

Easy. It's delicate.

Very modern. You'll see.

Very gently.

Pull.

We're going to break it.

Prince!

Hear that?

There are lions.

To the lions!

Prince, help me!

Quick, your coat. It's in your way.

Good idea.

- My ring. - I didn't think of that.

Excellent.

I must remember my mentor Gérard's advice.

Be alert!

The goat.

What a blast!

Now for the female.

By shooting the blind collection plate lion

of the Mohammed Benahoua Mosque,

Mr. Tartarin caused this community harm

to the value estimated

in this file.

Since Mr. Tartarin cannot plead self-defense,

the court sentences him to pay 800 F

in damages, from his own pocket.

Would you like to pay now?

Your Honor, let me explain.

When the accident happened,

I handed my jacket and money

to the Prince of Montenegro.

Where is this Prince?

He can't be far.

Prince, are you here?

Prince?

Has anyone seen His Highness?

I hope nothing's happened to him.

He's hardly in danger in a sub-prefecture.

That's not the issue.

Can you, yes or no, pay the plaintiffs?

Let me explain, Your Honor.

Unless I find the Prince,

I have no money, just my guns and equipment.

Then we'll sell them.

So be it.

Now for the tent.

The latest model from Paris.

"Press lightly on the spring and the tent opens."

Untrue, it never opened.

A starting price.

40!

46!

47!

50!

70!

No higher? Going, going, gone!

Sold for 70 F!

The sale is over, gentlemen.

The auction of your gear cancels your debts.

A meager sum remains.

Very meager.

Along with a bed throw.

And the camel.

Can I send it in the post?

In the post?

We could wrap it up and send it parcel post.

Mail the camel?

Not the camel, the lion skin.

Ah, the bed throw.

Sure, Mr. Tartarin. What address?

Major Bravida.

Tarascon. Rhône. France.

Right, Mr. Tartarin. Count on me.

Let's go, camel.

He's so affectionate it's embarrassing.

Hunchback!

My money's gone.

I have no more guns.

The prince has vanished.

I killed a donkey.

I killed a beggar beast.

I wonder if I'm an idiot.

Well?

I wonder but I'm not sure.

That camel is still following me.

Beat it. Everyone's looking at me.

Get lost, kid.

Go off, little camel.

Kiddy, kiddy. I'm following you.

I'm following you.

Saved! He's gone.

And with the gun I gave him,

he must have plundered all Africa!

Hardly an honor for the Club

to have a phantom president.

We can't impeach him in his absence.

For you, Major. The postman brought it.

It's the billiard cloth I sent to Nîmes for cleaning.

What's Tartarin done wrong?

There's a funny smell.

True.

It's weird.

It's the package.

The package?

- Say no more. - What's up?

It's a package from Africa!

Look at the stamps. Tartarin sent it.

- What is it? - Dates maybe.

- They have a funny smell. - Strange.

The remains of a lion!

Yes, gentlemen, a lion.

Our hero's laconic response

to your doubts and blasphemy.

You exaggerate, Major.

You were talking about a phantom president,

In Tarascon, phantoms shoot straight.

Look at this!

This beast has lost its head.

Bézuquet, take this down for the town crier.

"Notice."

"Major Bravida"

"informs the people of Tarascon..."

"that after a fierce combat in the African bush,"

"our Tartarin slayed a savage species of lion."

"The remains of this wild beast are displayed in the Club"

"for everyone to see."

Very important!

Look, but don't touch!

In place, everyone!

I'll say it again, dear Tartarin,

Baya is a cabaret singer from Marseille.

Oh, my God.

And the prince is in prison.

What's he doing in prison?

He's just a con artist.

My God...

I am happy to bring you home to Tarascon.

Your fine town that you yearned for.

I don't yearn any more.

Why not?

After setting out to Africa like a hero,

then returning in this deplorable way,

without a cent, a gun or a lion.

Barbassou,

in the desert, I wondered if I was an idiot.

Now I know.

You don't have to tell them all the facts.

Embroider a little...

Lie? Never. That's criminal.

So what will you do?

Go home to Tarascon incognito.

Pack my things and go into exile.

Tartarin.

Exile is bitter.

Where will you go?

To Nîmes or Avignon.

You had me scared.

What's that?

I can't see anything.

It looks like a camel.

It's a camel.

That dromedary is pathetic.

I'd like to bring him on board.

Do as you wish but I warn you,

I'm not paying his passage.

Good Lord!

- A strange animal is chasing the train. - A wild beast?

A camel.

Tarascon!

You're getting off on the wrong side.

It's nearer the house.

There he is!

As modest and great as ever!

He who slayed so many lions. My noble friend!

Trying to flee our admiration!

Luckily Barbassou sent us a telegram.

- Whose dromedary is that? - It's my camel.

Long live Tartarin!

Does he bite?

No, he's a noble beast.

He saw me kill all my lions.

My friends, what an expedition!

Picture an evening in the Sahara...