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Annam is the mountainous area in Laos, Cambodia and Vietnam.

Fernand Millet was a "professional hunter" viz Inspecteur des Forêts (Head of the forestry departement) and in charge of
- regulating the hunting practice
- tackling marauders and maneaters
- acting as PH for officials and notorious guests or hunters.

Millet's hunts in Annam

google translation
Albert Londres - excerpt from the book "Visions East," text of 1922

Albert Londres met Albert F. Millet during a trip to Indochina. Story of a tiger hunt.

"That night, as the night announced a shiver ran through me. Dr. Dalat happening. I pulled his tongue.

- You are suffering from fever hunter

It is the disease of Dalat. I needed to kill a tiger. I took my hat and my gray black cane. I also took the road Bridge Lake. At the turn to the left, a sign stopped me. I read "forests". Two hundred meters further, and 12 trees and a wooden house. It was there.

Here live the most famous fighter of the Far East, Prince of Indochinese jungles and ravines of King Lang Bian: 47 tigers in his painting, gaur, elephants, panthers, wild boars, boa constrictors and cobras. Let the deer, venison fluke. Name: Fernand Millet. I entered. "

"The King of ravines, thin, shaved, discreet eye was timidly sitting on a low chair.

- I would kill a tiger!

- What day? he asked in a soft voice

- Saturday

- What time?

- After a nap, tea, cupcakes five forty.

- Five hours forty. Good. "

[...]

"I played the game the more peaceful world, the Mat-chang, Chinese domino, and this together with a holy missionary father, when Moses brought me a letter a lilac:" The tiger ate that night. I will take you in an hour. Millet. "It was Saturday, the Tiger was speaking.

- With Mr. Millet, said the Holy Father, the tiger is dead. "

[...]

"Fernand Millet turned to me, and an imperative finger on his mouth, ordered me not to move forward or backward, or piper or breathe.

Millet and tracker leaned on the ground path. The footprint of the tiger, black flower with four petals, betrayed the path he had taken (...).

- He's a loner, had very low Fernand Millet tracker. "

[...]

"The ravine was haunted by vultures. They were on the buffalo. We had disturbed. Concerned and despicable, as they turned into a riding school below us, scraps of putrid flesh still in his mouth.

We descended on tiptoe. Our viewpoint, a screen of branches and leaves, were there at the sixth shaft, thirty meters of the bait. Two narrow slits, prepared for the eye and the rifle, pierced only. "

[..]

"We waited, side by side, one hour, without a word, without a gesture. Fernand Millet did not look at me once in that time. Scavengers were returned to the great feast of the womb.

Suddenly I saw the eye of F. Millet became kinsman vultures. And will, obviously, gave a turn of the screw to his nerves. He put my finger on the shoulder. He had seen! I did not see. Of the same finger, without a word, he waved at me: there! A powerful blast from below guided my view. The eleven scavengers rose messy noise in silk. Tiger's head, just the head, came out of the thicket. It froze my heart. He looked, he listened. Four minutes it sounded during the ravine, and he went forward hand. Two tigers were in front of me. Millet and other. Millet, motionless, holding the other in the marble look. The tiger, a large male, now advanced with a leisurely pace. A 2 meters from the bait, he stopped, still sounding. The stop lasted more than a minute. After that, alone, he came upon the buffalo.

He turned a little and attacked the rear axle. Of great easy endeavor, it tore the flesh. Blowfly that bothered him were over. Then he shook his head like a big cat to get rid of. His jaw was a great soft sound. Then he stopped. His cock began to sweep the short grass. He yawned.

Millet made the sign.

- A little, I say, lip, it looks nice, if you kill him, it's over.

The tiger, in a flash, turned his eyes to the screen. He had heard. At the same flash, Fernand Millet dropped instantly.

- Sorry! said it, but a tiger, it contemplates death and non-living.

Then a smile relaxed his nerves. We descended, Millet, Browning in hand, and the tracker knife ready. A wave of life to die ended the flanks of the beast. Its claws, gently, went in and out. These were the reflexes.

The large male had cut the jugular. It was right on the buffalo.

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"I don't want to create an encyclopedic atmosphere here when we might be having a beer instead" P H Capstick in "Safari the last adventure."