was condemned by the | dass der Islandische König
King of Denmark Harold | Needing...”
of the Blue Teeth...” |
With staring eyes and arms extended, neither looking at nor
comprehending each other, they both talked at once, as if on a rostrum,
in the doctoral, despotic tones of professors certain of never being
refuted; until, getting angry, they only shouted names: “Justinger of
Berne!.. Jean of Winterthur!..”
Little by little, the discussion became general, excited, and furious
among the visitors. Umbrellas, camp-stools, and valises were brandished;
the unhappy artist, trembling for the safety of his scaffolding, went
from one to another imploring peace. When the tempest had abated, he
returned to his sketch and looked for his mysterious model, for him
whose name the panthers of the Zaccar and the lions of Atlas could alone
pronounce; but he was nowhere to be seen; the Alpinist had disappeared.
At that moment he was clambering with furious strides up a little path
among beeches and birches that led to the Hôtel Tellsplatte, where the
courier of the Peruvian family was to pass the night; and under the
shock of his deception he was talking to himself in a loud voice and
ramming his alpenstock furiously into the sodden ground:--
Never existed! William Tell! William Tell a myth! And it was a painter
charged with the duty of decorating the Tellsplatte who said that
calmly. He hated him as if for a sacrilege; he hated those learned
men, and this denying, demolishing impious age, which respects nothing,
neither fame nor grandeur--_coquin de sort!_
And so, two hundred, three hundred years hence, when _Tartarin_ was
spoken of there would always be Astier-Réhus and Professor Schwanthalers
to deny that he ever existed--a Provençal myth! a Barbary legend!..
He stopped, choking with indignation and his rapid climb, and seated
himself on a rustic bench.
From there he could see the lake between the branches, and the white
walls of the chapel like a new mausoleum. A roaring of steam and the
bustle of getting to the wharf announced the arrival of fresh visitors.
They collected on the bank, guide-books in hand, and then advanced with
thoughtful gestures and extended arms, evidently relating the “legend.”
Suddenly, by an abrupt revulsion of ideas, the comicality of the whole
thing struck him.
He pictured to himself all historical Switzerland living upon this
imaginary hero; raising statues and chapels in his honour on the little
squares of the little towns, and placing monuments in the museums of
the great ones; organizing patriotic fêtes, to which everybody rushed,
banners displayed, from all the cantons, with banquets, toasts,
speeches, hurrahs, songs, and tears swelling all breasts, and this for a
great patriot, whom everybody knew had never existed.
Talk of Tarascon indeed! There’s a tarasconade for you, the like of
which was never invented down there!
His good-humour quite restored, Tartarin in a few sturdy strides struck
the highroad to Fluelen, at the side of which the Hôtel Tellsplatte
spreads out its long façade. While awaiting the dinner-bell the guests
were walking about in front of a cascade over rock-work on the gullied
road, where landaus were drawn up, their poles on the ground among
puddles of water in which was reflected a copper-coloured sun.
Tartarin inquired for his man. They told him he was dining. “Then take
me to him, _zou!_” and this was said with such authority that in
spite of the respectful repugnance shown to disturbing so important
a personage, a maid-servant conducted the Alpinist through the whole
hotel, where his advent created some amazement, to the invaluable
courier who was dining alone in a little room that looked upon the
court-yard.
“Monsieur,” said Tartarin as he entered, his ice-axe on his shoulder,
“excuse me if...”
He stopped stupefied, and the courier, tall, lank, his napkin at his
chin, in the savoury steam of a plateful of hot soup, let fall his
spoon.
“_Vé!_ Monsieur Tartarin...”
“_Té!_ Bompard.”
It was Bompard, former manager of the Club, a good fellow, but afflicted
with a fabulous imagination which rendered him incapable of telling
a word of truth, and had caused him to be nicknamed in Tarascon “The
Impostor.”
Called an impostor in Tarascon! you can judge what he must have been.
And this was the incomparable guide, the climber of the Alps, the
Himalayas, the Mountains of the Moon.
“Oh! now, then, I understand,” ejaculated Tartarin, rather nonplussed;
but, even so, joyful to see a face from home and to hear once more that
dear, delicious accent of the Cours.
“_Différemment_, Monsieur Tartarin, you ‘ll dine with me, _qué?_”
Tartarin hastened to accept, delighted at the pleasure of sitting down
at a private table opposite to a friend, without the very smallest
litigious compote-dish between them, to be able to hobnob, to talk as
he ate, and to eat good things, carefully cooked and fresh; for couriers
are admirably treated by innkeepers, and served apart with all the best
wines and the extra dainties.
Many were the _au mouains, pas mouains_, and _différemments_.
“Then, my dear fellow, it was really you I heard last night, up there,
on the platform?..”
“Hey! _parfaitemain_... I was making those young ladies admire... Fine,
isn’t it, sunrise on the Alps?”
“Superb!” cried Tartarin, at first without conviction and merely to
avoid contradicting him, but caught the next minute; and after that it
was really bewildering to hear those two Tarasconese enthusiasts
lauding the splendours they had found on the Rigi. It was Joanne capping
Baedeker.
Then, as the meal went on, the conversation became more intimate, full
of confidences and effusive protestations, which brought real tears
to their Provençal eyes, lively, brilliant eyes, but keeping always in
their facile emotion a little corner of jest and satire. In that alone
did the two friends resemble each other; for in person one was as lean,
tanned, weatherbeaten, seamed with the wrinkles special to the grimaces
of his profession, as the other was short, stocky, sleek-skinned, and
sound-blooded.
He had seen all, that poor Bompard, since his exodus from the Club. That
insatiable imagination of his which prevented him from ever staying in
one place had kept him wandering under so many suns, and through such
diverse fortunes. He related his adventures, and counted up the
fine occasions to enrich himself which had snapped, there! in his
fingers--such as his last invention for saving the war-budget the cost
of boots and shoes... “Do you know how?.. Oh, _moun Diou!_ it is very
simple... by shoeing the feet of the soldiers.”
“_Outre!_” cried Tartarin, horrified.