“Let us go out on the road; we can talk more freely there.”
It was getting dark; a warm damp breeze was rolling up black clouds upon
the sky, where the setting sun had left behind it a vague gray mist.
They went along the shore in the direction of Fluelen, crossing the mute
shadows of hungry tourists returning to the hotel; shadows themselves,
and not speaking until they reached a tunnel through which the road is
cut, opening at intervals to little terraces overhanging the lake.
“Let us stop here,” pealed forth the hollow voice of Bompard, which
resounded under the vaulted roof like a cannon-shot. There, seated on
the parapet, they contemplated that admirable view of the lake, the
downward rush of the fir-trees and beeches pressing blackly together
in the foreground, and farther on, the higher mountains with waving
summits, and farther still, others of a bluish-gray confusion as of
clouds, in the midst of which lay, though scarcely visible, the long
white trail of a glacier, winding through the hollows and suddenly
illumined with irised fire, yellow, red, and green. They were exhibiting
the mountain with Bengal lights!
From Fluelen the rockets rose, scattering their multicoloured stars;
Venetian lanterns went and came in boats that remained invisible while
bearing bands of music and pleasure-seekers.
A fairylike decoration seen through the frame, cold and architectural,
of the granite walls of the tunnel.
“What a queer country, _pas mouain_, this Switzerland...” cried
Tartarin.
Bompard burst out laughing.
“Ah! _vaï_, Switzerland!.. In the first place, there is no Switzerland.”