Hôtel Baltet at Chamonix. “I smell garlic!” The use of rope
in Alpine climbing. “Shake hands.” A pupil of Schopenhauer.
At the hut on the Grands-Mulets. “Tartarin, I must speak to
you.”
Nine o’clock was ringing from the belfry at Chamonix of a cold night
shivering with the north wind and rain; the black streets, the darkened
houses (except, here and there, the façades and courtyards of hotels
where the gas was still burning) made the surroundings still more gloomy
under the vague reflection of the snow of the mountains, white as a
planet on the night of the sky.
At the Hôtel Baltet, one of the best and most frequented inns of this
Alpine village, the numerous travellers and boarders had disappeared one
by one, weary with the excursions of the day, until no one was left in
the grand salon but one English traveller playing silently at backgammon
with his wife, his innumerable daughters, in brown-holland aprons with
bibs, engaged in copying notices of an approaching evangelical service,
and a young Swede sitting before the fireplace, in which was a good fire
of blazing logs. The latter was pale, hollow-cheeked, and gazed at the
flame with a gloomy air as he drank his grog of kirsch and seltzer.
From time to time some belated traveller crossed the salon, with soaked
gaiters and streaming mackintosh, looked at the great barometer hanging
to the wall, tapped it, consulted the mercury as to the weather of the
following day, and went off to bed in consternation. Not a word;
no other manifestations of life than the crackling of the fire, the
pattering on the panes, and the angry roll of the Arve under the arches
of its wooden bridge, a few yards distant from the hotel.
Suddenly the door of the salon opened, a porter in a silver-laced coat
came in, carrying valises and rugs, with four shivering Alpinists behind
him, dazzled by the sudden change from icy darkness into warmth and
light.
“_Boudiou!_ what weather!..”
“Something to eat, _zou!_”
“Warm the beds, _que!_”
They all talked at once from the depths of their mufflers and ear-pads,
and it was hard to know which to obey, when a short stout man, whom the
others called “_présidain_” enforced silence by shouting more loudly
than they.
“In the first place, give me the visitors’ book,” he ordered. Turning it
over with a numbed hand, he read aloud the names of all who had been at
the hotel for the last week: “‘Doctor Schwanthaler and madame.’ Again!..
‘Astier-Réhu of the French Academy... ‘“ He deciphered thus two or three
pages, turning pale when he thought he saw the name he was in search
of. Then, at the end, flinging the book on the table with a laugh of
triumph, the squat man made a boyish gambol quite extraordinary in one
of his bulky shape: “He is not here, _vé!_ he has n’t come... And yet
he must have stopped here if he had... Done for! Coste-calde...
lagadigadeou!.. quick! to our suppers, children!.. “And the worthy
Tartarin, having bowed to the ladies, marched to the dining-room,
followed by the famished and tumultuous delegation.
Ah, yes! the delegation, all of them, even Bravida himself... Is it
possible? come now!.. But--just think what would be said of them down
there in Tarascon, if they returned without Tartarin? They each felt
this. And, at the moment of separation in the station at Geneva, the
buffet witnessed a pathetic scene of tears, embraces, heartrending
adieus to the banner; as the result of which adieus the whole company
piled itself into the landau which Tartarin had chartered to take him to
Chamonix. A glorious route, which they did with their eyes shut, wrapped
in their rugs and filling the carriage with sonorous snores, unmindful
of the wonderful landscape, which, from Sallanches, was unrolling before
them in a mist of blue rain: ravines, forests, foaming waterfalls,
with the crest of Mont Blanc above the clouds, visible or vanishing,
according to the lay of the land in the valley they were crossing. Tired
of that sort of natural beauty, our Tarasconese friends thought only
of making up for the wretched night they had spent behind the bolts
of Chillon. And even now, at the farther end of the long, deserted
dining-room of the Hôtel Baltet, when served with the warmed-over soup
and _entrées_ of the _table d’hôte_, they ate voraciously, without
saying a word, eager only to get to bed. All of a sudden, Excourbaniès,
who was swallowing his food like a somnambulist, came out of his plate,
and sniffing the air about him, remarked: “I smell garlic!..”
“True, I smell it,” said Bravida. And the whole party, revived by this
reminder of home, these fumes of the national dishes, which Tartarin,
at least, had not inhaled for so long, turned round in their chairs
with gluttonous anxiety. The odour came from the other end of the
dining-room, from a little room where some one was supping apart, a
personage of importance, no doubt, for the white cap of the head cook
was constantly appearing at the wicket that opened into the kitchen as
he passed to the girl in waiting certain little covered dishes which she
conveyed to the inner apartment.
“Some one from the South, that’s certain,” murmured the gentle Pascalon;
and the president, becoming ghastly at the idea of Costecalde, said
commandingly:--
“Go and see, Spiridion... and bring us word who it is...”
A loud roar of laughter came from that little apartment as soon as the
brave “gong” entered it, at the order of his chief; and he presently
returned, leading by the hand a tall devil with a big nose, a
mischievous eye, and a napkin under his chin, like the gastronomic
horse.
“_Vi!_ Bompard...”
“_Té!_ the Impostor...”
“_Hé!_ Gonzague... How are you?”
“_Différemment_, messieurs: your most obedient...” said the courier,
shaking hands with all, and sitting down at the table of the Tarasconese
to share with them a dish of mushrooms with garlic prepared by _mère_
Baltet, who, together with her husband had a horror of the cooking for
the _table d’hôte_.
Was it the national concoction, or the joy of meeting a compatriot, that
delightful Bompard with his inexhaustible imagination? Certain it
is that weariness and the desire to sleep took wings, champagne was
uncorked, and, with moustachios all messy with froth, they laughed and
shouted and gesticulated, clasping one another round the body effusively
happy.
“I’ll not leave you now, _vé!_” said Bompard. “My Peruvians have gone...
I am free...”
“Free!.. Then to-morrow you and I will ascend Mont Blanc.”
“Ah! you do Mont Blanc to-morrow?” said Bompard, without enthusiasm.
“Yes, I knock out Costecalde... When he gets here, _uit!_.. No Mont Blanc
for him... You’ll go, _qué_, Gonzague?”
“I ‘ll go... I ‘ll go... that is, if the weather permits... The fact is,
that the mountain is not always suitable at this season.”
“Ah! _vaï_! not suitable indeed!..” exclaimed Tartarin, crinkling up his
eyes by a meaning laugh which Bompard seemed not to understand.
“Let us go into the salon for our coffee... We ‘ll consult _père_
Baltet. He knows all about it, he ‘s an old guide who has made the
ascension twenty-seven times.”
All the delegates cried out: “Twenty-seven times! _Boufre!_”
“Bompard always exaggerates,” said the P. C. A. severely, but not
without a touch of envy.
In the salon they found the daughters of the minister still bending
over their notices, while the father and mother were asleep at their
backgammon, and the tall Swede was stirring his seltzer grog with
the same disheartened gesture. But the invasion of the Tarasconese
Alpinists, warmed by champagne, caused, as may well be supposed, some
distraction of mind to the young conventiclers. Never had those charming
young persons seen coffee taken with such rollings of the eyes and
pantomimic action.
“Sugar, Tartarin?”
“Of course not, commander... You know very well... Since Africa!..”
“True; excuse me... _Té!_ here comes M. Baltet.”
“Sit down there, _qué_. Monsieur Baltet.”
“Vive Monsieur Baltet!.. Ha! ha! _fen dé brut_.”
Surrounded, captured by all these men whom he had never seen before in
his life, _père_ Baltet smiled with a tranquil air. A robust Savoyard,
tall and broad, with a round back and slow walk, a heavy face,
close-shaven, enlivened by two shrewd eyes, that were still young,
contrasting oddly with his baldness, caused by chills at dawn upon the
mountain.
“These gentlemen wish to ascend Mont Blanc?” he said, gauging the
Tarasconese Alpinists with a glance both humble and sarcastic. Tartarin
was about to reply, but Bompard forestalled him:-- “Isn’t the season
too far advanced?” “Why, no,” replied the former guide. “Here’s a
Swedish gentleman who goes up to-morrow, and I am expecting at the end
of this week two American gentlemen to make the ascent; and one of them
is blind.”
“I know. I met them on the Guggi.” “Ah! monsieur has been upon the
Guggi?” “Yes, a week ago, in doing the Jungfrau.” Here a quiver among
the evangelical conventiclers; all pens stopped, and heads were raised
in the direction of Tartarin, who, to the eyes of these English
maidens, resolute climbers, expert in all sports, acquired considerable
authority. He had gone up the Jungfrau!
“A fine thing!” said _père_ Baltet, considering the P. C. A. with some
astonishment; while Pascalon, intimidated by the ladies and blushing and
stuttering, murmured softly:--
“Ma-a-aster, tell them the... the... thing... crevasse.”
The president smiled. “Child!..” he said: but, all the same, he began
the tale of his fall; first with a careless, indifferent air, and then
with startled motions, jigglings at the end of the rope over the
abyss, hands outstretched and appealing. The young ladies quivered, and
devoured him with those cold English eyes, those eyes that open round.