A hen in the midst of her chickens--that is the first impression of
the little village of Zug, with its belfry towering up from the midst
of the low houses. But what a background it has! The green velvet of
the lowest fold of the mountains, which, from there, stretch away,
one above another, to the far-away snows of rose and mauve! When one
draws near to the little town its aspect changes; now one sees only
an ancient fortified gate having in its midst an enormous dial. Large
flags wave slowly in the light breeze and the many-coloured banners of
the different Swiss cantons hang from every angle of the high roof with
its many turrets, which surmounts this gate. Garlands of leaves festoon
in many curves, the pointed arch cut in the ancient structure. And when
one has passed under the arch, the street stretching away gives one the
illusion of a Chinese street, with its houses of unequal height and its
perspective of multi-coloured streamers. But one must go by another
route to reach the field where the Federal shooting is established. A
frightful uproar leads us unerringly to the place. Temporary barracks
in the open fields, a crowd of people, gay and solemn, forming a
procession. Here and there the picturesque costumes worn by the natives
of some cantons still faithful to the old usages.
Bernese with full gathered skirts, half concealed by the apron of
silk, of the colour of a pigeon's neck, with the long corsage of black
velvet, held by silver chains to the plaited guimpes, and in their hair
the great historic pins.
There are peasants from Fribourg clothed in short breeches, with brown
jackets, large hats on their heads, and leaning on their ashen staffs.
There are even some Tyrolese, drawn from far away by their curiosity,
who please the eye by their bright costumes, their narrow tricoloured
aprons, their pointed hats of black felt, ornamented with gold braid
and worn very low over the forehead.
We have reached the very heart of the hubbub, and it is like that of
a frightful battle; the whistling of thousands of balls, which cut the
air without cessation, produces the strangest effect upon the ear. One
can imagine oneself wrapped in a network of vibrating iron filaments
which weave across and through each other, forming a lattice, and
the illusion is so complete that one dares not advance, for fear of
injuring these threads. Sheds, divided into compartments and facing in
different directions, divide the plain, and in each compartment very
busy men hastily load the rifles which they hand to the sharp-shooters,
who may be seen from behind taking aim at a far-away target.
Half-unconsciously we allow ourselves to be pushed into one of the
boxes, and once there, a Swiss, with the cordial familiarity which
prevails in a free country, shouts something into Villiers' ear. He
does not hear, but they put a rifle between his hands, and now behold
him, in his turn, shouldering and sighting with great care!
What has happened? No one heard the detonation above the uproar,
but there is a sudden movement of joyous excitement, and the faraway
target, moved by a spring, shakes and salutes the conqueror. Villiers
has made a hit! They drag him away; some individuals furnished with
enormous trombones appear from somewhere and, forming two lines, make
an escort for him. By their puffed-out and crimson cheeks rather than
by sound, one surmises the triumphant fanfare. They stop at length
before a gaily painted kiosk, surrounded with glass cases, where are
displayed the prizes for the best marksmen.
There is a framed portrait of Garibaldi, a pair of gold spectacles,
a set of silver, a jewel-box containing a collection of hundred-sous
pieces with the effigy of Louis Philippe, arranged in the shape of a
star, and many other marvels, from among which Villiers has only to
choose; but, overcome by laughter, he is unable to decide. Finally,
he un-hooks a necklace of corals and thrusts it in his pocket while
someone fastens a commemorative medal to his hat, where it shines in
the midst of a flutter of ribbons. The victor then wishes to steal
away, but the circle of trombones narrows about him and urges him
toward a pavilion consecrated to Bacchus, where a commissary of the
Fair, mounted upon a table, solemnly holds out to him the glorious cup,
full of the bitter wine of Sarli, which he (concealing a grimace of
distaste) is obliged to empty with the best grace possible.
That evening at supper, Wagner was much interested in the adventure,
and in order to do honour to the skilful marksman, he uncorked some
champagne.
"It is excellent," he said. "My friend Chandon sent it to me."