Astier-Rehu, solemn, his three chins in his white cravat, said: "That is a Danish legend."

"Icelandic.." affirmed Schwanthaler, no less majestic.

"Saxo Grammaticus relates that a valiant archer named Tobe or Paltanoke..."

"Es ist in der Vilkinasaga geschrieben..."

Both together:--

was condemned by the | da.s.s der Islandische Konig 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 p.r.o.nounce; 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 Hotel Tellsplatte, where the courier of the Peruvian family was to pa.s.s 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-Rehus and Professor Schwanthalers to deny that he ever existed--a Provencal 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 fetes, to which everybody rushed, banners displayed, from all the cantons, with banquets, toasts, speeches, hurrahs, songs, and tears swelling all b.r.e.a.s.t.s, 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 st.u.r.dy strides struck the highroad to Fluelen, at the side of which the Hotel Tellsplatte spreads out its long facade. 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.

"_Ve!_ Monsieur Tartarin..."

"_Te!_ 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," e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed 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.

"_Differemment_, Monsieur Tartarin, you 'll dine with me, _que?_"

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 hobn.o.b, 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 _differemments_.

"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 Provencal 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.

Bompard continued very calmly, with his natural air of cold madness:--

"A great idea, wasn't it? Eh! _be!_ at the ministry they did not even answer me... Ah! my poor Monsieur Tartarin, I have had my bad moments, I have eaten the bread of poverty before I entered the service of the Company..."

"Company! what Company?"

Bompard lowered his voice discreetly.

"Hush! presently, not here..." Then returning to his natural tones, "_Et autremain_, you people at Tarascon, what are you all doing? You haven't yet told me what brings you to our mountains..."

It was now for Tartarin to pour himself out. Without anger, but with that melancholy of declining years, that ennui which attacks as they grow elderly great artists, beautiful women, and all conquerors of peoples and hearts, he told of the defection of his compatriots, the plot laid against him to deprive him of the presidency, the decision he had come to to do some act of heroism, a great ascension, the Tarasconese banner borne higher than it had ever before been planted; in short, to prove to the Alpinists of Tarascon that he was still worthy... still worthy of... Emotion overcame him, he was forced to keep silence... Then he added:--

"You know me, Gonzague..." and nothing can ever render the effusion, the caressing charm with which he uttered that troubadouresque Christian name of the courier. It was like one way of pressing his hands, of coming nearer to his heart... "You know me, _que!_ You know if I balked when the question came up of marching upon the lion; and during the war, when we organized together the defences of the Club..."

Bompard nodded his head with terrible emphasis; he thought he was there still.

"Well, my good fellow, what the lions, what the Krupp cannon could never do, the Alps have accomplished... I am afraid."

"Don't say that, Tartarin!"

"Why not?" said the hero, with great gentleness... "I say it, because it is so..."

And tranquilly, without posing, he acknowledged the impression made upon him by Dore's drawing of that catastrophe on the Matterhorn, which was ever before his eyes. He feared those perils, and being told of an extraordinary guide, capable of avoiding them, he resolved to seek him out and confide in him.

Then, in a tone more natural, he added: "You have never been a guide, have you, Gonzague?"

"_He!_ yes," replied Bompard, smiling... "Only, I never did all that I related."

"That's understood," a.s.sented Tartarin.