great alarm of the tavern-keeper, who lost his
head (as if daily, at the same hour, the same post-carriages did
not pass) and bustled about his servants, also seized with chronic
bewilderment--excellent method of serving only half the dishes called
for by the _carte_, and of giving change in a way that made the white
sous of Switzerland count for fifty centimes. "Suppose we dine in the
carriage," said Sonia, I annoyed by such confusion; and as no one had
time to pay attention to them the young men themselves did the waiting.
Manilof returned with a cold leg of mutton, Bolibine with a long loaf
of bread and sausages; but the best forager was Tartarin. Certainly the
opportunity to get away from his companions in the bustle of relay ing
was a fine one; he might at least have assured himself that the
Italian had reappeared; but he never once thought of it, being solely
preoccupied with Sonia's breakfast, and in showing Manilof and the
others how a Tarasconese can manage matters.

When he stepped down the portico of the hotel, gravely, with fixed eyes,
bearing in his robust hands a large tray laden with plates, napkins,
assorted food, and Swiss champagne in its gilt-necked bottles, Sonia
clapped her hands, and congratulated him.

"How did you manage it?" she said.

"I don't know... somehow, _te!_.. We are all like that in Tarascon."

Oh! those happy minutes! That pleasant breakfast opposite to Sonia,
almost on his knees, the village market-place, like the scene of an
operetta, with clumps of green trees, beneath which sparkled the gold
ornaments and the muslin sleeves of the Swiss girls, walking about, two
and two, like dolls!

How good the bread tasted! what savoury sausages! The heavens themselves
took part in the scene, and were soft, veiled, clement; it rained, of
course, but so gently, the drops so rare, though just enough to temper
the Swiss champagne, always dangerous to Southern heads.

Under the veranda of the hotel, a Tyrolian quartette, two giants and
two female dwarfs in resplendent and heavy rags, looking as if they had
escaped from the failure of a theatre at a fair, were mingling their
throat notes: "aou... aou..." with the clinking of plates and glasses.
They were ugly, stupid, motionless, straining the cords of their skinny
necks. Tartarin thought them delightful, and gave them a handful
of sous, to the great amazement of the villagers who surrounded the
unhorsed landau.

"Vife la Vranze!" quavered a