sing their arms in the air. Never had the peaceable Hotel
Jungfrau been subjected to such a racket.

"Come into my room," said Tartarin, rather disconcerted. He was feeling
about in the darkness to find matches when an authoritative rap on the
door made it open of itself to admit the consequential, yellow, and
puffy face of the innkeeper Meyer. He was about to enter, but stopped
short before the darkness of the room, and said with closed teeth:

"Try to keep quiet... or I 'll have you taken up by the police..."

A grunt as of wild bulls issued from the shadow at that brutal term
"taken up." The hotel-keeper recoiled one step, but added: "It is known
who you are; they have their eye upon you; for my part, I don't want any
more such persons in my house!.."

"Monsieur Meyer," said Tartarin, gently, politely, but very firmly...
"Send me my bill... These gentlemen and myself start to-morrow morning
for the Jungfrau."

O native soil! O little country within a great one! by only hearing the
Tarasconese accent, quivering still with the air of that beloved land
beneath the azure folds of its banner, behold Tartarin, delivered from
love and its snares and restored to his friends, his mission, his glory.

And now, _zou!_

IX.

At the "Faithful Chamois."

The next day it was charming, that trip on foot from Interlaken to
Grindelwald, where they were, in passing, to take guides for the Little
Scheideck; charming, that triumphal march of the P. C. A., restored to
his trappings and mountain habiliments, leaning on one side on the lean
little shoulder of Commander Bravida, and on the other, the robust arm
of Excourbanies, proud, both of them, to be nearest to him, to
support their dear president, to carry his ice-axe, his knapsack, his
alpenstock, while sometimes before, sometimes behind or on their flanks
the fanatical Pascalon gambolled like a puppy, his banner duly rolled up
into a package to avoid the tumultuous scenes of the night before.

The gayety of his companions, the sense of duty accomplished, the
Jungfrau all white upon the sky, over there, like a vapour--nothing
short of all this could have made the hero forget what he left behind
him, for ever and ever it may be, and without farewell. However, at the
last houses of Interlaken his eyelids swelled and, still walking on, he
poured out his feelings in turn into the bosom of Excourbanies: "Listen,
Spiridion," or that of Bravida: "You know me, Placide..."