"I had less right than any man to do so, for I have lied a great deal
myself, and at this supreme moment I feel the need to open my heart, to
free my bosom, to publicly confess my imposture..."

"Imposture, you?"

"Listen to me, my friend... In the first place, I never killed a lion."

"I am not surprised at that," said Bompard, composedly. "But why do you
worry yourself for such a trifle?.. It is our sun that does it... we are
born to lies... _Ve!_ look at me... Did I ever tell the truth since I
came into the world? As soon as I open my mouth my South gets up into my
head like a fit. The people I talk about I never knew; the countries,
I 've never set foot in them; and all that makes such a tissue of
inventions that I can't unravel it myself any longer."

"That's imagination, _pechere!_" sighed Tartarin; "we are liars of
imagination."

"And such lies never do any harm to any one; whereas a malicious,
envious man, like Coste-calde..."

"Don't ever speak to me of that wretch," interrupted the P. C. A.; then,
seized with a sudden attack of wrath, he shouted: "_Coquin de bon
sorti_ it is, all the same, rather vexing..." He stopped, at a terrified
gesture from Bompard, "Ah! yes, true... the _serac_;" and, forced
to lower his tone and mutter his rage, poor Tartarin continued his
imprecations in a whisper, with a comical and amazing dislocation of the
mouth,--"yes, vexing to die in the flower of one's age through the
fault of a scoundrel who at this very moment is taking his coffee on the
Promenade!.."

But while he thus fulminated, a clear spot began to show itself, little
by little, in the sky. It snowed no more, it blew no more; and blue
dashes tore away the gray of the sky. Quick, quick, _en route_; and once
more fastened to the same rope, Tartarin, who took the lead as before,
turned round, put a finger on his lips, and said:--

"You know, Gonzague, that all we have just been saying is between
ourselves."

"_Te! pardi_..."

Full of ardour, they started, plunging to their knees in the fresh snow,
which had buried in its immaculate cotton-wool all the traces of the
caravan; consequently Tartarin was forced to consult his compass
every five minutes. But that Taras-conese compass, accustomed to warm
climates, had been numb with cold ever since its arrival in Switzerland.
The needle whirled to all four quarters, agitated, hesitating; therefore
they determined to march straight before them, expecting to see the