, before he could
utter other words than these--choked with tears, and his hands raised to
heaven: "Tartarin... lost!.. broken rope..." At last, however, they were
able to make out the great misfortune which had happened.

While the old hut-man was lamenting and adding another chapter to the
horrors of the mountain, hoping for fresh ossuary relics for his charnel
glass-case, the Swedish youth and his guides, who had returned from
their expedition, set off in search of the hapless Tartarin with ropes,
ladders, in short a whole life-saving outfit, alas! unavailing...
Bompard, rendered half idiotic, could give no precise indications as
to the drama, nor as to the spot where it happened. They found nothing
except, on the Dome du Gouter, one piece of rope which was caught in a
cleft of the ice. But that piece of rope, very singular thing! was cut
at both ends, as with some sharp instrument; the Chambery newspapers
gave a facsimile of it, which proved the fact.

Finally, after eight days of the most conscientious search, and when the
conviction became irresistible that the poor president would never be
found, that he was lost beyond recall, the despairing delegates started
for Tarascon, taking with them the unhappy Bompard, whose shaken brain
was a visible result of the terrible shock.

"Do not talk to me about it," he replied when questioned as to the
accident, "never speak to me about it again!"

Undoubtedly the White Mountain could reckon one victim the more--and
what a victim!

XIV.

Epilogue.

A REGION more impressionable than Tarascon was never seen under the
sun of any land. At times, of a fine festal Sunday, all the town out,
tambourines a-going, the Promenade swarming, tumultuous, enamelled
with red and green petticoats, Arlesian neckerchiefs, and, on big
multi-coloured posters, the announcement of wrestling-matches for men
and lads, races of Camargue bulls, etc., it is all-sufficient for some
wag to call out: "Mad dog!" or "Cattle loose!" and everybody runs,
jostles, men and women fright themselves out of their wits, doors are
locked and bolted, shutters clang as with a storm, and behold Tarascon,
deserted, mute, not a cat, not a sound, even the grasshoppers themselves
lying low and attentive.

This was its aspect on a certain morning, which, however, was neither a
fete-day nor a Sunday; the shops closed, houses dead, squares and alleys
seemingly enlarged by silence and solitude. _Vasta silentio