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