voice in the crowd, from which issued a
tall old man, clothed in a singular blue coat with silver buttons, the
skirts of which swept the ground; on his head was a gigantic shako, in
form like a bucket of sauerkraut, and so weighted by its enormous plume
that the old man was forced to balance himself with his arms as he
walked, like an acrobat.

"Old soldier... Charles X..."

Tartarin, fresh from Bompard's revelations, began to laugh, and said in
a low voice with a wink of his eye:--

"Up to _that_, old fellow..." But even so, he gave him a white sou
and poured him out a bumper, which the old man accepted, laughing, and
winking himself, though without knowing why. Then, dislodging from a
corner of his mouth an enormous china pipe, he raised his glass and
drank "to the company," which confirmed Tartarin in his opinion that
here was a colleague of Bompard.

No matter! one toast deserved another. So, standing up in the carriage,
his glass held high, his voice strong, Tartarin brought tears to his
eyes by drinking, first: To France, my country!.. next to hospitable
Switzerland, which he was happy to honour publicly and thank for the
generous welcome she affords to the vanquished, to the exiled of
all lands. Then, lowering his voice and inclining his glass to the
companions of his journey, he wished them a quick return to their
country, restoration to their family, safe friends, honourable careers,
and an end to all dissensions; for, he said, it is impossible to spend
one's life in eating each other up.

During the utterance of this toast Soma's brother smiled, cold and
sarcastic behind his blue spectacles; Manilof, his neck pushed forth,
his swollen eyebrows emphasizing his wrinkle, seemed to be asking
himself if that "big barrel" would soon be done with his gabble, while
Bolibine, perched on the box, was twisting his comical yellow face,
wrinkled as a Barbary ape, till he looked like one of those villanous
little monkeys squatting on the shoulders of the Alpinist.

The young girl alone listened to him very seriously, striving to
comprehend such a singular type of man. Did he think all that he said?
Had he done all that he related? Was he a madman, a comedian, or simply
a gabbler, as Manilof in his quality of man of action insisted, giving
to the word a most contemptuous signification.

The answer was given at once. His toast ended, Tartarin had just sat
down when a sudden shot, a second, then a third, fired close t