arasconese, who, worthy bourgeois, peaceful elector, was now ready
to spend his days beside that adorable girl in the said state of "free
gift" if she had not added those murderous and abominable conditions.

While they were conversing of these extremely delicate matters, the
fields, the lakes, the forests, the mountains lay spread before them,
and always at each new turn, through the cool mist of that perpetual
shower which accompanied our hero on all his excursions, the Jungfrau
raised her white crest, as if to poison by remorse those delicious
hours. They returned to breakfast at a vast _table d'hote_ where the
Rices and Prunes continued their silent hostilities, to which Tartarin
was wholly indifferent, seated by Sonia, watching that Boris had no open
window at his back, assiduous, paternal, exhibiting all his seductions
as man of the world and his domestic qualities as an excellent
cabbage-rabbit.

After this, he took tea with the Russians in their little salon opening
on a tiny garden at the end of the terrace. Another exquisite hour for
Tartarin of intimate chat in a low voice while Boris slept on a sofa.
The hot water bubbled in the samovar; a perfume of moist flowers slipped
through the half-opened door with the blue reflection of the solanums
that were clustering about it. A little more sun, more warmth, and here
was his dream realized, his pretty Russian installed beside him, taking
care of the garden of the baobab.

Suddenly Sonia gave a jump.

"Two o'clock!.. And the letters?"

"I'm going for them," said the good Tartarin, and, merely from the tones
of his voice and the resolute, theatrical gesture with which he buttoned
his coat and seized his cane, any one would have guessed the gravity of
the action, apparently so simple, of going to the post-office to fetch
the Wassilief letters.

Closely watched by the local authorities and the Russian police, all
Nihilists, but especially their leaders, are compelled to take certain
precautions, such as having their letters and papers addressed _poste
restante_ to simple initials.

Since their installation at Interlaken, Boris being scarcely able to
drag himself about, Tartarin, to spare Sonia the annoyance of waiting
in line before the post-office wicket exposed to inquisitive eyes, had
taken upon himself the risks and perils of this daily nuisance. The
post-office is not more than ten minutes' walk from the hotel, in a wide
and noisy street at the end of a p