ng enlightened him about Swiss legends; but in passing
through Interlaken he had heard that Sonia had gone to Montreux with
her brother, whose health was much worse, and this invention of an
historical pilgrimage was only a pretext to meet the young girl again,
and, who knows? persuade her perhaps to follow him to Tarascon.

Let it be fully understood, however, that his companions believed,
with the best faith in the world, that they were on their way to render
homage to a great Genevese citizen whose history the P. C. A. had
related to them; in fact, with their native taste for theatrical
manifestations they were desirous, as soon as they landed at Montreux,
of forming in line, banner displayed and marching at once to Chillon
with repeated cries of "Vive Bonnivard!" The president was forced to
calm them: "Breakfast first," he said, "and after that we 'll see
about it." So they filled the omnibus of some Pension Mueller or other,
situated, with many of its kind, close to the landing.

"_Ve!_ that gendarme, how he looks at us," said Pascalon, the last to
get in, with the banner, always very troublesome to install. "True,"
said Bravida, uneasily; "what does he want of us, that gendarme? Why
does he examine us like that?"

"He recognizes me, _pardi!_" said the worthy Tartarin modestly; and he
smiled upon the soldier of the Vaudois police, whose long blue hooded
coat followed perseveringly behind the omnibus as it threaded its way
among the poplars on the shore.

It was market-day at Montreux. Rows of little booths were open to the
winds of the lake, displaying fruit, vegetables, laces very cheap, and
that white jewellery, looking like manufactured snow or pearls of ice,
with which the Swiss women ornament their costumes. With all this were
mingled the bustle of the little port, the jostling of a whole flotilla
of gayly painted pleasure-boats, the transshipment of casks and sacks
from large brigantines with lateen sails, the hoarse cries, the bells
of the steamers, the stir among the cafes, the breweries, the traffic of
the florists and the second-hand dealers who lined the quay. If a ray of
sun had fallen upon the scene, one might have thought one's self on the
marina of a Mediterranean resort between Mentone and Bordighera. But sun
was lacking, and the Tarasconese gazed at the pretty landscape through a
watery vapour that rose from the azure lake, climbed the steep path and
the pebbly little streets, and joined, above