t would be said of them down
there in Tarascon, if they returned without Tartarin? They each felt
this. And, at the moment of separation in the station at Geneva, the
buffet witnessed a pathetic scene of tears, embraces, heartrending
adieus to the banner; as the result of which adieus the whole company
piled itself into the landau which Tartarin had chartered to take him to
Chamonix. A glorious route, which they did with their eyes shut, wrapped
in their rugs and filling the carriage with sonorous snores, unmindful
of the wonderful landscape, which, from Sallanches, was unrolling before
them in a mist of blue rain: ravines, forests, foaming waterfalls,
with the crest of Mont Blanc above the clouds, visible or vanishing,
according to the lay of the land in the valley they were crossing. Tired
of that sort of natural beauty, our Tarasconese friends thought only
of making up for the wretched night they had spent behind the bolts
of Chillon. And even now, at the farther end of the long, deserted
dining-room of the Hotel Baltet, when served with the warmed-over soup
and _entrees_ of the _table d'hote_, they ate voraciously, without
saying a word, eager only to get to bed. All of a sudden, Excourbanies,
who was swallowing his food like a somnambulist, came out of his plate,
and sniffing the air about him, remarked: "I smell garlic!.."

"True, I smell it," said Bravida. And the whole party, revived by this
reminder of home, these fumes of the national dishes, which Tartarin,
at least, had not inhaled for so long, turned round in their chairs
with gluttonous anxiety. The odour came from the other end of the
dining-room, from a little room where some one was supping apart, a
personage of importance, no doubt, for the white cap of the head cook
was constantly appearing at the wicket that opened into the kitchen as
he passed to the girl in waiting certain little covered dishes which she
conveyed to the inner apartment.

"Some one from the South, that's certain," murmured the gentle Pascalon;
and the president, becoming ghastly at the idea of Costecalde, said
commandingly:--

"Go and see, Spiridion... and bring us word who it is..."

A loud roar of laughter came from that little apartment as soon as the
brave "gong" entered it, at the order of his chief; and he presently
returned, leading by the hand a tall devil with a big nose, a
mischievous eye, and a napkin under his chin, like the gastronomic
horse.

"_Vi!_ Bompard..."