Part 22 (2/2)
Bompard seized his arm: ”Horrors! the _serac!_”.. Positively the whole block was trembling; another shout and that ma.s.s of acc.u.mulated icicles would be down upon their heads. They stopped, rigid, motionless, wrapped in a horrid silence, presently broken by a distant rolling sound, coming nearer, increasing, spreading to the horizon, and dying at last far down, from gulf to gulf.
”Poor souls!” murmured Tartarin, thinking of the Swede and his guides caught, no doubt, and swept away by the avalanche.
Bompard shook his head: ”We are scarcely better off than they,” he said.
And truly, their situation was alarming; but they did not dare to stir from their icy grotto, nor to risk even their heads outside in the squall.
To complete the oppression of their hearts, from the depths of the valley rose the howling of a dog, baying at death. Suddenly Tartarin, with swollen eyes, his lips quivering, grasped the hands of his companion, and looking at him gently, said:--
”Forgive me, Gonzague, yes, yes, forgive me. I was rough to you just now; I treated you as a liar...”
”Ah! _va_. What harm did that do me?”
”I had less right than any man to do so, for I have lied a great deal myself, and at this supreme moment I feel the need to open my heart, to free my bosom, to publicly confess my imposture...”
”Imposture, you?”
”Listen to me, my friend... In the first place, I never killed a lion.”
”I am not surprised at that,” said Bompard, composedly. ”But why do you worry yourself for such a trifle?.. It is our sun that does it... we are born to lies... _Ve!_ look at me... Did I ever tell the truth since I came into the world? As soon as I open my mouth my South gets up into my head like a fit. The people I talk about I never knew; the countries, I 've never set foot in them; and all that makes such a tissue of inventions that I can't unravel it myself any longer.”
”That's imagination, _pechere!_” sighed Tartarin; ”we are liars of imagination.”
”And such lies never do any harm to any one; whereas a malicious, envious man, like Coste-calde...”
”Don't ever speak to me of that wretch,” interrupted the P. C. A.; then, seized with a sudden attack of wrath, he shouted: ”_Coquin de bon sorti_ it is, all the same, rather vexing...” He stopped, at a terrified gesture from Bompard, ”Ah! yes, true... the _serac_;” and, forced to lower his tone and mutter his rage, poor Tartarin continued his imprecations in a whisper, with a comical and amazing dislocation of the mouth,--”yes, vexing to die in the flower of one's age through the fault of a scoundrel who at this very moment is taking his coffee on the Promenade!..”
But while he thus fulminated, a clear spot began to show itself, little by little, in the sky. It snowed no more, it blew no more; and blue dashes tore away the gray of the sky. Quick, quick, _en route_; and once more fastened to the same rope, Tartarin, who took the lead as before, turned round, put a finger on his lips, and said:--
”You know, Gonzague, that all we have just been saying is between ourselves.”
”_Te! pardi_...”
Full of ardour, they started, plunging to their knees in the fresh snow, which had buried in its immaculate cotton-wool all the traces of the caravan; consequently Tartarin was forced to consult his compa.s.s every five minutes. But that Taras-conese compa.s.s, accustomed to warm climates, had been numb with cold ever since its arrival in Switzerland.
The needle whirled to all four quarters, agitated, hesitating; therefore they determined to march straight before them, expecting to see the black rocks of the Grands-Mulets rise suddenly from the uniform silent whiteness of the slope, the peaks, the turrets, and _aiguilles_ that surrounded, dazzled, and also terrified them, for who knew what dangerous creva.s.ses it concealed beneath their feet?
”Keep cool, Gonzague, keep cool!”
”That 's just what I can't do,” responded Bom-pard, in a lamentable voice. And he moaned: ”_Ae_, my foot!.. _ae_, my leg!.. we are lost; never shall we get there...”
They had walked for over two hours when, about the middle of a field of snow very difficult to climb, Bompard called out, quite terrified:--
”Tartarin, we are going _up!_”
”Eh! _parbleu!_ I know that well enough,” returned the P. C. A., almost losing his serenity.
”But according to my ideas, we ought to be going down.”
”_Be!_ yes! but how can I help it? Let's go on to the top, at any rate; it may go down on the other side.”
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