“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... Vé! 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, péchère!” 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 sérac;” 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.”
“Té! pardi...”