“An inn, messieurs? Why certainly... The ‘Faithful Chamois’ is close by; allow me to show you the place.”
On the way, he told them he had lived in Paris for several years, as commissionnaire at the corner of the rue Vivienne.
“Another employé of the Company, parbleu!” thought Tartarin, leaving his friends to be surprised. However, Bompard’s comrade was very useful, for, in spite of its French sign, Le Chamois Fidèle the people of the “Faithful Chamois” could speak nothing but a horrible German patois.
Presently, the Tarasconese delegation, seated around an enormous potato omelet, recovered both the health and the good-humour as essential to Southerners as the sun of their skies. They drank deep, they ate solidly. After many toasts to the president and his coming ascension, Tartarin, who had puzzled over the tavern-sign ever since his arrival, inquired of the horn-player, who was breaking a crust in a corner of the room:
“So you have chamois here, it seems?.. I thought there were none left in Switzerland.”
The man winked:
“There are not many, but enough to let you see them now and then.”
“Shoot them, is what he wants, vé” said Pas-calon, full of enthusiasm; “never did the president miss a shot!”
Tartarin regretted that he had not brought his carbine.
“Wait a minute, and I ‘ll speak to the landlord.”