Bravida protested. Outre! he had had enough of adventures.
“Enough and more than enough...” howled Excourbaniès, in his almost extinct voice.
“And you, Pascalon?” asked Tartarin, gently.
The pupil dared not raise his eyes:—
“Ma-a-aster...” He, too, abandoned him!
“Very good,” said the hero, solemnly and angrily. “I will go alone; all the honour will be mine... Zou! give me back the banner...”
XII.
Hôtel Baltet at Chamonix. “I smell garlic!” The use of rope
in Alpine climbing. “Shake hands.” A pupil of Schopenhauer.
At the hut on the Grands-Mulets. “Tartarin, I must speak to
you.”
Nine o’clock was ringing from the belfry at Chamonix of a cold night shivering with the north wind and rain; the black streets, the darkened houses (except, here and there, the façades and courtyards of hotels where the gas was still burning) made the surroundings still more gloomy under the vague reflection of the snow of the mountains, white as a planet on the night of the sky.