“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...”
“Té! the Impostor...”
“Hé! Gonzague... How are you?”
“Différemment, messieurs: your most obedient...” said the courier, shaking hands with all, and sitting down at the table of the Tarasconese to share with them a dish of mushrooms with garlic prepared by mère Baltet, who, together with her husband had a horror of the cooking for the table d’hôte.
Was it the national concoction, or the joy of meeting a compatriot, that delightful Bompard with his inexhaustible imagination? Certain it is that weariness and the desire to sleep took wings, champagne was uncorked, and, with moustachios all messy with froth, they laughed and shouted and gesticulated, clasping one another round the body effusively happy.
“I’ll not leave you now, vé!” said Bompard. “My Peruvians have gone... I am free...”
“Free!.. Then to-morrow you and I will ascend Mont Blanc.”
“Ah! you do Mont Blanc to-morrow?” said Bompard, without enthusiasm.