“Yes, I knock out Costecalde... When he gets here, uit!.. No Mont Blanc for him... You’ll go, qué, Gonzague?”
“I ‘ll go... I ‘ll go... that is, if the weather permits... The fact is, that the mountain is not always suitable at this season.”
“Ah! vaï! not suitable indeed!..” exclaimed Tartarin, crinkling up his eyes by a meaning laugh which Bompard seemed not to understand.
“Let us go into the salon for our coffee... We ‘ll consult père Baltet. He knows all about it, he ‘s an old guide who has made the ascension twenty-seven times.”
All the delegates cried out: “Twenty-seven times! Boufre!”
“Bompard always exaggerates,” said the P. C. A. severely, but not without a touch of envy.
In the salon they found the daughters of the minister still bending over their notices, while the father and mother were asleep at their backgammon, and the tall Swede was stirring his seltzer grog with the same disheartened gesture. But the invasion of the Tarasconese Alpinists, warmed by champagne, caused, as may well be supposed, some distraction of mind to the young conventiclers. Never had those charming young persons seen coffee taken with such rollings of the eyes and pantomimic action.
“Sugar, Tartarin?”
“Of course not, commander... You know very well... Since Africa!..”
“True; excuse me... Té! here comes M. Baltet.”