I
A heavy sky, a foggy atmosphere and the warm rain that falls without a sound: the weather is entirely in unison with our sentiments! No more blue sky, no more sun: all is gray around us as within us. The lake of Constance, upon which we sail to reach Bavaria, appears quite ugly under the mist, after the lake of Lucerne which was for us so blue and limpid! Yet this water which bears us, and which, alas! is not the same that bathes the dear promontory with its tall poplars, bears us nevertheless toward a predestined country, toward the Theatre-Temple where the rites of our religion are fulfilled.
But this melancholy must be driven away, and it is Villiers who makes the charge. Still full of pride over his success of the evening before, he is unable to stop thinking and speaking of it.
"Hein! How he listened! What a public! How pleased I was!"
And again his laugh rings out: his spirit kindles through the obscurities of his speech.
During breakfast we install ourselves upon the deck under the shelter of a dripping canvas. And what a breakfast! An omelet harder than a pancake, and filled with a stuffing the nature of which defies all speculation.
"Yellow turnips!" hazards Villiers.
"It can't be yellow turnips. It is more like bits of raw pumpkin."
We consult the Speisekarte and find "Omelet with Apricots." Quarters of unripe apricot in an overcooked omelet—what an infernal combination! O Shade of Brillat-Savarin![1] Our delicate French epicurism is doubtless about to be put to a rude test by the barbarously heavy German cooking.