This patriotic obtrusiveness culminates in the Battle of the Windows. It is an oppressive evening. The _Table d'Hote_-room is seething like a caldron; a few chosen conspirators and myself open the campaign early; we "tip" ADOLF "the wink." That diplomatist orders the great window to be half-opened. If things go smoothly, he will gradually open out other sources of ventilation. The Noah's Ark procession files in--all shapes and all languages, like the repast itself; DONNERWITZ, TARTARIN, SHIRTSOFF, SCAMPELINI; there is nothing in common between them--save the paper collar; they would hail international declarations of war to-morrow; but the sight of us, and that speck of air leagues them. "_Mein Gott, Die Englaender!_" coughs DONNERWITZ; "_Ce sont de fanatiques enrhumes!_" hisses TARTARIN; SHIRTSOFF sneezes the sneeze of All the Russias; "_Corpo di Bacco!_" cries SCAMPALINI; still nothing is done; the "_Potage a la reine_,"--so called from the predominance of rain-water--ebbs away in the commingled smacks and gulps of the infuriated Powers; "_Saumon du Rhin, sauce Tartare_" is being apportioned to the knives of all nations; it is perhaps the sight of his knife, from which soup only is sacred, that nerves the fuming DONNERWITZ to lead the attack. "Hst!" he shouts to the studiously unheeding ADOLF; "'nother bottil Pellell--ver' well sare!" chirrups ADOLF reassuringly to _me_; DONNERWITZ raises his knife; I fear for the consequences; he brings it down with a clang on the hardened tumbler of the Grand Hotel; the timid _pensionnaire_ of numberless summers starts and grows pale; SHIRTSOFF looks with peremptory encouragement towards the Teuton; "_Ach, graesglich!_" rattles out DONNERWITZ, and strikes again; the cobra-like gutturality of that "_Ach_" is heart-rending; still no ADOLF; at a gold-fraught glance from my companions, he has ordered another detachment to the front; a fresh current of air invades the room. DONNERWITZ's knife is now brandishing peas; his offended napkin chokes him; with the yell and spring of a corpulent hyena, he rises and rushes to the windows. The timid _pensionnaire_ and her shrinking sisterhood follow him, under the misconception that he is summoning them to admire the sunset; the sunset is their evening excitement, and DONNERWITZ can be sentimental in his calmer moments; but no "_Wie wunder, wunderschoen!_" escapes him; a Saxon word, that even they can understand, is on his lips; the ring on his forefinger gleams luridly; bang, bang, bang; he opens fire; down go the windows, and DONNERWITZ resumes his seat of war, his napkin waving like a standard before him. It is now my turn; I don't like it; but my co-conspirators expect me to maintain the honour of our country: ADOLF cannot be trusted further; I advance furtively; the eyes of Europe are upon me; one by one I open them again and subside; a terrible silence supervenes. What next?--that is the question!