“I had less right than any man to do so, for I have lied a great deal myself, and at this supreme moment I feel the need to open my heart, to free my bosom, to publicly confess my imposture...” “Imposture, you?” “Listen to me, my friend... In the first place, I never killed a lion.” “I am not surprised at that,” said Bompard, composedly. “But why do you worry yourself for such a trifle?.. It is our sun that does it... we are born to lies... _Vé!_ look at me... Did I ever tell the truth since I came into the world? As soon as I open my mouth my South gets up into my head like a fit. The people I talk about I never knew; the countries, I ‘ve never set foot in them; and all that makes such a tissue of inventions that I can’t unravel it myself any longer.” “That’s imagination, _péchère!_” sighed Tartarin; “we are liars of imagination.” “And such lies never do any harm to any one; whereas a malicious, envious man, like Coste-calde...” “Don’t ever speak to me of that wretch,” interrupted the P. C. A.; then, seized with a sudden attack of wrath, he shouted: “_Coquin de bon sorti_ it is, all the same, rather vexing...” He stopped, at a terrified gesture from Bompard, “Ah! yes, true... the _sérac_;” and, forced to lower his tone and mutter his rage, poor Tartarin continued his imprecations in a whisper, with a comical and amazing dislocation of the mouth,--“yes, vexing to die in the flower of one’s age through the fault of a scoundrel who at this very moment is taking his coffee on the Promenade!..” But while he thus fulminated, a clear spot began to show itself, little by little, in the sky. It snowed no more, it blew no more; and blue dashes tore away the gray of the sky. Quick, quick, _en route_; and once more fastened to the same rope, Tartarin, who took the lead as before, turned round, put a finger on his lips, and said:-- “You know, Gonzague, that all we have just been saying is between ourselves.” “_Té! pardi_...” Full of ardour, they started, plunging to their knees in the fresh snow, which had buried in its immaculate cotton-wool all the traces of the caravan; consequently Tartarin was forced to consult his compass every five minutes. But that Taras-conese compass, accustomed to warm climates, had been numb with cold ever since its arrival in Switzerland. The needle whirled to all four quarters, agitated, hesitating; therefore they determined to march straight before them, expecting to see the black rocks of the Grands-Mulets rise suddenly from the uniform silent whiteness of the slope, the peaks, the turrets, and _aiguilles_ that surrounded, dazzled, and also terrified them, for who knew what dangerous crevasses it concealed beneath their feet? “Keep cool, Gonzague, keep cool!” “That ‘s just what I can’t do,” responded Bom-pard, in a lamentable voice. And he moaned: “_Aïe_, my foot!.. _aïe_, my leg!.. we are lost; never shall we get there...”