“Why not?” said the hero, with great gentleness... “I say it, because it is so...” And tranquilly, without posing, he acknowledged the impression made upon him by Doré’s drawing of that catastrophe on the Matterhorn, which was ever before his eyes. He feared those perils, and being told of an extraordinary guide, capable of avoiding them, he resolved to seek him out and confide in him. Then, in a tone more natural, he added: “You have never been a guide, have you, Gonzague?” “_Hé!_ yes,” replied Bompard, smiling... “Only, I never did all that I related.” “That’s understood,” assented Tartarin. And the other added in a whisper:-- “Let us go out on the road; we can talk more freely there.” It was getting dark; a warm damp breeze was rolling up black clouds upon the sky, where the setting sun had left behind it a vague gray mist. They went along the shore in the direction of Fluelen, crossing the mute shadows of hungry tourists returning to the hotel; shadows themselves, and not speaking until they reached a tunnel through which the road is cut, opening at intervals to little terraces overhanging the lake. “Let us stop here,” pealed forth the hollow voice of Bompard, which resounded under the vaulted roof like a cannon-shot. There, seated on the parapet, they contemplated that admirable view of the lake, the downward rush of the fir-trees and beeches pressing blackly together in the foreground, and farther on, the higher mountains with waving summits, and farther still, others of a bluish-gray confusion as of clouds, in the midst of which lay, though scarcely visible, the long white trail of a glacier, winding through the hollows and suddenly illumined with irised fire, yellow, red, and green. They were exhibiting the mountain with Bengal lights! From Fluelen the rockets rose, scattering their multicoloured stars; Venetian lanterns went and came in boats that remained invisible while bearing bands of music and pleasure-seekers. A fairylike decoration seen through the frame, cold and architectural, of the granite walls of the tunnel. “What a queer country, _pas mouain_, this Switzerland...” cried Tartarin. Bompard burst out laughing. “Ah! _vaï_, Switzerland!.. In the first place, there is no Switzerland.” V. Confidences in a tunnel. “Switzerland, in our day, _vé!_ Monsieur Tar-tarin, is nothing more than a vast Kursaal, open from June to September, a panoramic casino, where people come from all four quarters of the globe to amuse themselves, and which is manipulated and managed by a Company _richissime_ by hundreds of thousands of millions, which has its offices in London and Geneva. It costs money, you may be sure, to lease and brush up and trick out all this territory, lakes, forests, mountains, cascades, and to keep a whole people of employés, supernumeraries, and what not, and set up miraculous hotels on the highest summits, with gas, telegraphs, telephones...”