Bézuquet, quivering, planted himself squarely before the table; but conscious that his attitude was anti-parliamentary, he changed his tone, and, raising one hand according to usage, he asked for the floor, to make an urgent communication. “Speak! Speak!” Costecalde, very yellow, his throat tightened, gave him the floor by a motion of his head. Then, and not till then, Bézuquet spoke: “Tartarin is at the foot of the Jungfrau... he is about to make the ascent... he desires to take with him our banner...” Silence; broken by the heavy breathing of chests; then a loud hurrah, bravos, stamping of the feet, above which rose the gong of Excourbaniès uttering his war-cry “Ha! ha! ha! _fen dé brut!_” to which the anxious crowd without responded. Costecalde, getting more and more yellow, tinkled the presidential bell desperately. Bézuquet at last was allowed to continue, mopping his forehead and puffing as if he had just mounted five pairs of stairs. _Différemment_, the banner that their president requested in order to plant it on virgin heights, should it be wrapped up, packed up, and sent by express like an ordinary trunk?.. “Never!.. Ah! ah! ah!..” roared Excourbaniès. Would it not be better to appoint a delegation--draw lots for three members of the committee?.. He was not allowed to finish. The time to say _zou!_ and Bézuquet’s proposition was voted by acclamation, and the names of three delegates drawn in the following order: 1, Bravida; 2, Pégoulade; 3, the apothecary. No. 2, protested. The long journey frightened him, so feeble and ill as he was, _péchèrel_ ever since that terrible event of the “Medusa.” “I ‘ll go for you, Pégoulade,” roared Excour-baniès, telegraphing with all his limbs. As for Bézuquet, he could not leave the pharmacy, the safety of the town depended on him. One imprudence of the pupil, and all Tarascon might be poisoned, decimated: “_Outre!_” cried the whole committee, agreeing as one man. Certainly the apothecary could not go himself, but he could send Fascalon; Pascalon could take charge of the banner. That was his business. Thereupon, fresh exclamations, further explosions of the gong, and on the Promenade such a popular tempest that Excourbaniès was forced to show himself and address the crowd above its roarings, which his matchless voice soon mastered. “My friends, Tartarin is found. He is about to cover himself with glory.” Without adding more than “Vive Tartarin!” and his war-cry, given with all the force of his lungs, he stood for a moment enjoying the tremendous clamour of the crowd below, rolling and hustling confusedly in clouds of dust, while from the branches of the trees the grasshoppers added their queer little rattle as if it were broad day. Hearing all this, Costecalde, who had gone to a window with the rest, returned, staggering, to his arm-chair. “_Vé!_ Costecalde,” said some one. “What’s the matter with him?.. Look how yellow he is!”