“True, I smell it,” said Bravida. And the whole party, revived by this reminder of home, these fumes of the national dishes, which Tartarin, at least, had not inhaled for so long, turned round in their chairs with gluttonous anxiety. The odour came from the other end of the dining-room, from a little room where some one was supping apart, a personage of importance, no doubt, for the white cap of the head cook was constantly appearing at the wicket that opened into the kitchen as he passed to the girl in waiting certain little covered dishes which she conveyed to the inner apartment. “Some one from the South, that’s certain,” murmured the gentle Pascalon; and the president, becoming ghastly at the idea of Costecalde, said commandingly:-- “Go and see, Spiridion... and bring us word who it is...” A loud roar of laughter came from that little apartment as soon as the brave “gong” entered it, at the order of his chief; and he presently returned, leading by the hand a tall devil with a big nose, a mischievous eye, and a napkin under his chin, like the gastronomic horse. “_Vi!_ Bompard...” “_Té!_ the Impostor...” “_Hé!_ Gonzague... How are you?” “_Différemment_, messieurs: your most obedient...” said the courier, shaking hands with all, and sitting down at the table of the Tarasconese to share with them a dish of mushrooms with garlic prepared by _mère_ Baltet, who, together with her husband had a horror of the cooking for the _table d’hôte_. Was it the national concoction, or the joy of meeting a compatriot, that delightful Bompard with his inexhaustible imagination? Certain it is that weariness and the desire to sleep took wings, champagne was uncorked, and, with moustachios all messy with froth, they laughed and shouted and gesticulated, clasping one another round the body effusively happy. “I’ll not leave you now, _vé!_” said Bompard. “My Peruvians have gone... I am free...” “Free!.. Then to-morrow you and I will ascend Mont Blanc.” “Ah! you do Mont Blanc to-morrow?” said Bompard, without enthusiasm. “Yes, I knock out Costecalde... When he gets here, _uit!_.. No Mont Blanc for him... You’ll go, _qué_, Gonzague?” “I ‘ll go... I ‘ll go... that is, if the weather permits... The fact is, that the mountain is not always suitable at this season.” “Ah! _vaï_! not suitable indeed!..” exclaimed Tartarin, crinkling up his eyes by a meaning laugh which Bompard seemed not to understand. “Let us go into the salon for our coffee... We ‘ll consult _père_ Baltet. He knows all about it, he ‘s an old guide who has made the ascension twenty-seven times.” All the delegates cried out: “Twenty-seven times! _Boufre!_” “Bompard always exaggerates,” said the P. C. A. severely, but not without a touch of envy.