One of the most amusing things connected with the hotels is the final talk that ensues when the traveler has paid his bill, and is buttoning up his coat for departure. "Your hotel is a swindle, sir, and I will never darken its doors again. I will take especial pains to inform my friends, sir. This bill is an outrage, sir, an outrage! and my friends shall know of it!" "_Oui_, Monsieur," says the landlord, bowing gracefully and grimacing as expressively as a monkey. [Sidenote: THE IRATE GUEST.] The plundered guest tells everybody not to go to the National, but by all means go to the Beau Rivage, not knowing, poor soul, that the very minute he was abusing, justly abusing, the proprietor of the National, another man just like him was abusing the proprietor of the Beau Rivage, and that, while he is sending guests to the Beau Rivage, the swindled Beau Rivager is sending his friends to the National. "Ze zentleman ees offend," smirkingly remarked the landlord of the National, after one of these scenes; "vera goot. He sents all hees frients to ze Beau Rivage. The proprietor of ze Beau Rivage ees my frère--vat yoo call 'im, eh?--bruzzer. Ve ees in partnersheep." And so it is. All the hotel men are in partnership, and, besides this powerful leverage, they know that so many come every year, anyhow; that those flayed at the National this year will go to be fleeced at the Beau Rivage next, and so on around. Despite this modified piracy, Geneva is a pleasant and hospitable place to visit, and one difficult to leave. It is a thoroughly enjoyable old city, and life there was very full. There is just enough quaintness in its queer, rambling streets to make one wish to be constantly exploring them, hoping, yet fearing, that he would get lost. It was an especial delight to go across the river and prowl among the steep, narrow streets that end finally against a dead wall; to scale high hills, with old fashioned houses forming alleys so narrow that two people could scarcely pass. We loved to plunge into dark, forbidding passages, groping our way along under houses, until, when least expected, we found ourselves in a bright, well-paved street in another portion of the town. And then the long rambles on the lake shore, especially at night, when, far off in the distance could be seen the twinkling lights of the city on both sides of the lake, connected by a tiny belt of light across the bridge that connected the old with the new. And the concerts at the Jardin du Lac, a pleasant garden with trees and flowers and fountains, on the south bank of the lake, where a fine orchestra furnishes exquisite music during the soft, balmy Summer evenings. Ah! those were indeed days and nights of rare enjoyment.