a caldron; a few chosen conspirators and myself open the campaign
early; we "tip" ADOLF "the wink." That diplomatist orders the great
window to be half-opened. If things go smoothly, he will gradually
open out other sources of ventilation. The Noah's Ark procession files
in--all shapes and all languages, like the repast itself; DONNERWITZ,
TARTARIN, SHIRTSOFF, SCAMPELINI; there is nothing in common
between them--save the paper collar; they would hail international
declarations of war to-morrow; but the sight of us, and that speck
of air leagues them. "_Mein Gott, Die Engländer!_" coughs DONNERWITZ;
"_Ce sont de fanatiques enrhumés!_" hisses TARTARIN; SHIRTSOFF sneezes
the sneeze of All the Russias; "_Corpo di Bacco!_" cries SCAMPALINI;
still nothing is done; the "_Potage à la reine_,"--so called from the
predominance of rain-water--ebbs away in the commingled smacks and
gulps of the infuriated Powers; "_Saumon du Rhin, sauce Tartare_"
is being apportioned to the knives of all nations; it is perhaps
the sight of his knife, from which soup only is sacred, that nerves
the fuming DONNERWITZ to lead the attack. "Hst!" he shouts to the
studiously unheeding ADOLF; "'nother bottil Pellell--ver' well sare!"
chirrups ADOLF reassuringly to _me_; DONNERWITZ raises his knife;
I fear for the consequences; he brings it down with a clang on
the hardened tumbler of the Grand Hôtel; the timid _pensionnaire_
of numberless summers starts and grows pale; SHIRTSOFF looks with
peremptory encouragement towards the Teuton; "_Ach, gräsglich!_"
rattles out DONNERWITZ, and strikes again; the cobra-like gutturality
of that "_Ach_" is heart-rending; still no ADOLF; at a gold-fraught
glance from my companions, he has ordered another detachment to the
front; a fresh current of air invades the room. DONNERWITZ's knife is
now brandishing peas; his offended napkin chokes him; with the yell
and spring of a corpulent hyena, he rises and rushes to the windows.
The timid _pensionnaire_ and her shrinking sisterhood follow him,