Chapter XI

A hen in the midst of her chickens--that is the first impression of the little village of Zug, with its belfry towering up from the midst of the low houses. But what a background it has! The green velvet of the lowest fold of the mountains, which, from there, stretch away, one above another, to the far-away snows of rose and mauve! When one draws near to the little town its aspect changes; now one sees only an ancient fortified gate having in its midst an enormous dial. Large flags wave slowly in the light breeze and the many-coloured banners of the different Swiss cantons hang from every angle of the high roof with its many turrets, which surmounts this gate. Garlands of leaves festoon in many curves, the pointed arch cut in the ancient structure. And when one has passed under the arch, the street stretching away gives one the illusion of a Chinese street, with its houses of unequal height and its perspective of multi-coloured streamers. But one must go by another route to reach the field where the Federal shooting is established. A frightful uproar leads us unerringly to the place. Temporary barracks in the open fields, a crowd of people, gay and solemn, forming a procession. Here and there the picturesque costumes worn by the natives of some cantons still faithful to the old usages.

Bernese with full gathered skirts, half concealed by the apron of silk, of the colour of a pigeon's neck, with the long corsage of black velvet, held by silver chains to the plaited guimpes, and in their hair the great historic pins.

There are peasants from Fribourg clothed in short breeches, with brown jackets, large hats on their heads, and leaning on their ashen staffs. There are even some Tyrolese, drawn from far away by their curiosity, who please the eye by their bright costumes, their narrow tricoloured aprons, their pointed hats of black felt, ornamented with gold braid and worn very low over the forehead.

We have reached the very heart of the hubbub, and it is like that of a frightful battle; the whistling of thousands of balls, which cut the air without cessation, produces the strangest effect upon the ear. One can imagine oneself wrapped in a network of vibrating iron filaments which weave across and through each other, forming a lattice, and the illusion is so complete that one dares not advance, for fear of injuring these threads. Sheds, divided into compartments and facing in different directions, divide the plain, and in each compartment very busy men hastily load the rifles which they hand to the sharp-shooters, who may be seen from behind taking aim at a far-away target.

Half-unconsciously we allow ourselves to be pushed into one of the boxes, and once there, a Swiss, with the cordial familiarity which prevails in a free country, shouts something into Villiers' ear. He does not hear, but they put a rifle between his hands, and now behold him, in his turn, shouldering and sighting with great care!

What has happened? No one heard the detonation above the uproar, but there is a sudden movement of joyous excitement, and the faraway target, moved by a spring, shakes and salutes the conqueror. Villiers has made a hit! They drag him away; some individuals furnished with enormous trombones appear from somewhere and, forming two lines, make an escort for him. By their puffed-out and crimson cheeks rather than by sound, one surmises the triumphant fanfare. They stop at length before a gaily painted kiosk, surrounded with glass cases, where are displayed the prizes for the best marksmen.

There is a framed portrait of Garibaldi, a pair of gold spectacles, a set of silver, a jewel-box containing a collection of hundred-sous pieces with the effigy of Louis Philippe, arranged in the shape of a star, and many other marvels, from among which Villiers has only to choose; but, overcome by laughter, he is unable to decide. Finally, he un-hooks a necklace of corals and thrusts it in his pocket while someone fastens a commemorative medal to his hat, where it shines in the midst of a flutter of ribbons. The victor then wishes to steal away, but the circle of trombones narrows about him and urges him toward a pavilion consecrated to Bacchus, where a commissary of the Fair, mounted upon a table, solemnly holds out to him the glorious cup, full of the bitter wine of Sarli, which he (concealing a grimace of distaste) is obliged to empty with the best grace possible.

That evening at supper, Wagner was much interested in the adventure, and in order to do honour to the skilful marksman, he uncorked some champagne.

"It is excellent," he said. "My friend Chandon sent it to me."