"Beginning with to-morrow," cried he, "a supper shall be served every evening here, and then you surely must forgive me!"

IX

At the end of the drawing-room at Tribschen, to the left in coming from the garden, a heavy portière, raised by a cord, allowed one a glimpse of a very small room, which I could not approach without great emotion. It was the sanctuary, the Holy of Holies, the work-room of Richard Wagner! Sombre draperies, a restrained half-light, two walls covered with book-shelves, filled with splendid works: music, poetry, philosophy; a piano of a special design (almost an altar), furnished with drawers and a plane like a table; a single picture, the portrait of Ludwig II., the royal friend, the ministering spirit: "The man who," said Wagner, "seems to have been sent to me from heaven!" What a beautiful, refined face! how the brown tint of the skin and the black hair bring out the splendid clearness of the eyes, of a polar blue, and sparkling with enthusiasm—eyes that seem supernatural.

One and all we love him, this young man; we consider him as our king, our chief and our ally, since he has the same faith as ourselves, and, like us, is in the ranks of the disciples. We were destined for the same mission: to affirm the divinity of a man of genius, to be the mirrors reflecting for him the splendour of his dreams; assuring him of the certainty of his power; soldiers ready to endure insults and blows in his defence, who would gladly fall for his glory. And this king is stronger than we are for the combat; his sceptre bears more weight than our fists. Sometimes escaping from the court, the royal friend came, alone and incognito, to Tribschen, to celebrate the Master's birthday, or to bring some good tidings. As the house was not large, it was in this little room that they arranged a cot-bed for him. And here he spent several days, very happy, and asking only to be treated as a humble disciple.

Wagner surprised me to-day, on the threshold of this little study, this sanctuary (into which I dared not go), contemplating the piano, the scattered sheets, where the ink was scarcely dry, agitated to the last degree by the human details of the thing that seemed to me so completely superhuman. And I was overcome, almost to suffocation, by hearing suddenly close by my side the voice and the laugh of him who seemed to me, as I looked back through the ages, to stand with Homer, Æschylus, Shakespeare, and to be the one whom I would still have acclaimed as the greatest of all.

"How enthusiastic you are!" cried he. "You must not be too much so, or your health will suffer." He spoke jestingly, but the kind light in his eyes told me much that his laugh disguised.

X

"This morning," said Wagner to me, "my domestic, Jacob, declared that I must pass the whole day without him, because he was going to Zug."

"'Zug! Zug!'" That word is on the lips of everyone in Lucerne. We hear it constantly, and I thought it an exclamation, a soothing word, familiar to the Swiss, something like 'Zut.'"

"Not at all. Zug is a little village, very near here."

"And what is there so attractive about it?"

"Not much, ordinarily; but evidently you do not know that the Federal shooting-match has begun at Zug. It is the event of all others that develops to its utmost the enthusiasm of all the cantons. A hundred thousand francs in prizes, thirty thousand rifles all together. Seriously, it is curious and interesting, and you ought to see it."

It was in obedience to the Master's counsel, and not without regret at leaving him, that we alighted a few hours later, at the Zug station.

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