It was certainly a magnificent town; like no other, it seemed to Rudy.
A Swiss town in its Sunday dress, was not like other trading-places, a
mass of black stone houses, heavy, uninviting and stiff. No! it looked
as though the wooden houses, on the mountain had run down into the
green valley, to the clear, swift river and had ranged themselves in a
row--a little in and out--so as to form a street, the most splendid of
all streets, which had grown up since Rudy was here as a child. It
appeared to him, that here all the pretty wooden houses that his
grandfather had carved, and with which the cup-board at home used to
be filled, had placed themselves there and had grown in strength, as
the old, the oldest chestnut trees had done. Each house had carved
wood-work around the windows and balconies, projecting roofs, pretty
and neat; in front of every house a little flower garden extended into
the stone-covered street. The houses were all placed on one side, as
if they wished to conceal the forest-green meadow, where the cows with
their tinkling bells made one fancy one's self near the high alpine
pasture-grounds. The meadow was enclosed with high mountains, that
leaned to one side so that the Jungfrau, the most stately of the Swiss
mountains, with its glistening snow-clad top, was visible.

What a quantity of well dressed ladies and gentlemen from foreign
countries! What multitudes of inhabitants from the different cantons!
The shooters, with their numbers placed in a wreath around their
hats, waiting to take their turn. Here was music and song,
hurdy-gurdys and wind instruments, cries and confusion. The houses and
bridges were decked with devices and verses; banners and flags
floated, rifles sounded shot after shot; this was the best music to
Rudy's ear and he entirely forgot Babette, although he had come for
her sake.