to a sharp point, and slightly bent at the upper end,
like a lady’s finger; one monster sugar-loaf resembled
a bishop’s hat; it was too steep to hold snow on its sides,
but had some in the division.
While we were still on very high ground, and before
the descent toward Argentie`re began, we looked up
toward a neighboring mountain-top, and saw exquisite
prismatic colors playing about some white clouds which
were so delicate as to almost resemble gossamer webs.
The faint pinks and greens were peculiarly beautiful;
none of the colors were deep, they were the lightest shades.
They were bewitching commingled. We sat down to study and
enjoy this singular spectacle. The tints remained during
several minutes–fitting, changing, melting into each other;
paling almost away for a moment, then reflushing–a shifting,
restless, unstable succession of soft opaline gleams,
shimmering over that air film of white cloud, and turning
it into a fabric dainty enough to clothe an angel with.
By and by we perceived what those super-delicate colors,
and their continuous play and movement, reminded us of;
it is what one sees in a soap-bubble that is drifting along,
catching changes of tint from the objects it passes.
A soap-bubble is the most beautiful thing, and the
most exquisite, in nature; that lovely phantom fabric
in the sky was suggestive of a soap-bubble split open,
and spread out in the sun. I wonder how much it would take
to buy a soap-bubble, if there was only one in the world?
One could buy a hatful of Koh-i-Noors with the same money,
no doubt.
We made the tramp from Martigny to Argentie`re in eight hours.
We beat all the mules and wagons; we didn’t usually do that.
We hired a sort of open baggage-wagon for the trip down
the valley to Chamonix, and then devoted an hour to dining.
This gave the driver time to get drunk. He had a friend
with him, and this friend also had had time to get drunk.
When we drove off, the driver said all the tourists had
arrived and gone by while we were at dinner; “but,” said he,
impressively, “be not disturbed by that–remain tranquil–give
yourselves no uneasiness–their dust rises far before us–
rest you tranquil, leave all to me–I am the king of drivers.
Behold!”
Down came his whip, and away we clattered. I never had such
a shaking up in my life. The recent flooding rains had
washed the road clear away in places, but we never stopped,
we never slowed down for anything. We tore right along,
over rocks, rubbish, gullies, open fields–sometimes with
one or two wheels on the ground, but generally with none.
Every now and then that calm, good-natured madman would
bend a majestic look over his shoulder at us and say,
“Ah, you perceive? It is as I have said –I am the
king of drivers.” Every time we just missed going
to destruction, he would say, with tranquil happiness,
“Enjoy it, gentlemen, it is very rare, it is very unusual–
it is given to few to ride with the king of drivers–
and observe, it is as I have said, _I_ am he.”
He spoke in French, and punctuated with hiccoughs.
His friend was French, too, but spoke in German–using
the same system of punctuation, however. The friend
called himself the “Captain of Mont Blanc,” and wanted us
to make the ascent with him. He said he had made more
ascents than any other man–forty seven–and his brother
had made thirty-seven. His brother was the best guide
in the world, except himself–but he, yes, observe him
well–he was the “Captain of Mont Blanc”–that title
belonged to none other.
The “king” was as good as his word–he overtook that long
procession of tourists and went by it like a hurricane.
The result was that we got choicer rooms at the hotel
in Chamonix than we should have done if his majesty
had been a slower artist–or rather, if he hadn’t most
providentially got drunk before he left Argentie`re.
CHAPTER XLIII
[My Poor Sick Friend Disappointed]
Everybody was out-of-doors; everybody was in the
principal street of the village–not on the sidewalks,
but all over the street; everybody was lounging, loafing,