The Princess Passes Volume 56, Alice Muriel Williamson, Charles Norris Williamson [primary phonics txt] 📗
Book online «The Princess Passes Volume 56, Alice Muriel Williamson, Charles Norris Williamson [primary phonics txt] 📗». Author Alice Muriel Williamson, Charles Norris Williamson
There Had Not Been A Great Difference Between The Two Long-Dead Prime
Ministers?
"How Do You Mean?" I Enquired. "A Difference In Politics Or
Disposition?"
"They Would Not Like The Same Things," He Explained. "The Lord
Beaconsfield, _Par Exemple_, He Would Not Have Enjoyed To Come Such A
Tour Like This, That Will Take You High In Icy Mountains. He Would
Want The Sunshine, And Sitting Still In A Beautiful _Chaise_ With
People To Listen While He Talked, But Monsieur Gladstone, I Think He
Would Love The Mountains With The Snow, As If They Were His Brothers."
"You Are Right," I Said. "They Were His Brothers. One Can Fancy
Edelweiss Growing Freely On Mr. Gladstone. His Nature Was Of The White
North. You Have Hit It, Joseph."
"But I Do Not See A Thing That I Have Hit," He Replied, Bewildered,
Glancing At The Stout Staff In His Hand, And Then At Finois, Who Had
Evidently Not Been Brought Up On Blows. It Was Then My Turn To
Explain; And So We Tossed Back And Forth The Conversational
Shuttlecock, Until I Found Myself Losing Straw By Straw My Load Of
Homesickness, And Becoming More Buoyant Of Spirit In The Muleteer's
Society.
After The Splendours Of The Simplon It Seemed To Rue, As The Windings
Of The Great St. Bernard Pass Shut Us Farther And Farther Away From
Martigny, That This Was In Comparison But A Peaceful Valley. It Was A
Cosey Cleft Among The Mountains, With Just Room For The River To Be
Frilled With Green Between Its Walls. There Was A Look Of Homeliness
About The Sloping Pastures, Which Slept In The Sunshine, Lulled By The
Song Of The Swift-Flowing Dranse.
The Name "Great St. Bernard" Had Conjured Up Hopes Of Rugged
Grandeur, Which Did Not Seem Destined To Be Fulfilled, And At Last I
Confided My Disappointment To Joseph. "If Monsieur Will Wait An All
Little Hour, Perhaps He Will Yet Be Surprised," He Answered, Breaking
Into French. "We Have A Long Way To Go, Before We Come To The Best."
We Walked Briskly, Lunched At The Dull Village Of Orsières; And
Delaying As Short A Time As Possible, Pushed On--Indeed, We Pushed On
Much Farther Than Joseph Had Expected, When He Suggested Our Sleeping
At Bourg St. Pierre. "We Might Go Higher," Said He, "Before Dark, But
It Would Be Late Before We Could Reach The Hospice, And There Is No
Place Where We Could Rest For The Night After St. Pierre, Unless
Monsieur Would Care To Stop At The Cantine De Proz."
"What Is The Cantine De Proz?" I Asked, Trudging Along The Stony
Road, With My Eyes Held By A Huge Snow Mountain Which Had Suddenly
Loomed Above The Green Shoulders Of Lesser Hills, Like A Great White
Barrier Across The World.
"The Cantine De Proz Is But A House, Nothing More, Monsieur, In The
Chapter 9 (The Brat) Pg 61Loneliest And Wildest Part Of The Pass--How Lonely, And How Wild, You
Cannot Guess Yet By What You Have Seen. The People Who Keep The House
Are Good Folk, And They Live There All The Year Round, Even In Winter,
When The Snow Is At The Second-Story Windows, And They Must Cut Narrow
Paths, With Tall White Walls, Before They Can Feed Their Cattle. These
People Sell You A Cup Of Coffee, Or A Glass Of Beer, Or Of Liqueur,
And They Have A Spare Room, Which Is Very Clean. If Any Traveller
Wishes To Spend A Night, They Will Make Him As Comfortable As They
Can. One English Gentleman Came, And Liked The Place So Well, That He
Stayed For Months, And Wrote A Book, I Have Been Told. But It Is
Desolate. Perhaps Monsieur Would Think It Too _Triste_ Even For A
Night. At St. Pierre There Is At Least A Little Life. And The Hotel
'Au Déjeuner De Napoléon,' I Think It Will Amuse Monsieur."
"That Is An Odd Name For A Hotel," Said I.
"You See, Monsieur, It Was Made Famous Because Of The _Déjeuner_ Which
Napoléon Took There On His March With His Army Of 30,000 Across The
Pass In The Month Of May, 1800, And That Is The Reason Of The Name.
The Madame Who Has The House Now, Is A Grand-Daughter Of The Innkeeper
Of That Day; And She Will Show You The Room Where Napoléon
Breakfasted, With All The Furniture Just As It Was Then, And On The
Wall The Portraits Of Her Grand-Parents, Who Waited On The Great Man."
"At All Events, We Will Rest And Have Something To Eat There," I Said.
"Then, If It Be Not Too Late, We Might Push On Further. I Like The
Idea Of The Lonely Cantine De Proz."
My Opinion Of The Pass Was Changing For The Better, Before We Reached
The Straggling Town Of Stony Pavements, Which Could Not Have A More
Appropriate Patron Than St. Pierre. True, Our Road Was Always Narrow,
And Poorly Kept For A Great Mountain Highway; So Far, None Of The
Magnificent Engineering Which Impressed One On The Simplon. But Here
And There Dazzling White Peaks Glistened Like Frozen Tidal Waves
Against The Blue, And The Dranse Had A Particular Charm Of Its Own.
Joseph Said Little When I Patronised The Pass With A Few Grudging
Words Of Commendation. He Had The Secretive Smile Of A Man Who Hides
Something Up His Sleeve.
It Was Five O'clock When We Arrived At Bourg St. Pierre, And Having
Climbed A Dark And Hilly Street, Closely Shut In With Houses Which Age
Had Not Made Beautiful, Joseph Pointed Out A Neat, White Inn, Standing
At The Left Of The Road.
"That Is The 'Déjeuner De Napoléon,'" Said He, "And Near By Are Some
Roman Remains Which Will Interest Monsieur If----"
"By Jove, Two Donkeys!" I Broke In, Heedless Of Antiquities, In My
Surprise At Seeing Two Of Those Animals Which Experience Had Taught Me
To Look Upon As More Rare Than Joseph's "Seldom Plant." "Two Donkeys
In Front Of The Inn. Where On Earth Can They Have Sprung From? I Would
Have Given A Good Deal For That Sight A Few Days Ago, But Now"--And I
Glanced At The Dignified Finois--"I Can Regard Them Simply With
Chapter 9 (The Brat) Pg 62Curiosity."
"I Have Been Over This Pass More Than Twenty Times," Said Joseph (Who
Was A Native Of Chamounix, I Had Learned), "Yet Rarely Have I Met With
_Ânes_. And See, Monsieur, The Woman Who Is With Them. She Is Not Of
The Country, Nor Of That Part Of Italy Which We Enter Below The Pass,
At Aosta. It Is A Strange Costume. I Do Not Know From What Valley It
Comes."
"Well," Said I, As We Drew Near To The Group In The Road Outside The
Hotel, "If That Girl, Or At Any Rate Her Hat, Did Not Come From The
Riviera Somewhere, I Will Eat My Panama."
Involuntarily I Hastened My Steps, And Joseph Politely Followed Suit,
Dragging After Him Finois, Who Seemed To Be Walking In His Sleep. I
Felt It Almost As A Personal Injury From The Hand Of Fate, That After
My Unavailing Search For Donkeys In A Land Where I Had Thought To Be
Forced To Beat Them Off With Sticks, I Should Find Other Persons
Provided With Not One But Two Of The Creatures.
[Illustration: "That Is The Déjeuner Of Napoléon".]
They Were Charming Little Beasts, One Mouse-Colour, One Dark-Brown
With Large, Grey-Rimmed Spectacles, And Both Animals Were Of The
Texture Of Uncut Velvet. The Former Carried An Excellent Pack, Which
Put Mine To Shame; The Latter Bore A Boy's Saddle, And The Two Were
Being Fed With Great Bread Crusts By A Bewitching Young Woman Of About
Twenty-Six Or -Eight, Wearing One Of The Toad-Stool Hats Affected By
The Donkey-Women Of Mentone. She Looked Up At Our Approach, And Having
Surveyed The Pack And Proportions Of Finois With Cold Scorn, Her
Interest In Our Procession Incontestably Focused Upon Joseph. She
Tossed Her Head A Little On One Side, Shot At The Muleteer An
Arrow-Gleam, Half Defiant, Half Coquettish, From A Pair Of Big Grey
Eyes Fringed Heavily With Jet. She Moistened Full Red Lips, While A
Faint Colour Lit Her Cheeks, Under The Deep Stain Of Tan And A
Tiger-Lily Powdering Of Freckles. Then, Having Seen The Weary Joseph
Visibly Rejuvenate In The Brief Sunshine Of Her Glance, She Turned
Away, And Gave Her Whole Attention To The Donkeys.
"Hungry, Joseph?" I Asked.
He Had To Bethink Himself Before He Could Answer. Then He Replied That
He Had Food In His Pocket, Bread And Cheese, And That Finois Carried
His Own Dinner. They Would Be Ready To Go On, If I Chose, Or To
Remain, If That Were My Pleasure. "It Is Too Early For A Final Stop,
At A Place Where There Can No Amusement For The Evening," Said I. "We
Had Better Go On. If You Intend To Stay Outside With Finois, I'll Send
You A Bottle Of Beer, And You Can, If You Will, Drink My Health."
With This I Went In, Feeling Sure That The Time Of My Absence Would
Not Pass Heavily For Joseph.
This Was The Hour At Which, In England, We Would Sip A Cup Of Tea As
Chapter 9 (The Brat) Pg 63An Excuse For Talk With A Pretty Woman In Her Drawing-Room; But Having
Tramped Steadily For Some Hours In Mountain Air, I Was In A Mood To
Understand The Tastes Of That Class Who Like An Egg Or A Kipper For "A
Relish To Their Tea." I Looked For The Landlady With The Illustrious
Ancestors, And Could Not Find Her; But Voices On The Floor Above Led
Me To The Stairway. I Mounted, Passed A Doorway, And Found Myself In A
Room Which Instinct Told Me Had Been The Scene Of The Historic
_Déjeuner_.
It Was A Low-Ceilinged Room With Wainscoted Walls, And At First Glance
One Received An Impression Of The Past. There Was A Soft Lustre Of
Much-Polished Mahogany, And A Glitter Of Old Silver Candelabra; I
Thought That
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