86 PROSERPINA. 



thrilling of the little telegraph bell establishes itself in 

 my ears, and stays there, trilling me at last into a shiver 

 ing, suspicious sort of sleep, which, with a few vaguely 

 fretful shrugs and fidgets, carries me as far as Tonnerre, 

 where the "quinze minutes d'arret ' revolutionize every- 

 thing ; and I get a turn or two on the platform, and 

 perhaps a glimpse of the stars, with promise of a clear 

 morning ; and so generally keep awake past Mont Bard, 

 remembering the happy walks one used to have on the 

 terrace under Buffon's tower, and thence watching, if 

 perchance, from the mouth of the high tunnel, any film 

 of moonlight may show the far undulating masses of the 

 hills of Citeaux. But most likely one knows the place 

 where the great old view used to be only by the sensible 

 quickening of the pace as the train turns down the in- 

 cline, and crashes through the trenched cliffs into the con- 

 fusion and high clattering vault of the station at Dijon. 



5. And as my journey is almost always in the spring- 

 time, the twisted spire of the cathedral usually shows it- 

 self against the first grey of dawn, as we run out again 

 southwards : and resolving to watch the sunrise, I fall 

 more complacently asleep, and the sun is really up by 

 the time one has to change carriages, and get morning 

 coffee at Macon. And from Amberieux, through the 

 Jura valley, one is more or less feverishly happy and 

 thankful, not so much for being in sight of Mont Blanc 

 again, as in having got through the nasty and gloomy 

 night journey ; and then the sight of the Rhone and 



