144 LIFE OF HORACE BENEDICT DE SAUSSURE 



looks so majestic as from here. Its head, which pierces above the 

 clouds, resembles a cloud whiter than the rest, so that those who see 

 it for the first time cannot believe it to be a mountain.' 



The story is continued in a letter written from Courmayeur a 

 week later : 



' On Monday morning the rain prevented me from starting from 

 Sallanches, for I had determined, as much for the sake of my observa- 

 tions as for my own personal comfort, never to travel in the rain. 

 I got up late and spent the morning in putting in order all my luggage, 

 testing its arrangement on the mules, going over my agenda, and such- 

 like jobs. M. Efsancet, my host, who is a young gallant of Sallanches, 

 gave me more of his company than I wanted, and treated me to the 

 sweet melody of a carillon made up of cowbells which he had invented. 

 If he had not put a fancy price on it, I might have bought it for Milord 

 Jack [his seven-year-old son] to meet his taste for good music. He 

 told me news that grieved me the death of Madame Charlet of 

 Chamonix, the wife of the Chatelain, the lady who thought it such a 

 pity I must be damned. . . . About midday the weather cleared, and 

 I started. Here is the order of march we keep on all the good roads. 

 For we have two orders of battle. One for good roads and one for 

 difficult passes. On the good roads Pierre Simon [his guide] plays 

 the part of Volante, he leads the march on foot with, in place of a 

 banner, his big tin box, and for a staff of command my alpenstock ; 

 next comes your husband, mounted on his mule, looking about him 

 right and left, and noting down all he sees in his red pocket-book ; for 

 my mule has such gentle paces that I can write very legibly while he 

 moves ; I have written as much as eight pages a day in this way. 

 Next comes Charles [his servant], also on his mule, looking at all the 

 mountains with startled eyes, and whenever he sees a specially terrible 

 and needle-like one, inquiring : " Monsieur, shall we ascend that 

 mountain ? " Then comes the baggage mule charged with my basket 

 covered with oil-cloth. Last, Favret, on foot, closes the march. In 

 difficult places the baggage mule goes first and all the rest follow on 

 foot. 



' Thus we jog-trotted to St. Gervais, where I halted to make some 

 observations, and then we entered the valley which leads to the 

 Bonhomme. I slept at Contamines, and as the cabaret was so bad 

 that Pierre Simon (who also fills the place of mariclial des logis, and 

 goes ahead to prepare my lodging when we draw near) thought I should 

 not be comfortable, he went to ask for a bed at the Cure's. The Cure 

 was away from home, but his Vicaire, who is called Monsieur 1'Abbe, 

 took on himself to receive us, and since it would have been beneath his 



