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
loneliest 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 Dejeuner de Napoleon,' I think it will amuse Monsieur.
Pages:
95
96
97
98
99
100
101
102
103
104
105
106
107
108
109
110
111
112
113
114
115
116
117
118
119