The Princess Passes Volume 56 by Alice Muriel Williamson, Charles Norris Williamson (great book club books .txt) 📕

Which Were Not New, And Altogether He Did Not Appear To Be A Personage

Who, From The Hotel-Keeper's Point Of View, Would Be Of Supreme

Importance. Yet The Landlord And Another Besieged The Quiet Man With

Compliments And Pleadings, To Which He Did Not Seem Inclined To

Listen. Bowing Gravely, He Told His Coachman To Drive On, And In A

Moment Had Passed Us As We Stood In The Road.

But When He Had Gone, The Landlord And His Assistant Still Had No Eyes

For Us. "Mark My Words," Exclaimed The Former, In A Tone Of Anguish,

"We Shall Lose Our Star."

Were They Astrologers, That They Should Fear This Fate?

Our Curiosity Was Excited, And Seeing A Head-Waiterly Person, Who Wore

A Mien Between Awe And Stifled Amusement, I Called For Beer Which I

Did Not Wish To Drink. It Was Served On A Table In The Shady Garden,

And I Enquired If The Carriage Just Out Of Sight Had Contained A

Troublesome Guest.

"Troublesome Is Not The Word, Monsieur," Replied The Waiter. "But A

Thing Has Happened. That Gentleman Whom You Saw, Arrived A Few Days

Ago, Giving The Name Of Karl. He Took The Cheapest Room In The House;

He Drank One Of The Cheapest Wines, Having Satisfied Himself That The

Price Was Within His Means. To-Day, He Said That He Was Leaving, And

Asked For His Bill. When It Was Made Out, The Wine Came To A Franc

More Than He Thought It Ought. 'I Do Not Complain,' Said He To Our

_Patron_; 'If That Is The Price Of The Wine, I Will Pay, But I Was

Told At The Table It Was Less. I Do Not Consider The Wine Good Enough

For The Price.' This Vexed The _Patron_, Because One Does Not Think

The More Of A Person Who Haggles Over A Franc, Especially If That

Person Has Studied Cheapness In All Ways During His Visit. Perhaps The

_Patron_ Spoke Somewhat Irritably, For He Did Not Care Whether The

Monsieur Ever Came Back To His House Or Not. Then The Monsieur Paid

The Bill, Without Another Word, And Was Going Away, When A German

Gentleman, Who Had Been Sitting Here In The Garden, Said To The

_Patron_: 'Do You Know Who That Is?' No,' Replied Our _Patron_, 'I Do

Not Know, Nor Do I Care.' 'It Is Baedeker,' Said The Gentleman. This

Was Terrible; And The Patron Flew To Correct The Little Mistake About

The Wine, With A Thousand Apologies; But The Monsieur Would Not Have

His Money Back, And You Saw Him Drive Away. Now, It Is Possible That

Our Hotel Will No Longer Keep Its Star, And That Would Be No Less Than

A Catastrophe."

Evidently, What His Cherished Peacock-Feather Is To A Chinese

Mandarin, That Is A Baedeker Star To A Hotel-Keeper; And The Boy And I

Were So Tickled At The Little Tragi-Comedy That We Forgot, As We

Walked On Side By Side, That We Had Been Upon Official Terms Only.

Again We Were Struck By The Extraordinary Individuality Which

Differentiates One Valley Or Mountain-Pass From Another. We Had Seen

Nothing Like This; Nothing, Perhaps, So Purely Beautiful. One Could

Not Imagine That Winter Snow And Ice Could Still The Pulse Of Summer

Here. It Was As If We Wandered From One Green Glade To Another In

Fairyland, Where All The Little People Who Owned The Magic Land Had

Turned Themselves Hurriedly Into Strangely Delicate Ferns And

Bluebells To Watch Us, Laughing, As We Went By.

The Village Of Trient Lay In Deep Shadow When We Reached It, And Found

The Others Waiting For Us In The Carriage In Front Of The Chief Hotel;

But There Was No Gloom In The Shadow; It Was Only A Deeper Shade Of

Green, With A Hint Of Transparent Blue Streaked Across It. Another

Remote, Dream-Village On The Long List Of Places Where I Really

_Must_ Stay For A Lazy Summer Month--When I Have Time! The List Was

Growing Long Now, Almost Worryingly Long, And The Boy Felt It So, Too,

For He Also Had A List, And Strange To Say, It Was Much The Same As

Mine.

We Had Tea, And Were Vaguely Surprised To See A Number Of People Of

Our Own Kind, Most Of Them English And American, Engaged In The Same

Occupation, And Evidently At Home In The Place. Trient Was On Their

List As Well As Ours, And Now, If They Liked, They Could Cross It Off,

And Begin With The Next Place.

The Contessa Thought The Boy Looked Tired, And Urged Him To Drive

Again, But Though His Manner Was Still Flirtatious He Found An Excuse

To Keep To His Feet. He Was Not Really Tired, Not A Bit; How Could One

Be Tired In So Much Beauty? The Poor Horses Were Fagged Though, For

The Carriage Was Heavy; He Would Not Add To Its Weight.

"You _Are_ Getting Rather White About The Gills," I Said To Him When

The Driving Party Had Once More Left Us Behind. "Why Didn't You Take

Up Your Flirtation Where You Left It Off, Like A Serial Story To Be

'Continued In Your Next'? Your Weight Is Nothing."

"It Wasn't That, Really," Replied The Boy.

"What, Then?"

"Do You Remember Why I Wanted To Come Over The Tête Noire?"

"To Have The Sensation Of Mont Blanc Suddenly Bursting Upon You."

"Well, I--To Tell The Truth, I Had A Whim--Just A Whim, And Nothing

More--To Be With You And Not With The Contessa When The Time For That

Sensation Should Come."

My Heart Warmed; But Perhaps I Was Flattering Myself Unduly. "You

Were Afraid That Her Fascinations Might Overpower Those Of Mont Blanc,

I Suppose, Whereas I Am A Mere Stock Or Stone?"

"That's One Way Of Putting It," Replied He Calmly. But When The

Sensation Did Come, He Caught My Arm, With A Quick-Drawn Breath, And

No Word Following.

Our Worship Of Other Mountains Had Been A Serving Of False Gods. There

Was The One White Truth, Dwarfing All Else Into Insignificance; Not A

Mere Mountain, But A World Of Snow Sailing Moon-Like In Full Sky. It

Was, Indeed, As If The Moon, Gleaming White And Bathed In Radiance,

Had Come To Pay Earth A Visit. Surely It Would Not Stay; Surely It Was

A Secret That She Had Come, And We Had Found It Out, Just When This

Great Dark Rock-Door Through Which We Looked, Opened By Accident To

Show The Sight. But If It Were A Secret, There Was No Fear That We

Would Ever Tell It, For It Soared Beyond Words.

The First Glimpse Gave This Impression; Afterwards We Could Not Have

Recalled It If We Had Tried. We Grew Used To The White Majesty Which

Faced Us, By-And-Bye, As Alas! One Does Grow Used To Beauty While One

Has It Within Reach Of The Eye. But Just As The Boy Had Begun To

Confess Himself Tired, And To Lag In His Walk, Resting An Arm On My

Shoulder, A New Wonder Came, Like A Draught Of Tonic Wine. Sunset,

With King Midas' Touch, Transformed The Whole Mountain To Gold, So

That It Burned Like A Lamp To Light The World, Against A Violet Sky.

In The Foreground Was A Low Rampart Of Green Mountain, Down Which

Poured A Huge Glacier Like An Arrested Cataract. It Glimmered With A

Faint Radiance, Greenish-Blue, And Pale As The Gleam Of A Glow-Worm.

The Violet Of The Sky Deepened To Amethyst-Purple, And The Snow On The

Waving Line Of Mountains Turned From Gold To Pink, As If There Had

Been A Sudden Rain Of Rose Leaves.

For A Long Time Lasted The Changing Play Of Jewelled Lights, And Then

The Magic Colour Was Swallowed At A Gulp By The Descending Night.

Far Away, And Far Down In The Deep Valley, The Lights Of Chamounix And

Its Satellite Villages Sparkled Like A Troupe Of Fallen Stars. They

Lay In A Bright Heap, Clustered Together; And Innocentina, Coming Up

With Us At This Moment, Said That They Were Like Raisins Sunk Together

At The Bottom Of A Pudding. The Late Rain Had Set All The Little

Torrents Talking, And We Were Silent, Listening To Their Gossip Of The

Mountains' Secrets.

    "Thou Art Past The Tyrant's Stroke."

                          --Shakespeare.

We Seemed To Have Formed A Habit, The Boy And I, Of Steering Always

For A Hôtel Mont Blanc, If There Were One In A Town; So That Now We

Had Come To Look Upon A Hostelry With Such A Name As A Sort Of Second

Home, A Daughter Of A Mother House. There Were Still Two Other Reasons

Why We Should Select The Mont Blanc In Chamounix: The First, Because

The Contessa Was Going There And Had Asked Us To Do Likewise; The

Second, Because At Martigny We Had Seen An Advertisement Of The Hotel

Which Stated That It Was Situated In A "_Vaste Parc Avec Chamois_."

Our Imagination Pictured An Ancient Château, Altered For Modern Uses,

Shut Away From The Outer World In A Mysterious Forest Of Dark Pines,

Where Wild Chamois Sported Gracefully At Will, Leaping Across Chasms

From One Overhanging Rock To Another.

It Was Long Past Twilight When Our Little Procession Of Four Human

Beings And Three Beasts Of Burden Straggled Through A Lighted Gateway

Which We Had Been Told To Enter For The Hôtel Mont Blanc. With One

Blow Our Ancient Castle Was Shattered. At A Hundred Metres Distant

From The Street Rose An Enormous Modern Hotel, Blazing With Light At

Every Window. Where Was The Vast Park With Its Crowding Pines And Its

Ravines For The Wild Chamois? It Must Be Somewhere, Since The

Advertisement Certified Its Existence, And So Must The Chamois.

Perhaps The Forest Lay Behind The Hotel; But The Boy Was Too Tired To

Care, And To Us Both Baths, Food, And Rest Were For The Moment Worth

More Than Parks Or Chamois. The Hotel Struck A High Note Of

Civilisation, And I Had Seen Nothing So Fine Since London Or Paris.

The Boy And I Dined Late And Sumptuously, Tête-À-Tête, For The Hot Sun

And The Long Drive Had Sent Gaetà To Bed, Chastened With A Headache;

And, Weary As He Was, The Little Pal Had Pluck Enough Left To Suggest

An Appointment For Early Next Morning. "I Shall Want To Know How Mont

Blanc Looks From My Window, So I Won't Waste My Time In Bed," Said He.

"Besides, I'm Rather Keen To See The Chamois,