to
the Grands-Mulets, where he arrived an hour after Tartarin, a disgusting
mass of muddy snow, with frozen hands in his knitted gloves.

In comparison with the hut on the Guggi, that which the commune of
Chamonix has built on the Grands-Mulets is really comfortable. When
Bompard entered the kitchen, where a grand wood-fire was blazing, he
found Tartarin and the Swedish student drying their boots, while the
hut-keeper, a shrivelled old fellow with long white hair that fell in
meshes, exhibited the treasures of his little museum.

Of evil augury, this museum is a reminder of all the catastrophes known
to have taken place on the Mont Blanc for the forty years that the
old man had kept the inn, and as he took them from their show-case, he
related the lamentable origin of each of them... This piece of cloth and
those waistcoat buttons were the memorial of a Russian _savant_, hurled
by a hurricane upon the Brenva glacier... These jaw teeth were all that
remained of one of the guides of a famous caravan of eleven travellers
and porters who disappeared forever in a _tourmente_ of snow... In the
fading light and the pale reflection of the _neves_ against the window,
the production of these mortuary relics, these monotonous recitals, had
something very poignant about them, and all the more because the old man
softened his quavering voice at pathetic items, and even shed tears on
displaying a scrap of green veil worn by an English lady rolled down by
an avalanche in 1827.

In vain Tartarin reassured himself by dates, convinced that in those
early days the Company had not yet organized the ascensions without
danger; this Savoyard _vocero_ oppressed his heart, and he went to the
doorway for a moment to breathe.

Night had fallen, engulfing the depths. The Bossons stood out, livid,
and very close; while the Mont Blanc reared its summit, still rosy,
still caressed by the departed sun. The Southerner was recovering his
serenity from this smile of nature when the shadow of Bompard rose
behind him.

"Is that you, Gonzague... As you see, I am getting the good of the
air... He annoyed me, that old fellow, with his stories."

"Tartarin," said Bompard, squeezing the arm of the P. C. A. till he
nearly ground it, "I hope that this is enough, and that you are going to
put an end to this ridiculous expedition."

The great man opened wide a pair of astonished eyes.

"What stuff are you talking to me now?"

Whereupon Bompard made a te