“Yes,” said Jean Cornbutte; “and we must use every effort to strengthen

the house in the interior.”

“But a still more terrible danger menaces us,” said Vasling.

“What?” asked Jean.

“The wind is breaking the ice against which we are propped, just as it

has that of the promontory, and we shall be either driven out or

buried!”

“That seems doubtful,” said Penellan, “for it is freezing hard enough

to ice over all liquid surfaces. Let us see what the temperature is.”

He raised the canvas so as to pass out his arm, and with difficulty

found the thermometer again, in the midst of the snow; but he at last

succeeded in seizing it, and, holding the lamp to it, said,—

“Thirty-two degrees below zero! It is the coldest we have seen here

yet!”

[Illustration: “Thirty-two degrees below zero!”]

“Ten degrees more,” said Vasling, “and the mercury will freeze!”

A mournful silence followed this remark.

About eight in the morning Penellan essayed a second time to go out to

judge of their situation. It was necessary to give an escape to the

smoke, which the wind had several times repelled into the hut. The

sailor wrapped his cloak tightly about him, made sure of his hood by

fastening it to his head with a handkerchief, and raised the canvas.

The opening was entirely obstructed by a resisting snow. Penellan took

his staff, and succeeded in plunging it into the compact mass; but

terror froze his blood when he perceived that the end of the staff was

not free, and was checked by a hard body!

“Cornbutte,” said he to the captain, who had come up to him, “we are

buried under this snow!”

“What say you?” cried Jean Cornbutte.

“I say that the snow is massed and frozen around us and over us, and

that we are buried alive!”

“Let us try to clear this mass of snow away,” replied the captain.

The two friends buttressed themselves against the obstacle which

obstructed the opening, but they could not move it. The snow formed an

iceberg more than five feet thick, and had become literally a part of

the house. Jean could not suppress a cry, which awoke Misonne and

Vasling. An oath burst from the latter, whose features contracted. At

this moment the smoke, thicker than ever, poured into the house, for it

could not find an issue.

“Malediction!” cried Misonne. “The pipe of the stove is sealed up by

the ice!”

Penellan resumed his staff, and took down the pipe, after throwing snow

on the embers to extinguish them, which produced such a smoke that the

light of the lamp could scarcely be seen; then he tried with his staff

to clear out the orifice, but he only encountered a rock of ice! A

frightful end, preceded by a terrible agony, seemed to be their doom!

The smoke, penetrating the throats of the unfortunate party, caused an

insufferable pain, and air would soon fail them altogether!

Marie here rose, and her presence, which inspired Cornbutte with

despair, imparted some courage to Penellan. He said to himself that it

could not be that the poor girl was destined to so horrible a death.

“Ah!” said she, “you have made too much fire. The room is full of

smoke!”

“Yes, yes,” stammered Penellan.

“It is evident,” resumed Marie, “for it is not cold, and it is long

since we have felt too much heat.”

No one dared to tell her the truth.

“See, Marie,” said Penellan bluntly, “help us get breakfast ready. It

is too cold to go out. Here is the chafing-dish, the spirit, and the

coffee. Come, you others, a little pemmican first, as this wretched

storm forbids us from hunting.”

These words stirred up his comrades.

“Let us first eat,” added Penellan, “and then we shall see about

getting off.”

Penellan set the example and devoured his share of the breakfast. His

comrades imitated him, and then drank a cup of boiling coffee, which

somewhat restored their spirits. Then Jean Cornbutte decided

energetically that they should at once set about devising means of

safety.

André Vasling now said,—

“If the storm is still raging, which is probable, we must be buried ten

feet under the ice, for we can hear no noise outside.”

Penellan looked at Marie, who now understood the truth, and did not

tremble. The helmsman first heated, by the flame of the spirit, the

iron point of his staff, and successfully introduced it into the four

walls of ice, but he could find no issue in either. Cornbutte then

resolved to cut out an opening in the door itself. The ice was so hard

that it was difficult for the knives to make the least impression on

it. The pieces which were cut off soon encumbered the hut. After

working hard for two hours, they had only hollowed out a space three

feet deep.

Some more rapid method, and one which was less likely to demolish the

house, must be thought of; for the farther they advanced the more

violent became the effort to break off the compact ice. It occurred to

Penellan to make use of the chafing-dish to melt the ice in the

direction they wanted. It was a hazardous method, for, if their

imprisonment lasted long, the spirit, of which they had but little,

would be wanting when needed to prepare the meals. Nevertheless, the

idea was welcomed on all hands, and was put in execution. They first

cut a hole three feet deep by one in diameter, to receive the water

which would result from the melting of the ice; and it was well that

they took this precaution, for the water soon dripped under the action

of the flames, which Penellan moved about under the mass of ice. The

opening widened little by little, but this kind of work could not be

continued long, for the water, covering their clothes, penetrated to

their bodies here and there. Penellan was obliged to pause in a quarter

of an hour, and to withdraw the chafing-dish in order to dry himself.

Misonne then took his place, and worked sturdily at the task.

In two hours, though the opening was five feet deep, the points of the

staffs could not yet find an issue without.

“It is not possible,” said Jean Cornbutte, “that snow could have fallen

in such abundance. It must have been gathered on this point by the

wind. Perhaps we had better think of escaping in some other direction.”

“I don’t know,” replied Penellan; “but if it were only for the sake of

not discouraging our comrades, we ought to continue to pierce the wall

where we have begun. We must find an issue ere long.”

“Will not the spirit fail us?” asked the captain.

“I hope not. But let us, if necessary, dispense with coffee and hot

drinks. Besides, that is not what most alarms me.”

“What is it, then, Penellan?”

“Our lamp is going out, for want of oil, and we are fast exhausting our

provisions.—At last, thank God!”

Penellan went to replace André Vasling, who was vigorously working for

the common deliverance.

“Monsieur Vasling,” said he, “I am going to take your place; but look

out well, I beg of you, for every tendency of the house to fall, so

that we may have time to prevent it.”

The time for rest had come, and when Penellan had added one more foot

to the opening, he lay down beside his comrades.

CHAPTER XI.

A CLOUD OF SMOKE.

The next day, when the sailors awoke, they were surrounded by complete

darkness. The lamp had gone out. Jean Cornbutte roused Penellan to ask

him for the tinder-box, which was passed to him. Penellan rose to light

the fire, but in getting up, his head struck against the ice ceiling.

He was horrified, for on the evening before he could still stand

upright. The chafing-dish being lighted up by the dim rays of the

spirit, he perceived that the ceiling was a foot lower than before.

Penellan resumed work with desperation.

At this moment the young girl observed, by the light which the

chafing-dish cast upon Penellan’s face, that despair and determination

were struggling in his rough features for the mastery. She went to him,

took his hands, and tenderly pressed them.

[Illustration: despair and determination were struggling in his rough

features for the mastery.]

“She cannot, must not die thus!” he cried.

He took his chafing-dish, and once more attacked the narrow opening. He

plunged in his staff, and felt no resistance. Had he reached the soft

layers of the snow? He drew out his staff, and a bright ray penetrated

to the house of ice!

“Here, my friends!” he shouted.

He pushed back the snow with his hands and feet, but the exterior

surface was not thawed, as he had thought. With the ray of light, a

violent cold entered the cabin and seized upon everything moist, to

freeze it in an instant. Penellan enlarged the opening with his

cutlass, and at last was able to breathe the free air. He fell on his

knees to thank God, and was soon joined by Marie and his comrades.

A magnificent moon lit up the sky, but the cold was so extreme that

they could not bear it. They re-entered their retreat; but Penellan

first looked about him. The promontory was no longer there, and the hut

was now in the midst of a vast plain of ice. Penellan thought he would

go to the sledge, where the provisions were. The sledge had

disappeared!

The cold forced him to return. He said nothing to his companions. It

was necessary, before all, to dry their clothing, which was done with

the chafing-dish. The thermometer, held for an instant in the air,

descended to thirty degrees below zero.

An hour after, Vasling and Penellan resolved to venture outside. They

wrapped themselves up in their still wet garments, and went out by the

opening, the sides of which had become as hard as a rock.

“We have been driven towards the north-east,” said Vasling, reckoning

by the stars, which shone with wonderful brilliancy.

“That would not be bad,” said Penellan, “if our sledge had come with

us.”

“Is not the sledge there?” cried Vasling. “Then we are lost!”

“Let us look for it,” replied Penellan.

They went around the hut, which formed a block more than fifteen feet

high. An immense quantity of snow had fallen during the whole of the

storm, and the wind had massed it against the only elevation which the

plain presented. The entire block had been driven by the wind, in the

midst of the broken icebergs, more than twenty-five miles to the

north-east, and the prisoners had suffered the same fate as their

floating prison. The sledge, supported by another iceberg, had been

turned another way, for no trace of it was to be seen, and the dogs

must have perished amid the frightful tempest.

André Vasling and Penellan felt despair taking possession of them. They

did not dare to return to their companions. They did not dare to

announce this fatal news to their comrades in misfortune. They climbed

upon the block of ice in which the hut was hollowed, and could perceive

nothing but the white immensity which encompassed them on all sides.

Already the cold was beginning to stiffen their limbs, and the damp of

their garments was being transformed into icicles which hung about

them.

Just as Penellan was about to descend, he looked towards André. He saw

him suddenly gaze in one direction, then shudder and turn pale.

“What is the matter, Vasling?” he asked.

“Nothing,” replied the other. “Let us go down and urge the captain to

leave these parts, where we ought never to have come, at once!”

Instead of obeying, Penellan ascended again, and looked in the

direction which had drawn the mate’s attention. A very different effect

was produced on him, for he uttered a shout of joy, and cried,—

“Blessed be God!”

A light smoke was rising in the north-east. There was no possibility of

deception. It indicated the presence of human beings. Penellan’s cries

of joy reached the rest below, and all were able to convince themselves

with their eyes that he was not mistaken.

Without thinking of their want of provisions or the severity of the

temperature, wrapped in their hoods, they were all soon advancing

towards the spot whence the smoke arose in the north-east. This was

evidently five or six miles off, and it was very difficult to take

exactly the right direction. The smoke now disappeared, and no

elevation served as a guiding mark, for the ice-plain was one united

level. It was important, nevertheless, not to diverge from a straight

line.

“Since we cannot guide ourselves by distant objects,” said Jean

Cornbutte, “we must use this method. Penellan will go ahead, Vasling

twenty steps behind him, and I twenty steps behind Vasling. I can then

judge whether or not Penellan diverges from the straight line.”

They had gone on thus for half an hour, when Penellan suddenly stopped

and listened. The party hurried up to him.

“Did you hear nothing?” he asked.

“Nothing!” replied Misonne.

“It is strange,” said Penellan. “It seemed to me I heard cries from

this direction.”

“Cries?” replied Marie. “Perhaps we are near our destination, then.”

“That is no reason,” said André Vasling. “In these high latitudes and

cold regions sounds may be heard to a great distance.”

“However that may be,” replied Jean Cornbutte, “let us go forward, or

we shall be frozen.”

“No!” cried Penellan. “Listen!”

Some feeble sounds—quite perceptible, however—were heard. They seemed

to be cries of distress. They were twice repeated. They seemed like

cries for help. Then all became silent again.

“I was not mistaken,” said Penellan. “Forward!”

He began to run in the direction whence the cries had proceeded. He

went thus two miles, when, to his utter stupefaction, he saw a man

lying on the ice. He went up to him, raised him, and lifted his arms to

heaven in despair.

André Vasling, who was following close behind with the rest of the

sailors, ran up and cried,—

“It is one of the castaways! It is our sailor Courtois!”

“He is dead!” replied Penellan. “Frozen to death!”

Jean Cornbutte and Marie came up beside the corpse, which was already

stiffened by the ice. Despair was written on every face. The dead man

was one of the comrades of Louis Cornbutte!

“Forward!” cried Penellan.

They went on for half an hour in perfect silence, and perceived an

elevation which seemed without doubt to be land.

“It is Shannon Island,” said Jean Cornbutte.

A mile farther on they distinctly perceived smoke escaping from a

snow-hut, closed by a wooden door. They shouted. Two men rushed out of

the hut, and Penellan recognized one of them as Pierre Nouquet.

“Pierre!” he cried.

Pierre stood still as if stunned, and unconscious of what was going on

around him. André Vasling looked at Pierre Nouquet’s companion with

anxiety mingled with a cruel joy, for he did not recognize Louis

Cornbutte in him.

“Pierre! it is I!” cried Penellan. “These are all your friends!”

Pierre Nouquet recovered his senses, and fell into his old comrade’s

arms.

“And my son—and Louis!” cried Jean Cornbutte, in an accent of the most

profound despair.

CHAPTER XII.

THE RETURN TO THE SHIP.

At this moment a man, almost dead, dragged himself out of the hut and

along the ice.

It was Louis Cornbutte.

[Illustration: It was Louis Cornbutte.]

“My son!”

“My beloved!”

These two cries were uttered at the same time, and Louis Cornbutte fell

fainting into the arms of his father and Marie, who drew him towards

the hut, where their tender care soon revived him.

“My father! Marie!” cried Louis; “I shall not die without having seen

you!”

“You will not die!” replied Penellan, “for all your friends are near

you.”

André Vasling must have hated Louis Cornbutte bitterly not to extend

his hand to him, but he did not.

Pierre Nouquet was wild with joy. He embraced every body; then he threw

some wood into the stove, and soon a comfortable temperature was felt

in the cabin.

There were two men there whom neither Jean Cornbutte nor Penellan

recognized.

They were Jocki and Herming, the only two sailors of the crew of the

Norwegian schooner who were left.

“My friends, we are saved!” said Louis. “My father! Marie! You have

exposed yourselves to so many perils!”

“We do not regret it, my Louis,” replied the father. “Your brig, the

‘Jeune-Hardie,’ is securely anchored in the ice sixty leagues from

here. We will rejoin her all together.”

“When Courtois comes back he’ll be mightily pleased,” said Pierre

Nouquet.

A mournful silence followed this, and Penellan apprised Pierre and

Louis of their comrade’s death by cold.

“My friends,” said Penellan, “we will wait here until the cold

decreases. Have you provisions and wood?”

“Yes; and we will burn what is left of the ‘Froöern.’”

The “Froöern” had indeed been driven to a place forty miles from where

Louis Cornbutte had taken up his winter quarters. There she was broken

up by the icebergs floated by the thaw, and the castaways were carried,

with a part of the _débris_ of their cabin, on the southern shores of

Shannon Island.

They were then five in number—Louis Cornbutte, Courtois, Pierre

Nouquet, Jocki, and Herming. As for the rest of the Norwegian crew,

they had been submerged with the long-boat at the moment of the wreck.

When Louis Cornbutte, shut in among the ice, realized what must happen,

he took every precaution for passing the winter. He was an energetic

man, very active and courageous; but, despite his firmness, he had been

subdued by this horrible climate, and when his father found him he had

given up all hope of life. He had not only had to contend with the

elements, but with the ugly temper of the two Norwegian sailors, who

owed him their existence. They were like savages, almost inaccessible

to the most natural emotions. When Louis had the opportunity to talk to

Penellan, he advised him to watch them carefully. In return, Penellan

told him of André Vasling’s conduct. Louis could not believe it, but

Penellan convinced him that after his disappearance Vasling had always

acted so as to secure Marie’s hand.

The whole day was employed in rest and the pleasures of reunion.

Misonne and Pierre Nouquet killed some sea-birds near the hut, whence

it was not prudent to stray far. These fresh provisions and the

replenished fire raised the spirits of the weakest. Louis Cornbutte got

visibly better. It was the first moment of happiness these brave people

had experienced. They celebrated it with enthusiasm in this wretched

hut, six hundred leagues from the North Sea, in a temperature of thirty

degrees below zero!

This temperature lasted till the end of the moon, and it was not until

about the 17th of November, a week after their meeting, that Jean

Cornbutte and his party could think of setting out. They only had the

light of the stars to guide them; but the cold was less extreme, and

even some snow fell.

Before quitting this place a grave was dug for poor Courtois. It was a

sad ceremony, which deeply affected his comrades. He was the first of

them who would not again see his native land.

Misonne had constructed, with the planks of the cabin, a sort of sledge

for carrying the provisions, and the sailors drew it by turns. Jean

Cornbutte led the expedition by the ways already traversed. Camps were

established with great promptness when the times for repose came. Jean

Cornbutte hoped to find his deposits of provisions again, as they had

become well-nigh indispensable by the addition of four persons to the

party. He was therefore very careful not to diverge from the route by

which he had come.

By good fortune he recovered his sledge, which had stranded near the

promontory where they had all run so many dangers. The dogs, after

eating their straps to satisfy their hunger, had attacked the

provisions in the sledge. These had sustained them, and they served to

guide the party to the sledge, where there was a considerable quantity

of provisions left. The little band resumed its march towards the bay.

The dogs were harnessed to the sleigh, and no event of interest

attended the return.

It was observed that Aupic, André Vasling, and the Norwegians kept

aloof, and did not mingle with the others; but, unbeknown to

themselves, they were narrowly watched. This germ of dissension more

than once aroused the fears of Louis Cornbutte and Penellan.

About the 7th of December, twenty days after the discovery of the

castaways, they perceived the bay where the “Jeune-Hardie” was lying.

What was their astonishment to see the brig perched four yards in the

air on blocks of ice! They hurried forward, much alarmed for their

companions, and were received with joyous cries by Gervique,

Turquiette, and Gradlin. All of them were in good health, though they

too had been subjected to formidable dangers.

The tempest had made itself felt throughout the polar sea. The ice had

been broken and displaced, crushed one piece against another, and had

seized the bed on which the ship rested. Though its specific weight

tended to carry it under water, the ice had acquired an incalculable

force, and the brig had been suddenly raised up out of the sea.

The first moments were given up to the happiness inspired by the safe

return. The exploring party were rejoiced to find everything in good

condition, which assured them a supportable though it might be a rough

winter. The ship had not been shaken by her sudden elevation, and was

perfectly tight. When the season of thawing came, they would only have

to slide her down an inclined plane, to launch her, in a word, in the

once more open sea.

But a bad piece of news spread gloom on the faces of Jean Cornbutte and

his comrades. During the terrible gale the snow storehouse on the coast

had been quite demolished; the provisions which it contained were

scattered, and it had not been possible to save a morsel of them. When

Jean and Louis Cornbutte learnt this, they visited the hold and

steward’s room, to ascertain the quantity of provisions which still

remained.

The thaw would not come until May, and the brig could not leave the bay

before that period. They had therefore five winter months before them

to pass amid the ice, during which fourteen persons were to be fed.

Having made his calculations, Jean Cornbutte found that he would at

most be able to keep them alive till the time for departure, by putting

each and all on half rations. Hunting for game became compulsory to

procure food in larger quantity.

For fear that they might again run short of provisions, it was decided

to deposit them no longer in the ground. All of them were kept on

board, and beds were disposed for the new comers in the common lodging.

Turquiette, Gervique, and Gradlin, during the absence of the others,

had hollowed out a flight of steps in the ice, which enabled them

easily to reach the ship’s deck.

CHAPTER XIII.

THE TWO RIVALS.

André Vasling had been cultivating the good-will of the two Norwegian

sailors. Aupic also made one of their band, and held himself apart,

with loud disapproval of all the new measures taken; but Louis

Cornbutte, to whom his father had transferred the command of the ship,

and who had become once more master on board, would listen to no

objections from that quarter, and in spite of Marie’s advice to act

gently, made it known that he intended to be obeyed on all points.

Nevertheless, the two Norwegians succeeded, two days after, in getting

possession of a box of salt meat. Louis ordered them to return it to

him on the spot, but Aupic took their part, and André Vasling declared

that the precautions about the food could not be any longer enforced.

It was useless to attempt to show these men that these measures were

for the common interest, for they knew it well, and only sought a

pretext to revolt.

Penellan advanced towards the Norwegians, who drew their cutlasses;

but, aided by Misonne and Turquiette, he succeeded in snatching the

weapons from their hands, and gained possession of the salt meat. André

Vasling and Aupic, seeing that matters were going against them, did not

interfere. Louis Cornbutte, however, took the mate aside, and said to

him,—

[Illustration: Penellan advanced towards the Norwegians.]

“André Vasling, you are a wretch! I know your whole conduct, and I know

what you are aiming at, but as the safety of the whole crew is confided

to me, if any man of you thinks of conspiring to destroy them, I will

stab him with my own hand!”

“Louis Cornbutte,” replied the mate, “it is allowable for you to act

the master; but remember that absolute obedience does not exist here,

and that here the strongest alone makes the law.”

Marie had never trembled before the dangers of the polar seas; but she

was terrified by this hatred, of which she was the cause, and the

captain’s vigour hardly reassured her.

Despite this declaration of war, the meals were partaken of in common

and at the same hours. Hunting furnished some ptarmigans and white

hares; but this resource would soon fail them, with the approach of the

terrible cold weather. This began at the solstice, on the 22nd of

December, on which day the thermometer fell to thirty-five degrees

below zero. The men experienced pain in their ears, noses, and the

extremities of their bodies. They were seized with a mortal torpor

combined with headache, and their breathing became more and more

difficult.

In this state they had no longer any courage to go hunting or to take

any exercise. They remained crouched around the stove, which gave them

but a meagre heat; and when they went away from it, they perceived that

their blood suddenly cooled.

Jean Cornbutte’s health was seriously impaired, and he could no longer

quit his lodging. Symptoms of scurvy manifested themselves in him, and

his legs were soon covered with white spots. Marie was well, however,

and occupied herself tending the sick ones with the zeal of a sister of

charity. The honest fellows blessed her from the bottom of their

hearts.

The 1st of January was one of the gloomiest of these winter days. The

wind was violent, and the cold insupportable. They could not go out,

except at the risk of being frozen. The most courageous were fain to

limit themselves to walking on deck, sheltered by the tent. Jean

Cornbutte, Gervique, and Gradlin did not leave their beds. The two

Norwegians, Aupic, and André Vasling, whose health was good, cast

ferocious looks at their companions, whom they saw wasting away.

Louis Cornbutte led Penellan on deck, and asked him how much firing was

left.

“The coal was exhausted long ago,” replied Penellan, “and we are about

to burn our last pieces of wood.”

“If we are not able to keep off this cold, we are lost,” said Louis.

“There still remains a way—” said Penellan, “to burn what we can of the

brig, from the barricading to the water-line; and we can even, if need

be, demolish her entirely, and rebuild a smaller craft.”

“That is an extreme means,” replied Louis, “which it will be full time

to employ when our men are well. For,” he added in a low voice, “our

force is diminishing, and that of our enemies seems to be increasing.

That is extraordinary.”

“It is true,” said Penellan; “and unless we took the precaution to

watch night and day, I know not what would happen to us.”

“Let us take our hatchets,” returned Louis, “and make our harvest of

wood.”

Despite the cold, they mounted on the forward barricading, and cut off

all the wood which was not indispensably necessary to the ship; then

they returned with this new provision. The fire was started afresh, and

a man remained on guard to prevent it from going out.

Meanwhile Louis Cornbutte and his friends were soon tired out. They

could not confide any detail of the life in common to their enemies.

Charged with all the domestic cares, their powers were soon exhausted.

The scurvy betrayed itself in Jean Cornbutte, who suffered intolerable

pain. Gervique and Gradlin showed symptoms of the same disease. Had it

not been for the lemon-juice with which they were abundantly furnished,

they would have speedily succumbed to their sufferings. This remedy was

not spared in relieving them.

But one day, the 15th of January, when Louis Cornbutte was going down

into the steward’s room to get some lemons, he was stupefied to find

that the barrels in which they were kept had disappeared. He hurried up

and told Penellan of this misfortune. A theft had been committed, and

it was easy to recognize its authors. Louis Cornbutte then understood

why the health of his enemies continued so good! His friends were no

longer strong enough to take the lemons away from them, though his life

and that of his comrades depended on the fruit; and he now sank, for

the first time, into a gloomy state of despair.

CHAPTER XIV.

DISTRESS.

On the 20th of January most of the crew had not the strength to leave

their beds. Each, independently of his woollen coverings, had a

buffalo-skin to protect him against the cold; but as soon as he put his

arms outside the clothes, he felt a pain which obliged him quickly to

cover them again.

Meanwhile, Louis having lit the stove fire, Penellan, Misonne, and

André Vasling left their beds and crouched around it. Penellan prepared

some boiling coffee, which gave them some strength, as well as Marie,

who joined them in partaking of it.

Louis Cornbutte approached his father’s bedside; the old man was almost

motionless, and his limbs were helpless from disease. He muttered some

disconnected words, which carried grief to his son’s heart.

“Louis,” said he, “I am dying. O, how I suffer! Save me!”

Louis took a decisive resolution. He went up to the mate, and,

controlling himself with difficulty, said,—

“Do you know where the lemons are, Vasling?”

“In the steward’s room, I suppose,” returned the mate, without

stirring.

“You know they are not there, as you have stolen them!”

“You are master, Louis Cornbutte, and may say and do anything.”

“For pity’s sake, André Vasling, my father is dying! You can save

him,—answer!”

“I have nothing to answer,” replied André Vasling.

“Wretch!” cried Penellan, throwing himself, cutlass in hand, on the

mate.

“Help, friends!” shouted Vasling, retreating.

Aupic and the two Norwegian sailors jumped from their beds and placed

themselves behind him. Turquiette, Penellan, and Louis prepared to

defend themselves. Pierre Nouquet and Gradlin, though suffering much,

rose to second them.

“You are still too strong for us,” said Vasling. “We do not wish to

fight on an uncertainty.”

The sailors were so weak that they dared not attack the four rebels,

for, had they failed, they would have been lost.

“André Vasling!” said Louis Cornbutte, in a gloomy tone, “if my father

dies, you will have murdered him; and I will kill you like a dog!”

Vasling and his confederates retired to the other end of the cabin, and

did not reply.

It was then necessary to renew the supply of wood, and, in spite of the

cold, Louis went on deck and began to cut away a part of the

barricading, but was obliged to retreat in a quarter of an hour, for he

was in danger of falling, overcome by the freezing air. As he passed,

he cast a glance at the thermometer left outside, and saw that the

mercury was frozen. The cold, then, exceeded forty-two degrees below

zero. The weather was dry, and the wind blew from the north.

On the 26th the wind changed to the north-east, and the thermometer

outside stood at thirty-five degrees. Jean Cornbutte was in agony, and

his son had searched in vain for some remedy with which to relieve his

pain. On this day, however, throwing himself suddenly on Vasling, he

managed to snatch a lemon from him which he was about to suck.

Vasling made no attempt to recover it. He seemed to be awaiting an

opportunity to accomplish his wicked designs.

The lemon-juice somewhat relieved old Cornbutte, but it was necessary

to continue the remedy. Marie begged Vasling on her knees to produce

the lemons, but he did not reply, and soon Penellan heard the wretch

say to his accomplices,—

[Illustration: Marie begged Vasling on her knees to produce the

lemons, but he did not reply.]

“The old fellow is dying. Gervique, Gradlin, and Nouquet are not much

better. The others are daily losing their strength. The time is near

when their lives will belong to us!”

It was then resolved by Louis Cornbutte and his adherents not to wait,

and to profit by the little strength which still remained to them. They

determined to act the next night, and to kill these wretches, so as not

to be killed by them.

The temperature rose a little. Louis Cornbutte ventured to go out with

his gun in search of some game.

He proceeded some three miles from the ship, and often, deceived by the

effects of the mirage and refraction, he went farther away than he

intended. It was imprudent, for recent tracts of ferocious animals were

to be seen. He did not wish, however, to return without some fresh

meat, and continued on his route; but he then experienced a strange

feeling, which turned his head. It was what is called “white vertigo.”

The reflection of the ice hillocks and fields affected him from head to

foot, and it seemed to him that the dazzling colour penetrated him and

caused an irresistible nausea. His eye was attacked. His sight became

uncertain. He thought he should go mad with the glare. Without fully

understanding this terrible effect, he advanced on his way, and soon

put up a ptarmigan, which he eagerly pursued. The bird soon fell, and

in order to reach it Louis leaped from an ice-block and fell heavily;

for the leap was at least ten feet, and the refraction made him think

it was only two. The vertigo then seized him, and, without knowing why,

he began to call for help, though he had not been injured by the fall.

The cold began to take him, and he rose with pain, urged by the sense

of self-preservation.

Suddenly, without being able to account for it, he smelt an odour of

boiling fat. As the ship was between him and the wind, he supposed that

this odour proceeded from her, and could not imagine why they should be

cooking fat, this being a dangerous thing to do, as it was likely to

attract the white bears.

Louis returned towards the ship, absorbed in reflections which soon

inspired his excited mind with terror. It seemed to him as if colossal

masses were moving on the horizon, and he asked himself if there was

not another ice-quake. Several of these masses interposed themselves

between him and the ship, and appeared to rise about its sides. He

stopped to gaze at them more attentively, when to his horror he

recognized a herd of gigantic bears.

These animals had been attracted by the odour of grease which had

surprised Lonis. He sheltered himself behind a hillock, and counted

three, which were scaling the blocks on which the “Jeune-Hardie” was

resting.

Nothing led him to suppose that this danger was known in the interior

of the ship, and a terrible anguish oppressed his heart. How resist

these redoubtable enemies? Would André Vasling and his confederates

unite with the rest on board in the common peril? Could Penellan and

the others, half starved, benumbed with cold, resist these formidable

animals, made wild by unassuaged hunger? Would they not be surprised by

an unlooked-for attack?

Louis made these reflections rapidly. The bears had crossed the blocks,

and were mounting to the assault of the ship. He might then quit the

block which protected him; he went nearer, clinging to the ice, and

could soon see the enormous animals tearing the tent with their paws,

and leaping on the deck. He thought of firing his gun to give his

comrades notice; but if these came up without arms, they would

inevitably be torn in pieces, and nothing showed as yet that they were

even aware of their new danger.

CHAPTER XV.

THE WHITE BEARS.

After Louis Cornbutte’s departure, Penellan had carefully shut the

cabin door, which opened at the foot of the deck steps. He returned to

the stove, which he took it upon himself to watch, whilst his

companions regained their berths in search of a little warmth.

It was then six in the evening, and Penellan set about preparing

supper. He went down into the steward’s room for some salt meat, which

he wished to soak in the boiling water. When he returned, he found

André Vasling in his place, cooking some pieces of grease in a basin.

“I was there before you,” said Penellan roughly; “why have you taken my

place?”

“For the same reason that you claim it,” returned Vasling: “because I

want to cook my supper.”

“You will take that off at once, or we shall see!”

“We shall see nothing,” said Vasling; “my supper shall be cooked in

spite of you.”

“You shall not eat it, then,” cried Penellan, rushing upon Vasling, who

seized his cutlass, crying,—

“Help, Norwegians! Help, Aupic!”

These, in the twinkling of an eye, sprang to their feet, armed with

pistols and daggers. The crisis had come.

Penellan precipitated himself upon Vasling, to whom, no doubt, was

confided the task to fight him alone; for his accomplices rushed to the

beds where lay Misonne, Turquiette, and Nouquet. The latter, ill and

defenceless, was delivered over to Herming’s ferocity. The carpenter

seized a hatchet, and, leaving his berth, hurried up to encounter

Aupic. Turquiette and Jocki, the Norwegian, struggled fiercely.

Gervique and Gradlin, suffering horribly, were not even conscious of

what was passing around them.

Nouquet soon received a stab in the side, and Herming turned to

Penellan, who was fighting desperately. André Vasling had seized him

round the body.

At the beginning of the affray the basin had been upset on the stove,

and the grease running over the burning coals, impregnated the

atmosphere with its odour. Marie rose with cries of despair, and

hurried to the bed of old Jean Cornbutte.

[Illustration: Marie rose with cries of despair, and hurried to the

bed of old Jean Cornbutte.]

Vasling, less strong than Penellan, soon perceived that the latter was

getting the better of him. They were too close together to make use of

their weapons. The mate, seeing Herming, cried out,—

“Help, Herming!”

“Help, Misonne!” shouted Penellan, in his turn.

But Misonne was rolling on the ground with Aupic, who was trying to

stab him with his cutlass. The carpenter’s hatchet was of little use to

him, for he could not wield it, and it was with the greatest difficulty

that he parried the lunges which Aupic made with his knife.

Meanwhile blood flowed amid the groans and cries. Turquiette, thrown

down by Jocki, a man of immense strength, had received a wound in the

shoulder, and he tried in vain to clutch a pistol which hung in the

Norwegian’s belt. The latter held him as in a vice, and it was

impossible for him to move.

At Vasling’s cry for help, who was being held by Penellan close against

the door, Herming rushed up. As he was about to stab the Breton’s back

with his cutlass, the latter felled him to the earth with a vigorous

kick. His effort to do this enabled Vasling to disengage his right arm;

but the door, against which they pressed with all their weight,

suddenly yielded, and Vasling fell over.

Of a sudden a terrible growl was heard, and a gigantic bear appeared on

the steps. Vasling saw him first. He was not four feet away from him.

At the same moment a shot was heard, and the bear, wounded or

frightened, retreated. Vasling, who had succeeded in regaining his

feet, set-out in pursuit of him, abandoning Penellan.

Penellan then replaced the door, and looked around him. Misonne and

Turquiette, tightly garrotted by their antagonists, had been thrown

into a corner, and made vain efforts to break loose. Penellan rushed to

their assistance, but was overturned by the two Norwegians and Aupic.

His exhausted strength did not permit him to resist these three men,

who so clung to him as to hold him motionless Then, at the cries of the

mate, they hurried on deck, thinking that Louis Cornbutte was to be

encountered.

André Vasling was struggling with a bear, which he had already twice

stabbed with his knife. The animal, beating the air with his heavy

paws, was trying to clutch Vasling; he retiring little by little on the

barricading, was apparently doomed, when a second shot was heard. The

bear fell. André Vasling raised his head and saw Louis Cornbutte in the

ratlines of the mizen-mast, his gun in his hand. Louis had shot the

bear in the heart, and he was dead.

Hate overcame gratitude in Vasling’s breast; but before satisfying it,

he looked around him. Aupic’s head was broken by a paw-stroke, and he

lay lifeless on deck. Jocki, hatchet in hand, was with difficulty

parrying the blows of the second bear which had just killed Aupic. The

animal had received two wounds, and still struggled desperately. A

third bear was directing his way towards the ship’s prow. Vasling paid

no attention to him, but, followed by Herming, went to the aid of

Jocki; but Jocki, seized by the beast’s paws, was crushed, and when the

bear fell under the shots of the other two men, he held only a corpse

in his shaggy arms.

“We are only two, now” said Vasling, with gloomy ferocity, “but if we

yield, it will not be without vengeance!”

Herming reloaded his pistol without replying. Before all, the third

bear must be got rid of. Vasling looked forward, but did not see him.

On raising his eyes, he perceived him erect on the barricading,

clinging to the ratlines and trying to reach Louis. Vasling let his gun

fall, which he had aimed at the animal, while a fierce joy glittered in

his eyes.

“Ah,” he cried, “you owe me that vengeance!”

Louis took refuge in the top of the mast. The bear kept mounting, and

was not more than six feet from Louis, when he raised his gun and

pointed it at the animal’s heart.

Vasling raised his weapon to shoot Louis if the bear fell.

Louis fired, but the bear did not appear to be hit, for he leaped with

a bound towards the top. The whole mast shook.

Vasling uttered a shout of exultation.

“Herming,” he cried, “go and find Marie! Go and find my betrothed!”

Herming descended the cabin stairs.

Meanwhile the furious beast had thrown himself upon Louis, who was

trying to shelter himself on the other side of the mast; but at the

moment that his enormous paw was raised to break his head, Louis,

seizing one of the backstays, let himself slip down to the deck, not

without danger, for a ball hissed by his ear when he was half-way down.

Vasling had shot at him, and missed him. The two adversaries now

confronted each other, cutlass in hand.

The combat was about to become decisive. To entirely glut his

vengeance, and to have the young girl witness her lover’s death,

Vasling had deprived himself of Herming’s aid. He could now reckon only

on himself.

Louis and Vasling seized each other by the collar, and held each other

with iron grip. One of them must fall. They struck each other

violently. The blows were only half parried, for blood soon flowed from

both. Vasling tried to clasp his adversary about the neck with his arm,

to bring him to the ground. Louis, knowing that he who fell was lost,

prevented him, and succeeded in grasping his two arms; but in doing

this he let fall his cutlass.

Piteous cries now assailed his ears; it was Marie’s voice. Herming was

trying to drag her up. Louis was seized with a desperate rage. He

stiffened himself to bend Vasling’s loins; but at this moment the

combatants felt themselves seized in a powerful embrace. The bear,

having descended from the mast, had fallen upon the two men. Vasling

was pressed against the animal’s body. Louis felt his claws entering

his flesh. The bear, was strangling both of them.

[Illustration: The bear, having descended from the mast, had fallen

upon the two men.]

“Help! help! Herming!” cried the mate.

“Help! Penellan!” cried Louis.

Steps were heard on the stairs. Penellan appeared, loaded his pistol,

and discharged it in the bear’s ear; he roared; the pain made him relax

his paws for a moment, and Louis, exhausted, fell motionless on the

deck; but the bear, closing his paws tightly in a supreme agony, fell,

dragging down the wretched Vasling, whose body was crushed under him.

Penellan hurried to Louis Cornbutte’s assistance. No serious wound

endangered his life: he had only lost his breath for a moment.

“Marie!” he said, opening his eyes.

“Saved!” replied Perfellan. “Herming is lying there with a knife-wound

in his stomach.”

“And the bears—”

“Dead, Louis; dead, like our enemies! But for those beasts we should

have been lost. Truly, they came to our succour. Let us thank Heaven!”

Louis and Penellan descended to the cabin, and Marie fell into their

arms.

CHAPTER XVI.

CONCLUSION.

Herming, mortally wounded, had been carried to a berth by Misonne and

Turquiette, who had succeeded in getting free. He was already at the

last gasp of death; and the two sailors occupied themselves with

Nouquet, whose wound was not, happily, a serious one.

But a greater misfortune had overtaken Louis Cornbutte. His father no

longer gave any signs of life. Had he died of anxiety for his son,

delivered over to his enemies? Had he succumbed in presence of these

terrible events? They could not tell. But the poor old sailor, broken

by disease, had ceased to live!

At this unexpected blow, Louis and Marie fell into a sad despair; then

they knelt at the bedside and wept, as they prayed for Jean Cornbutte’s

soul, Penellan, Misonne, and Turquiette left them alone in the cabin,

and went on deck. The bodies of the three bears were carried forward.

Penellan decided to keep their skins, which would be of no little use;

but he did not think for a moment of eating their flesh. Besides, the

number of men to feed was now much decreased. The bodies of Vasling,

Aupic, and Jocki, thrown into a hole dug on the coast, were soon

rejoined by that of Herming. The Norwegian died during the night,

without repentance or remorse, foaming at the mouth with rage.

The three sailors repaired the tent, which, torn in several places,

permitted the snow to fall on the deck. The temperature was exceedingly

cold, and kept so till the return of the sun, which did not reappear

above the horizon till the 8th of January.

Jean Cornbutte was buried on the coast. He had left his native land to

find his son, and had died in these terrible regions! His grave was dug

on an eminence, and the sailors placed over it a simple wooden cross.

From that day, Louis Cornbutte and his comrades passed through many

other trials; but the lemons, which they found, restored them to

health.

Gervique, Gradlin, and Nouquet were able to rise from their berths a

fortnight after these terrible events, and to take a little exercise.

Soon hunting for game became more easy and its results more abundant.

The water-birds returned in large numbers. They often brought down a

kind of wild duck which made excellent food. The hunters had no other

deprivation to deplore than that of two dogs, which they lost in an

expedition to reconnoitre the state of the icefields, twenty-five miles

to the southward.

The month of February was signalized by violent tempests and abundant

snows. The mean temperature was still twenty-five degrees below zero,

but they did not suffer in comparison with past hardships. Besides, the

sight of the sun, which rose higher and higher above the horizon,

rejoiced them, as it forecast the end of their torments. Heaven had

pity on them, for warmth came sooner than usual that year. The ravens

appeared in March, careering about the ship. Louis Cornbutte captured

some cranes which had wandered thus far northward. Flocks of wild birds

were also seen in the south.

The return of the birds indicated a diminution of the cold; but it was

not safe to rely upon this, for with a change of wind, or in the new or

full moons, the temperature suddenly fell; and the sailors were forced

to resort to their most careful precautions to protect themselves

against it. They had already burned all the barricading, the bulkheads,

and a large portion of the bridge. It was time, then, that their

wintering was over. Happily, the mean temperature of March was not over

sixteen degrees below zero. Marie occupied herself with preparing new

clothing for the advanced season of the year.

After the equinox, the sun had remained constantly above the horizon.

The eight months of perpetual daylight had begun. This continual

sunlight, with the increasing though still quite feeble heat, soon

began to act upon the ice.

Great precautions were necessary in launching the ship from the lofty

layer of ice which surrounded her. She was therefore securely propped

up, and it seemed best to await the breaking up of the ice; but the

lower mass, resting on a bed of already warm water, detached itself

little by little, and the ship gradually descended with it. Early in

April she had reached her natural level.

Torrents of rain came with April, which, extending in waves over the

ice-plain, hastened still more its breaking up. The thermometer rose to

ten degrees below zero. Some of the men took off their seal-skin

clothes, and it was no longer necessary to keep a fire in the cabin

stove day and night. The provision of spirit, which was not exhausted,

was used only for cooking the food.

Soon the ice began to break up rapidly, and it became imprudent to

venture upon the plain without a staff to sound the passages; for

fissures wound in spirals here and there. Some of the sailors fell into

the water, with no worse result, however, than a pretty cold bath.

The seals returned, and they were often hunted, and their grease

utilized.

The health of the crew was fully restored, and the time was employed in

hunting and preparations for departure. Louis Cornbutte often examined

the channels, and decided, in consequence of the shape of the southern

coast, to attempt a passage in that direction. The breaking up had

already begun here and there, and the floating ice began to pass off

towards the high seas. On the 25th of April the ship was put in

readiness. The sails, taken from their sheaths, were found to be

perfectly preserved, and it was with real delight that the sailors saw

them once more swaying in the wind. The ship gave a lurch, for she had

found her floating line, and though she would not yet move forward, she

lay quietly and easily in her natural element.

In May the thaw became very rapid. The snow which covered the coast

melted on every hand, and formed a thick mud, which made it well-nigh

impossible to land. Small heathers, rosy and white, peeped out timidly

above the lingering snow, and seemed to smile at the little heat they

received. The thermometer at last rose above zero.

Twenty miles off, the ice masses, entirely separated, floated towards

the Atlantic Ocean. Though the sea was not quite free around the ship,

channels opened by which Louis Cornbutte wished to profit.

On the 21st of May, after a parting visit to his father’s grave, Louis

at last set out from the bay. The hearts of the honest sailors were

filled at once with joy and sadness, for one does not leave without

regret a place where a friend has died. The wind blew from the north,

and favoured their departure. The ship was often arrested by ice-banks,

which were cut with the saws; icebergs not seldom confronted her, and

it was necessary to blow them up with powder. For a month the way was

full of perils, which sometimes brought the ship to the verge of

destruction; but the crew were sturdy, and used to these dangerous

exigencies. Penellan, Pierre Nouquet, Turquiette, Fidèle Misonne, did

the work of ten sailors, and Marie had smiles of gratitude for each.

The “Jeune-Hardie” at last passed beyond the ice in the latitude of

Jean-Mayer Island. About the 25th of June she met ships going northward

for seals and whales. She had been nearly a month emerging from the

Polar Sea.

On the 16th of August she came in view of Dunkirk. She had been

signalled by the look-out, and the whole population flocked to the

jetty. The sailors of the ship were soon clasped in the arms of their

friends. The old curé received Louis Cornbutte and Marie with

patriarchal arms, and of the two masses which he said on the following

day, the first was for the repose of Jean Cornbutte’s soul, and the

second to bless these two lovers, so long united in misfortune.

[Illustration: The old curé received Louis Cornbutte and Marie.]

THE FORTIETH FRENCH ASCENT OF MONT BLANC

BY PAUL VERNE.

I arrived at Chamonix on the 18th of August, 1871, fully decided to

make the ascent of Mont Blanc, cost what it might. My first attempt in

August, 1869, was not successful. Bad weather had prevented me from

mounting beyond the Grands-Mulets. This time circumstances seemed

scarcely more favourable, for the weather, which had promised to be

fine on the morning of the 18th, suddenly changed towards noon. Mont

Blanc, as they say in its neighbourhood, “put on its cap and began to

smoke its pipe,” which, to speak more plainly, means that it is covered

with clouds, and that the snow, driven upon it by a south-west wind,

formed a long crest on its summit in the direction of the unfathomable

precipices of the Brenva glaciers. This crest betrayed to imprudent

tourists the route they would have taken, had they had the temerity to

venture upon the mountain.

The next night was very inclement. The rain and wind were violent, and

the barometer, below the “change,” remained stationary.

Towards daybreak, however, several thunder-claps announced a change in

the state of the atmosphere. Soon the clouds broke. The chain of the

Brevent and the Aiguilles-Rouges betrayed itself. The wind, turning to

the north-west, brought into view above the Col de Balme, which shuts

in the valley of Chamonix on the north, some light, isolated, fleecy

clouds, which I hailed as the heralds of fine weather.

Despite this happy augury and a slight rise in the barometer, M.

Balmat, chief guide of Chamonix, declared to me that I must not yet

think of attempting the ascent.

“If the barometer continues to rise,” he added, “and the weather holds

good, I promise you guides for the day after to-morrow— perhaps for

to-morrow. Meanwhile, have patience and stretch your legs; I will take

you up the Brevent. The clouds are clearing away, and you will be able

to exactly distinguish the path you will have to go over to reach the

summit of Mont Blanc. If, in spite of this, you are determined to go,

you may try it!”

This speech, uttered in a certain tone, was not very reassuring, and

gave food for reflection. Still, I accepted his proposition, and he

chose as my companion the guide Edward Ravanel, a very sedate and

devoted fellow, who perfectly knew his business.

M. Donatien Levesque, an enthusiastic tourist and an intrepid

pedestrian, who had made early in the previous year an interesting and

difficult trip in North America, was with me. He had already visited

the greater part of America, and was about to descend the Mississippi

to New Orleans, when the war cut short his projects and recalled him to

France. We had met at Aix-les-Bains, and we had determined to make an

excursion together in Savoy and Switzerland.

Donatien Levesque knew my intentions, and, as he thought that his

health would not permit him to attempt so long a journey over the

glaciers, it had been agreed that he should await my return from Mont

Blanc at Chamonix, and should make the traditional visit to the

Mer-de-Glace by the Montanvers during my absence.

On learning that I was going to ascend the Brevent, my friend did not

hesitate to accompany me thither. The ascent of the Brevent is one of

the most interesting trips that can be made from Chamonix. This

mountain, about seven thousand six hundred feet high, is only the

prolongation of the chain for the Aiguilles-Rouges, which runs from the

south-west to the north-east, parallel with that of Mont Blanc, and

forms with it the narrow valley of Chamonix. The Brevent, by its

central position, exactly opposite the Bossons glacier, enables one to

watch the parties which undertake the ascent of the giant of the Alps

nearly throughout their journey. It is therefore much frequented.

We started about seven o’clock in the morning. As we went along, I

thought of the mysterious words of the master-guide; they annoyed me a

little. Addressing Ravanel, I said,—

“Have you made the ascent of Mont Blanc?”

“Yes, monsieur,” he replied, “once; and that’s enough. I am not anxious

to do it again.”

“The deuce!” said I. “I am going to try it.”

“You are free, monsieur; but I shall not go with you. The mountain is

not good this year. Several attempts have already been made; two only

have succeeded. As for the second, the party tried the ascent twice.

Besides, the accident last year has rather cooled the amateurs.”

“An accident! What accident?”

“Did not monsieur hear of it? This is how it happened. A party,

consisting of ten guides and porters and two Englishmen, started about

the middle of September for Mont Blanc. They were seen to reach the

summit; then, some minutes after, they disappeared in a cloud. When the

cloud passed over no one was visible. The two travellers, with seven

guides and porters, had been blown off by the wind and precipitated on

the Cormayeur side, doubtless into the Brenva glacier. Despite the most

vigilant search, their bodies could not be found. The other three were

found one hundred and fifty yards below the summit, near the

Petits-Mulets. They had become blocks of ice.”

“But these travellers must have been imprudent,” said I to Ravanel.

“What folly it was to start off so late in the year on such an

expedition! They should have gone up in August.”

I vainly tried to keep up my courage; this lugubrious story would haunt

me in spite of myself. Happily the weather soon cleared, and the rays

of a bright sun dissipated the clouds which still veiled Mont Blanc,

and, at the same time, those which overshadowed my thoughts.

Our ascent was satisfactorily accomplished. On leaving the chalets of

Planpraz, situated at a height of two thousand and sixty-two yards, you

ascend, on ragged masses of rock and pools of snow, to the foot of a

rock called “The Chimney,” which is scaled with the feet and hands.

Twenty minutes after, you reach the summit of the Brevent, whence the

view is very fine. The chain of Mont Blanc appears in all its majesty.

The gigantic mountain, firmly established on its powerful strata, seems

to defy the tempests which sweep across its icy shield without ever

impairing it; whilst the crowd of icy needles, peaks, mountains, which

form its cortege and rise everywhere around it, without equalling its

noble height, carry the evident traces of a slow wasting away.

[Illustration: View of Mont Blanc from the Brevent.]

From the excellent look-out which we occupied, we could reckon, though

still imperfectly, the distance to be gone over in order to attain the

summit. This summit, which from Chamonix appears so near the dome of

the Goûter, now took its true position. The various plateaus which form

so many degrees which must be crossed, and which are not visible from

below, appeared from the Brevent, and threw the so-much-desired summit,

by the laws of perspective, still farther in the background. The

Bossons glacier, in all its splendour, bristled with icy needles and

blocks (blocks sometimes ten yards square), which seemed, like the

waves of an angry sea, to beat against the sides of the rocks of the

Grands-Mulets, the base of which disappeared in their midst.

This marvellous spectacle was not likely to cool my impatience, and I

more eagerly than ever promised myself to explore this hitherto unknown

world.

My companion was equally inspired by the scene, and from this moment I

began to think that I should not have to ascend Mont Blanc alone.

We descended again to Chamonix; the weather became milder every hour;

the barometer continued to ascend; everything seemed to promise well.

The next day at sunrise I hastened to the master-guide. The sky was

cloudless; the wind, almost imperceptible, was north-east. The chain of

Mont Blanc, the higher summits of which were gilded by the rising sun,

seemed to invite the many tourists to ascend it. One could not, in all

politeness, refuse so kindly an invitation.

M. Balmat, after consulting his barometer, declared the ascent to be

practicable, and promised me the two guides and the porter prescribed

in our agreement. I left the selection of these to him. But an

unexpected incident disturbed my preparations for departure.

As I came out of M. Balmat’s office, I met Ravanel, my guide of the day

before.

“Is monsieur going to Mont Blanc?” he asked.

“Yes, certainly,” said I. “Is it not a favourable time to go?”

He reflected a few moments, and then said with an embarrassed air,—

“Monsieur, you are my traveller; I accompanied you yesterday to the

Brevent, so I cannot leave you now; and, since you are going up, I will

go with you, if you will kindly accept my services. It is your right,

for on all dangerous journeys the traveller can choose his own guides.

Only, if you accept my offer, I ask that you will also take my brother,

Ambrose Ravanel, and my cousin, Gaspard Simon. These are young,

vigorous fellows; they do not like the ascent of Mont Blanc better than

I do; but they will not shirk it, and I answer for them to you as I

would for myself.”

This young man inspired me with all confidence. I accepted his

proposition, and hastened to apprise M. Balmat of the choice I had

made. But M. Balmat had meanwhile been selecting guides for me

according to their turn on his list. One only had accepted, Edward

Simon; the answer of another, Jean Carrier, had not yet been received,

though it was scarcely doubtful, as this man had already made the

ascent of Mont Blanc twenty-nine times. I thus found myself in an

embarrassing position. The guides I had chosen were all from

Argentière, a village six kilometres from Chamonix. Those of Chamonix

accused Ravanel of having influenced me in favour of his family, which

was contrary to the regulations.

To cut the discussion short, I took Edward Simon, who had already made

his preparations as a third guide. He would be useless if I went up

alone, but would become indispensable if my friend also ascended.

This settled, I went to tell Donatien Levesque. I found him sleeping

the sleep of the just, for he had walked over sixteen kilometres on a

mountain the evening before. I had some difficulty in waking him; but

on removing first his sheets, then his pillows, and finally his

mattress, I obtained some result, and succeeded in making him

understand that I was preparing for the hazardous trip.

“Well,” said he, yawning, “I will go with you as far as the

Grands-Mulets, and await your return there.”

“Bravo!” I replied. “I have just one guide too many, and I will attach

him to your person.”

We bought the various articles indispensable to a journey across the

glaciers. Iron-spiked alpenstocks, coarse cloth leggings, green

spectacles fitting tightly to the eyes, furred gloves, green

veils,—nothing was forgotten. We each had excellent triple-soled shoes,

which our guides roughed for the ice. This last is an important detail,

for there are moments in such an expedition when the least slip is

fatal, not only to yourself, but to the whole party with you.

Our preparations and those of the guides occupied nearly two hours.

About eight o’clock our mules were brought; and we set out at last for

the chalet of the Pierre-Pointue, situated at a height of six thousand

five hundred feet, or three thousand above the valley of Chamonix, not

far from eight thousand five hundred feet below the summit of Mont

Blanc.

On reaching the Pierre-Pointue, about ten o’clock, we found there a

Spanish tourist, M. N——, accompanied by two guides and a porter. His

principal guide, Paccard, a relative of the Doctor Paccard who made,

with Jacques Balmat, the first ascent of Mont Blanc, had already been

to the summit eighteen times. M. N—— was also getting himself ready for

the ascent. He had travelled much in America, and had crossed the

Cordilleras to Quito, passing through snow at the highest points. He

therefore thought that he could, without great difficulty, carry

through his new enterprise; but in this he was mistaken. He had

reckoned without the steepness of the inclinations which he had to

cross, and the rarefaction of the air. I hasten to add, to his honour,

that, since he succeeded in reaching the summit of Mont Blanc, it was

due to a rare moral energy, for his physical energies had long before

deserted him.

We breakfasted as heartily as possible at the Pierre-Pointue; this

being a prudent precaution, as the appetite usually fails higher up

among the ice.

[Illustration: View Of Bossons Glacier, Near The Grands-Mulets.]

M. N—— set out at eleven, with his guides, for the Grands-Mulets. We

did not start until noon. The mule-road ceases at the Pierre-Pointue.

We had then to go up a very narrow zigzag path, which follows the edge

of the Bossons glacier, and along the base of the Aiguille-du-Midi.

After an hour of difficult climbing in an intense heat, we reached a

point called the Pierre-a-l’Echelle, eight thousand one hundred feet

high. The guides and travellers were then bound together by a strong

rope, with three or four yards between each. We were about to advance

upon the Bossons glacier. This glacier, difficult at first, presents

yawning and apparently bottomless crevasses on every hand. The vertical

sides of these crevasses are of a glaucous and uncertain colour, but

too seducing to the eye; when, approaching closely, you succeed in

looking into their mysterious depths, you feel yourself irresistibly

drawn towards them, and nothing seems more natural than to go down into

them.

[Illustration: Passage Of The Bossons Glacier.]

You advance slowly, passing round the crevasses, or on the snow bridges

of dubious strength. Then the rope plays its part. It is stretched out

over these dangerous transits; if the snow bridge yields, the guide or

traveller remains hanging over the abyss. He is drawn beyond it, and

gets off with a few bruises. Sometimes, if the crevasse is very wide

but not deep, he descends to the bottom and goes up on the other side.

In this case it is necessary to cut steps in the ice, and the two

leading guides, armed with a sort of hatchet, perform this difficult

and perilous task. A special circumstance makes the entrance on the

Bossons dangerous. You go upon the glacier at the base of the

Aiguille-du-Midi, opposite a passage whence stone avalanches often

descend. This passage is nearly six hundred feet wide. It must be

crossed quickly, and as you pass, a guide stands on guard to avert the

danger from you if it presents itself. In 1869 a guide was killed on

this spot, and his body, hurled into space by a stone, was dashed to

pieces on the rocks nine hundred feet below.

[Illustration: Crevasse and Bridge.]

We were warned, and hastened our steps as fast as our inexperience

would permit; but on leaving this dangerous zone, another, not less

dangerous, awaited us. This was the region of the “seracs,”—immense

blocks of ice, the formation of which is not as yet explained.

[Illustration: View of the “Seracs”.]

These are usually situated on the edge of a plateau, and menace the

whole valley beneath them. A slight movement of the glacier, or even a

light vibration of the temperature, impels their fall, and occasions

the most serious accidents.

[Illustration: View of the “Seracs”.]

“Messieurs, keep quiet, and let us pass over quickly.” These words,

roughly spoken by one of the guides, checked our conversation. We went

across rapidly and in silence. We finally reached what is called the

“Junction” (which might more properly be called the violent

“Separation”), by the Côte Mountain, the Bossons and Tacconay glaciers.

At this point the scene assumes an indescribable character; crevasses

with changing colours, ice-needles with sharp forms, seracs suspended

and pierced with the light, little green lakes compose a chaos which

surpasses everything that one can imagine. Added to this, the rush of

the torrents at the foot of the glaciers, the sinister and repeated

crackings of the blocks which detached themselves and fell in

avalanches down the crevasses, the trembling of the ground which opened

beneath our feet, gave a singular idea of those desolate places the

existence of which only betrays itself by destruction and death.

[Illustration: Passage of the “Junction”.]

After passing the “Junction” you follow the Tacconay glacier for

awhile, and reach the side which leads to the Grands-Mulets. This part,

which is very sloping, is traversed in zigzags. The leading guide takes

care to trace them at an angle of thirty degrees, when there is fresh

snow, to avoid the avalanches.

After crossing for three hours on the ice and snow, we reach the

Grands-Mulets, rocks six hundred feet high, overlooking on one side the

Bossons glacier, and on the other the sloping plains which extend to

the base of the Goûter dome.

[Illustration: Hut At The Grands-Mulets.]

A small hut, constructed by the guides near the summit of the first

rock, gives a shelter to travellers, and enables them to await a

favourable moment for setting out for the summit of Mont Blanc.

They dine there as well as they can, and sleep too; but the proverb,

“He who sleeps dines,” does not apply to this elevation, for one cannot

seriously do the one or the other.

“Well,” said I to Levesque, after a pretence of a meal, “did I

exaggerate the splendour of the landscape, and do you regret having

come thus far?”

“I regret it so little,” he replied, “that I am determined to go on to

the summit. You may count on me.”

“Very good,” said I. “But you know the worst is yet to come.”

“Nonsense!” he exclaimed, “we will go to the end. Meanwhile, let us

observe the sunset, which must be magnificent.”

The heavens had remained wonderfully clear. The chain of the Brevent

and the Aiguilles-Rouges stretched out at our feet. Beyond, the Fiz

rocks and the Aiguille-de-Varan rose above the Sallanche Valley, and

the whole chains of Mont Fleury and the Reposoir appeared in the

background. More to the right we could descry the snowy summit of the

Buet, and farther off the Dents-du-Midi, with its five tusks,

overhanging the valley of the Rhone. Behind us were the eternal snows

of the Goûter, Mont Maudit, and, lastly, Mont Blanc.

Little by little the shadows invaded the valley of Chamonix, and

gradually each of the summits which overlook it on the west. The chain

of Mont Blanc alone remained luminous, and seemed encircled by a golden

halo. Soon the shadows crept up the Goûter and Mont Maudit. They still

respected the giant of the Alps. We watched this gradual disappearance

of the light with admiration. It lingered awhile on the highest summit,

and gave us the foolish hope that it would not depart thence. But in a

few moments all was shrouded in gloom, and the livid and ghastly

colours of death succeeded the living hues. I do not exaggerate. Those

who love mountains will comprehend me.

[Illustration: View of Mont Blanc from Grands-Mulets.]

After witnessing this sublime scene, we had only to await the moment of

departure. We were to set out again at two in the morning. Now,

therefore, we stretched ourselves upon our mattresses.

It was useless to think of sleeping, much more of talking. We were

absorbed by more or less gloomy thoughts. It was the night before the

battle, with the difference that nothing forced us to engage in the

struggle. Two sorts of ideas struggled in the mind. It was the ebb and

flow of the sea, each in its turn. Objections to the venture were not

wanting. Why run so much danger? If we succeeded, of what advantage

would it be? If an accident happened, how we should regret it! Then the

imagination set to work; all the mountain catastrophes rose in the

fancy. I dreamed of snow bridges giving way under my feet, of being

precipitated in the yawning crevasses, of hearing the terrible noises

of the avalanches detaching themselves and burying me, of disappearing,

of cold and death seizing upon me, and of struggling with desperate

effort, but in vain!

A sharp, horrible noise is heard at this moment

“The avalanche! the avalanche!” I cry.

“What is the matter with you?” asks Levesque, starting up.

Alas! It is a piece of furniture which, in the struggles of my

nightmare, I have just broken. This very prosaic avalanche recalls me

to the reality. I laugh at my terrors, a contrary current of thought

gets the upper hand, and with it ambitious ideas. I need only use a

little effort to reach this summit, so seldom attained. It is a

victory, as others are. Accidents are rare—very rare! Do they ever take

place at all? The spectacle from the summit must be so marvellous! And

then what satisfaction there would be in having accomplished what so

many others dared not undertake!

My courage was restored by these thoughts, and I calmly awaited the

moment of departure.

About one o’clock the steps and voices of the guides, and the noise of

opening doors, indicated that that moment was approaching. Soon Ravanel

came in and said, “Come, messieurs, get up; the weather is magnificent.

By ten o’clock we shall be at the’ summit.”

At these words we leaped from our beds, and hurried to make our toilet.

Two of the guides, Ambrose Ravanel and his cousin Simon, went on ahead

to explore the road. They were provided with a lantern, which was to

show us the way to go, and with hatchets to make the path and cut steps

in the very difficult spots. At two o’clock we tied ourselves one to

another: the order of march was, Edward Ravanel before me, and at the

head; behind me Edward Simon, then Donatien Levesque; after him our two

porters (for we took along with us the domestic of the Grands-Mulets

hut as a second), and M. N——’s party.

The guides and porters having distributed the provisions between them,

the signal for departure was given, and we set off in the midst of

profound darkness, directing ourselves according to the lantern held up

at some distance ahead.

There was something solemn in this setting out. But few words were

spoken; the vagueness of the unknown impressed us, but the new and

strange situation excited us, and rendered us insensible to its

dangers. The landscape around was fantastic. But few outlines were

distinguishable. Great white confused masses, with blackish spots here

and there, closed the horizon. The celestial vault shone with

remarkable brilliancy. We could perceive, at an uncertain distance, the

lantern of the guides who were ahead, and the mournful silence of the

night was only disturbed by the dry, distant noise of the hatchet

cutting steps in the ice.

We crept slowly and cautiously over the first ascent, going towards the

base of the Goûter. After ascending laboriously for two hours, we

reached the first plateau, called the “Petit-Plateau,” at the foot of

the Goûter, at a height of about eleven thousand feet. We rested a few

moments and then proceeded, turning now to the left and going towards

the edge which conducts to the “Grand-Plateau.”

But our party had already lessened in number: M. N——, with his guides,

had stopped; his fatigue obliged him to take a longer rest.

About half-past four dawn began to whiten the horizon. At this moment

we were ascending the slope which leads to the Grand-Plateau, which we

soon safely reached. We were eleven thousand eight hundred feet high.

We had well earned our breakfast. Wonderful to relate, Levesque and I

had a good appetite. It was a good sign. We therefore installed

ourselves on the snow, and made such a repast as we could. Our guides

joyfully declared that success was certain. As for me, I thought they

resumed work too quickly.

M. N—— rejoined us before long. We urged him to take some nourishment.

He peremptorily refused. He felt the contraction of the stomach which

is so common in those parts, and was almost broken down.

The Grand-Plateau deserves a special description. On the right rises

the dome of the Goûter. Opposite it is Mont Blanc, rearing itself two

thousand seven hundred feet above it. On the left are the “Rouges”

rocks and Mont Maudit. This immense circle is one mass of glittering

whiteness. On every side are vast crevasses. It was in one of these

that three of the guides who accompanied Dr. Hamel and Colonel

Anderson, in 1820, were swallowed up. In 1864 another guide met his

death there.

This plateau must be crossed with great caution, as the crevasses are

often hidden by the snow; besides, it is often swept by avalanches. On

the 13th of October, 1866, an English traveller and three of his guides

were buried under a mass of ice that fell from Mont Blanc. After a

perilous search, the bodies of the three guides were found. They were

expecting every moment to find that of the Englishman, when a fresh

avalanche fell upon the first, and forced the searchers to abandon

their task.

[Illustration: Crossing the Plateau.]

Three routes presented themselves to us. The ordinary route, which

passes entirely to the left, by the base of Mont Maudit, through a sort

of valley called the “Corridor,” leads by gentle ascents to the top of

the first escarpment of the Rouges rocks.

The second, less frequented, turns to the right by the Goûter, and

leads to the summit of Mont Blanc by the ridge which unites these two

mountains. You must pursue for three hours a giddy path, and scale a

height of moving ice, called the “Camel’s Hump.”

The third route consists in ascending directly to the summit of the

Corridor, crossing an ice-wall seven hundred and fifty feet high, which

extends along the first escarpment of the Rouges rocks.

The guides declared the first route impracticable, on account of the

recent crevasses which entirely obstructed it; the choice between the

two others remained. I thought the second, by the “Camel’s Hump,” the

best; but it was regarded as too dangerous, and it was decided that we

should attack the ice-wall conducting to the summit of the Corridor.

When a decision is made, it is best to execute it without delay. We

crossed the Grand-Plateau, and reached the foot of this really

formidable obstacle.

The nearer we approached the more nearly vertical became its slope.

Besides, several crevasses which we had not perceived yawned at its

base.

We nevertheless began the difficult ascent. Steps were begun by the

foremost guide, and completed by the next. We ascended two steps a

minute. The higher we went the more the steepness increased. Our guides

themselves discussed what route to follow; they spoke in patois, and

did not always agree, which was not a good sign. At last the slope

became such that our hats touched the legs of the guide just before us.

A hailstorm of pieces of ice, produced by the cutting of the steps,

blinded us, and made our progress still more difficult. Addressing one

of the foremost guides, I said,—

“Ah, it’s very well going up this way! It is not an open road, I admit:

still, it is practicable. Only how are you going to get us down again?”

“O monsieur,” replied Ambrose Ravanel, “we will take another route

going back.”

At last, after violent effort for two hours, and after having cut more

than four hundred steps in this terrible mass, we reached the summit of

the Corridor completely exhausted.

We then crossed a slightly sloping plateau of snow, and passed along

the side of an immense crevasse which obstructed our way. We had

scarcely turned it when we uttered a cry of admiration. On the right,

Piedmont and the plains of Lombardy were at our feet. On the left, the

Pennine Alps and the Oberland, crowned with snow, raised their

magnificent crests. Monte Rosa and the Cervin alone still rose above

us, but soon we should overlook them in our turn.

This reflection recalled us to the end of our expedition. We turned our

gaze towards Mont Blanc, and stood stupefied.

“Heavens! how far off it is still!” cried Levesque.

“And how high!” I added.

It was a discouraging sight. The famous wall of the ridge, so much

feared, but which must be crossed, was before us, with its slope of

fifty degrees. But after scaling the wall of the Corridor, it did not

terrify us. We rested for half an hour and then continued our tramp;

but we soon perceived that the atmospheric conditions were no longer

the same. The sun shed his warm rays upon us; and their reflection on

the snow added to our discomfort. The rarefaction of the air began to

be severely felt. We advanced slowly, making frequent halts, and at

last reached the plateau which overlooks the second escarpment of the

Rouges rocks. We were at the foot of Mont Blanc. It rose, alone and

majestic, at a height of six hundred feet above us. Monte Rosa itself

had lowered its flag!

Levesque and I were completely exhausted. As for M. N——, who had

rejoined us at the summit of the Corridor, it might be said that he was

insensible to the rarefaction of the air, for he no longer breathed, so

to speak.

We began at last to scale the last stage. We made ten steps and then

stopped, finding it absolutely impossible to proceed. A painful

contraction of the throat made our breathing exceedingly difficult. Our

legs refused to carry us; and I then understood the picturesque

expression of Jacques Balmat, when, in narrating his first ascent, he

said that “his legs seemed only to be kept up by his trousers!” But our

mental was superior to our physical force; and if the body faltered,

the heart, responding “Excelsior!” stifled its desperate complaint, and

urged forward our poor worn-out mechanism, despite itself. We thus

passed the Petits-Mulets, and after two hours of superhuman efforts

finally overlooked the entire chain. Mont Blanc was under our feet!

[Illustration: Summit of Mont Blanc.]

It was fifteen minutes after twelve.

The pride of success soon dissipated our fatigue. We had at last

conquered this formidable crest. We overlooked all the others, and the

thoughts which Mont Blanc alone can inspire affected us with a deep

emotion. It was ambition satisfied; and to me, at least, a dream

realized!

Mont Blanc is the highest mountain in Europe. Several mountains in Asia

and America are higher; but of what use would it be to attempt them,

if, in the absolute impossibility of reaching their summit, you must be

content to remain at a lesser height?

Others, such as Mont Cervin, are more difficult of access; but we

perceived the summit of Mont Cervin twelve hundred feet below us!

And then, what a view to reward us for our troubles and dangers!

The sky, still pure, had assumed a deep-blue tint. The sun, despoiled

of a part of his rays, had lost his brilliancy, as if in a partial

eclipse. This effect, due to the rarefaction of the air, was all the

more apparent as the surrounding eminences and plains were inundated

with light. No detail of the scene, therefore, escaped our notice.

In the south-east, the mountains of Piedmont, and farther off the

plains of Lombardy, shut in our horizon. Towards the west, the

mountains of Savoy and Dauphiné; beyond, the valley of the Rhone. In

the north-west, the Lake of Geneva and the Jura; then, descending

towards the south, a chaos of mountains and glaciers, beyond

description, overlooked by the masses of Monte Rosa, the

Mischabelhoerner, the Cervin, the Weishorn—the most beautiful of

crests, as Tyndall calls it—and farther off by the Jungfrau, the Monck,

the Eiger, and the Finsteraarhorn.

The extent of our range of vision was not less than sixty leagues. We

therefore saw at least one hundred and twenty leagues of country.

A special circumstance happened to enhance the beauty of the scene.

Clouds formed on the Italian side and invaded the valleys of the

Pennine Alps without veiling their summits. We soon had under our eyes

a second sky, a lower sky, a sea of clouds, whence emerged a perfect

archipelago of peaks and snow-wrapped mountains. There was something

magical in it, which the greatest poets could scarcely describe.

The summit of Mont Blanc forms a ridge from southwest to north-east,

two hundred paces long and a yard wide at the culminating point. It

seemed like a ship’s hull overturned, the keel in the air.

Strangely enough, the temperature was very high—ten degrees above zero.

The air was almost still. Sometimes we felt a light breeze.

The first care of our guides was to place us all in a line on the crest

opposite Chamonix, that we might be easily counted from below, and thus

make it known that no one of us had been lost. Many of the tourists had

ascended the Brevent and the Jardin to watch our ascent. They might now

be assured of its success.

But to ascend was not all; we must think also of going down. The most

difficult, if not most wearisome, task remained; and then one quits

with regret a summit attained at the price of so much toil. The energy

which urges you to ascend, the need, so natural and imperious, of

overcoming, now fails you. You go forward listlessly, often looking

behind you!

It was necessary, however, to decide, and, after a last traditional

libation of champagne, we put ourselves in motion. We had remained on

the summit an hour. The order of march was now changed. M. N——’s party

led off; and, at the suggestion of his guide Paccard, we were all tied

together with a rope. M. N——’s fatigue, which his strength, but not his

will, betrayed, made us fear falls on his part which would require the

help of the whole party to arrest. The event justified our foreboding.

On descending the side of the wall, M. N—— made several false steps.

His guides, very vigorous and skilful, were happily able to check him;

but ours, feeling, with reason, that the whole party might be dragged

down, wished to detach us from the rope. Levesque and I opposed this;

and, by taking great precautions, we safely reached the base of this

giddy ledge. There was no room for illusions. The almost bottomless

abyss was before us, and the pieces of detached ice, which bounded by

us with the rapidity of an arrow, clearly showed us the route which the

party would take if a slip were made.

Once this terrible gap crossed, I began to breathe again. We descended

the gradual slopes which led to the summit of the Corridor. The snow,

softened by the heat, yielded beneath our feet; we sank in it to the

knees, which made our progress very fatiguing. We steadily followed the

path by which we ascended in the morning, and I was astonished when

Gaspard Simon, turning towards me, said,—

“Monsieur, we cannot take any other road, for the Corridor is

impracticable, and we must descend by the wall which we climbed up this

morning.”

I told Levesque this disagreeable news.

“Only,” added Gaspard Simon, “I do not think we can all remain tied

together. However, we will see how M. N—— bears it at first.”

We advanced towards this terrible wall! M. N——’s party began to

descend, and we heard Paccard talking rapidly to him. The inclination

became so steep that we perceived neither him nor his guides, though we

were bound together by the same rope.

As soon as Gaspard Simon, who went before me, could comprehend what was

passing, he stopped, and after exchanging some words in _patois_ with

his comrades, declared that we must detach ourselves from M. N——’s

party.

“We are responsible for you,” he added, “but we cannot be responsible

for others; and if they slip, they will drag us after them.”

Saying this, he got loose from the rope. We were very unwilling to take

this step; but our guides were inflexible.

We then proposed to send two of them to help M. N——’s guides. They

eagerly consented; but having no rope they could not put this plan into

execution.

We then began this terrible descent. Only one of us moved at a time,

and when each took a step the others buttressed themselves ready to

sustain the shock if he slipped. The foremost guide, Edward Ravanel,

had the most perilous task; it was for him to make the steps over

again, now more or less worn away by the ascending caravan.

We progressed slowly, taking the most careful precautions. Our route

led us in a right line to one of the crevasses which opened at the base

of the escarpment. When we were going up we could not look at this

crevasse, but in descending we were fascinated by its green and yawning

sides. All the blocks of ice detached by our passage went the same way,

and after two or three bounds, ingulfed themselves in the crevasse, as

in the jaws of the minotaur, only the jaws of the minotaur closed after

each morsel, while the unsatiated crevasse yawned perpetually, and

seemed to await, before closing, a larger mouthful. It was for us to

take care that we should not be this mouthful, and all our efforts were

made for this end. In order to withdraw ourselves from this

fascination, this moral giddiness, if I may so express myself, we tried

to joke about the dangerous position in which we found ourselves, and

which even a chamois would not have envied us. We even got so far as to

hum one of Offenbach’s couplets; but I must confess that our jokes were

feeble, and that we did not sing the airs correctly.

I even thought I discovered Levesque obstinately setting the words of

“Barbe-Bleue” to one of the airs in “Il Trovatore,” which rather

indicated some grave preoccupation of the mind. In short, in order to

keep up our spirits, we did as do those brave cowards who sing in the

dark to forget their fright.

We remained thus, suspended between life and death, for an hour, which

seemed an eternity; at last we reached the bottom of this terrible

escarpment. We there found M. N—— and his party, safe and sound.

After resting a little while, we continued our journey.

As we were approaching the Petit-Plateau, Edward Ravanel suddenly

stopped, and, turning towards us, said,—

“See what an avalanche! It has covered our tracks.”

An immense avalanche of ice had indeed fallen from the Goûter, and

entirely buried the path we had followed in the morning across the

Petit-Plateau.

I estimated that the mass of this avalanche could not comprise less

than five hundred cubic yards. If it had fallen while we were passing,

one more catastrophe would no doubt have been added to the list,

already too long, of the necrology of Mont Blanc.

This fresh obstacle forced us to seek a new road, or to pass around the

foot of the avalanche. As we were much fatigued, the latter course was

assuredly the simplest; but it involved a serious danger. A wall of ice

more than sixty feet high, already partly detached from the Goûter, to

which it only clung by one of its angles, overhung the path which we

should follow. This great mass seemed to hold itself in equilibrium.

What if our passing, by disturbing the air, should hasten its fall? Our

guides held a consultation. Each of them examined with a spy-glass the

fissure which had been formed between the mountain and this alarming

ice-mass. The sharp and clear edges of the cleft betrayed a recent

breaking off, evidently caused by the fall of the avalanche.

After a brief discussion, our guides, recognizing the impossibility of

finding another road, decided to attempt this dangerous passage.

“We must walk very fast,—even run, if possible,” said they, “and we

shall be in safety in five minutes. Come, messieurs, a last effort!”

A run of five minutes is a small matter for people who are only tired;

but for us, who were absolutely exhausted, to run even for so short a

time on soft snow, in which we sank up to the knees, seemed an

impossibility. Nevertheless, we made an urgent appeal to our energies,

and after two or three tumbles, drawn forward by one, pushed by

another, we finally reached a snow hillock, on which we fell

breathless. We were out of danger.

It required some time to recover ourselves. We stretched out on the

snow with a feeling of comfort which every one will understand. The

greatest difficulties had been surmounted, and though there were still

dangers to brave, we could confront them with comparatively little

apprehension.

We prolonged our halt in the hope of witnessing the fall of the

avalanche, but in vain. As the day was advancing, and it was not

prudent to tarry in these icy solitudes, we decided to continue on our

way, and about five o’clock we reached the hut of the Grands-Mulets.

After a bad night, attended by fever caused by the sunstrokes

encountered in our expedition, we made ready to return to Chamonix;

but, before setting out, we inscribed the names of our guides and the

principal events of our journey, according to the custom, on the

register kept for this purpose at the Grands-Mulets.

About eight o’clock we started for Chamonix. The passage of the Bossons

was difficult, but we accomplished it without accident.

[Illustration: Grands-Mulets.—Party Descending From The Hut.]

Half an hour before reaching Chamonix, we met, at the chalet of the

Dard falls, some English tourists, who seemed to be watching our

progress. When they perceived us, they hurried up eagerly to

congratulate us on our success. One of them presented us to his wife, a

charming person, with a well-bred air. After we had given them a sketch

of our perilous peregrinations, she said to us, in earnest accents,—

“How much you are envied here by everybody! Let me touch your

alpenstocks!”

These words seemed to interpret the general feeling.

The ascent of Mont Blanc is a very painful one. It is asserted that the

celebrated naturalist of Geneva, De Saussure, acquired there the seeds

of the disease of which he died in a few months after his return from

the summit. I cannot better close this narrative than by quoting the

words of M. Markham Sherwell:—

“However it may be,” he says, in describing his ascent of Mont Blanc,

“I would not advise any one to undertake this ascent, the rewards of

which can never have an importance proportionate to the dangers

encountered by the tourist, and by those who accompany him.”

THE END.