The previous night in the cars I had found myself the only woman among some half dozen French military officers, who paid me the most polite attention.  They were charmed that I made no objection to their cigarettes, talked with me on various topics, criticised McClellan as a general, and were enthusiastic on the subject of our country generally.  About midnight they prepared a grand repast from their traveling-bags, to which they gave me a cordial invitation.  I begged to contribute my mesquin supply of grapes and brioches, and the supper was a considerable event.  Their canteens were filled with red wines, and one cup served the whole company.  They drank my health and that of the President of the United States.  Afterward we had vocal music, two of the officers being good singers.  They sang Beranger’s songs and the charming serenade from Lalla Rookh.  I finally expressed a desire to hear the Marseillaise.  This seemed to take them by surprise, but one of the singers, declaring that he had "rien a refuser a madame" boldly struck up,

    Allons, enfants de la patrie,
    Le jour de gloire est arrive;

but his companions checked him before he had finished the first stanza.  The law forbade, they said, the production of the Marseillaise in society.  We were a society:  the guard would hear us and might report it.

“Vous voyez, madame,” said the singer, “n’il n’est pas defendu d’etre voleur, mais c’est defendu d’etre attrape” (It is not against the law to be a thief, but to be caught.)

My traveling—­companions reached their destination early in the morning, and, very gallantly expressing regrets that they were not going over the Alps, so as to bear mer company, bade me farewell.

From the rear of the St. Michel hotel, called the Lion d’Or, I watched the preparations for crossing Mont Cenis.  Three diligences were being crazily loaded with our baggage.  The men who loaded them seemed imitating the Alpine structure.  They piled trunk on trunk to the height of thirty feet, I verily believe; and if some one should nudge my elbow and say “fifty,” I should write it down so without manifesting the least surprise.

When the preparations were finished the setting sun was shining clearly on the white summits above, and we commenced slowly winding up the noble zigzag road.  Rude mountain children kept up with our diligences, asked for sous and wished us bon voyage in the name of the Virgin.

The grandeur, but especially the extent and number, of the Alpine peaks impressed me with a vague, undefinable sense, which was not, I think, the anticipated sensation; and indeed if I had been in a poetic mood, it would have been quickly dissipated by the mock raptures of a young Englishman with a poodly moustache and an eye-glass.  He called our attention to every chasm, gorge and waterfall, as if we had been wholly incapable of seeing or appreciating anything without his aid.