We now called upon the Guide-in-Chief, and asked for a squadron of guides and porters for the ascent of the Montanvert.  This idiot glared at us, and said: 

“You don’t need guides and porters to go to the Montanvert.”

“What do we need, then?”

“Such as you?—­an ambulance!”

I was so stung by this brutal remark that I took my custom elsewhere.

Betimes, next morning, we had reached an altitude of five thousand feet above the level of the sea.  Here we camped and breakfasted.  There was a cabin there—­the spot is called the Caillet—­and a spring of ice-cold water.  On the door of the cabin was a sign, in French, to the effect that “One may here see a living chamois for fifty centimes.”  We did not invest; what we wanted was to see a dead one.

A little after noon we ended the ascent and arrived at the new hotel on the Montanvert, and had a view of six miles, right up the great glacier, the famous Mer de Glace.  At this point it is like a sea whose deep swales and long, rolling swells have been caught in mid-movement and frozen solid; but further up it is broken up into wildly tossing billows of ice.

We descended a ticklish path in the steep side of the moraine, and invaded the glacier.  There were tourists of both sexes scattered far and wide over it, everywhere, and it had the festive look of a skating-rink.

The Empress Josephine came this far, once.  She ascended the Montanvert in 1810—­but not alone; a small army of men preceded her to clear the path—­and carpet it, perhaps—­and she followed, under the protection of sixty-eight guides.

Her successor visited Chamonix later, but in far different style.

It was seven weeks after the first fall of the Empire, and poor Marie Louise, ex-Empress was a fugitive.  She came at night, and in a storm, with only two attendants, and stood before a peasant’s hut, tired, bedraggled, soaked with rain, “the red print of her lost crown still girdling her brow,” and implored admittance—­and was refused!  A few days before, the adulations and applauses of a nation were sounding in her ears, and now she was come to this!

We crossed the Mer de Glace in safety, but we had misgivings.  The crevices in the ice yawned deep and blue and mysterious, and it made one nervous to traverse them.  The huge round waves of ice were slippery and difficult to climb, and the chances of tripping and sliding down them and darting into a crevice were too many to be comfortable.

In the bottom of a deep swale between two of the biggest of the ice-waves, we found a fraud who pretended to be cutting steps to insure the safety of tourists.  He was “soldiering” when we came upon him, but he hopped up and chipped out a couple of steps about big enough for a cat, and charged us a franc or two for it.  Then he sat down again, to doze till the next party should come along.  He had collected blackmail from two or three hundred people already, that day, but had not chipped out ice enough to impair the glacier perceptibly.  I have heard of a good many soft sinecures, but it seems to me that keeping toll-bridge on a glacier is the softest one I have encountered yet.