The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 13, No. 80, June, 1864 | Page 5

We were not usually more demonstrative in
our manners than is customary among New-England women, but the
moment I could alight we rushed into each other's embrace, regardless
of a crowd of astonished porters and guides, mutually insisting, by way
of apology, that it seemed as if we had not met for a year.
Having dwelt upon this peculiar isolation experienced by the Alpine
traveller, it may be conjectured, that, when the boy, Auguste, drew my
bridle through his arm, I felt very much as Robinson Crusoe did when
he was joined by his man Friday. Auguste and I soon became friends.
He was a large, round-faced, mild-eyed youth, who, the instant the
excitement of securing his employment was past, subsided into a soft,
even pace like that of a dog. Now and then, too, he looked up at the
mule and me, precisely as a dog, accompanying his master, looks up to
see if all is right.
I did not talk to him at first. His mere presence was satisfaction enough.
After a while we grew more sociable. He spoke a French patois. So did
I. His was peculiar to the province,--mine wholly original,--but both
answered the purpose of communication, and so were satisfactory. He
had the essential characteristic of his profession,--he was one of the
oily-tongued tribe, simple as he seemed, and I the willing victim; for I
am confident that I straightened in my saddle, and talked more glibly
than ever in the language peculiar to myself, on the strength of his
naïve surprise at learning the place of my nativity, and his polite
exclamation, "De l'Amèrique! O! j'avais cru que vous étiez de Paris!"
The conversation you hold with your guide has this advantage,--you
can suspend it at will. There are miles of travel, in crossing the
Tête-Noire, when, if your most sympathizing friend walked beside you,
the thought of both hearts would be, "Let all the earth keep silence!"
and in the absence of such unspoken sympathy, the next best thing is

the innocent gravity of an attendant hired for so many francs a day, and
not presuming to speak unless spoken to.
But when these sublimer passages are passed, when the path skirts the
edge of the valley, when the giant mountains have retired a little and
you slacken the tense cord of emotion which for a while has held you
spell-bound, it is a relief to loosen the tongue also, and reassure
yourself with the sound of the human voice. Thus Auguste and I had
frequent dialogues. He told me something of his past life, which I do
not remember very well. I think its chief incident was his having been
drafted for the army, and having served his term. Of his future,
however, he spoke with an earnestness which has left its impression on
my mind. He said that the next winter he meant to go to Paris and seek
a service; and his perseverance in wringing employment out of us
inclines me to think that he fulfilled his intention. Savoy, to which
province he belonged, had just been annexed to France. A party of
guides from Chamouni had the day before succeeded, with difficulty, in
planting the imperial flag on the summit of Mont Blanc. Was it this
which had awakened the ambition of the young Savoyard to share the
spoils of the empire of which he had so suddenly become a member?
Perhaps (I never thought of it before, but perhaps) he was already
seeking means for his journey to the capital. Perhaps the price of his
hard-won service was to be the nucleus of his savings. Have I, then,
aided your purpose, Auguste? helped to transform you from a simple
mountain-lad to a mere link in a chain of street-sweepers, an artful
official of a third-rate billiard-saloon, or a roystering cab-driver with
his perpetual entreaty for an extra fee in the form of "Quelque chose à
boire"? My mind shrinks from the possibility, for I cannot bear to think
of him as other than he then seemed,--a child of Nature and of the truth.
In the course of our day's journey we drew near a little village. I had
been chatting with Auguste and felt in a loquacious mood, but paused
as I found myself passing through the village,--in other words, sneaking
round the corner of one shabby hut, and straight through the farm-yard
of the next, and close by the windows of a third,--the three, and a few
other stray buildings, constituting the hamlet. As it seemed an
impertinence to follow such an intrusive, inquisitive little road at all,

we could, of course, do no less than maintain a dumb propriety in the
presence of the children and kitchen-utensils, but, as we left them
behind and struck across an open