In Half An Hour We Were At Home, In The Mansion Of Monsieur
Geneve, Monday, June 27.
The day dawned clear over this palace of
enchantment. The mountains, the lake, the entire landscape on every
side revealed itself from our lofty windows with transparent
brilliancy. This house is built on high ground, at the end of the lake
near where the Rhone flows out. It is very high in the rooms, and we
are in the fourth story, and have distant views on all four sides. The
windows are very large, and open in leaves, on hinges, like doors,
leaving the entire window clear, as a frame for the distant picture.
In the afternoon we rode out across the Rhone, where it breaks from
the lake, and round upon the ascending shore. It is seldom here that
the Alps are visible. The least mist hides them completely, so that
travellers are wont to record it in their diaries as a great event, "I
saw Mont Blanc to-day." Yesterday there was nothing but clouds and
thick gloom; but now we had not ridden far before H. sprang suddenly,
as if she had lost her senses - her cheeks flushed, and her eye
flashing. I was frightened. "There," said she, pointing out of the
side of the carriage across the lake, "there he is - there's Mont
Blanc." "Pooh," said I, "no such thing." And some trees for a moment
intervened, and shut out the view. Presently the trees opened, and H.
cried, "There, that _white_; don't you see?
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