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 Gouter, 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 Gouter 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