At a turn of the road we seemed suddenly to quit France, and wheel into Switzerland. The air was Alpine, and the vegetation that of the higher valleys there. It was near seven o'clock when we approached St. Martin Lantosque, a quaint brown village of wood, clustering around a domed church.
We soon found the Hôtel des Alpes, which was but a sorry inn of no great cleanliness. The proprietor, a white-faced man, watched us descend without enthusiasm.
"What time did the diligence come in?" I asked him.
"These gentlemen have ridden," he said pleasantly.
He was joined at this moment by a person who seemed to be a waiter, though he was clad more like a stable help.
I repeated my question at a shout, and the attendant, placing his lips against the innkeeper's ear, issued another edition of it
