It is cold, and we are not sorry at half-past
nine to find ourselves at Bourg d'Oisans, where there is a very fair
inn kept by one Martin; we get a comfortable supper of eggs and go
to bed fairly tired.
This we must remind the reader is Thursday night, on Tuesday morning
we left London, spent one day in Paris, and are now sleeping among
the Alps, sharpish work, but very satisfactory, and a prelude to
better things by and by. The next day we made rather a mistake,
instead of going straight on to Briancon we went up a valley towards
Mont Pelvoux (a mountain nearly 14,000 feet high), intending to
cross a high pass above La Berarde down to Briancon, but when we got
to St. Christophe we were told the pass would not be open till
August, so returned and slept a second night at Bourg d'Oisans. The
valley, however, was all that could be desired, mingled sun and
shadow, tumbling river, rich wood, and mountain pastures, precipices
all around, and snow-clad summits continually unfolding themselves;
Murray is right in calling the valley above Venosc a scene of savage
sterility. At Venosc, in the poorest of hostelries was a tuneless
cracked old instrument, half piano, half harpsichord--how it ever
found its way there we were at a loss to conceive--and an irrelevant
clock that struck seven times by fits and starts at its own
convenience during our one o'clock dinner; we returned to Bourg
d'Oisans at seven, and were in bed by nine.
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