CHAPTER XXVI.[ToC]
From Modane to Paris—Lovely scenery—St. Michel—St. Jean de Maurienne—Epierre—Paris—Notre Dame—French immorality—La Manche—"Dear old foggy London"—Reflections and conclusion.
After a thorough examination of our luggage by the French authorities, we leave Modane for Paris, a very powerful engine taking us in tow. At Modane the scenery is very grand: fine waterfalls, rocky mountains with great pine forests, and their slopes sometimes enlivened by the pink blossom of the almond tree—a capital place for Alpine climbers.
In consequence of the immense masses of loose overhanging rock, we had to advance slowly and cautiously, and we frequently looked up with some dread lest they should fall upon and utterly crush us. It was interesting to see the congealed waterfalls among the fir-crowned heights above, and some of the great romantic ravines filled with masses of frost-bound snow; while here and there we came upon small wooden crosses, marking the grave of some too adventurous climber or poor peasant guide. By-and-by we pass through a series of short tunnels, great care being necessary, as works are constantly going on to support the weight of the great mountain boulders and to prevent the tunnels falling in; for the water drainage saturates and loosens the masonry. One now obtains some idea of the enormous expenses of the line, and the difficulties contended with it. Descending, we lose for a time the snow-clad hills, which have been our companions for so long; the rivulets join and increase to a rushing, tumbling stream, following madly after us, until we stop at St. Michel, the first station after leaving Modane. Here a great mountain close to us completely covered with snow rendered the air around intensely cold. Continuing our route down into the valley, still accompanied by the lively, chattering stream, now widening into a roaring river, we have a great mountain range on either side, and pass through a lofty narrow gorge. Looking back, I could scarcely discern the cleft in the rocky barrier through which we had come.
And now we see a pretty homely scene among these snow-clad hills. At St. Jean de Maurienne, close to the railway, was a road leading to the valley down which troops of school-children tripped merrily along, led by Sisters of Mercy in their quaint, white winged caps, the healthy, joyous faces of the little ones evidencing to the kindness and care of these good women. What indeed would the inhabitants of these wintry mountain regions, so far from the civilization of great cities, do without their clergy, and the noble sisterhood who devote themselves to a life of usefulness and charity?
Later on we passed through another rocky defile, where we saw a little octagonal chapel perched upon a hilly promontory, overlooking a bridge across the river. Here the great mountain peaks were quite lost in the clouds, and the ruggedness of the scenery was grand in the extreme. Some of the immense pinnacles and jutting rocks were most fantastically shaped, like the residence of some fabled giant, in contrast to the little ruined castles we frequently saw, adding a touch of old-world romance to the landscape:
"The wild rocks shaped as they had turrets been
In mockery of man's art."
The valley between the mountains now widens, showing in the distance fertile plains, and now and then a picturesque little village, and other signs of human life and energy. Then again the scenery varies, magnificent snow-clad mountain peaks rising some 7000 or 8000 feet above us. Mont Blanc lies behind this range to the right, but is lost in the clouds—we making our way down to the valley of the Rhone, alone with the rushing stream, nothing else disturbing the silence of the sublime grandeur around.
Almost suddenly we descend to Epierre, where there is a pretty little iron bridge spanning the foaming river. Here the hillsides slope down gradually more and more, and every inch of ground is thriftily cultivated, the industry of the French far exceeding that of the Italians, who are for the most part a careless, easy-going race of beings. At Acquebelle we stopped. The marshes in the neighbourhood render it very unhealthy. At Mont Melian the route lies through fertile plains, the snowy Alps being now almost left behind. The landscape towards Chambery and Viviers is something like the Italian lake district. Passing Aix-les-Bains, we run along the borders of the long narrow lake Bourget, a fine coach road lying between us, affording a very beautiful drive. Aix, the popular watering-place, is celebrated for its sulphurous springs and vestiges of ancient Roman baths there. This was a refreshing change of scenery, but the lake seemed somewhat monotonous after the beauties of Como. At the end of the lake is a small promontory with a castellated building, commanding a fine view of the distant Alps.