By and by we perceived what those super-delicate colors, and their continuous play and movement, reminded us of; it is what one sees in a soap-bubble that is drifting along, catching changes of tint from the objects it passes.  A soap-bubble is the most beautiful thing, and the most exquisite, in nature; that lovely phantom fabric in the sky was suggestive of a soap-bubble split open, and spread out in the sun.  I wonder how much it would take to buy a soap-bubble, if there was only one in the world?  One could buy a hatful of Koh-i-Noors with the same money, no doubt.

We made the tramp from Martigny to Argentie`re in eight hours.  We beat all the mules and wagons; we didn’t usually do that.  We hired a sort of open baggage-wagon for the trip down the valley to Chamonix, and then devoted an hour to dining.  This gave the driver time to get drunk.  He had a friend with him, and this friend also had had time to get drunk.

When we drove off, the driver said all the tourists had arrived and gone by while we were at dinner; “but,” said he, impressively, “be not disturbed by that—­remain tranquil—­give yourselves no uneasiness—­their dust rises far before us —­rest you tranquil, leave all to me—­I am the king of drivers.  Behold!”

Down came his whip, and away we clattered.  I never had such a shaking up in my life.  The recent flooding rains had washed the road clear away in places, but we never stopped, we never slowed down for anything.  We tore right along, over rocks, rubbish, gullies, open fields—­sometimes with one or two wheels on the ground, but generally with none.  Every now and then that calm, good-natured madman would bend a majestic look over his shoulder at us and say, “Ah, you perceive?  It is as I have said —­I am the king of drivers.”  Every time we just missed going to destruction, he would say, with tranquil happiness, “Enjoy it, gentlemen, it is very rare, it is very unusual —­it is given to few to ride with the king of drivers —­and observe, it is as I have said, I am he.”

He spoke in French, and punctuated with hiccoughs.  His friend was French, too, but spoke in German—­using the same system of punctuation, however.  The friend called himself the “Captain of Mont Blanc,” and wanted us to make the ascent with him.  He said he had made more ascents than any other man—­forty seven—­and his brother had made thirty-seven.  His brother was the best guide in the world, except himself—­but he, yes, observe him well—­he was the “Captain of Mont Blanc”—­that title belonged to none other.

The “king” was as good as his word—­he overtook that long procession of tourists and went by it like a hurricane.  The result was that we got choicer rooms at the hotel in Chamonix than we should have done if his majesty had been a slower artist—­or rather, if he hadn’t most providentially got drunk before he left Argentie`re.

CHAPTER XLIII [My Poor Sick Friend Disappointed]