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 Hotel 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 in a voice that awakened an echo far across the vale, and startled the tired horses.
"The patron is deaf," explained the servant.
"You don't say so," I answered.
We gave these people up as hopeless, and Alphonse had the brilliant idea of applying at the post-office across the way.

Here we found an intelligent man.

Miste had arrived by the diligence.