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Updated: May 25, 2025
The rain dashed against the panes of the berime, as we rode past the grim-faced monarch of the "misty shroud." A cold wind went sweeping by, and the Rhone was rushing far below, discernible only in the distance as a rivulet of flashing foam. It was night as we drove into Geneva, and stopped at the Messagerie. I heard with joy a voice demanding if this were Monsieur Besshare.
I heard with joy a voice demanding if this were Madame Besshare. I replied, not without some scruples of conscience, 'Oui, Monsieur, c'est moi, though the name did not sound exactly like the one to which I had been wont to respond. In half an hour we were at home in the mansion of Monsieur Fazy." From Geneva the party made a tour of the Swiss Alps, spending some weeks among them.
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