CHAPTER XXIV
The Revenge of the Mountain
"Contending with the fretful elements."
--SHAKESPEARE.
It is the early bird which gathers the worm, if the worm has thoughtlessly got up early too; but it is also the bird which comes flying from afar off, whatever his engagements elsewhere may be; the bird which, having come, remains on the spot favoured by the worm, singing sweet songs to charm it into a mood ripe for the gathering.
Such a bird was Paolo, and such--but perhaps it would be more gallant not to carry the simile further, since even poetry could scarcely license it.
It is enough to say, in proof of the proverb, that when the Boy and I arrived at the villa in time for _dejeuner_, to which I had been invited over night, we found Paolo with Gaeta, under the red umbrella, unenc.u.mbered by any irrelevant Barons or Baronesses.
Gaeta was looking pale and a little frightened. Her dimples were in abeyance, as if waiting to learn whether something had happened to twinkle about, or something which would more likely extinguish them forever. But the aeronaut might have invented an air-ship to take the place of ordinary Channel traffic, so great with pride was he. He appeared to have grown several inches in height, and to have increased considerably in chest measurement, as he sprang from his chair to welcome us, as if we had been long-lost brothers.
"Congratulate me," said he. "The Contessa has just consented to be my wife."
Gaeta clutched the arm of her rustic seat with a tiny hand upon which a new ring glittered, like a new star in the firmament. Her warm dark eyes, eager, expectant, deliciously fearful, were on the Boy. If the discarded favourite of yesterday had leaped to the throat of the accepted lover of to-day (her "Whirlwind"), she would have screamed a silvery little scream and implored him for _her_ sake to accept the inevitable calmly; she would have given him a reproachful flash of the eyes, to say, "Why didn"t _you_ take me, instead of letting him carry me away? What could I do, when you left me alone, at his mercy--I so frail, he so big and strong?" Her glance would then have telegraphed to Paolo, "You have won me and my love; you can afford to spare a defeated rival who is desperate"; and perhaps she might even have thrown me a crumb for auld flirtation"s sake.
But the Boy did not, apparently, feel the least magnetic attraction towards Paolo"s throat, or any other vulnerable part of the aeronaut"s person. Nor did he stamp on the ground, crying upon earth to open and swallow the master of the air. I, too, kept an unmoved front; but then, being English, that might have been pardoned to my national _sang-froid_. There was, however, no such excuse for the mercurial young American, and flat disappointment struck out the spark in Gaeta"s eye. The second act of her little drama seemed doomed to failure.
"_Mille congratulations_," said the Boy cordially, I basely echoing him. We shook hands with Gaeta; we shook hands with Paolo, and something was said about weddings and wedding-cake. Then the Baron and Baronessa appeared so opportunely as to give rise to the base suspicion that they had been eavesdropping. More polite things were mumbled, and we went to luncheon, Gaeta on Paolo"s arm, with a disappointed droop of her pretty shoulders. We drank to the health and happiness of the newly affianced pair, a habit which seemed to be growing upon me of late, and might lead me down the fatal grade of bachelordom. The Boy and I were unable to conceal, as we ought to have done out of politeness, the fact that our appet.i.tes had sustained the shock of our lady"s engagement, and I saw in her eyes that she could never wholly forgive us, no, not even if we made love to her after marriage.
"Shall you take your wedding trip in a balloon?" asked the Boy demurely; and this was the last straw. Gaeta did not make the faintest protest when, soon after, it was announced that he and I thought of leaving Aix on the morrow. I am not sure that she even heard my vague apologies concerning a telegram from friends.
We all went to the opera at one of the Casinos that night. It was "Rigoletto," and Gaeta and Paolo sat side by side, looking into each other"s eyes during the love scene in the first act. But the Boy was adamant, and I did not turn a hair. He and I were much occupied in wondering at the strange infatuation of the stage hero, but especially the villain--quite a superior villain--for the heroine, who looked like an elderly papoose: therefore we had no time to be jealous of anything that went on under our noses. The party supped with me, _en ma.s.se_, at my hotel; and afterwards I said good-bye to Gaeta.
She did not know that I had planned my journey with a thought of seeing her at the end, and drowning my sorrows in flirtation; but the Boy knew, and had not forgotten--the little wretch. I saw his thought twinkling in his eyes, as I said debonairly that we might all meet on the Riviera. If I had not sternly removed my gaze, I should probably have burst out laughing, and precipitated a second duel in which I, and not the Boy, would have been a princ.i.p.al.
When I had been in Aix-les-Bains before, I had made the excursion to Mont Revard, as all the world makes it, by the funicular railway; and after half an hour in the little train, I had arrived at the top for lunch and the view, both being enjoyed in a conventional manner. Now, all was to be changed. The Boy and I did not regard ourselves as tourists, but as pilgrims.
Among other things that self-respecting pilgrims cannot do, is to ascend a mountain by means of a funicular railway; better stay at the bottom, and look up with reverence. Therefore, instead of strolling out to the little station about twelve o"clock, with the view of reaching the restaurant on the plateau in time for _dejeuner_, we met on the balcony of the Bristol at seven in the morning. There we fortified ourselves for a long walk, with eggs and _cafe au lait_, while Innocentina and Joseph grouped the animals at the foot of the steps.
The day was divinely young, and most divinely fair, when we set forth.
Only the soft fall of an occasional leaf, weary of keeping up appearances on no visible means of support, told that autumn had come. The weather put me in mind of a beautiful woman of forty, who can still cheat the world into believing that she is in the full summer of her prime, and is making the most of the few good years left before the crash.
As we struck up the steep hill that leads out of Aix-les-Bains and civilisation, pa.s.sing with all our little procession into the oak copses which fringe the lower slopes of Mont Revard, the Boy and I agreed that nothing became the town so well as the leaving it behind.
At last little Aix unveiled her face to us, as we looked down upon it from airy alt.i.tudes. We had s.p.a.ce to see how pretty she was, how charmingly she was dressed, and how gracefully she sat in her mountain-backed chair, with her dainty white feet in the lake, which, as Joseph said, we could now follow with our eyes _dans toute son etendue_. A beautiful _etendue_ it was, the water keeping its extraordinary brilliance of colour, even in the far distance; vivid in changing blue-greens, flecked with gold, like the spread tail of a peac.o.c.k burnished by the sun.
Mont Revard is chiselled on the same pattern as all the other mountains, big and little, of this part of Savoie; first, the long, steep slope decently covered with a belt of wood, oak below, and pine above; then a grey, precipitous wall, scarred and furrowed by the frost and storm of a million years or more. This block-and-socket arrangement of Nature is, generally speaking, one of the least interesting of mountain forms, and its crudity was the more noticeable as we were fresh from the soaring pinnacles and stupendous pyramids of Switzerland. But Mont Revard is the perfection of its type; and as we plodded in single file up the threadlike path wound round the mountain (Joseph and Innocentina in front, driving the animals), my respect for Revard increased with each steeply ascending step.
Aromatic-scented branches brushed our faces, and we had to part them before we could pa.s.s on. Then they flew back into their accustomed places, resenting our intrusion by shaking over us a shower of fragrant dew. The path, which was always narrow, had fallen away a little here and there, for it is no one"s business to repair it now, since the making of the railway has turned pilgrims into tourists.
There was just room for man or beast to walk without danger, but so sheer were the descents below us, so great the drop, that a woman might have been pardoned a few tremors. "It"s a good thing you"re not a girl," said I to the Little Pal, across my shoulder, holding back a particularly obstinate branch which would have liked to push us over the precipice, with its lean black arm. "You would be screaming, and I shouldn"t know what to do for you."
"Not if I were an American girl," he replied, bristling with patriotism.
"Is your sister plucky?"
"As plucky as I am; but perhaps that"s not saying much. So you"re glad I"m not a girl?"
"I wouldn"t metamorphose you, and lose my comrade. Still, if your sister were like you, and not an heiress, I should----"
"You would--what?"
"Like to meet her. But she would probably detest me, and wonder how her brother could have endured my society for weeks on end."
I was looking back, as I spoke, at the Boy, who was close behind, when suddenly his smile seemed to freeze, and springing forward he caught me by the coat sleeve.
"What"s the matter?" I asked, for he was pale under the brown tan.
For an instant he did not answer. Then, with his lips trembling slightly, he smiled again. "I thought you were going to be killed, that"s all," said he, "so I stopped you. You were looking back at me, but I saw that--that you were just going to tread on a stone which f.a.n.n.y had loosened with her hoof as she pa.s.sed. If you had stepped there, before you could regain your balance, you--but there"s no use talking of it. Only do look where you"re walking, won"t you, when we"re on a path like this? Now we can go on."
"Why, you little duffer, you"re as white as a ghost!" I exclaimed. "If the stone had slipped I should have jumped back. The path isn"t really so narrow. It only gives that effect because it"s steep, and hangs over the edge of a precipice. Still, many thanks for your solicitude."
"I believe, after all, I"ll have to rest for a minute," the Boy said apologetically. "I feel--a little queer. You needn"t wait. I"m sorry you should see me like this. You"ll think that there"s nothing to choose between me and a girl. But I"m not always a coward."
"I know that well enough," I a.s.sured him. "You"re not a coward now.
But come on. You shall rest when the path widens, where the others are stopping."
I caught his hand to pull him along, since we could not walk abreast, and it was icy cold. Yet it was not for himself that he had feared, and my heart was very warm for the Little Pal, as I steered him carefully past the loose, flat stone on the edge of the narrow path.
Joseph and Innocentina, who had been driving Finois and Souris, allowing f.a.n.n.y to follow at will, had called a halt with the three animals, in a green dell where the way widened. The muleteer had a handful of exquisite pink cyclamen, fragrant as violets, which he had been gathering from hidden nooks among the rocks, and he was in the act of presenting the flowers to Innocentina when we arrived, but she waved them aside, exclaiming at her young master"s pale face.
The Boy explained that there might have been an accident, owing to f.a.n.n.y, and the donkey girl broke into violent abuse of the brown velvet creature who was her favourite.
"Daughter of a thrice-accursed mother, and of a despicable race!" she cried in her odd patois, which it was often better not to understand too well. "Blighted and bloodthirsty beast! But look at her now, eating with an enormous appet.i.te a branch as big as herself. Anaconda!
She would eat if the world burned. If she had, with a stroke of her twenty times condemned hoof, hurled us all to death on the rocks below, she would still eat, not even looking over the cliff to see what had become of us."
"But you should not talk so," broke in Joseph, lover of animals. "It was not the fault of the little _ane_ that the stone was loosened. How could she know? It is you who are hard of heart, to turn upon her thus. It is because you are Catholic, and believe that the beasts have no souls."
"It is better to have none than to be a heretic, and the soul burn,"
retorted Innocentina. "I am not hard-hearted. I love my young Monsieur, and would not see him injured, that is all; while you care for nothing in the world so much as your old Finois. Ah, I would I had the _insouciance_ of the _anes_. It is after all that which keeps them young."
At this we laughed, which annoyed Innocentina so much that she at once fed to the maligned f.a.n.n.y a bunch of charming yellow-pink mushrooms which my prophetic soul told me had been originally intended for her master"s lunch.
Fortunately for us, Joseph--sadly wearing in his b.u.t.tonhole the despised cyclamen--discovered a few more of these agreeable little vegetables, which he tested for our benefit by drawing his st.u.r.dy thumbnail along the stem, showing how the fluted undersurface flushed red at the touch, while the blood flowed carmine from the wound he made.
A short rest brought the colour back to the Boy"s lips, but we did not go on again until we had eaten some of the chicken sandwiches which had been put up for me at the hotel. Climbing had made us hungry, although we had not been three hours on the way. And we had left the summer behind, on lower levels; we did not need to remind ourselves now that it was autumn. By noon we were _en route_ again, but the brilliance of the day had gone. As we looked back at the world we were leaving, serrated mountains were dark against flying silver clouds, and when we neared the Col, a fierce north wind, which had been lying in wait for us above, swooped down like a great bird of prey. We had heard it shrieking from afar, but now we had penetrated into its very eyrie; and as we crept, like flies upon a wall, along the tiny path which merely roughened the sheer rock precipice, the wind caught and clawed us with savage glee.
For a wonder, the much-travelled Joseph had never before made the ascent of Mont Revard, therefore a certain pioneer instinct on which I pride myself, and yesterday"s research in the admirable map of the Ministry of the Interior, alone gave us guidance. I did not see how we could have come wrong, yet each moment it appeared that our neglected path had reached its end, like an unwound tape-measure. Could it be possible that this broken, ill-mended thread was the clue which would eventually lead us to the Col de Pertuiset, and the chalet-hotel far away upon the summit of the mountain?
The Boy and I were ahead now, I sheltering him slightly from the cold blast with my body, as I walked before him. Presently the way turned abruptly, to zig-zag up a gap in the rock face, and I shouted a warning to Joseph to look after Innocentina and the animals, so steep and ruinous was the path. But I need not have been alarmed. A backward glance showed me that Joseph had antic.i.p.ated my instructions, so far as Innocentina was concerned.
Not a word of complaint came from the Boy; indeed, it would have been difficult for him to utter it, even if he would, with the wind rudely pressing its seal upon his lips. But I held out a hand to him, and though he rebelled at first, an instant"s silent tussle made me master of his, so that I could pull him up with little effort on his part.
In the deep gullies and hollows of this chasm below the Col, the wind had us at its mercy, and forced our breath down our throats. We were in deep shadow, though the sun should have been not far past the zenith, and looking up to learn the reason, we saw that a huge bank of woolly mist hung grey and heavy between us and the sky. Below--far, far below--we had a glimpse of the world we had left still bathed in September sunshine, warm and beautiful, with cloud-shadows flying over low gra.s.s mountains and distant lakes. Then we seemed to knock our heads against a dull grey ceiling, which noiselessly crumbled round us, and we were in the mist.