CHAPTER XXIII

MICHEL REVAILLOUD’S FUEHRBUCH

The book indeed was of far more interest to her than the portrait of any mountaineer.  It had a romance, a glamour of its own.  It was just a little note-book with blue-lined pages and an old dark-red soiled leather cover which could fit into the breast pocket and never be noticed there.  But it went back to the early days of mountaineering when even the passes were not all discovered and many of them were still uncrossed, when mythical peaks were still gravely allotted their positions and approximate heights in the maps; and when the easy expedition of the young lady of to-day was the difficult achievement of the explorer.  It was to the early part of the book to which she turned.  Here she found first ascents of which she had read with her heart in her mouth, ascents since made famous, simply recorded in the handwriting of the men who had accomplished them—­the dates, the hours of starting and returning, a word or two perhaps about the condition of the snow, a warm tribute to Michel Revailloud and the signatures.  The same names recurred year after year, and often the same hand recorded year after year attempts on one particular pinnacle, until at the last, perhaps after fifteen or sixteen failures, weather and snow and the determination of the climbers conspired together, and the top was reached.

“Those were the grand days,” cried Sylvia.  “Michel, you must be proud of this book.”

“I value it very much, madame,” he said, smiling at her enthusiasm.  Michel was a human person; and to have a young girl with a lovely face looking at him out of her great eyes in admiration, and speaking almost in a voice of awe, was flattery of a soothing kind.  “Yes, many have offered to buy it from me at a great price—­Americans and others.  But I would not part with it.  It is me.  And when I am inclined to grumble, as old people will, and to complain that my bones ache too sorely, I have only to turn over the pages of that book to understand that I have no excuse to grumble.  For I have the proof there that my life has been very good to live.  No, I would not part with that little book.”

Sylvia turned over the pages slowly, naming now this mountain, now that, and putting a question from time to time as to some point in a climb which she remembered to have read and concerning which the narrative had not been clear.  And then a cry of surprise burst from her lips.

Chayne had just assured himself that there was no portrait of Gabriel Strood amongst those spread out upon the table.

“What is it, madame?” asked Michel.

Sylvia did not answer, but stared in bewilderment at the open page.  Chayne saw the book which she was reading and knew that his care lest she should come across her father’s portrait was of no avail.  He crossed round behind her chair and looked over her shoulder.  There on the page in her father’s handwriting was the signature:  “Gabriel Strood.”