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.”
