“Well, this is the spider’s web, you know,”
he said, with the good-humored laugh of one who could
afford to despise the slanders of the ill-affected.
“Not such a very uncomfortable place, eh?”
and he bowed Mr. Fly out of his office.
He stood at the door and waited until the outer office
closed. Then he went to his telephone and rang
up a particular number.
“Are you Jones and Stiles?” he asked.
“Thank you! Will you ask Mr. Driver to
come to the telephone”; and with Mr. Driver he
talked genially for the space of five minutes.
Then, and not till then, with a smile of satisfaction,
Mr. Jarvice turned to the unopened letters which had
come to him by the morning post.
MICHEL REVAILLOUD EXPOUNDS HIS PHILOSOPHY
That summer was long remembered in Chamonix.
July passed with a procession of cloudless days; valley
and peak basked in sunlight. August came, and
on a hot starlit night in the first week of that month
Chayne sat opposite to Michel Revailloud in the balcony
of a cafe which overhangs the Arve. Below him
the river tumbling swiftly amidst the boulders flashed
in the darkness like white fire. He sat facing
the street. Chamonix was crowded and gay with
lights. In the little square just out of sight
upon the right, some traveling musicians were singing,
and up and down the street the visitors thronged noisily.
Women in light-colored evening frocks, with lace shawls
thrown about their shoulders and their hair; men in
attendance upon them, clerks from Paris and Geneva
upon their holidays; and every now and then a climber
with his guide, come late from the mountains, would
cross the bridge quickly and stride toward his hotel.
Chayne watched the procession in silence quite aloof
from its light-heartedness and gaiety. Michel
Revailloud drained his glass of beer, and, as he replaced
it on the table, said wistfully:
“So this is the last night, monsieur. It
is always sad, the last night.”
“It is not exactly as we planned it,”
replied Chayne, and his eyes moved from the throng
before him in the direction of the churchyard, where
a few days before his friend had been laid amongst
the other Englishmen who had fallen in the Alps.
“I do not think that I shall ever come back to
Chamonix,” he said, in a quiet and heart-broken
voice.
Michel gravely nodded his head.
“There are no friendships,” said he, “like
those made amongst the snows. But this, monsieur,
I say: Your friend is not greatly to be pitied.
He was young, had known no suffering, no ill-health,
and he died at once. He did not even kick the
snow for a little while.”
“No doubt that’s true,” said Chayne,
submitting to the commonplace, rather than drawing
from it any comfort. He called to the waiter.
“Since it is the last night, Michel,”
he said, with a smile, “we will drink another
bottle of beer.”
