"You wish to go to Lanslebourg, over the Cenis?" he said.
"Yes."
"Very well; give me ten lire."
The price was very moderate, but the fellow struck me as a swaggerer.
Instinctively I did not like him.
"Where is your licence? Are you a regular guide?" I asked.
"I have no licence, but I have a certificate of honourable discharge. I
was in the Fourth Regiment of Artillery."
"And your name?"
"Do you want to know all this for ten lire?" and he began to laugh
sarcastically. "Very well; I will tell you my name gratis. I am called
Giovanni Oldrini. Has the cross-examination concluded?"
Seeing that his smile displeased me, he immediately changed his
expression, and added emphatically--
"Ask the landlord about me; he will tell you. _Buona sera_."
And he turned and left me abruptly.
At four o'clock next morning we set out. He tied my valise on his back,
took his alpenstock, and set off nimbly, whistling a popular
_chansonette_. His gait was peculiar. His step made no sound; he
seemed to glide along.
Having crossed the rushing torrent by the ancient wooden bridge, we came
to the foot of the mountain. Leaving the rough road that leads from
Susa over the lower heights to Modane, we took a steep by-path that ran
in serpentine wanderings over rocks and through woods of fir and pine.
In climbing we passed a beautiful lavender garden. The side of the
mountain was quite blue with the flowers, and the fresh air of dawn was
scented by their fragrance. There were also barberries and
gooseberries, and flowers which were among the first we know in our own
land, such as dog-roses, white campions, and harebells. Then for some
distance we skirted a wood, and as we went higher, the larches gave
place to pines, and yet higher still only stunted herbage grew from the
crevices of the bare brown rocks.
He climbed like a squirrel. Hardly had he started when he began to talk
to me, but either from sleepiness or from the feeling of uneasiness
which his company gave me, I did not answer him.
At first, in the steepest places, Giovanni turned and offered me his
hand, but, being fresh, I refused his aid, proud to encounter the rough
mountain. When we help ourselves with hands and knees, and every step
must be studied, the mind does not notice the fatigue. Presently,
however, the fellow began to walk by himself, abandoning me to my fate.
There was no real danger, but I felt somewhat indignant at seeing him so
high on the rocks.
Gradually he was increasing the distance between us, and I cried to him
to stop, but my voice did not reach him. If it had not been for my
valise, I would have returned immediately.
I saw he had a piece of paper in his hand and a pencil. Scribbling a
few words, he folded the paper and placed it behind a large stone. My
suspicions were increased when I saw him abstract something bright and
shining from behind the stone and place it in his pocket. It was a
revolver!
People do not generally go armed in the Cottian Alps, and I somehow felt
convinced that the weapon was to be used for no lawful purpose. Perhaps
the letter he had written was a message to his confederates, reporting
the fact that he had secured a victim! How I regretted that I had not
placed my revolver in my pocket instead of putting it in the valise he
was carrying.
He was standing with his hands in his pockets, whistling a gay air and
awaiting me. I was toiling up the steep path, and felt almost dead
beat. The whole mountain was a mass of gigantic rocks, half buried in
the sand, soft and moist from recently melted snow and the draining of
the ice.
"I was looking for a franc-piece I dropped. It rolled behind that
stone, and I cannot find it," he said. Then he looked into my eyes, and
asked, with an insolent air, "Don't you believe me?"
"No."
I did not believe him, and began to be greatly disquieted. He perceived
it, and immediately became jovial and talkative. He knew me, he said--
he had asked the innkeeper about me. He knew that I was a journalist;
it must be a fine trade for making money by the sackful. He knew city
life, for he had lived in Turin, and he always read the _Secolo_--it was
his favourite paper. He also knew that I had written novels--another
gold mine. Writers of romance, he supposed, were always seeking
adventure, and poking their noses in out-of-the-way corners, and
inquiring into other people's business. Good! I was with him, and
might meet with a strange experience presently.
But I paid no attention to him.
"You gentlemen come to the Alps for the fun of knowing what fatigue is,"
he said. "Ah! if you only knew what it was--how much a piece of bread
costs!"
He was eloquent and excitable, and spoke like a man believing himself to
be followed by constant persecution.
We had almost reached the summit, when suddenly we came upon a rough
pillar built of pieces of rock piled together.
"See!" he said; "there is the frontier mark."
Then we continued walking a dozen paces or so, and were in France.
Soon afterwards we recommenced our ascent to the summit, trudging
through patches of melted snow. For about half an hour we continued our
rough climb, when he halted, and, scanning the mountain cautiously,
said--
"Come, follow me quickly!"
"Where?" I asked. "This surely is not the road to Lanslebourg?"
"Do not argue, but come with me," he said impatiently. "If you do not,
it will be the worse for you!" he muttered between his teeth.
Linking his arm in mine, he half dragged me along to what appeared to be
the face of a perpendicular rock. We passed along a narrow passage
behind a great boulder, and as we did so, my strange guide gave a shrill
whistle.
In a moment a cunningly-concealed door in the face of the rock opened
and a wild-haired, black-bearded, brigandish-looking man emerged.