II.

A week later, I met M. Claude again. He was a very nice young fellow,

there was not a doubt of that. He was intelligent, well educated, manly,

with all the honest, sturdy, independent Swiss nature clearly visible in

his frank, bright, open face. I have seldom met a man whom I liked

better at first sight than M. Claude, and after he had gone away I felt

more than a little ashamed of myself to think I had been half trying to

steal away Isaline's heart from this good fellow, without really having

any deliberate design upon it myself. It began to strike me that I had

been doing a very dirty, shabby thing.

"Charlie, my boy," I said to myself, as I sat fishing with bottom bait

and dangling my legs over the edge of a pool, "you've been flirting with

this pretty little Swiss girl; and what's worse, you've been flirting in

a very bad sort of way. She's got a lover of her own; and you've been

trying to make her feel dissatisfied with him, for no earthly reason.

You've taken advantage of your position and your fancied London airs and

graces to run down by implication a good fellow who really loves her and

would probably make her an excellent husband. Don't let this occur

again, sir." And having thus virtuously resolved, of course I went away

and flirted with Isaline next morning as vigorously as ever.

During the following fortnight, M. Claude came often, and I could not

disguise from myself the fact that M. Claude did not quite like me. This

was odd, for I liked him very much. I suppose he took me for a potential

rival: men are so jealous when they are in love. Besides, I observed

that Isaline tried not to be thrown too much with him alone; tried to

include me in the party wherever she went with him. Also, I will freely

confess that I felt myself every day more fond of Isaline's society, and

I half fancied I caught myself trepidating a little inwardly now and

then when she happened to come up to me. Absurd to be so susceptible;

but such is man.

One lovely day about this time I set out once more to try my hand (or

rather my feet) alone upon the Aiguille. Isaline put me up a nice little

light lunch in my knapsack, and insisted upon seeing that my alpenstock

was firmly shod, and my pedestrian boots in due climbing order. In fact,

she loudly lamented my perversity in attempting to make the ascent

without a guide; and she must even needs walk with me as far as the

little bridge over the torrent beside the snow line, to point me out the

road the guides generally took to the platform at the summit. For

myself, I was a practised mountaineer, and felt no fear for the result.

As I left her for the ice, she stood a long time looking and waving me

the right road with her little pocket-handkerchief; while as long as I

could hear her voice she kept on exhorting me to be very careful. "Ah,

if monsieur would only have taken a guide! You don't know how dangerous

that little Aiguille really is."

The sun was shining brightly on the snow; the view across the valley of

the Rhone towards the snowy Alps beyond was exquisite; and the giants of

the Bernese Oberland stood out in gloriously brilliant outline on the

other side against the clear blue summer sky. I went on alone, enjoying

myself hugely in my own quiet fashion, and watching Isaline as she made

her way slowly along the green path, looking round often and again, till

she disappeared in the shadow of the pinewood that girt round the tiny

village. On, farther still, up and up and up, over soft snow for the

most part; with very little ice, till at last, after three hours' hard

climbing, I stood on the very summit of the pretty Aiguille. It was not

very high, but it commanded a magnificent view over either side--the

Alps on one hand, the counterchain of the Oberland on the other, and the

blue lake gleaming and glowing through all its length in its green

valley between them. There I sat down on the pure snow in the glittering

sunlight, and ate the lunch that Isaline had provided for me, with much

gusto. Unfortunately, I also drank the pint of white wine from the head

of the lake--Yvorne, we call it, and I grow it now in my own vineyard at

Pic de la Baume--but that is anticipating again: as good a light wine as

you will get anywhere in Europe in these depressing days of blight and

phylloxera. Now, a pint of _vin du pays_ is not too much under ordinary

circumstances for a strong young man in vigorous health, doing a hard

day's muscular work with legs, arms, and sinews: but mountain air is

thin and exhilarating in itself, and it lends a point to a half-bottle

of Yvorne which the wine's own body does not by any means usually

possess. I don't mean to say so much light wine does one any positive

harm; but it makes one more careless and easy-going; gives one a false

sense of security, and entices one into paying less heed to one's

footsteps or to suspicious-looking bits of doubtful ice.

Well, after lunch I took a good look at the view with my field-glass;

and when I turned it towards Les Pentes I could make out our farmhouse

distinctly, and even saw Isaline standing on the balcony looking towards

the Aiguille. My heart jumped a little when I thought that she was

probably looking for me. Then I wound my way down again, not by

retracing my steps, but by trying a new path, which seemed to me a more

practicable one. It was not the one Isaline had pointed out, but it

appeared to go more directly, and to avoid one or two of the very worst

rough-and-tumble pieces.

I was making my way back, merrily enough, when suddenly I happened to

step on a little bit of loose ice, which slid beneath my feet in a very

uncomfortable manner. Before I knew where I was, I felt myself sliding

rapidly on, with the ice clinging to my heel; and while I was vainly

trying to dig my alpenstock into a firm snowbank, I became conscious for

a moment of a sort of dim indefinite blank. It was followed by a

sensation of empty space; and then I knew I was falling over the edge of

something.

Whrrr, whrrr, whrrr, went the air at my ear for a moment; and the next

thing I knew was a jar of pain, and a consciousness of being enveloped

in something very soft. The jar took away all other feeling for a few

seconds; I only knew I was stunned and badly hurt. After a time, I began

to be capable of trying to realize the position; and when I opened my

eyes and looked around me, I recognized that I was lying on my back, and

that there was a pervading sensation of whiteness everywhere about. In

point of fact, I was buried in snow. I tried to move, and to get on my

legs again, but two things very effectually prevented me. In the first

place, I could not stir my legs without giving myself the most intense

pain in my spine; and in the second place, when I did stir them I

brought them into contact on the one hand with a solid wall of rock, and

on the other hand with vacant space, or at least with very soft snow

unsupported by a rocky bottom. Gradually, by feeling about with my arms,

I began exactly to realize the gravity of the position. I had fallen

over a precipice, and had lighted on a snow-covered ledge half-way down.

My back was very badly hurt, and I dared not struggle up on to my legs

for fear of falling off the ledge again on the other side. Besides, I

was half smothered in the snow, and even if anybody ever came to look

for me (which they would not probably do till to-morrow) they would not

be able to see me, because of the deep-covering drifts. If I was not

extricated that night, I should probably freeze to death before morning,

especially after my pint of wine. "Confound that Yvorne!" I said to

myself savagely. "If ever I get out of this scrape I'll never touch a

drop of the stuff again as long as I live." I regret to say that I have

since broken that solemn promise twice daily for the past three years.

My one hope was that Isaline might possibly be surprised at my delay in

returning, and might send out one of the guides to find me.

So there I lay a long time, unable even to get out of the snow, and with

every movement causing me a horrid pain in my injured back. Still, I

kept on moving my legs every now and then to make the pain shoot, and so

prevent myself from feeling drowsy. The snow half suffocated me, and I

could only breathe with difficulty. At last, slowly, I began to lose

consciousness, and presently I suppose I fell asleep. To fall asleep in

the snow is the first stage of freezing to death.