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.
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