"
The very resignation of Michel's voice brought Chayne to a yet deeper
compunction. The wistful melody still throbbed high and sank, and soared
again above the murmurs of the passers-by and floated away upon the clear
hot starlit night. Chayne wondered with what words it spoke to his old
guide. He looked at the tired sad face on which a smile of friendliness
now played, and his heart ached. He felt some shame that his own troubles
had so engrossed him. After all, Lattery was not greatly to be pitied.
That was true. He himself too was young. There would come other summers,
other friends. The real irreparable trouble sat there before him on the
other side of the iron table, the trouble of an old age to be lived out
in loneliness.
"You never married, Michel?" he said.
"No. There was a time, long ago, when I would have liked to," the guide
answered, simply. "But I think now it was as well that I did not get my
way. She was very extravagant. She would have needed much money, and
guides are poor people, monsieur--not like your professional cricketers,"
he said, with a laugh. And then he turned toward the massive wall of
mountains. Here and there a slim rock spire, the Dru or the Charmoz,
pointed a finger to the stars, here and there an ice-field glimmered like
a white mist held in a fold of the hills. But to Michel Revailloud, the
whole vast range was spread out as on a raised map, buttress and peak,
and dome of snow from the Aiguille d'Argentiere in the east to the summit
of Mont Blanc in the west.
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