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. III. Noises above me, I think, on the edge of the precipice. Something coming
down, oh, how slowly. Something comes, and fumbles about a yard or so
away. Then I cry out feebly, and the something approaches. M. Claude's
hearty voice calls out cheerily, "Enfin, le voilà!" and I am saved. They let down ropes and pulled me up to the top of the little crag,
clumsily, so as to cause me great pain: and then three men carried me
home to the farmhouse on a stretcher. M. Claude was one of the three,
the others were labourers from the village. "How did you know I was lost, M. Claude?" I asked feebly, as they
carried me along on the level. He did not answer for a moment; then he said, rather gloomily, in
German, "The Fräulein was watching you with a telescope from Les
Pentes." He did not say Fräulein Isaline, and I knew why at once: he did
not wish the other carriers to know what he was talking about. "And she told you?" I said, in German too. "She sent me. I did not come of my own accord. I came under orders." He
spoke sternly, hissing out his gutturals in an angry voice. "M. Claude," I said, "I have done very wrong, and I ask your
forgiveness. You have saved my life, and I owe you a debt of gratitude
for it. I will leave Les Pentes and the Fräulein to-morrow, or at least
as soon as I can safely be moved." He shook his head bitterly. "It is no use now," he answered, with a
sigh; "the Fräulein does not wish for me.