Chapter XXVI
Above the Snow Line
".... le temps l'acheve."
Before setting out we had a light breakfast at the Hotel des Alpes,where we were informed by several other persons, and on two furtheroccasions by the waiter that the "patron" was deaf. Indeed, thevillage had no other news.
The postmaster had ordered a carriage, which, however, could only takeus two miles on our road, for this ceased at that distance, and only abad bridle path led onward to Italy.
Alphonse was by this time beginning to feel the effects of his longride and sleepless night; for he had not closed his eyes, while I hadsnatched a priceless hour of sleep. Moreover, the hardships of thecampaign had rendered him less equal to a sudden strain than a man ingood condition. He kept up bravely, however, despite a great thirstwhich at this time assailed him, and sent him to the brook at the sideof the path much too often for his good.
We entered at once upon a splendid piece of mountain scenery, andsoon left behind us the vivid green of the upper valley. To our left asheer crag rose from the valley in one unbroken slope, and in frontthe mountains seemed to close and bar all progress. We had fivethousand feet to climb from the frontier stone, and I anticipatedhaving to accomplish the larger part of it alone. They had warned usthat we should find eight feet of snow at the summit of the pass.
Miste had assuredly been hard pressed to attempt such a passage alone,and bearing, as he undoubtedly did, a large sum of money. The man hada fine nerve, at all events; for on the other side he would plungeinto the wildest part of northern Italy, where the human scum thatever hovers on frontiers had many a fastness. Villainy always requiresmore nerve than virtue.
I meant, however, to catch Mr. Charles Miste on the French side of theChapel of the Madonna di Finestra.
We trod our first snow at an altitude of about five thousand feet. Thespring, it will be remembered, was a cold one in 1870, and the snowlay late that year. At last, on turning a corner, we saw about twomiles ahead of us a black form on the white ground, and I confess myheart stood still.
Alphonse, who had no breath for words, grasped my arm, and we stoodfor a moment watching Miste, for it could be no other. The sun wasshining on the great snow-field, and the man's figure was the one darkspot there. He was evidently tired, and made but slow progress.
"I am not going to lose him now," I said to Alphonse. "If you cannotkeep up with me, say so, and I will go on alone."
"You go at your own pace," answered the Frenchman, with admirablespirit, "and I will keep up till I drop. I mean to be in at the deathif I can."
Miste never turned, but continued his painful, upward way. He was alight stepper, as his shallow footprints betokened; but I saw withgrim delight that each step of mine overlapped his measure by a coupleof inches.
There is nothing so still as the atmosphere of a summit, and in thisdead silence we hurried on. Giraud's laboured breathing alone brokeit. I glanced at him, and saw that his face was of a pasty white andgleaming with perspiration. Poor Alphonse had not much more in him. Islackened pace a little.
"We are gaining on him, every step tells," said I encouragingly, butit was clear that my companion would soon drop.
We went on in silence for nearly half an hour and gained visibly onMiste, who never looked back or paused. At the end of the time we werewithin a mile of him, and only spoke in whispers, for at such analtitude sound travels far. Every moment that Miste was ignorant ofthe pursuit was invaluable to us. I could see clearly now that it washe and no other; the man's back was familiar to me, and his lithespringy gait.
"Have you a revolver?" whispered Giraud as we stumbled on.
"Not I."
"Then take mine, I cannot--last--much longer."
Supposing that Miste should be in better training than myself!Supposing that when he turned and saw us he should be able to increasehis pace materially, he would yet escape me!
I stretched out my hand and took the revolver, which was of a familiarpattern. I made up my mind to shoot Miste sooner than lose him, forthe chase had been a long one, and my blood was hot.
We were gaining on him still, and the heat of the day made him slackenhis pace. The sun beat down on us from a cloudless sky. My lips andthroat were like dry leather. Alphonse had long been cooling his withsnow. We did not care to speak now. All our hearts were in our eyes;at any moment Miste might turn.
Suddenly Alphonse lagged behind. I glanced at him, and he pointedupward, so I went on. It was difficult enough to breathe at such analtitude, and my heart kept making matters worse by leaping to mythroat and choking me. I felt giddy at times, and shivered, though theperspiration ran off my face like rain.
I was within three hundred yards of Miste now, and Alphonse wassomewhere behind me, I could not pause to note how far. We were nearthe summit, and the world seemed to contain but three men. My breathwas short, and there was clockwork going in my head.
Then at length Miste turned. He took all in at a glance, probablyrecognising us. At all events he had no doubt of our business there;for he hurried on, and I could see his hand at his jacket pocket.Still I gained on him.
"Beer against absinthe," I remember thinking.
There was an unbroken snow-field ahead of us, the sheer side of amountain with the footpath cut across it--a strip of blue shadow.
After ten minutes of rapid climbing, Miste turned at length, andwaited for me. He had a cool head; for he carefully buttoned his coatand stood sideways, presenting as small a target as possible.
He raised his revolver and covered me.
"He won't fire yet," thought I, forty yards below him, and I advancedquickly.
He stood covering me for a few seconds, and then lowered his arm andwaited for me. In such an atmosphere we could have spoken in ordinarytones, but we had nothing to say. Monsieur Miste and I understood eachother without need of words.
"Fire, you fool!" cried Giraud behind me--nearer than I had suspected.
I was within twenty yards of Miste now; the man had a narrow, whiteface, and was clean shaven. I saw it only for a moment, for therevolver came up again.
"He is probably a bad shot, and will miss first time," I thoughtquickly, as I crept upward. The slope was steep at this point.
I saw the muzzle of the revolver quiver--a sign, no doubt, that he wasbearing on the trigger. Then there was a flash, and the report, as itseemed, of a cannon. I staggered back, and dropped on one knee. Mistehad hit me in the shoulder. I felt the warm blood running down withinmy clothes, and had a queer sensation of having fallen from a greatheight.
"I'll kill him!--I'll kill him!" I found myself repeating in a sillyway, as I got to my feet again.
No sooner was I up than Miste fired again, and I heard the bulletwhistle past my ear. At this I whipped out Giraud's revolver, for Ithought the next shot would kill me. The scoundrel let me have it athird time, and tore a piece out of my cheek; the pain of it wasdamnable. I now stood still and took a careful sight, remembering, ina dull way, to fire low. I aimed at his knees. Monsieur Charles Misteleapt two feet up into the air, fell face forwards, and came slidingdown towards me, clutching at the snow with both hands.
I was trying to stop my two wounds, and began to be conscious of aswimming in the head. In a moment Giraud was by my side, and clapped ahandful of snow on my cheek. He had been through the winter'scampaign, and this was no new work for him. He tore open my shirt andpressed snow on the wound in my shoulder, from which the blood waspumping slowly. I was in a horrid plight, but in my heart knew all thewhile that Miste had failed to kill me.
Giraud poured some brandy into my mouth, and I suppose that I wasnearly losing consciousness, for I felt the spirit running into melike new life.
In a minute or two we began to think of Miste, who was lying on hisface a few yards away.
"All right now?" asked Alphonse, cheerily.
"All right," I answered, rising and going towards the black form of myenemy.
We turned him over. The eyes wer
e open--large, liquid eyes, of apeculiarly gentle expression. I had seen them before, in Radley'sHotel at Southampton, under a gay little Parisian hat. I was down onmy knees in the snow in a moment--all cold with the thought that I hadkilled a woman.
But Charles Miste was a man--and a dead one at that. My relief was sogreat that I could have shouted aloud. Miste had therefore been withinmy grasp at Southampton, only eluding me by a clever trick, carriedout with consummate art. The dead face seemed to wear a smile as Ilooked at it.
Alphonse opened the man's shirt, and we looked at the small blue holethrough which my bullet had found his heart. Death must have been veryquick. I closed the gentle eyes, for they seemed to look at me from awoman's face.
"And now for his pockets!" I said, hardening my heart.
We turned them out one by one. His purse contained but little, and inan inner pocket some Italian silver, for use across the frontier. Hehad thought of everything, this careful scoundrel. In a side pocket,pinned to the lining of it, I found a flat packet enveloped innewspaper. This we unfolded hastily. It contained a number of papers.I opened one of them--a draft for five thousand pounds, drawn by JohnTurner on Messrs. Sweed & Carter of New York! I counted the draftsaloud and had a long task, for they numbered seventy-nine.
"AND NOW FOR HIS POCKETS!" I SAID, HARDENING MY HEART.]
"That," I said, handing them to Giraud, "is the half of your fortune.If we have luck we shall find the remainder in Sander's hands atGenoa."
And Alphonse Giraud must needs embrace me, hurting my shoulder mostinfernally, and pouring out a rapid torrent of apology andself-recrimination.
"I listened when it was hinted to me that you were not honest," hecried, "that you were not seeking the money at all, or that you hadalready recovered it! I have watched you as if you were a thief--MonDieu, what a scoundrel I have been."
"At all events you have the money now."
"Yes." He paused, fingering the papers, while he thoughtfully lookeddown into the valley. "Yes, Dick--and it cannot buy me what I want."
Thus we are, and always shall be, when we possess at length that forwhich we have long yearned.
We made a further search in Miste's pockets, and found nothing. Theman's clothing was of the finest, and his linen most clean and delicate.I had a queer feeling of regret that he should be dead--having wantedhis life these many months and now possessing it. Ah--those accomplisheddesires! They stalk through life behind us--an army of silent ghosts.For months afterwards I missed him--incomprehensible though this mayappear. A good foe is a tonic to the heart. Some of us are virtuous forthe sake of our friends--others pay the tribute to their foes.
There was still plenty of work for us to do, though neither was in astate to execute it. My left arm had stiffened right down to thefingers, which kept closing up despite my endeavours to keep life andmovement in them. The hurt in my cheek had fortunately ceasedbleeding, and Giraud bound it up with Miste's handkerchief. I recallthe scent of the fine cambric to this day, and when I smell a likeodour see a dead man lying on a snow-field.
We composed Miste in a decent attitude, with his slim hands crossed onhis breast, and then turned our steps downward towards St. MartinLantosque. To one who had never known a day's illness, the fatigueconsequent upon the loss of so much blood was particularly irksome,and I cursed my luck many a time as we stumbled over the snow. Giraudwould not let me finish the brandy in his flask, but kept some for anemergency.
The peasants were at work in the fields when we at length reached thevalley, and took no heed of us. We told no one of Miste lying alone onthe snow far above, but went straight to the gendarmerie, where wefound the chief--a sensible man, himself an old soldier--who heard ourstory to an end without interruption, and promised to give us allassistance. He sent at once for the doctor, and held my shouldertenderly while the ball was taken from it. This he kept, together withMiste's revolver, and indeed acted throughout with the greatestshrewdness and good sense. As an old campaigner he strongly urged meto remain quietly at St. Martin for a few days until the fever whichinevitably follows a bullet wound should have abated; but, on learningthat it was my intention to proceed at once to Genoa, placed nodifficulty in my way.
Knowing that I should find Sander at Genoa, where I could be tended,Giraud decided to remain at St. Martin Lantosque until Miste had beenburied and all formalities observed.
So I set forth alone about midday--in a private carriage placed at mydisposal by some local good Samaritan--feeling like a worm and noman.