The young mountaineer nodded again.
“And in the meanwhile, monsieur, there is no favour imperilled by showing what resolute fellows we are. I was even now on my way to monsieur. This mist presages a sunny morrow. Monsieur, the mountain still waits to be scaled.”
“It must wait, Jacques, for me. There are rarer heights to gain. For the moment I hold my life like the frailest vessel, which it is my duty to protect from so much as a breath of danger.”
“Well, monsieur, that sounds funny to me. But then, manliness is my only recommendation. To win a great name out of venture—there is my chance, and now more than ever.”
“Why now, Jacques?”
“Monsieur has not heard? Dr Paccard has been appointed physician to the Château. Dr Paccard will be a big man presently—too big to countenance a son-in-law chosen from the people.”
“Since when has he been appointed, Jacques?”
“Since last night, monsieur, by the talk. It tells of how the monsignore’s erst familiar, the seer Bonito, came down into the village raging over his dismissal. And there are other whispers—of a libertine reformed; of changes projected at the Château. I know little of their import, I—only this, that Jacques Balmat will lose nothing by conquering the mountain. Shall we not join hands, monsieur, in essaying once more a triumph which would make all men our debtors—monsieur, to win or perish?”
But Saint-Péray shook his head.
“Another time, Jacques,” he said. “My claim to conquest must rest on lower deserts. Bonne chance, camarade!” And he went on his way, to meet the fate of the irresolute; while young Balmat went on his, to climb to his Martha by-and-by.