“Do you think her capable of yielding to ennui in any place?”
“Certainly, do not doubt it; but she has recourse to her imagination to dispel the tedium. She has a marvellous talent for procuring herself diversion and for varying her pleasures. Hers is an imagination having many relays: no sooner is one horse exhausted than there is another to take its place.”
“That is a precious gift,” he replied, briefly. “I assure you, however, that you calumniate the Engadine. The trees there are not so well grown as those in your park; but the Alpine fir and pine have their beauty.”
“You went to this hole for your health, monsieur?”
“Yes, and no, madame. I was not ill, but any physician contended that I should be still better if I breathed the air of the Alps for three weeks. It was taking a cure as a preventive.”
“M. Larinski made the ascent of the Morteratsch,” said Camille, who, seated on a divan with his arms extended on his knees, never had ceased to look at Samuel Brohl with a hard and hostile glance. “That is an exploit that can be performed only by well people.”
“It is no exploit,” replied Samuel; “it is a work of patience, easy for those who are not subject to vertigo.”
“You are too modest,” rejoined the young man. “Had I done as much, I would sound a trumpet.”
“Have you attempted the ascent?” asked Samuel.
“Not at all. I do not care about having feats of prowess to relate,” he replied, in an almost challenging tone.