One morning he conceived the project of climbing up as high as a certain fortress of mountains whose battlements overhang a forest of pine and larch trees.He was not yet sufficiently accustomed to the mountains to realize how deceptive distances become there.After having drained two glasses of the chalybeate waters, and breakfasted heartily, he set out, crossed the Inn, and began the ascent to the forest.The slope grew more and more abrupt, and ere long he discovered that he had wandered from the foot-path.He was not one to be easily disheartened; he continued climbing, laying hold of the brushwood with his hands, planting his feet among perfidious pine-needles, which form a carpet as smooth as a mirror, making three steps forward and two backward.Great drops of perspiration started out on his brow, and he sat down for a moment to wipe them away, hoping that some wood-cutter might appear and show him the way back to the path, if there was one.But no human soul came within sight; and plucking up his courage again he resumed the ascent, until he had nearly reached a breastwork of rock, in which he vainly sought an opening.He was about retracing his steps when he remembered that from the gallery of the hotel he had observed this breastwork of reddish rock, and it seemed to him that he remembered also that it formed the buttress of the mountain-stronghold of which he was in quest; and so he concluded that this would be the last obstacle he would have to overcome.He thought that it would be actually humiliating to be so near the goal and yet renounce it.The rock, worn by the frost, presented sundry crevices and indentures, forming a natural stairway.Arming himself with all his strength, and making free use of his nails, he undertook to scale it, and in five minutes had gained a sort of plateau, which, unluckily for him, he found to be commanded by a smooth granite wall of a fearful height.The only satisfactory procedure for him now was to return whence he had come; but in these perilous passages to ascend is easier than to descend; it being impossible to choose one's steps, descent might lead to a rather undesirable adventure.M.Moriaz did not dare to risk this adventure.
He walked the whole length of the plateau where he found himself in the hope of discovering some outlet; but the sole outlet he could discover had already been monopolized by a mountain-torrent whose troubled waters noisily precipitated themselves through it to the depths below.This torrent was much too wide to wade, and to think of leaping over it would have been preposterous.All retreat being cut off, M.Moriaz began to regret his audacity.Seized by a sudden agony of alarm, he began to ask himself if he was not condemned to end his days in this eagle's-nest; he thought with envy of the felicity of the inhabitants of the plains; he cast piteous glances at the implacable wall whose frowning visage seemed to reproach him with his imprudence.
It seemed to him that the human mind never had devised anything more beautiful than a great highway; and it would have taken little to make him exclaim with Panurge, "Oh, thrice--ay, quadruply--happy those who plant cabbages!"Although there seemed small chance of his being heard in this solitude, he called aloud several times; he had great difficulty in raising his voice above the noise of the cataract.Suddenly he believed that he heard below him a distant voice replying to his call.
He redoubled his cries, and it seemed to him that the voice drew nearer, and soon he saw emerging from the thicket bordering the opposite bank of the torrent a pale face with chestnut beard, which he remembered having beheld in the cathedral at Chur, and to have seen again at Bergun.
"You are a prisoner, monsieur," was the salutation of Count Larinski;for, of course, the newcomer was none other than he."One moment's patience, and I am with you." And his face beamed with joy.He had him at last, this precious game which has caused him so many steps.
He turned away, bounding from rock to rock with the agility of a chamois.In about twenty minutes he reappeared, bearing on his shoulder a long plank which he had detached from the inclosure of a piece of pasture-land.He threw it across the torrent, secured it as well as he could, crossed this impromptu foot-bridge of his own device, and joined M.Moriaz, who was quite ready to embrace him.
"Nothing is more perfidious than the mountains," said the count."They are haunted by some mysterious sprite, who fairly delights in playing tricks with venturesome people; but 'all's well that ends well.'
Before setting out from here you need something to revive you.The rarefied atmosphere of these high regions makes the stomach frightfully hollow.More prudent than you, I never undertake these expeditions without providing myself with some refreshment.But how pale you are!" he added, looking at him with sympathetic, almost tender, eyes."Put on, I beg of you, my overcoat, and I will wrap myself up in my plaid, and then we will both be warm."With these words he took off his overcoat and handed it to M.Moriaz, who, feeling almost frozen, offered feeble objections to donning the garment, although he had some difficulty in getting into the sleeves.
