He leaned back in his chair and once more grew silent, watching the thronged street and the twinkling lights.  In the little square one of the musicians with a very clear sweet voice was singing a plaintive song, and above the hum of the crowd, the melody, haunting in its wistfulness, floated to Chayne’s ears, and troubled him with many memories.

Michel leaned forward upon the table and answered not merely with sympathy but with the air of one speaking out of full knowledge, and speaking moreover in a voice of warning.

“True, monsieur.  The happiest memories can be very bitter—­if one has no one to share them.  All is in that, monsieur.  If,” and he repeated his phrase—­“If one has no one to share them.”  Then the technical side of Chayne’s proposal took hold of him.

“The Col Dolent?  You will have to start early from the Chalet de Lognan, monsieur.  You will sleep there, of course, to-morrow.  You will have to start at midnight—­perhaps even before.  There is very little snow this year.  The great bergschrund will be very difficult.  In any season it is always difficult to cross that bergschrund on to the steep ice-slope beyond.  It is so badly bridged with snow.  This season it will be as bad as can be.  The ice-slope up to the Col will also take a long time.  So start very early.”

As Michel spoke, as he anticipated the difficulties and set his thoughts to overcome them, his eyes lit up, his whole face grew younger.

Chayne smiled.

“I wish you were coming with me Michel,” he said, and at once the animation died out of Michel’s face.  He became once more a sad, dispirited man.

“Alas, monsieur,” he said, “I have crossed my last Col.  I have ascended my last mountain.”

“You, Michel?” cried Chayne.

“Yes, monsieur, I,” replied Michel, quietly.  “I have grown old.  My eyes hurt me on the mountains, and my feet burn.  I am no longer fit for anything except to lead mules up to the Montanvert and conduct parties on the Mer de Glace.”

Chayne stared at Michel Revailloud.  He thought of what the guide’s life had been, of its interest, its energy, its achievement.  More than one of those aiguilles towering upon his left hand, into the sky, had been first conquered by Michel Revailloud.  And how he had enjoyed it all!  What resource he had shown, what cheerfulness.  Remorse gradually seized upon Chayne as he looked across the little iron table at his guide.

“Yes, it is a little sad,” continued Revailloud.  “But I think that toward the end, life is always a little sad, if”—­and the note of warning once more was audible—­“if one has no well-loved companion to share one’s memories.”