“I am sorry,” said Chayne.

The words sounded, as he spoke them, lame enough and trivial in the face of Michel’s passionate lament.  But they had an astonishing effect upon the guide.  The flow of words stopped at once, he looked at his young patron almost whimsically and a little smile played about his mouth.

“‘I am sorry,’” he repeated.  “Those were the words the young lady spoke to you on the steps of the hotel.  You have spoken with her, monsieur, and thanked her for them?”

“No,” said Chayne, and there was much indifference in his voice.

Women had, as yet, not played a great part in Chayne’s life.  Easy to please, but difficult to stir, he had in the main just talked with them by the way and gone on forgetfully:  and when any one had turned and walked a little of his road beside him, she had brought to him no thought that here might be a companion for all the way.  His indifference roused Michel to repeat, and this time unmistakably, the warning he had twice uttered.

He leaned across the table, fixing his eyes very earnestly on his patron’s face.  “Take care, monsieur,” he said.  “You are lonely to-night—­very lonely.  Then take good care that your old age is not one lonely night like this repeated and repeated through many years!  Take good care that when you in your turn come to the end, and say good-by too”—­he waved his hand toward the mountains—­“you have some one to share your memories.  See, monsieur!” and very wistfully he began to plead, “I go home to-night, I go out of Chamonix, I cross a field or two, I come to Les Praz-Conduits and my cottage.  I push open the door.  It is all dark within.  I light my own lamp and I sit there a little by myself.  Take an old man’s wisdom, monsieur!  When it is all over and you go home, take care that there is a lighted lamp in the room and the room not empty.  Have some one to share your memories when life is nothing but memories.”  He rose as he ended, and held out his hand.  As Chayne took it, the guide spoke again, and his voice shook: 

“Monsieur, you have been a good patron to me,” he said, with a quiet and most dignified simplicity, “and I make you what return I can.  I have spoken to you out of my heart, for you will not return to Chamonix and after to-night we shall not meet again.”

“Thank you,” said Chayne, and he added:  “We have had many good days together, Michel.”

“We have, monsieur.”

“I climbed my first mountain with you.”

“The Aiguille du Midi.  I remember it well.”

Both were silent after that, and for the same reason.  Neither could trust his voice.  Michel Revailloud picked up his hat, turned abruptly away and walked out of the cafe into the throng of people.  Chayne resumed his seat and sat there, silent and thoughtful, until the street began to empty and the musicians in the square ceased from their songs.