“You will be throwing your chamois away in a day or two,” I prophesied, “or sending it back to our landlord to add to his collection of animals.”

“You will see that I shan’t throw it away,” the Boy returned, and insisted upon carrying the parcel in his hand, instead of having it sent from the shop to the hotel.  When we had learned something of the town we sauntered homeward; and seated in the vaste parc with a novel and a red silk parasol, we found Gaeta.  “Where have you been so early?” she asked.

“To find a burnt-offering for your shrine,” said the Boy; and tearing off the white wrappings, he gave her the silver chamois.

[Illustration]

CHAPTER XIX

The Little Rift within the Lute

“There comes a mist, and a weeping rain,
And nothing is ever the same again;
Alas!”
—­GEORGE MACDONALD.

We devoted three days to some exquisite excursions, which more than half consoled me for sacrificing Mont Blanc to make a tyrant’s holiday, and then decided to push on to Aix-les-Bains, stopping on the way for a glimpse of Annecy.

The Contessa had planned to go from Chamounix to Aix by rail with her friends, but she had either fallen in love with our mode of travelling or pretended it.  A hint to the Boy, and Fanny-anny was placed at her disposal for a ride from Chamounix to Annecy, a lady’s saddle being easily picked up in a town of shops which miss no opportunities.  As for the Baron and Baronessa, it was plain to see the drift of their minds.  So angry were they at the change of programme, that it would have been a satisfaction to quarrel with Gaeta, and leave her in a huff.  But their devotion to Paolo, which was almost pathetic, forbade them this form of self-indulgence.  They curbed their annoyance with the bit of common-sense, though it galled their mouths, and consented to drive to Annecy in a carriage provided by Gaeta for their accommodation.  They even constrained themselves to be civil to the Boy and me, though their heavy politeness had the electrical quality of a lull before a storm.  How that storm would break I could not foresee, but that it would presently burst above our heads I was sure.

There was no longer a question that Boy was hot favourite in the race for Gaeta’s smiles.  There might have been betting on me for “place,” but it would have been foolish to put money on my chances as winner.  The young wretch scarcely gave me a chance for a word with the Contessa, for if I walked on the left he walked on the right of her as she rode, his little brown hand on the new saddle, which had taken the place of the old one sent on to Annecy by grande vitesse.  I would have surrendered, being too lazy for a struggle, had I not been somewhat piqued by the Boy’s behaviour.  He had affected not to care for Gaeta at first, and had even feigned annoyance at the temporary addition to our party,