We had planned long ago, before the spell of the Contessa fell upon us, to make the journey we were taking now, by way of the Semnoz, the so-called Rigi of this Alpine Savoy, which is neither wholly French nor wholly Italian.  But we had abandoned the idea since, in a fine frenzy to keep our promise of rejoining her with all speed lest she perish alone in the icy disapproval of her friends.  When the mists closed round us, we ceased to regret the decision, if we had regretted it; for instead of seeing Savoy spread out beneath us, with its snow mountains and fertile valleys, lit with azure lakes—­as many as the Graces—­we should have been wrapped in cloud blankets.

After a walk of thirty-two kilometres, we came to Chatelard, and, having known little or nothing of the town, we were surprised to find that most other people knew of it as a great centre for excursions.  It was almost as unbelievable as that the places where we lived could possibly go on existing in exactly the same way during our absence.

“There are actually three hotels, all said to be good,” I remarked, quoting from my guide-book.  “To which shall we go?”

The Boy hesitated.  “Choose which you like, for yourself,” he replied with a slight appearance of embarrassment.  “As for me, I will make up my mind—­later.”

I could take this in but one way:  as a snub.  Evidently he had selected this fashion of intimating to me the change that Gaeta’s intrusion had worked in our relations.  I bit back a sharp word or two which I might have regretted by-and-bye, and answered not at all.  In consequence of this little passage, however, the Boy went to one hotel, and I to another, where I put Joseph up also.

A sense of loneliness was upon me, therefore my conscience stirred uneasily, and I reproached myself in that of late I had neglected the affairs of my muleteer.  At one time he and I had conversed at length on such subjects as mules, women, perdition, and the like; but for many days now our intercourse had consisted mostly of a “Good morning, Joseph!” “Good morning, Monsieur!”

To-night I sent for him, and enquired whether he had anything to wish for.

“Ah, Monsieur, there is but one thing for which I ask at present,” he said.

“Anything I can manage, Joseph?”

“I fear not, Monsieur.  It is the assurance that the poor young soul I am trying to lead out of darkness may reach the light before we have to part.”

“Innocentina’s?”

“The same, Monsieur.”

“You think her conversion within sight?”

“Just round the corner, if I may so express it.”

“Yet I hear that she tells her employer she is devoting all her energies towards saving you from eternal fire.  It was her excuse for letting the bag drop off Souris’ back without noticing it, and for allowing Fanny’s saddle to chafe.”

“Ah, Monsieur, women are ready with excuses.  Do you think I would permit any preoccupation of mine to interfere with the well-being of Finois?”