“Well, I suppose we shall overtake them,” I replied, hiding surprise, as I did not care to let Joseph see that I had been left in the dark concerning this strange change of programme.  My mind groped for an explanation of the mystery, and then suddenly seized upon one.  The Boy, who had evidently met his two compatriots in other days and another land, disliked and wished to shun them.  He had feared that they might be our companions down to Chambery, and had taken drastic measures to avoid their society.  Rather than get me up early, for his convenience, after a day of some hardship and fatigue, the plucky little chap had gone off without us.  Possibly I should find that he had left a note for me, with some waiter or femme de chambre.  If not, our route down to Chambery and the hotel at which we were to stay there, had already been decided upon.  He would have said to himself that there could be no mistake, and that he might trust me to find him at our destination.

The Americans were not at breakfast, but later, as Joseph, Finois, and I were starting, I saw them standing at a distance in the corridor.  The porter, who had brought down the miserable hold-alls, and was waiting for his tip, murmured that “ces messieurs” were not going to make the walking expedition to Chambery; the landlord had advised them that the weather was too bad, and they had decided to return by the noon train to Aix-les-Bains.

I felt that I owed the young men a grudge for the Boy’s defection; and as there had been no note or message from him, I was not in a forgiving mood.  Without a second glance towards the pair, I walked away with Joseph—­alone with him for the first time in many a day.

CHAPTER XXVI

The Vanishing of the Prince

“Now to my word: 
It is, Adieu, adieu! remember me.” 
—­SHAKESPEARE.

As we dipped down below the summit of the mountain, we stepped from under the snow-fog, as if it had been a great white, hanging nightcap.  The air smelled like early winter, and was vibrant with the melody of cowbells.  On snow-covered eminences near and far, dark, sentinel larches watched us, weeping slow tears from every naked spine.  So high had they climbed, so acclimatised to the mountains did these soldier-trees seem, that I named them for myself the Chasseurs Alpins of the forest.

“We shall have fine weather to-morrow,” said Joseph, as we left the snow and came to what he called the “terre grasse,” which was greasy and slippery under foot.  “See, Monsieur, a worm; he comes up out of his hole, and the earth clings to him as he walks abroad.  If he were clean, that would be a sign of another bad day to follow.”

“At least we are going down to summer again,” I replied; “also to the young Monsieur; and to Innocentina.  But perhaps you are glad of a rest from her sharp tongue.”

Joseph shrugged his shoulders.  “I am used to it now, Monsieur,” said he; and I turned away my face to hide a smile.  I knew that he missed the girl, and I was still more keenly aware that I missed a comrade.  My fleeting impressions were hardly worth catching and taming, without him to help cage them; without his vivid mind to help colour the thoughts, which mine only sketched in black and white, it was easier to leave the canvas blank.