The Rocks of Valpre - Ethel May Dell (interesting novels to read .TXT) 📗

with an answering smile.
She was hobbling over the stones with his assistance. "Nothing interesting, I assure you," she said.
"Except when mademoiselle goes to the cavern of the fairies to look for the magic knight?" he suggested.
She threw him a merry glance. "To be sure! I will come and see you again some day when the tide is low. Is there a dragon in the cave?"
"He is there only when the tide is high, mademoiselle, a beast enormous with eyes of fire."
"And a princess?" asked the English girl, keenly interested.
"No, there is no princess."
"Only you and the dragon?"
"Generally only me, mademoiselle."
"Whatever do you do there?" she asked curiously.
His smile was bafflingly direct. "Me? I make magic, mademoiselle."
"What sort of magic?"
"What sort? That is a difficult question."
"May I come and see it?" asked Chris eagerly, scenting a mystery.
He hesitated.
"I'll come all by myself," she assured him.
"_Mais la gouvernante_--"
"As if I should bring her! No, no! I'll come alone--with Cinders."
"_Mais, mademoiselle_--"
"If you say that again I shall be cross," announced Chris.
"But--pardon me, mademoiselle--the governess, might she not object?"
"Absurd!" said Chris. "I am not a French girl, and I won't behave like one."
He laughed at that, plainly because he could not help it. "Mademoiselle pleases herself!" he observed.
"Of course I do," returned Chris vigorously. "I always have. I may come then?"
"But certainly."
"When?"
"When you will, mademoiselle."
Chris considered. They had reached the firm sand, and she stood still. "I can't come to-morrow because of my foot, and the day after the tide will be too late. I shall have to wait nearly a fortnight. How dull!"
"In a fortnight, then!" said the Frenchman.
"In a fortnight, _preux chevalier_!" Her eyes laughed up at him. "But I dare say we shall meet before then. I hope we shall."
"I hope it also, mademoiselle." He bowed courteously.
She held out her hand. "I shall come on the tenth of the month--it's my birthday. I'll bring some cakes, and we'll have a party, and invite the dragon." Her eyes danced. "We will have some fun, shall we?"
"I think that we shall not want the dragon," he smiled back.
"No? Perhaps not. Well, I'll bring Cinders instead."
"Ah, the good Cinders! He is different."
"And we will go exploring," she said eagerly. "I shan't be a bit afraid of anything with you there. The tenth, then! Don't forget! Good-bye, and thank you ever so much! You won't fail me, will you?"
He bent low over the impetuous little hand. "I shall not fail you, mademoiselle. _Adieu_!"
"_Au revoir_!" she laughed back. "Come along, Cinders! We shall be late for tea."
He stood motionless on the sunlit sand and watched her go.
She was limping, but she moved quickly notwithstanding. Cinders trotted soberly by her side.
As she reached the little _plage_, she turned as if aware of his watching eyes and nonchalantly waved the towel that dangled on her arm. The sunlight had turned her hair to burnished copper. It made her for the moment wonderful, and a gleam of swift admiration shot across the Frenchman's face.
"_Merveilleux_!" he whispered to himself, and half-aloud, "Good-bye, little bird of Paradise!"
With a courteous gesture of farewell, he turned away. When he looked again, the child, with her glorious, radiant hair, had passed from sight.
He went back, springing over the rocks, to the Gothic archway that had fired her curiosity. The tide was rising fast. Already the white foam raced up to the rocky entrance. He splashed through it, and went within as one on business bent.
He was absent for some seconds, and soon a large wave broke with a long roar and rushed swirling into the cave. As the gleaming water ran out again, he emerged.
A single glance was sufficient to show him that retreat by way of the beach was already cut off. He recognized the fact with a rueful grimace. The long green waves tumbling along the rocks were rising higher every instant.
With a quick glance around him, the young man sprang for an upstanding rock, reached it in safety, and paused, keenly studying the black face of the cliff.
It frowned above him like a rampart, gloomy, terrible, impregnable. He shrugged his shoulders with another grimace, then, as the foam splashed up over his feet, leaped lightly onto another rock higher than the first, whence it was possible to reach a great buttress that jutted outwards from the cliff itself.
Once upon this, he began to climb diagonally, clambering like a monkey, availing himself of every inch that offered foothold. A slip would have meant instant disaster, but this fact did not apparently occur to him, or if it did he was not dismayed thereby. He even presently, as he cautiously worked his way upwards, began to hum again in gay snatches the song that a child's clear eyes had set running in his brain that afternoon.
It was a progress that waxed more perilous as he proceeded. The waves dashed themselves to cataracts below him. Return was impossible, and many would have deemed advance equally so. But he struggled on, maintaining his zigzag course upwards, with nerve unfailing and spirits unimpaired.
Gulls flew out above his head and circled about him with indignant protests. He looked somewhat like a gigantic gull himself, his slim white figure outlined against the darkness of the cliff. He cried back to the startled birds reassuringly in their own language, but the commotion continued; and presently, finding precarious foothold on a narrow ledge halfway up, he stopped to wipe his forehead and laugh with merriment unfeigned. He was plainly in love with life--one in whose eyes all things were good, but yet who loved the hazard of them even better.
The ledge did not permit of much comfort. Nevertheless he managed to turn upon it and to lean back against the cliff, with his brown face to sky and sea. He even, after a moment, took out a cigarette and lighted it. The sun shone full in his eyes, and he seemed to revel in it. A sun-worshipper also, apparently!
He smoked his cigarette to the end very deliberately, flicking the ash from time to time towards the raging water below. When he had quite finished, he stretched his arms wide with a gesture of sublime self-confidence, faced about, and very composedly continued his climb.
It grew more and more arduous as he neared the frowning summit. He had to feel his way with the utmost caution. Once he missed his footing, and slipped several feet before he could recover himself, and after this experience he took a clasp-knife from his pocket and notched himself footholds where none offered. It was a very lengthy business, and the sun was dipping downwards to the sea ere he came within reach of his goal. The top of the cliff overhung where he first approached it, and he had to work a devious course below it till he came to a more favourable place.
Reaching a gap at length, he braced himself for the final effort. The surface of the cliff here was loose, and the stones rattled continually from beneath his feet; but he clung like a limpet, nothing daunted, and at last his hands were gripped in the coarse grass that fringed the summit. Sheer depth was below him, and the inward-curving cliff offered no possibility of foothold.
He stood, gathering his strength for a last stupendous effort. It was a supreme moment. It meant abandoning the support on which he stood and depending entirely upon the strength of his arms to attain to safety. The risk was desperate. He stood bracing himself to take it.
Finally, with an upward fling of the head, as of one who diced with the gods, he gripped that perilous edge and dared the final throw. Slowly, with stupendous effort, he hoisted himself up. It was the work of an expert athlete; none other would have attempted it.
Up he went and up, steadily, strongly; his head came level with his hands; he peered over the edge of the cliff. The strain was terrific. The careless smile was gone from his lips. In that instant he no longer ignored what lay behind him; he knew the suspense of the gambler who pauses after he has thrown before he lifts the dice-box to read his fate.
Up, and still up! The grass was beginning to yield in his clutching fingers; he dug them into the earth below. Now his shoulders were above the edge; his chest also, heaving with strenuous effort. To lower himself again was impossible. His feet dangled over space. And the surging of the water below him was as the roaring of an angry monster cheated of its prey.
He set his teeth. He was nearing the end of his strength. Had he, after all, attempted the impossible, flung the dice too recklessly, dared his fate too far? If so, he would pay the penalty swiftly, swiftly, down among the cruel rocks where many another had perished before him.
The surging sounded louder. It seemed to be in his brain. It bewildered him, deprived him of the power to think. A great many voices seemed to clamour around him, but only one could be clearly heard; only one, and that the voice of a child close to him--or was that also an illusion born of the racking strain that had driven all the blood to his head?
"You won't fail me, will you?" it said.
Surely his grasp was slackening, his powers were passing, when like a flashlight those words illuminated his brain. He was as one in deep waters, swamped and sinking; but that voice called him back.
He opened his eyes, he drew a great breath. He flung his whole soul into one last great effort. He remembered suddenly that the little English girl, the child with the glorious hair and laughing eyes, his acquaintance of an hour, would be looking for him exactly two weeks from that moment. He was sure she would look, and--she would be disappointed if she looked in vain. One must not disappoint a child.
The memory of her went through him, vivid, enchanting, compelling. It nerved his sinking heart. It renewed his grip on life. It urged him upwards.
Only a child! Only a child! But yet--
"I shall not--shall not--fail you!" he gasped, and with the words his knees reached the top of the cliff.
His strength collapsed instantly, like the snapping of a fiddle-string. He fell forward on his face, and lay prone...
A little later he worked the whole of his body into security, rolled over on his back with closed eyes to the sky, and waited while his heart slowed down to its normal rhythmic beat.
At last, quite suddenly, he sat up and looked around him. The laughter flashed back into his eyes. He sprang to his feet, mud-stained, dishevelled, yet exultant.
He clicked his heels together and faced the sinking sun, slim and upright, one stiff hand to his head. He had diced with the gods, and he had won.
"_Destinee! Je te salue!_" he said, and the next instant whizzed smartly round with a soldier's precision of movement and marched away towards the fortress that crowned the hill above the rocks of Valpre.


CHAPTER III
A ROPE OF SAND

Undoubtedly Mademoiselle Gautier was querulous, and equally without doubt she had good reason to be so; but it made it a little dull for Chris. Accidents would happen, wherever one went, and what was the good of making a fuss?
Of course, every allowance had to be made for poor Mademoiselle in consideration of the fact that she was torn in pieces by the valiant attempt to keep her attention focussed upon three children at once.