He went out in the afternoon and followed the route of the day before, searching on the ground for the shoe prints of the mule that had borne the two women. When he was at the summit of the pass, he lay down on his face at the edge of the abyss and gazed at Loëche.
The village in its well of rock was not yet drowned in snow, although the snow had drawn very near it, to be halted abruptly by the pine-forests that protected the outlying houses. From above, the houses looked like paving-stones in a meadow.
Louise Hauser was there, now, in one of those grey buildings. In which? Ulrich Kunsi was too far away to tell them apart. How he longed to go down, while it was still possible!
But the sun had disappeared behind the great crest of Wildstrubel, and the young man returned. Old Hari was smoking. At sight of his companion, he proposed a game of cards, and they sat down face to face on either side of the table.
They played for a long time, a simple game called brisque, and after supper they went to bed.
The days that followed were like the first, bright and cold, with no fresh snow. Old Gaspard spent the afternoons watching the eagles and rare birds that ventured on the frozen heights, while Ulrich returned regularly to the summit of the Gemmi to gaze at the village. Then they would play cards, dice or dominoes, winning or losing trifling objects to give an interest to their game.
One morning Hari, the first to get up, called his companion. A moving, deep, light cloud of white foam was falling on them and round them, silently, burying them little by little under a thick, frothy coverlet that deadened all sound. It lasted four days and four nights. They had to free the door and the windows, hollow out a passage and cut steps in order to walk out over the surface of this powdered ice that twelve hours of frost had made harder than the granite of the moraines.
Thenceforward they lived the life of prisoners, hardly venturing outside their dwelling-place. They had divided up the housework, and each regularly performed his share. Ulrich Kunsi made himself responsible for the washing and cleaning—in fact, for all the labour of keeping the house neat. It was he also who split the wood, while Gaspard Hari cooked and tended the fire. Their tasks, regular and monotonous, were interrupted by long games of cards or dice. They never quarrelled, both being of calm and peaceful temper. They never even indulged in moments of impatience, ill humour or sharp words, for they had determined to possess their souls in patience throughout their winter on the heights.
Sometimes old Gaspard would take his gun and go off after chamois; occasionally he killed one. Then there would be rejoicings at the Schwarenbach Inn, and a great feast of fresh meat.
One morning he went out for this purpose. The outside thermometer had dropped to zero. The sun had not yet risen, and so the hunter hoped to catch the animals on the lower slopes of the Wildstrubel.
Ulrich, left by himself, stayed in bed till ten. He was by nature a heavy sleeper, but had never dared to abandon himself to his weakness in the presence of the old guide, always energetic and early out of bed.
He lunched slowly with Sam, who also spent his days and nights sleeping in front of the fire; then he felt sad, frightened by the solitude: he was suffering from his need of their daily game of cards, as a man does suffer under the prick of a powerful habit.
So he went out to meet his companion, who was due back at four o’clock.
The snow had levelled the whole deep valley, filling the crevasses, and quilting the rocks; it formed, between the immense peaks, nothing but an immense white bowl, smooth, blinding, and frozen.
It was three weeks since Ulrich had last gone to the edge of the abyss and gazed down at the village. He was anxious to pay a visit thither before climbing the slopes that led to Wildstrubel. Loëche was now also covered by the snow, and it was scarcely possible to distinguish the houses buried under its pale cloak.
He turned to the right, and reached the glacier of Loemmern. He walked with his long, mountaineer’s stride, striking his iron-tipped stick upon the snow, itself as hard as stone. With his keen eyes he sought for the little moving black speck, far away on that enormous tablecloth.
When he was at the edge of the glacier, he stopped, wondering if the old man really had gone that way. Then he set off again, skirting the moraines, at a swifter, more uneasy pace.
The light was fading; the snows were turning pink; a dry icy wind ran in hurried gusts over their crystal surface. Ulrich uttered a shrill cry, quivering and prolonged. His voice fled abroad in the silence that covered the sleeping mountains; it ran far away over the deep, motionless billows of icy foam, like the cry of a bird over the waves of the sea; then it died out, and there was no reply.
He resumed his march. The sun had sunk below the far horizon, behind the peaks still reddened by the glow in the sky; but the hollows of the valley were growing grey. And suddenly the young man was afraid. He felt as though the silence, the cold, the solitude, the winter death of the mountains were flowing into his own body, would stop and freeze his blood, stiffen his limbs, and turn him into a still, frozen creature. He began to run, fleeing towards his dwelling-place. The old man, he thought, would have returned during his absence. He must have taken another route; he would be sitting before the fire, with a dead chamois at his feet.
Soon he came in sight of the inn. No smoke was coming from
