Paths of Glory

All George now seemed to be interested in was when he would be allowed to tackle Mont Blanc.

“Not for some time yet,” said Mr. Irving. “Even I wouldn’t attempt it without a professional guide. But when you go up to Cambridge in the autumn, I’ll give you a letter of introduction to Geoffrey Young, the most experienced climber in the land, and he can decide when you’re ready to approach that particular lady.”

Mr. Irving was confident, however, that they were ready to take on Monte Rosa, and George led them to the summit of the mountain without the slightest mishap, even if Guy had at times found it difficult to keep up. It was on the way down that the accident occurred. Perhaps Mr. Irving had become a little too complacent—a climber’s worst enemy—believing that nothing would go wrong after the triumphant ascent.

George had begun the descent with his usual confidence, but when they reached a particularly sheer couloir he decided to slow down, remembering that Guy had not found that part of the route easy to negotiate during the ascent. George had almost traversed the couloir when he heard the scream. His immediate reaction undoubtedly saved the lives of all three of them. He thrust his axe into the deep snow and quickly looped the rope around the shaft, securing it firmly against his boot while holding on to the rope with his other hand. He could only watch as Guy careered past him. He assumed that Mr. Irving would have carried out the same safety procedure as he had, and that between them they would halt the momentum of Guy’s fall, but his housemaster had failed to react quite as quickly, and although he had dug his axe firmly into the snow, he hadn’t had time to loop the rope around its shaft. A moment later he too came flying past George. George didn’t look down, but kept his boot wedged firmly against the axe head and tried desperately to maintain his balance. There was nothing between him and the valley some six hundred feet below.

He held firm as both of them came to a halt and began swinging in midair. George wasn’t confident that the rope wouldn’t snap under the strain, leaving his companions to fall to their deaths. He didn’t have time to pray, and as a second later he was still clinging to the rope his question seemed to have been answered, if only temporarily. The danger hadn’t passed because he still had to somehow get both men safely back onto the mountain.

George looked down to see them clinging on to the rope in desperation, their faces as white as the snow. Using a skill he’d developed while endlessly practicing on a rope in the school gymnasium, he began to swing his two companions slowly to and fro, until Mr. Irving was able to establish a foothold on the side of the mountain. Then, while George held his position, Irving carried out the same process, swinging Guy back and forth until he too was finally secure.

It was some time before any of them felt able to continue the descent, and George did not release his axe until he was convinced that Mr. Irving and Guy had fully recovered. Inch by inch, foot by foot, he led the two badly shaken climbers to the safety of a wide ledge, thirty feet below. The three of them rested for nearly an hour before Mr. Irving took over and guided them toward safer slopes.

Hardly a word passed between them over dinner that evening, but all three of them knew that if they didn’t return to the mountain the following morning, Guy would never climb again. The next day, Mr. Irving led his two charges back up Monte Rosa, taking a longer and far less demanding route. By the time George and Guy had returned to the hotel that evening, they were no longer children.

On the previous day, it had only taken a few minutes before all three climbers were safe, but each of those minutes could have been measured in sixty parts, and then not forgotten for a lifetime.

CHAPTER SEVEN

IT WAS CLEAR from the moment they entered Paris that Mr. Irving was no stranger to the city, and George and Guy were only too happy to allow their housemaster to take the lead, having already agreed to his suggestion that they should spend the final day of their trip in the French capital celebrating their good fortune.

Mr. Irving booked them into a small family hotel, located in a picturesque courtyard in the 7th arrondissement. After a light lunch he introduced them to the day life of Paris: the Louvre, Notre Dame, the Arc de Triomphe. But it was the Eiffel Tower, built for the Universal Exhibition of 1889 in celebration of the centenary of the French Revolution, that captured George’s imagination.

“Don’t even think about it,” said Mr. Irving when he caught his charge looking up at the highest point of the steel edifice, some 1,062 feet above them.

Having purchased three tickets for six francs, Mr. Irving herded Guy and George into an elevator, which transported them on a slow journey to the top of the tower.

“We wouldn’t even have reached the foothills of Mont Blanc,” George commented as he looked out over Paris.

Mr. Irving smiled, wondering if even conquering Mont Blanc would prove enough for George Mallory.

After they had changed for dinner, Mr. Irving took the boys to a little restaurant on the Left Bank where they enjoyed foie gras accompanied by small glasses of chilled Sauternes. This was followed by boeuf bourguignon, better than any beef stew either of them had ever experienced, which then gave way to a ripe brie; quite a change from school food. Both courses were washed down with a rather fine burgundy, and George felt it had already been one of the most exciting days of his life. But it was far from over. After introducing his two charges to the joys of cognac, Mr. Irving accompanied them back to the hotel. Just after midnight he bade them good-night before retiring to his own room.

Guy sat on the end of his bed while George started to undress. “We’ll just hang around for a few more minutes before we slip back out.”

“Slip back out?” mumbled George.

“Yes,” said Guy, happily taking the lead for a change. “What’s the point of coming to Paris if we don’t visit the Moulin Rouge?”

George continued to unbutton his shirt. “I promised my mother…”

“I’m sure you did,” mocked Guy. “And you’re now asking me to believe that the man who plans to conquer the heights of Mont Blanc isn’t willing to plumb the depths of Parisian nightlife?”

George reluctantly rebuttoned his shirt as Guy switched off the light, opened the bedroom door, and peeked out. Satisfied that Mr. Irving was safely tucked up in bed with his copy of Three Men in a Boat, he stepped out into the corridor. George reluctantly followed, closing the door quietly behind him.

Once they had reached the lobby, Guy slipped out onto the street. He’d hailed a hansom cab before George had time for second thoughts.

“The Moulin Rouge,” Guy said with a confidence he hadn’t shown on the slopes of any mountain. The driver set off at a brisk pace. “If only Mr. Irving could see us now,” said Guy as he opened a silver cigarette case George had never seen before.

Their journey took them across the Seine to Montmartre, a mountain that hadn’t been part of Mr. Irving’s itinerary. When they came to a halt outside the Moulin Rouge, George wondered if they would even be allowed into the glamorous nightclub when he saw how smartly dressed most of the revelers were—some even wearing dinner jackets. Once again Guy took the lead. After paying the driver, he extracted a ten-franc note from his wallet and handed it to the doorman, who gave the two young men a doubtful look but still pocketed the money and allowed them to enter.

Once they were inside, the maître d’ treated the two young men with a similar lack of enthusiasm, despite Guy producing another ten-franc note. A young waiter led them to a tiny table at the back of the room before offering them a menu. While George couldn’t take his eyes off the cigarette girl’s legs, Guy, aware of his dwindling finances, selected the second cheapest bottle on the wine list. The waiter returned moments later, and poured each of them a glass of Sémillon just as the lights went down.

George sat bolt upright as a dozen girls dressed in flamboyant red costumes revealing layers of white petticoats performed what was described in the program as the cancan. Whenever they kicked their black-stockinged legs in the air they were greeted by raucous cheers and cries of “Magnifique!” from the mainly male audience. Although George had been brought up with two sisters, he had never seen that much bare flesh before, even when they were bathing at St. Bees. Guy called for a second bottle of wine, and George began to suspect that this was not his close friend’s first experience of a nightclub; but then, Guy had been raised in Chelsea, not Cheshire.

The moment the curtain fell and the lights came up, the waiter reappeared and presented them with a bill that bore no resemblance to the prices on the wine list. Guy emptied his wallet, but it wasn’t enough, so George ended up parting with his emergency five-pound note. The waiter frowned when he saw the alien currency, but still pocketed the large white banknote without any suggestion of change—so much for Mr. Balfour’s entente cordiale.

“Oh my God,” said Guy.