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again. He heard it first, then saw it on the window. Like a beast that knows things by scent, he was untroubled, even at peace. The odor of the blankets, the trees, the earth, the odor of France seemed known to him. He lay there feeling not so much a physical calm as something even deeper, the throb of life itself. A decisive joy filled him, warmth and well-being. Nothing could buy these things—he was breathing quietly, the rain was falling—nothing could take their place.

6
    C HAMONIX WAS AT ONE time an unspoiled town. Though crowded and overbuilt there are aspects which remain—the narrow curving streets, the sturdy barns, the walls built thick and left to crumble—that reveal its former character and vanished air. It lies in a deep V in the mountains, in the valley of the Arve, a river white with rock dust that rushes in a frenzy beside the streets. Overshadowing the town are the lower slopes of Mont Blanc with the snouts of glaciers alongside.
    The Alps are new mountains, forced up from the crust of the earth, folded and refolded in comparatively recent times, four or five epochs ago. Mont Blanc itself is older. It is a block mountain, formed by a vast cleaving before even the time of the dinosaurs and drowned in seas that covered Europe after they disappeared. This ancient granite rose again when the Alps were born, higher than all that surrounded and clung to it, the highest point in Europe.
    Adjoining is an army of pyramids and pinnacles, the aiguilles, which have drawn climbers—the English to begin with and then others—for more than a hundred years. At first sight they seem to be numberless. They lie in ranks and rough arcs to the south and east, some of the largest, like the Grandes Jorasses, almost hidden by those that were closer.
    The north faces are the coldest and usually the most difficult. They receive less sun, sometimes only an hour or two a day, and are often covered in snow throughout the year. The winters are cold, the summers brief and often cloudy. The people are mountain people, hard and self-reliant—for years the Chamonix guides accepted in their ranks only those born in the valley. At the same time new roads opened the town to the world. In July and August huge crowds arrive. The restaurants, hotels, even the mountains themselves are filled. In September, as if by decree, everyone vanishes and there remains nothing but the blue letters that spell CARLTON shining mournfully at night above empty streets.
    It rained for days, clouds covering the mountains, a cold steady rain. The dampness crept indoors. He sat by the stove in a plaid shirt and boots. Two young Germans who had come back soaked the first afternoon occasionally uttered a phrase or two. Bad weather, they would say. South wind is always bad. Where was he from? Ah, California! They nodded but he could tell them no more.
    Then one day it was clear. The mountains appeared. There was activity everywhere, one could feel it. Chamonix with its tin roofs and small shops came forth into sunlight.
    In the post office the doors to the telephone booths were constantly opening and closing, the high, impatient voices of the clerks filled the air. He stood in line. In front of him was a Japanese with a two-day growth of beard—to pay for stamps he searched a small, canvas bag. In it he found a purse. He opened it. There was another, smaller purse within.
    “Can you believe this?” Rand said. There was a bearded face behind him, an American face.
    “Now he’s going to find out he doesn’t have enough money.”
    The Japanese had shaken some coins onto the counter; he evidently thought he had more. He shook the purse again. A single coin dropped out. Not enough.
    “I’ll lend it to him,” Rand said. “What, do they weigh every letter?”
    “Sometimes they weigh it again after you put the stamps on.”
    “What’s the reason for that?”
    “Please. It has nothing to do with reason. You’ve never been to France?”
    His name was Paul