Paths of Glory

by Jeffrey Archer

  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.

  “I agree,” said George. “I had no idea that a couple of bottles of wine could cost that much.”

  “No, no,” said Guy, not looking at his friend. “I wasn’t referring to the bill.” He pointed to a table by the stage.

  George was just as astonished when he spotted their housemaster sitting next to a scantily dressed woman, an arm draped around her shoulder.

  “I think the time has come for us to beat a tactical retreat,” said Guy.

  “Agreed,” said George. They rose from their places and walked toward the door, not looking back until they were out in the street.

  As they stepped onto the pavement, a woman wearing an even shorter skirt than the waitresses selling cigarettes in the Moulin Rouge strolled across to join them.

  “Messieurs?” she whispered. “Besoin de compagnie?”

  “Non, merci, madame,” said George.

  “Ah, Anglais,” she said. “Juste prix pour tous les deux?”

  “In normal circumstances I w
ould be happy to oblige,” chipped in Guy, “but unfortunately we’ve already been fleeced by your countrymen.”

  The woman gave him a quizzical look, until George translated his friend’s words. She shrugged her shoulders before moving away to offer her wares to other men who were spilling out of the nightclub.

  “I hope you know your way back to the hotel,” said Guy, appearing a little unsteady on his feet. “Because I’ve no money left for a hansom.”

  “Haven’t a clue,” said George, “but when in doubt, identify a landmark you know, and it will act as a pointer to your destination.” He set off at a brisk pace.

  “Yes, of course it will,” said Guy as he hurried after him.

  George began to sober up as they made their way back across the river, his eyes rarely leaving his chosen point of reference. Guy followed in his wake, and didn’t speak until forty minutes later when they came to a halt at the base of a monument many Parisians claimed to detest, and wished to see dismantled bolt by bolt, girder by girder, as soon as its twenty-year permit had expired.

  “I think our hotel’s somewhere over there,” said Guy, pointing toward a narrow side street. He turned back to see George staring up at the Eiffel Tower, a look of sheer adoration in his eyes.

  “So much more of a challenge by night,” George said, not diverting his gaze.

  “You can’t be serious,” said Guy, as his friend headed off in the direction of one of the four triangular feet at the base of the tower.

  Guy ran after him, protesting, but by the time he’d caught up, George had already leaped onto the frame and begun climbing. Although Guy continued to shout at the top of his voice, he could do no more than stand and watch as his friend moved deftly from girder to girder. George never once looked down, but had he done so he would have seen that a small group of night owls had gathered below, eagerly following his every move.

  George must have been about halfway up when Guy heard the whistles. He swung around to see a police vehicle drive onto the concourse, coming to a halt at the base of the tower. Half a dozen uniformed officers leaped out and ran toward an official Guy hadn’t noticed until then, but who was clearly waiting for them. The official led them quickly to the elevator door and pulled open the iron gates. The crowd watched as the elevator made its slow journey upward.

  Guy looked up to check on George’s progress. He was only a couple of hundred feet from the top, and seemed entirely unaware of his pursuers. Moments later the elevator came to a stuttering halt by his side. The gates were pulled open and one of the policemen took a tentative step out onto the nearest girder. After a second step, he thought better of it and quickly leaped back inside. The senior officer began pleading with the miscreant, who pretended not to understand his words.

  George was still determined to reach the top, but after ignoring some reasoned words, followed by some harsh expletives that could have been understood in any language, he reluctantly joined the officers in the elevator. Once the police had returned to the ground with their quarry, the watching crowd formed a gangway to the waiting vehicle, applauding the young man all the way.

  “Chapeau, jeune homme.”

  “Dommage.”

  “Bravo!”

  “Magnifique!”

  It was the second time that night that George had heard a crowd crying, “Magnifique!”

  He spotted Guy just as the police were about to bundle him into the van and drive off to heaven knows where. “Find Mr. Irving!” he shouted. “He’ll know what to do.”

  Guy ran all the way back to the hotel and took the lift to the third floor, but when he banged on Mr. Irving’s door there was no response. Reluctantly he returned to the ground floor and sat on the steps, awaiting the arrival of his housemaster. He even considered making his way back to the Moulin Rouge, but on balance decided that that might cause even more trouble.

  The hotel clock had struck six before a carriage bearing Mr. Irving pulled up outside the front door. There was no sign of the scantily dressed lady. He was surprised to find Guy sitting on the steps, and even more surprised when he discovered why.

  The hotel manager only needed to make a couple of phone calls before he located which police station George had spent the night in. It took all of Mr. Irving’s diplomatic skills, not to mention emptying his wallet, before the duty officer agreed to release the irresponsible young man, and only then after Mr. Irving had assured the inspector that they would leave the country immédiatement.

  On the ferry back to Southampton, Mr. Irving told the two young men that he hadn’t yet made up his mind whether to report the incident to their parents.

  “And I still haven’t made up my mind,” responded Guy, “whether to tell my father the name of that club you took us to last night.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  MONDAY, OCTOBER 9TH, 1905

  GEORGE WAS RELIEVED to find that the front door of Magdalene College was open when he arrived for the first day of term.

  He strolled into the porter’s lodge, placed his suitcase on the floor, and said to the familiar figure seated behind the counter, “My name’s—”

  “Mr. Mallory,” said the porter, raising his bowler hat. “As if I’m likely to forget,” he added with a warm smile. He looked down at his clipboard. “You’ve been allocated a room on staircase seven, sir, the Pepys Building. I normally escort freshmen on their first day of term, but you seem to be a gentleman who can find his own way.” George laughed. “Across First Court and through the archway.”

  “Thank you,” said George, picking up his suitcase and heading toward the door.

  “And sir.” George turned back as the porter rose from his chair. “I believe this is yours.” He handed George another leather suitcase with the letters GLM printed in black on its side. “And do try to be on time for your six o’clock appointment, sir.”

  “My six o’clock appointment?”

  “Yes, sir, you are bidden to join the Master for drinks in the lodgings. He likes to acquaint himself with the new undergraduates on the first day of term.”

  “Thank you for reminding me,” said George. “By the way, has my friend Guy Bullock turned up?”

  “He has indeed, sir.” Once again the porter looked down at his list. “Mr. Bullock arrived over two hours ago. You’ll find him on the landing above you.”

  “That will be a first,” said George without explanation.

  As George walked toward First Court, he was careful not to step on the grass, which looked as if it had been cut with a pair of scissors. He passed several undergraduates, some dressed in long gowns to show that they were scholars, others in short gowns to indicate that, like himself, they were exhibitioners, while the rest didn’t wear gowns, just mortar boards, which they occasionally raised to each other.

  No one gave George a second look, and certainly no one raised their mortar board to him as he walked by, which brought back memories of his first day at Winchester. He couldn’t suppress a smile when he passed Mr. A. C. Benson’s staircase. The senior tutor had telegrammed the day after their meeting, offering George a history exhibition. In a later letter he informed him that he would be tutoring him himself.

  George continued on through the archway into Second Court, which housed the Pepys Building, until he came to a narrow corridor marked with a bold 7. He dragged his cases up the wooden steps to the second floor, where he saw a door with the name G. L. Mallory painted on it in silver letters. How many names had appeared on that door over the past century, he wondered.

  He entered a room not much larger than his study at Winchester, but at least he would not be expected to share the tiny space with Guy. He was still unpacking when there was a knock on the door, and Guy strolled in without waiting for an invitation. The two young men shook hands as if they had never met before, laughed, and then threw their arms around each other.

  “I’m on the floor above you,” said Guy.

  “I’ve already made my views clear on that ridiculous notion,” responded Geo
rge.

  Guy smiled when he saw the familiar chart that George had already pinned to the wall above his desk.

  Ben Nevis

  4,409 ft.

  Great St. Bernard

  8,101 ft.

  Mont Vélan

  12,353 ft.

  Grand Combin

  14,153 ft.

  Monte Rosa

  15,217 ft.

  Mont Blanc

  15,774 ft.

  “You seem to have forgotten Montmartre,” he said. “Not to mention the Eiffel Tower.”

  “The Eiffel Tower is only 1,062 feet,” replied George. “And you seem to have forgotten that I didn’t reach the top.”

  Guy glanced at his watch. “We’d better get going if we’re not to be late for the Master.”

  “Agreed,” said George, and quickly slipped on his gown.

  As the two young undergraduates strolled across Second Court toward the Master’s lodgings, George asked Guy if he knew anything about their head of house.

  “Only what Mr. Irving told me. Apparently he was our man in Berlin before he retired from the Foreign Office. He had a reputation for being pretty blunt with the Germans. According to Irving, even the Kaiser was wary of him.”

  George straightened his tie as they joined a stream of young men who were walking through the Master’s garden in the direction of a Victorian Gothic house that dominated one side of the courtyard. They were greeted at the door by a college servant dressed in a white jacket and black trousers, carrying a clipboard.