On one occasion, however, they were themselves
deceived. They had undertaken to row her safely over to Haute-Combe, on
the opposite shore of the lake, in order to visit the ruins of the
Abbey. They had scarcely got over two-thirds of the distance, when a
sudden gust of wind, rushing forth from the narrow gorges of the valley
of the Rhone, stirred up the waves of the lake, and produced one of
those short seas which so often prove fatal. The sail of the little
boat was soon gone, and it seemed like a nutshell dancing on the
still-increasing waves. It was impossible to think of returning, and
full half an hour of fatigue and danger must elapse before the boat
could be moored in safety under the hanging cliffs of Haute-Combe. Fate
willed that my wandering sail should be on the lake at the same hour. I
was in a larger boat, with four stout oarsmen, and was going to visit
M. de Chatillon, a relation of my Chambery friend. His chateau was
situated on the summit of a rock, in a small island at one end of the
lake. A few strokes of the oar would have brought us into the harbor of
Chatillon, but I, who had unconsciously been watching the other boat
and saw it struggling against the wind, perceived the danger in which
it was placed.
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