In the high spots of the fields where grass was showing, he noticed a few crocuses.
He'd come at the right time, and he was very, very glad of it.
The train stopped for half an hour at Morez, and then went on to Saint-Claude.
It got there just at dusk.
He had sent a telegram from Dijon to the Hotel de la Haute Montagne at Cidoton asking them to send a car down for him, because it's eleven miles and you can't always get a car in Saint-Claude.
The hotel car was there to meet him, a ten-year-old Chrysler driven by the concierge, who was a diamond-cutter when he wasn't working at the hotel. But Howard only found that out afterwards; the man had come to the hotel since his last visit.
He took the old man's bags and put them in the back of the car, and they started off for Cidoton.
For the first five miles the road runs up a gorge, turning in hairpin bends up the side of the mountain.
Then, on the high ground, it runs straight over the meadows and between the woods.
After a winter spent in London, the air was unbelievably sweet.
Howard sat beside the driver, but he was too absorbed in the beauty of that drive in the fading light to talk much to him.
They spoke once about the war, and the driver told him that almost every able-bodied man in the district had been called up.
He himself was exempt, because the diamond dust had got into his lungs.
The Hotel de la Haute Montagne is an old coaching-house.
It has about fifteen bedrooms, and in the season it's a skiing centre.
Cidoton is a tiny hamlet - fifteen or twenty cottages, no more.
The hotel is the only house of any size in the place; the hills sweep down to it all round, fine slopes of pasture dotted here and there with pinewoods.
It's very quiet and peaceful in Cidoton, even in the winter season when the village is filled with young French people on thek skis.
That was as it had been when he was there before.
It was dark when they drew up at the hotel.
Howard went slowly up the stone steps to the door, the concierge following behind him with the bags.
The old man pushed open the heavy oak door and went into the hall.
By his side, the door leading into the estaminet flew open, and there was Madame Lucard, buxom and cheerful as she had been the year before, with the children round her and the maids grinning over her shoulder.
Lucard himself was away with the Chasseurs Alpins.
They gave him a vociferous French welcome.
He had not thought to find himself so well remembered, but it's not very common for English people to go deep into the Jura.
They chattered at him nineteen to the dozen.
Was he well?
Had he made a good crossing of the Manche?
He had stopped in Paris?
And in Dijon also?
That was good.
It was very tiring to travel in this sale war.
He had brought a fishing-rod with hun this time, instead of skis?
That was good.
He would take a glass of Pernod with Madame?
And then, Monsieur votre fils, he was well too?
Well, they had to know.
He turned away from her blindly.
'Madame,' he said, 'mon fils est mort. ll est tombe de son avion, au-dessus de Heligoland Bight.'
Chapter 2
Howard settled down at Cidoton quite comfortably.
The fresh mountain air did him a world of good; it revived his appetite and brought him quiet, restful sleep at night.
The little rustic company of the estaminet amused and interested him, too.
He knew a good deal of rural matters and he spoke good, slightly academic French.
He was a good mixer and the fanners accepted him into their company, and talked freely to him of the matters of their daily life.
It may be that the loss of his son helped to break the ice.
He did not find them noticeably enthusiastic for the war.
He was not happy for the first fortnight, but he was probably happier than he would have been in London.
While the snow lasted, the slopes were haunted for him.